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...
