Part 4: The Most Dangerous Roads in the World

The Altiplano. The high altitude plains that begin their incline at 13,000 feet above La Paz in Bolivia. This land of llamas and cholitas is home to my sponsored daughter Belinda and her family. I’m in Bolivia at the end of a South American Fulbright exchange to finally get to visit her face to face. I’ve been sponsoring and writing her since she was five: she’s now twelve.

We’ve been planning this meeting with the sponsoring organization, Plan International, for six months; the kernel of the idea came a year ago. I knew if I got an exchange to South America, come hell or high water, I would somehow get to Bolivia and meet her and her family face to face.

I had been told that Bolivia was an unstable and dangerous country, especially for a woman alone; and that there were robbers and murderers and narcotraficantes and worse on the highways of the Altiplano, especially in the area where I was headed on the border of Peru and Bolivia. I was advised all manner of things, from packing a handgun illegally purchased from the black markets of La Paz, to hiring ex-marines as bodyguards to accompany me.

I am greeted at my hotel in La Paz by Maria, a volunteer translator for Plan International. Although I speak Spanish fluently, the community where we are heading speaks Aymara, an ancient native language dating back before the Inca. Maria introduces me to Norma, the field representative and to Fernando, our driver. No one speaks English. We clamber into an aging Toyota four wheel drive and begin our adventure.

We fight our way through the congested streets of La Paz, dodging pedestrians, garbage, dogs, road construction, more garbage, discarded furniture and rocks. One way streets that are meant to have two lanes are compacted with five; no one pays attention to traffic lights or stop signs. Children shoot out from between parked cars as if daring the oncoming traffic to hit them. Garbage falls from open pickup truck beds into the streets. Packs of feral dogs scavenging for a meal, oblivious to the oncoming traffic, dart into the street risking their lives for a scrap of food.

We stop at what I think is a convenience store but turns out to be in Bolivian terms a supermarket; I’ve asked if we could find a place to buy some gifts for the family. We roll out of the Toyota and into the market, throwing provisions into the tiny toylike cart. Rice, powdered milk, salt, flour, sugar, pasta, all become part of the gifts I’m bringing for Belinda and her family. Wait. School supplies. How about some scented lotion? She’s twelve now, after all. I toss a pair of berry flavored chapsticks into the mix before paying and heading out the door. The bill for ten huge bags of food and gifts is less than $50.00 US. There’s enough here to eat for a year, I think.

We rearrange ourselves back into the Toyota. With all the groceries, there’s not enough room in back for Norma and Maria. Fernando and I take a few bags up front but Norma and Maria still have to share a seat. They do not complain. It feels like they’ve done this before. No one has working seatbelts.

Into the Altiplano. Bolivia has about 27,000 miles of highways but less than 1,200 miles are paved. Highway travel is arduous and dangerous. Many still do not have guardrails, lighting, shoulders, fencing, and other safety features. Signage is minimal. Gas stations are few and far between. But the worst danger is other drivers. It is common to speed, to pass on curves and blind spots, to drive at night with no lights, and in general, exhibit a blatant disregard for anyone’s life.

Outside are brown fields. A few mud houses. Bare trees. The snowcapped Andes look cold and foreboding in the distance. What if the narcotraficantes stop us? I wonder. I try not to think about it and try to engage everyone in conversation. We talk about Belinda and her family. We make small talk, tell stories, and share memories.

We stop for a bathroom break and a Coka Quina in the tiny town of Laja. Literally a one horse town. We are driving the only vehicle. I am told in Laja there is only one public telephone. We find the only store, stretch, and cram back into the Toyota to resume our adventure.

Shortly thereafter, we turn off the main highway and begin to drive deep into the Altiplano. The road turn to gravel; unhurried farmers herding their livestock to the fields look annoyed as we lumber down their road.

Look! There’s Humberto! shouts Norma. Humberto is Belinda’s father. We have arrived.

To be continued...

Part 4: The Witches Market

Bolivians have a very indigenous and superstitious culture. This is one country that the conquering Spaniards never really were able to win over. To this day,native beliefs continue to thrive right alongside modern ones. A family will have their new baby baptized by a priest, and then visit the Mercado de las Brujas, or the Witches Market, to have a yathiri, or medicine woman, construct an offering to Pachamama to bless the new arrival.

Curious, I wanted to see the old 1500’s cobblestone Calle Linares and the famous Mercado de las Brujas, or Witches Market. On this street, Medicine women, or Yathiri in Aymara, sell medicinal herbs, llama fetuses, dried armadillos, and all manner of potions and talismans for every malady and condition imaginable. There’s a puzzling assortment of statuettes and cloudy old yellowed bottles with potions concocted from animal parts like boa constrictor heads and bat feet.

One of the most popular items is a cholla, or an offering featuring dried llama fetus to bury underneath any new construction for protection.

I bought a pachamama (earth mother) statue which the Yathiri inexplicably wrapped in yellow and red yarn before giving to me.

I also bought an Ekeko to show my students. The Ekeko is a little statue of a traditionally dressed Andean man completely loaded with bags and baskets of food, household objects, currency, and basically anything that a person is thought to need to have a comfortable and prosperous life ; He is said to evoke a full year of prosperity. Every Bolivian household will have an Ekeko in some corner of the home.

Little did I know how much these indigenous beliefs would touch every corner of my visit to Bolivia..

To be continued...

Part 4: The Fighting Cholitas!

La Lucha Libre is Bolivia’s professional wrestling with a twist…the contenders are women who wear Cholita dress: a multilayered skirt, flat shoes, shawls and traditional bowler hat. The matches take place in El Alto, the poorest and toughest district above La Paz. For 25 bolivianos (about $3.50 US) you get a ringside seat, a drink, snack, souvenir, and two passes to the rest rooms across the street--and some of the best Sunday evening entertainment in La Paz. Lucha Libre is a lowbrow slice of Bolivian culture that few gringos get to experience.

I’m next to a Canadian father and son who heard about the Lucha Libre from a poster in their hostel; the father is having a blast; Son looks like he would rather be having a root canal. They’ve been trekking the Andes together for two months and will be heading back to Quebec soon before Son has to start university.

We try to get Son to embrace the moment; he can’t get past the tackiness of it all to have any fun. We give up and join in with the locals who emphatically throw the remains of their snacks at the characters in the ring; “good” cholitas and “bad” wrestle for cash prizes. I get chucked in the head with a rib bone and respond with an orange peel in the offending direction.

The food fight becomes a full fledged fracas when it becomes evident that the referee has been bribed by Juanita the Bad. The crowd emphatically hurls insults and the remainder of their lunches at the referee; I translate the swear words for the Canadians; Son perks up a bit. Finally, Rosa the Good slams the crooked ref into Juanita the Bad and the match is over.

Five more matches go on like this--sometimes it’s difficult to tell who is good and who is bad -- we side with the crowd to be safe.

The merriment continues until a pair of armed military police show up and order everyone out. I say adios to my Canadian friends and remind Son he’ll have some great stories and a whole new raft of dandy swear words to impress his Spanish teacher when he returns to University. He smiles for the first time that evening.

We all happily spill out into the winter Andean night, and tumble into the warmth of our waiting micros that take us back to our hotel.

Part 4: Reminders of a Regime

Riot shields line up under a pink park statue reading “Peace”.
One does not have to go very far to be reminded that Bolivia’s hold on democracy is tenuous at best.

Outside the presidential palace, decked out in red, green and yellow bunting for the recent Independence day celebration, marchers chant their garbled dissatisfaction with government policies at top volume through tinny loudspeakers. In a country where dynamite is legally sold to anyone, the presidential plaza is heavily guarded. The president, an indigenous coca farmer, seems to always be at odds with everyone.

Military police, always in pairs, make their presence known in the parques and streets of the city. They serve as a reminder that Bolivia’s turbulent history is still being settled.

Part 4: Sunday in el Parque

Sunday is family day in Bolivia. Paceños, inhabitants of La Paz, get out of their homes and spend family time together in one of the many parques on the wide boulevards of La Paz. A short two blocks from my hotel, I found a small plaza filled with families enjoying the day. For just one boliviano (14 cents), one can purchase a baggie of birdseed to feed the hundreds of pigeons that congregate here. Another boliviano will buy a bag of peanuts or roasted almonds to nosh on; two will get you a a balloon or a Coka Quina (Cola with coca not caffeine).
Paceños are great munchers: Cholitas hawk snack foods and sodas on every street corner, and people eat on the street all the time. It seems to be a national pastime.

Part 4: Independent Practice: Bolivia

"Each student will demonstrate grasp of new learning by working through an activity or exercise independently" --Madeline Hunter

 

Bolivia. Not for Sissies. If the extreme altitude doesn't get you, something else will. Bolivia is the poorest and the most indigenous of all South American countries. La Paz, the de facto capital, sits at the foot of the Royal Range of the Andes, at an elevation of around 12,000 feet.

Soroche, or mountain sickness, takes its toll almost immediately on the unsuspecting visitor. The thin air causes lightheadness at best and makes one do silly things like put hotel room keys in the refrigerator.Traditional medicine offers no cure other than time for Soroche; the locals swear by Mate de Coca, tea made from coca leaves and hot water. Other than that the only cure is to descend.

La Paz is a modern city of 2 million people with a Kodak moment waiting on every corner. Cholitas are Aymara women dressed in long flowing skirts with 10 or more petticoats, cardigan sweaters and bowler hats. Cholitas are on every block in La Paz, usually selling candy and soda or minutes and Sim cards for cell phones.

Some of the best Zen moments I've enjoyed here are seeing a cholita sitting in front of her trade blanket on the sidewalk happily chatting away in Aymara language on her cell phone. This blend of old and new is one of the most fascinating things about La Paz.

Part 4: Independent Practice: Barely Getting to Bolivia

"Once pupils have mastered the skill, it is time to provide for practice, so that the learning is not forgotten".
-Madeline Hunter

La Paz’s “El Alto” airport is one of the highest airports in the world and one of the most challenging for pilots to land. Situated even higher than the Bolivian capital city of La Paz, the challenge at El Alto is the altitude (13,325 feet)and the terrain.

The Andes mountains suddenly break away to a high bowl-like valley which contains the city of La Paz. From the plane one can see the entire city in one magnificent vista, framed by snow capped Andean peaks all around.

I have been told that flying into La Paz is one of the most thrilling aviation experiences ever. There are only two runways, each surrounded by city and by steep cliffs of the Andes mountains. One slip and its Adios amigos.

We are in an antique 727 that most other airlines would have deemed unfit for service years ago. I ask for exit row and get one of the last rows on the plane--row 29 next to the galley. But the bonus is I get to board from the back of the plane like in the old days. Out on the runway, grinning soldiers in olive uniforms with AK-47s happily wave me onboard. Security has a different meaning here.

I strap myself in and watch the human parade before me. The overhead bins above us are duct taped shut. Someone has written “Out of Order” in black magic marker in Spanish on the shiny gray tape. I notice the frayed green and purple upholstery on the seats, most of which do not have armrests. Someone has stuck gum between the pages of my in-flight magazine. I try to recline a little. My seat does not recline. Why am I surprised?

A dark man with black greasy brylcreem hair in a worn brown tweed business suit takes the seat ahead of me and promptly reclines his seat so his slimy head is just inches from my lap. He pulls out a cell phone and commences a very loud and apparently very important conversation in rapid fire Spanish.
Time for takeoff. The flight attendants do not bother with the usual safety speech nor cross check. Instead, they are in the back of the plane with me, noshing on the peanuts and cookies. One of them arms my exit door as an afterthought as we take off. We rumble down the tarmac as cell phone guy continues shouting into his phone.

Bang! The plane goes silent. Heads turn in my direction. To my left, in the galley, coffee pots, cups and packets tumble from cabinets above- flung open from takeoff- onto the worn purple carpet. An empty coffee pot rolls under my feet. Packets of sugar rain down into the galley like white butterflies alighting in the rainforest. The flight attendants are unaffected. Nobody says a word. Cell phone guy resumes his important conversation. Life goes on.

The rest of the flight seems uneventful. The flight crew is more interested in chatting with me than working. They invite me to their domain in the back of the plane. Someone gets out a deck of cards. We play “21” until we get bored.
Time to land. Annoyed, the crew makes a perfunctory dash through the aisles. The cards are put away. I return to my seat. Cell phone guy, grease from his black hair staining the purple seatback, is fully reclined and asleep. I skinny into my spot and watch expectantly out my exit door window. La Paz appears, a bowl of twinkling yellow Christmas lights below, myriad glitters interrupting the darkness of the Andes.

Landing is quick and sharp. We hit the runway and bounce. Hard. The aging plane rumbles, shudders and shimmies. Then more roaring and squealing and screeching. We are thrown forward, then backward then from side to side. I think we blew a tire.

Then I smelled it. Cell phone guy has s**t his pants. There can be no other explanation. It lingers in the stale close airplane air. Strapped and trapped into my exit row, I have no escape. I reach into my pocket and retrieve a worn tissue to cover my nose. We rumble into the gate.
Gagging, I escape from my prison to my flight attendant friends as everyone jumps up to retrieve their bags. I tell them about cell phone guy.

“Happens all the time on this landing.” they say.