City of Peace
La Paz, the capitol of Bolivia, sits in an enormous pot hole. The dolphin had gone through many holes and bumps throughout the trip, but this was the biggest yet. The city appears to be placed at the bottom of a huge crater, left by some deadly meteor thousands of years ago. In fact, the crater is a canyon through which a small river runs. Why would someone decide to build a city in a huge hole instead of on the never-ending, spacious plains around it, you ask? The answer is simple : The Spanish, in all their glory, found gold at the bottom of the canyon and created a city around the extraction process. La Paz never left its hole. Upon arrival in La Paz from the great plains, one can stand at the edge of the canyon and gaze down the steep cliffs to the sprawling city below. The effect is surreal – it seems that it would require a helicopter to move down into the metropolis. In fact, it almost did require a helicopter to get us and the dolphin back out. We had read about a Swiss resort hotel which had a special lot for campers; we assumed we would never find someplace large enough to house the dolphin in La Paz, so we headed for the southern rim of the hole where the hotel was located, miles below the edge. We picked up the only helpful Bolivian we were to find during our stay, and he guided us through the maze of the upper city. The roads were abysmal, ranging from barely paved to massive dusty potholes, remnants of the rainy season, to torn-up gravel pits to old cobblestone. When we reached the southern tip, we were directed onto a cobblestone street leading toward the rim.
I said to Jonas that I could not imagine anyone rich in this country – its poverty seemed endless and eternal. Even on the outskirts of the capitol city the houses and shops were dirty brown adobe, the streets unpaved and devoured, the people in ragged, worn clothing and dusty, disabled shoes. This country was by far the poorest and harshest of anyplace we had been. It seemed a wasteland, beautiful in its raw emptiness. As we reached the end of the dirt road we saw an arched sign welcoming us to Achocalla, a town on the outskirts of La Paz. The road seemed to disappear under the arch – we had reached the end of the plateau. Our destiny was now to drive through the arch and out into thin air in a Thelma and Louise style ending. We stopped the car and looked at each other, both wary of the decision to test the dolphin with such a huge drop on horrible roads in a dangerous and unpredictable city. Jonas put the car into gear and we moved through the arch and down the steep beginning of a three hour descent into La Paz. As we moved slowly down the sharp turns of the rough road, I kept thinking to myself , “The trip is not over yet. You can still be robbed, still have a major accident, still get stuck…You can still die.” I imagined the very possible scenario that we get stuck in the pit of La Paz, unable to mount the steep ascent out of the city. What would we do? How would we get the dolphin out? I pictured a huge truck pulling us with the tow rope up the road, around the steep curves, over the mammoth holes and piles of dirt and around oncoming traffic. My stomach dropped with the thought as well as the descent. It seemed we went down and down and down forever, reaching various levels of Dante’s inferno as we descended. We passed children playing in muck filled ponds, massive drop offs, huge canyons in the road, tiny shacks made of refuse planted on the cliffs and at the bottom of the canyon, strange inhabited caves in the walls of the canyon. The stress that the road would end, that we would be forced to somehow turn around or back up this steep and ancient road sat with us like a sack of rotten potatoes in the front seat. We tried to ignore the possibility of failure and to retain faith in whatever beneficent force had gotten us this far in the trip, but it was difficult to stop thinking about smoking brakes and the road ending in a gravel pile.
Finally, after hours of grinding road through bizarre geological formations similar to Bryce Canyon in Utah (called the Moon Planet area of La Paz for tourists) we reached a hill we could not climb. The sinking feeling in my stomach became reality as we were forced to make a 90 degree turn onto a steep grade with no speed and the engine began sputtering and died. I jumped out and placed the orange stoppers behind the wheels, Jonas backed up and turned quickly onto the street from which we had arrived. The dolphin leaned dangerously as he turned it onto the sloped grade, but it stayed upright. The other option in front of us looked just as bad and included a huge ditch, which meant, once again, no speed for the ascent. I closed my eyes and prayed to whomever and silently wished Yoshi were there. The dolphin rocketed over the ditch, crunching and squealing and groaning as we pushed it up the hill. We silently thanked the stars that we had made it into La Paz, but both of us were contemplating the drive back up with dread. When we finally reached the Swiss campground we were exhausted. We pulled the dolphin over yet another ditch into the lot, the engine revving loudly as we entered. We stopped the car and got out, somewhat shell shocked from the day. The other occupants of the lot were a German couple in a Land Rover, a Swiss family in a tiny Toyota Westfalia-style vehicle and a French family in an RV camper the same size as our own. I poured a glass of wine and realized that the propane had gone out for the fridge and stove. After a bit the Swiss woman came over with a large smile and greeted us. Once they all realized I could speak French, everyone became friendly and came over to discuss our route and plans. We found that the French family was also planning to go through Bolivia to Brazil and they shared information they had gained with us. Apparently, the road from Santa Cruz, the largest city in Bolivia, to Brazil was very poor. Their friends had barely made it through in a Land Rover and the French couple was worried, as we were, that their camper would not make it. The eastern area of Bolivia was a known narco-trafficking region and was considered dangerous for tourists. We discussed the options and promised to inform one another once we gained more information. They also told us they had attempted to fill their propane tank and the cap had exploded off of it during the first use. Apparently in Bolivia the propane was mixed with butane and our systems could not handle the pressure, causing an explosion. Jonas and I decided to forego propane until Brazil.
We went into La Paz the next day to apply for my Brazilian visa. We rode in on the collectivo bus, passing through wealthy neighborhoods on the route. I watched through the window in shock – where before I could not imagine wealth in this arid land, now I could not believe the depth of Bolivia’s filthy rich. Immense houses, which would look at home only in Beverly Hills, sat like brides in wedding dresses on the big day. The roads were paved to perfection and traffic was light and restricted to Mercedes, Audis, SUV’s. We passed a small shack on the street bearing the insignia of Bolivia’s police force. In front of the shack sat a bored uniformed police officer. This neighborhood did not require a security guard like most rich Latin American areas; they had their own permanent police escort. I could never have imagined a neighborhood like this one after so many miles of desolation and gritty poverty; As I looked out the window my stomach began to churn and my temperature rose. More than any other glaring wealth gap, this one made me literally sick. Perhaps it was the complete and utter lack of anything resembling a middle class, perhaps it was the obvious desperation and despair of Bolivia’s vast poverty, perhaps it was the resemblance of this neighborhood to an American dream zipcode…Whatever it was made me suddenly intensely angry, more so than at any other point on the trip. How could these people face themselves in the mirror? How do they get in their $60,000 cars and drive through the deepest poverty of Latin America each day? In the US it is easy to create a bubble of denial – stay in the endless middle or upper class neighborhoods and suburbs and try not to think too much. Simple as that. Here, you cannot escape it – everywhere you turn someone is hungry, dirty, hopeless. The streets and homes and fields scream poor, poor, poor, dirt poor. I watched a blond Latina park her SUV inside the gate of her enormous home, surrounded by an electric fence, and bounce inside. Her tight Adidas Spandex outfit and American running shoes told me she had just returned from the gym. Although it was useless, self-righteous anger which ignored my own cushion of denial, my mind still filled with the image of the columns crumbling, the huge barred windows exploding outward with rage, chunks of flaming curtains and marble garden statuettes raining into the swimming pool, fire consuming the expensive European furniture and carpets inside. It is no wonder the rich Bolivians hate Evo Morales so much – they are terrified of the new Indian president with his hawk nose, dark skin and suits made of indigenous fabric. He represents the ever-present threat to their fragile lifestyles which sits right outside their door.
I read in a Bolivian newspaper that Evo Morales, who had always been a political rabble rouser and Indigenous rights activist, was imprisoned and tortured by the previous Bolivian government. He was taken to a local medical clinic upon release, where instead of receiving compassionate treatment for a torture victim, he received disrespect and hatred. The doctors, whose oath it was to heal, berated Morales, calling him a dirty Indian pig. It is for this reason that he has chosen to ignore the complaints of the medical community, who believe he should expel the some 300 Cuban doctors who have been sent by Castro to serve isolated poor communities in Bolivia, at the expense of local medical clinics and hospitals. In the countryside, the president is a beloved figure who represents hope for the indigenous population, which comprises more than half of Bolivia’s people. In La Paz and Santa Cruz, where the rich reside, his image is painted on walls next to slogans reading “communist pig.” He bears the face of the real Bolivia – the face of a tough and angry Indian. His rash political tactics have caused waves in South America and abroad – it is left to be seen if he will succeed in the change he seems so bent on accomplishing without completely alienating the rest of the continent.
In La Paz, which ironically means “peace” in Spanish, we ended up in the middle of a protest. According to the locals, there is a protest or riot on a daily basis. We were standing in the middle of the main square when suddenly police in riot gear began cutting off one of the main streets, redirecting traffic into a chaotic churning around the square. We walked down to see what was causing the disruption and entered a messy scene of Indians, cops with tear gas and guns, reporters and hastily exiting pedestrians. Apparently this protest involved local street vendors who were being expelled from their places of business, the sidewalk. Large, colorful signs and fabric banners were held high, giving the protest the look of a parade. The police and the protesters had reached an impasse – no one could move forward past the police and no one could get through the thick crowd of Indians standing off with the swat teams. There was luckily no violence – perhaps the rage was not intense enough on this given day. Everyone stood and stared at one another, each side refusing to budge. In Bolivia, violence seems to be constantly bubbling just below the surface; it is an eternal cauldron of frustration and inequity. Here the shoe shine boys wear black ski masks covering their entire heads, presumably to hide their identity and the shame of their jobs. This gives the city an even more chaotic and terrorized feel, as if the boy shining your shoes might just pull out a Molotov cocktail and launch it into a passing car.
We left the protest area and went to the Brazilian consulate. There we were told that it would take two business days, throwing us into the following week. We decided to keep moving and apply for the visa in another city along the way. We wandered up the hill from the consulate, past a small square. In the square was a soccer player, a Bolivian hero from another decade, bouncing a soccer ball in front of a film crew and a large crowd. The soccer player was supposed to bounce the ball off his foot and into a passing crowd of extras. Sadly, he kept shooting the ball behind him instead of in front of him and with each kick the ball would fly across the street and land with a thud on top of the rainbow umbrella of a street vendor. The Indian woman in a bowler hat who was tending the tiny cart was completely unimpressed with the soccer star. Each time the ball would bounce on top of her umbrella, she would stop and glare toward the square, where the crowd of extras was once again returning to their original positions to walk in front of the camera, waiting for a good kick. The soccer star looked embarrassed. On the third mistaken kick, the ball once again flew across the street, banging against the umbrella. The soccer star’s consistency in his lack of aim was impressive. The old woman finally began waving her arms and yelling at him from across the street, causing the crowd to turn toward her to follow the drama. Jonas and I could not help laughing – it was a purely Latin American moment.
We moved up the hill and into the market area. Here was the most impressive witch doctor market we had seen. Although I hate the term “witch doctor,” it certainly did seem to fit this market. The stalls on the street were full of herbs and potions. Old women sat together, picking at lice on one another’s heads and watching the street. Hanging from the sides of the stalls were bunches of llama fetuses, skulls, masks, unidentifiable animal parts, charm bottles and more. Jonas wanted to buy a dried frog, which the woman in the booth claimed would bring material fortune. I was not convinced and we moved on through the stalls. The smell of the place was intense – it held the rich aromas of dry, dead bodies, bundles of grasses and herbs, candles, incense, urine and hides. We watched a young man commissioning to have an offering made – the old woman piled multiple odd items onto a plate at his request, arranged them carefully, covered it and handed it to him. I imagine later he would light a candle within it and absorb whatever ancient mix of forces it held. Some of the stalls and tiny, dark rooms held old masks, carved metal stirrups that seemed to come from the conquistador days, raw hide boxes with the animal hair still intact, multiple door knobs and screws and other odd trinkets covered in dust and grime from the years. The market was a rich place…change seemed here seemed slow and unwelcome.
We went to see The Da Vinci Code in the afternoon – it was not very popular among the Bolivian audience. In fact, they found it rather ridiculous and amusing and laughed through much of it. I had to agree – the film was lacking in depth and sitting among a highly catholic audience, I could see where they would find it preposterous. When we exited the theater, it was night time in La Paz. We wandered through the city, trying to find the correct collectivo that would take us back to the southern end of the city. La Paz at night is an intriguing place with a strange electric vitality and rhythm, but it is not a place to get lost. We somehow made it through the endless sets of misdirections and dead ends to the dusty road where the correct collective was loading. We rode home through the narrow, pot holed streets, past the rich neighborhood (which no longer caused such a stir inside – I had spent all my anger early that day. Shock so quickly turns to complacency…), over the river and up countless steep hills. Jonas and I both thought of the drive out of the city the next day….it seemed an impossibility.
Tags: Bolivia, La Paz, South America
July 18th, 2006 at 1:37 pm
i actually feel physically exhausted after reading that.