You can say anything you like about American express: you can a laugh at the arrogance of their advertisement ("American Express ? That will do nicely", which by the way in vernacular Spanish has become a joke: "A maricón express ?" - maricón being the word for 'gay'); you can shake your head at the gullibility of people who pay over the odds to own a plastic status symbol; or you can demonstrate against what has become one of the modern symbols to attack: I will not hear a word against them. As soon as I discovered the cheque numbers and went back to the Amex office in downtown La Paz, they reissued them on the spot. I had my $1600 traveller's cheques back. And this, in Bolivia - not Germany or Switzerland which we normally associate with efficiency.
From better to even better: I called the unforgetfully named Mr Milton Dorrigo at the Banco de Santa Cruz about my replacement Mastercard - yes they knew all about it, and I could have it later that afternoon. In the police station, all was well. I got the copy of my 'denuncia' stamped three times and signed by five chiefs on what seemed rice paper - thinner than the South American Handbook pages - which I took greater care to preserve than my haircut. (Now THAT is trying hard) and I was off to the embassy with all documentation. Luckily I re-read my list of things to submit and realised that Katrin had not dated the back of my passport pictures. So, I stopped by on the way to say hello before she left for Lake Titicaca with her aunt.
Katrin duly dated the pix and asked how my day had been. I was beaming. All was well, the sun was shining, the birds were singing and I had $1600 in my pocket. "Good", she said dryly. "Don't lose them again". Ooops! I had to downshift my mood a bit to match hers. "Oh, but I still haven't found a chemist that sells Lariam malaria pills. I need two to finish my course. And I have still got no sunglasses. I am not used to general brightness", I said sheepishly.
"Huh, I have Lariam pills", Katrin replied. "I am not going to the jungle, I decided. I am afraid to start the course - I heard they turn you psychotic". I laughed. "Well, look at me", I said. "I have been taking them for weeks.". She stared at me: "Exactly".
Boy, was she bitchy today. "So, you're going to lend me two pills, then ?"
"Lend them to you ?You mean you are going to return them ?"
"Well, not exactly, youknowwhatahmean. I'll buy them off you if you like."
"That is what I was thinking. But I don't want to sell a few. You can buy them all or none".
"How many ?"
"Twenty. They cost me about $50".
Oh dear, we were in a really bad mood today. I shrugged my shoulders. "Don't bother. I'll try to find some in La Paz", I said. I was cheesed off but whatever, Katrin had helped me a lot; and I would carry her signature on my passport photo for the next ten years. "Call me when you come back from Lake Titicaca", I said. "I'll take you out for dinner and pay with my new Mastercard". She was not amused. "Oh, and you intend going in Chile ?", she countered. Yes, I was. "They have some disease like the plague, carried by rats. My aunt read it in the papers. The Bolivians are afraid it might spread here from Arica." And with that cheerful message we parted.
[I would not believe it at the time, but it was true. The Hanta virus had made a rare appearance in the southern forests of Chile as the rat population increased because of El Niño. But it was a fluke and anyway do we get sacred in England if there is an outbreak of cholera in Morocco ? That's the kind of distances we're talking about.]
Somehow Katrin's grumpiness changed my luck. When I arrived at the Embassy it was closed. Yes, it was only 1pm, but British diplomats do not work Friday afternoons - it's the four-and-a-half-day week for our glorious representatives. There was nothing I could do. I'd have to wait until Monday, beyond the weekend. And Lariam pills do not exist in Bolivia, so I had to stop my course and take a chance on malaria. Nothing to report so far :-)
Believe me, there are much worse places to be stuck in than La Paz. I had been taken in by the city which - outside Rio de Janeiro - has the most spectacular setting of any other metropolis in South America. It combines Western-style avenues and boutiques with typically Bolivian markets and shops. It has its 24-hr night-spots, good restaurants and expensive villas in the bottom of the basin that forms the town. At night in the crisp atmosphere of 3800m you look around and think that the stars are closing in on you - such is the feeling conveyed by the lights of the settlements on the surrounding hills. That is where the poor live: in the slums which have now become a city of their own: 'El Alto'. La Paz must be the only city on Earth where the workers can go to sleep having dwellings with better overall views than their masters.
So what about this Santa Cruz- La Paz rivalry I first described in my instalment about Santa Cruz ? The Kollas of La Paz versus the Cambos of Santa Cruz ? Well, it's not unlike the West Coast-East Coast rivalry in the US. La Paz is New York to Santa Cruz's LA. Santa Cruz is vast, hot, brash and horizontal - the car is a necessity. La Paz is fast, compact with a vertical skyline and homeless beggars - here a car is a luxury. Although at heart I'm a West Coast kind of guy when it comes to the Continental US, I preferred the skyscapes of La Paz to the low-rise sprawl of Santa Cruz in Bolivia. Even though there are soldiers in front of every public orifice - ooops I mean office. Hell, all janitors seemed to have a pet Uzi for protection: aaah, Latin America as it ought to be.
Talking about armed guards, I called on the Banco of Santa Cruz for my friend Mr Milton Dorrigo on the 11th floor. (Yes, they build them tall in La Paz. Apparently they've never had an earthquake. Difficult to believe isn't it ?) Mr Dorrigo was in a meeting and I would have to return in an hour to pick up my Mastercard. So, I found the Internet Cafe and read my boring junk e-mail. The place was full of Western travellers. Once, travellers met in cheap flea-infested youth hostels. Now if you want to exchange tips about travel destinations you have to walk in a Cybercafe. One thing is certain: given time, they may become flea-infested, but cheap they will never be.
I was so elated to be reunited with a Mastercard again (even though it said TEMPORARY on it and could not be swiped) that I overlooked the waiting and sending back-and-forth or the "You are waiting here for 20 minutes. Is anyone looking after you ?" kind of wide-eyed innocent comment from Bolivian bank employees. But less than 48 hours after I was robbed, I had another credit card. I had cash, I had my plastic, I had my travellers cheques. Had to go shopping. First a nice small backpack for $9 (which oddly had a stitch saying 'Onward to the Year 2000' in English. Are Pulp Big in Bolivia ?) Next: I couldn't find a Lonely Planet guide, so I bought Peter McFarren's 'An insider's guide to Bolivia' which I very much recommend. Virtually unknown in Britain, it is sold inside Bolivia and is a collection of historical, geographical and tourist essays on topics spanning the archaeological finds around the islands of lake Titicaca to a description of the textile traditions of the altiplano via Bolivian food recipes. I also bought Mark Cramer's 'Bolivia - Culture Shock" a book best read after you've been to the country rather than before :-)
I felt good. I felt so good I changed $200 and bought back a Sony Discman for $115 - still cheaper than in London. Anyway, my stolen one was old and getting stuck too often. Hell, I needed one. In fact my robbers did me a favour by taking it off my hands. Why, I should pay them for it. Or at least send them a 'thank you' note. Well, if they hadn't stolen my camera with it, the BASTARDS.
Shit, I was still without a camera. And worse, I was still without sunglasses.
As every day in La Paz I had a list of things to do. The first three items today read:
1. Go to British Airways. This was difficult because BA does not operate direct flights to La Paz and does not need an office as such. During the previous days I had gone to two erroneous addresses - but this one was the correct one. There was no sign on the door and the building looked more like a residential one than a bunch of offices. Nice to see British Airways employing cottage industry methods in Bolivia. Well, inside it was familiarly impersonal with the girls informing me that they will be able to tell me if they can re-issue the ticket on Monday, It depended on the travel agency which had originally issued the ticket. I hope it hadn't gone bust.
2. Buy Sunglasses. At last - in Calle Comercio I found a shop which could provide me with new sunglasses with prescription lenses in 48 hours for $50. In fact, if you click on www.scroll.demon.co.uk/atacama.htm, you'll see me wearing them.
3. Visit Calle Jaén museums. Ah, now we are talking: I can be a tourist in La Paz, at last.
Calle Jaén is the best-looking, best-preserved colonial street in the capital. It is near Plaza Murillo, itself a gem of a square. On one side the art deco Grand Hotel Paris; on the other the City Congress and opposite, the Cathedral with the adjoining Museo Nacional del Arte. I gave the latter a miss. But I did hang around in the Plaza, feeding the pigeons and trying to imagine the public lynching of President Villaroel in 1946 in the same spot - how horrible: physical pain combined with ultimate rejection. I also wondered why Miguel Cervantes - the author of Don Quixote - ever applied to be mayor of La Paz back in Spanish colonial times - he would be living in the Congress building opposite - though it's been burned by revolutions a few times...
The four museums you can visit in La Paz with one ticket are on Calle Jaen. The least interesting one is the Casa Murillo after the patriot who was hung from the square and gave it his name. The building itself is interesting in the way a stately home always is, but its collection of old furniture and walk-on-the-carpet signs left me called. There are some good paintings by Melchor Pérez Holguin, the top exponent of the Potosí school of painting (see my chapter on Sucre/Potosí) but there was a special exhibition on the Museo Costumbrista - the next on our list. There, you normally find dioramas of major events in La Paz, such as the festival of Gran Poder and miniatures of typical Paceño characters. But the exhibition of Holguin was quite something. His best paintings are to be found in Sucre, in the Cathedral museum, but La Paz is equally good.
The third museum was about the War of the Littoral. It is not just in Europe that we have long memories. I think I ought to expand a bit.
There have been several purely South American wars but two stand out in significance: the first was the Chaco War (1865-1869) between Uruguay, Brazil and Argentina on one side and Paraguay on the other who had a Saddam-like President (Francisco Solano Lopez) with an Irish mistress (Eliza Lynch). If you are not au-fait with South American history you will not know that Paraguay took on all three countries and kept them at bay for many years losing 90% (yes ninety per cent) of its male population - a virtual extinction of the Guaranis who enlisted even twelve-year-old kids in the war. It also lost most of its territory. The repercussions were also felt in Brazil where eventually the army took the upper hand and abolished the monarchy (Brazil had an emperor, and one of the Braganças, no shit) and finally ended slavery. Brazil was the last place officially to abolish slavery, although we quite conveniently forget Mauritania et al. But I digress.
The War of the Littoral (or Guerra del Pacifico) 1879-1884 was fought between Chile on the one hand (with the support of Britain) and Peru and Bolivia on the other. Chile won and won comprehensively. It occupied the Bolivian province of Antofagasta and cut off Bolivia from the ocean, a fact which upsets the Bolivians to this day. The first and second Bolivian navies were lost. Now Bolivia has only what it calls historically its Third Navy: four small speedboats on lake Titicaca. Antofagasta, Iquique, Calama, San Pedro de Atacama and the surrounding nitrate and copper mines (need I say why the war was fought ?) used to be Bolivian; but they have been well and thoroughly Chileanized since. Arica and Tacna were Peruvian and were ceded to Chile. Tacna was returned to Peru after a plebiscite in 1929. There was no plebiscite for Arica - perhaps fearful of the result after Tacna - which is still Chilean and very much so.
The scars of this war run still deep . During my trip I followed it quite closely and will come back to it many times. Remember the number of military divisions in Uyuni that made us feel like we were in a war zone? Beyond it is San Pedro and the old Bolivian province of Antofagasta. Remember Diana and her anti-mine campaign ? One of the stumbling blocks was the alleged mining of the Bolivian-Chilean border just like the North-South Korean one. And as for the Football World Cup: when Chile played Bolivia in a decisive World Cup qualifier, the Chileans did not play the Bolivian national anthem to avoid hooliganism in Santiago. And they are wondering why the Northern Ireland problem or the Cyprus problem or the Bosnian problem are difficult to solve. Take the War of the Littoral and multiply by a few centuries and multiple generations of hate: It's not just us in Europe, you know. It's the unforgiving - and unforgivable - human nature.
So what about the museum ? It provided the focus of the mournful memories of the Bolivians on the 100th anniversary of the war in. Heroic incidents, patriotic acts, brave warriors and so on are celebrated as nauseam - but there is no hiding the fact that emotions are always on the side of the underdog. Later on, in Arica, I went to a similar museum - triumphalist. But much that I like Chileans personally and collectively, I felt sorry for the poor landlocked Bolivians that day in La Paz.
I left the most spectacular museum for last: the Museum of Precious Metals - or Museum of Gold as it is called. It solely displays golden and silver object of the cultures of Tiwanaku. Chiripa and Inca with the lion's share on the Tiwanaku culture. There is a male mannequin dressed with pectoral golden bands, bracelets, armbands, anklets and frontal diadems. Tiwanaku was one of the few cultures where men were more vain than women - and dressed accordingly. I, for one, am not complaining.
The museums closed at 1:00pm. Off to the Mercado behind the Church of San Francisco. I decided to go to the Thieves' market - the famously dangerous Huyustus - to buy me another camera. Not expensive, but decent. I had checked prices in the commercial centre earlier.
The market leading from Calle Sagarnaga - where many backpacker hostels are - is vast; as big as the village of Uyuni itself. I passed the clothes shop with fake Levi's and Calvin Kleins, the llama embryo offerings on a spread with flowers, herbs, coca leaves and various seeds, the streets and streets of underwear, the fried fish arcade (pejerrey from Lake Titicaca) the vegetable market with all the one billion varieties of papas and papalisas, the corridors of clothes, the street grocers, the contraband whiskeys, the grand fortresses of stolen and smuggled TVs, videos, camcorders and sound systems until I reached the cameras. I bought a small Canon Prima BF Twin compact with a 35mm and 80mm zoom for $100 down from $150 still in its package. I have not used a non-SLR camera since 1987, so I decided to try out the camera first and I booked myself a tour with Diana Tours for $10 to Chacaltaya; the highest ski resort in the world. I was to break my recently multiply broken altitude record by leaps. Chacaltaya is at 5300m.
In the evening I had a cheap dinner in one of those restaurantes familiares in La Paz where you chat to the waitresses (I was the only one there), have beer on the tap in Bavarian-style litre glasses and portions to explode from - for $6. After three litres of beer I became merry and decided to take a taxi towards the gringo area South of la Paz, the Colocato. I was going to the Britannia bar, a British pub in La Paz. Well, British, my foot! The decor was acceptably unimaginative (scenes from the Quorn Hunt) but there was no bitter, in fact no British beer or even worse no beer on tap. I asked the (Bolivian) owners: "What do you have, then ?" They had bottled Mexican beers. I chose Corona, my favourite - NO LIME. "You should have come Friday - it's when we have Guinness because the British staff from the embassy come in to drink. They come early in the afternoon".
"I know", I said. "They FINISH very early".
An old American guy with what seemed his younger Bolivian boyfriend came in. He was the owner of the next-door restaurant-bar Abracadabra. ("He serves the best pizza in La Paz", said the Britannia owner). "And you come here to drink ?" I asked surprised. If I owned a bar/restaurant (bliss) I wouldn't pay for any of my drinks. "I escape here occasionally", he said. "I've been here over fifteen years and I know everyone. And unfortunately everyone knows me". He bought me a beer, bless him.
I heard this joke from the American. It's a sick joke about a famous Bolivian footballer who recently committed suicide.
The footballer goes home after shopping in the equivalent of Sainsbury's. His wife asks him "Have you bought bogroll ?" "Yes"
"Have you bought soap ?""Yes"
"Have you bought toothpaste ?"
"Oh shit I forgot!"
"Well, then go back. And remember Kolynos or Colgate".
That's the joke. If you heard it in Spanish you'd get it; Cólgate means in Spanish "Hang yourself". Ah, what fun international brands are.
Which is why the Vauxhall Nova is probably absent in Bolivia. In Spanish 'No va' means 'doesn't go'. Not as bad as the Triumph MR2 which didn't sell in France as it was pronounced 'Mer-deux'. But even that pails in significance before that wonderful international advertising campaign for a painkiller run by a well-known drugs company which involved three pictures. On the left was a man with toothache: miserable, in obvious pain. In the middle was the same man drinking a glass with the dissolved painkiller. On the right there was the same man happy and laughing - free of pain. This advert was run unaltered in the Middle East until someone told the advertising genius that Arabic is read right to left.
I went home totally pissed, passing by the various cinemas on the way. I love the way films get translated in another language. Best I saw so far was 'Breaking The Waves' with Emily Watson which was translated 'Between the Sea and Sea-Sickness'.
Up at 8:00am with a hangover and a Bad Mood. The bus didn't arrive 'till much later trying to pick up people from all four corners of the city. Amongst the passengers were two English guys, Stephen and Glen who I spoke to immediately. Then there were two Swedes who sat next to me: the first was called Bjørn - so I couldn't resist the quip: "No, don't tell me, the other one's Benny". Amazingly everyone got the joke and laughed - but the other Swede was called Rainer. Well, I called him Benny like it or not. The guide, Wendy, was cool, too and so was also a German guy called Luther or Lothar - can't decipher what I've written down.
I was the star storyteller with my tale of robbery in Oruro which everyone heard with rapt attention. Stephen shook his head and revealed that he, too, had his passport stolen in Quito market one month before. He had to wait three days for a replacement. It's amazing how many people admitted to me that they had also been robbed after I told them my story. But since I lost everything, I outshone them all :-)
Before we went to Chacaltaya, we had a glimpse of the Valle de la Luna. It is not that impressive, especially since we did not visit the cactarium, with all the various types of cactus which looked brilliant from high up. Then off via El Alto (dazzling views again which sweep you off your feet, especially if there are some photogenic clouds. (remember, now I had a camera!) and the valley of Zongo to the winding dirt forks that make up the road to Chacaltaya. But the photogenic clouds turned suddenly into fog and eventually, after 4500m, into hail and snow. When we reached 5000m, visibility was nil. Still, we plodded on until the driver (who was new and inexperienced) lost command of the car and we skidded back - thankfully not on a precipice. However, when he stalled the engine on a steep crooked curve, and we rolled uncontrollably backwards some 6 feet or so, I jumped out. Luther came out with me. "It's 300m", I said, "I will climb myself to the ski lift". To her credit, Wendy accompanied Luther and myself.
And so it came to pass that I climbed to 5300m in the wind and snow, following a high tension cable that hung and swayed dangerously close above our heads, wheezing from the altitude and cursing everyone and no one in particular. Truth is, I was scared. Only the other week, a bus had fallen in Sorata killing 36 people. In Bolivia with its stony steep and narrow Andes roads, a bus falls off a cliff every two weeks. And if they continue to drive with no visibility and no chains, one can understand why.
Anyway, I arrived at the top breathless and cold. When Wendy asked me for $2 for the entrance fee, I exploded. Not only did I not pay, but I also wrote a denuncia which I threatened to pass on to my friends in the tourist police. Julio, a Chilean passenger, agreed with me and drafted a complaint of his.
The conditions improved (people were snow boarding in the storm, living life to the Max just like a Pepsi advert) and at about 1:30pm we started descending. Still hair-raising but less so. I closed my eyes in the most dangerous bends.
Stephen and Glen were scathing about my complaint: "You should not come to Bolivia if you expect that things are done as in Europe". I find this line of argument annoying. "So how are things going to change if we, who have some clout, do not make any noise? You are leaving tomorrow; Wendy is staying and we are compromising HER life as well. Or are you saying that life is cheaper in the developing countries and we shouldn't bother?". The Swedes found a compromise: perhaps I should scare the agency but not go to the police - the driver might lose his licence and his livelihood. I liked that idea and by the time we arrived back in La Paz, I was calmer. Plus I was going to watch the final set of qualifying matches for the World Cup in France: Chile-Bolivia and Argentina-Colombia in my hotel. Hehehe - or as they write in Spanish newsgroups: jejeje.
I watched the Chile-Bolivia game with the waiters in my hotel. I supported Chile to provide the competitive interest. I needn't have bothered. There was no competition. Chile beat Bolivia 3-0 and Bolivia was down to 9 men in the end. By far the most controversial aspect of the game happened before kick-off: it was the non-playing of the Bolivian anthem which I described earlier.
Almost immediately afterwards Argentina-Columbia, 1-1. A fantastic game; I thought the Argentinian team is the best I had seen since 1986; I was particularly impressed by Galliardo, Batistuta and Ortega - but Columbia stole my heart; it reminded me of vintage Brazil at its best. Still, the classiest thing on TV was an advert for Italian food : it showed a fat Napoleon, mouth dribbling in Napolitana sauce, saying "Viva La Raviolucion".
MONDAY
It's a working day again today which means one thing: the EMBASSY to submit my papers for a passport. Would they accept Katrin's signature, although she knew me only for a week? Lisette in the embassy smiled. They would. I breathed deeply. To my surprise, she informed me that all would be ready tomorrow afternoon. Now that's quick.
But apart from this, I was a bunch of nerves. I got irritated easily as yesterday's episode in Chacaltaya showed. I went to British Airways - they had heard nothing! Now, imagine if I get the passport tomorrow and the ticket delays me here longer. I was sure the BA girl has forgotten so I sniped at her (but in a nice way, I didn't want to piss her off TOO much).
Then hassle in changing money. My dollars were 'too crumpled'. Bolivians and Peruvians are so incredibly finicky when you go to change money which is so rich coming from them as they give you back tatty, torn and totally unrecognizable notes. I gave the cashier a piece of my mind and left. The same $100 got accepted in another Casa de Cambio with no objections.
Off to the cemetery where there were buses for Tiwanaku. I was there at 11:00. At 11:10 I found a micro. The micro was waiting to fill up. They said they'd leave at 11:30. At 11:55 we started to leave; then a woman street trader jumped in and asked the driver for five more minutes. The whole bus exploded with anger. But I went ballistic when I turned and saw her sitting down for bloody lunch! I cut my losses and left, cursing. I went to another micro. It was empty, leaving in 'only 15 minutes'. The driver asked me for 6 Bolivianos instead of the standard fare of five. That was it! I left fuming. "Fuck it, I am not going to bloody Tiwanaku today".
If I may say something about transport in Bolivia: anyone can buy a bus and start a transport business. There are hardly any safety regulations and the ones that exist do not count for much. As I said before, on the Day of the Dead a bus plunged down a ravine on the way from Sorata in foggy conditions. It was overcrowded and 36 people died. But transport is big business in Bolivia. From the official statistics of the country in http://www.ine.gov.bo/iw01.htm you find that the transport sector is the third most important contributor to GDP with 10% of the total after manufacturing industry (17%) and agriculture (15%), more than mining. The site also gives you other information e.g. about life expectancy (61.4 years) and illiteracy (20%) split between men and women (11.8% of the males and 27.7% for the females). Scary numbers.
The way down from the cemetery passes through Calle Sagarnaga and Diana tours. I was so fed up I went in with mine and Julio's written complaints. I gave the two girls the fright of their lives telling them I'd go to the police. The owner soon invited me to his back office. "How much did you pay ?" $10. He gave me my money back on the spot. I calmed down a little. He insisted the bus wasn't theirs - it belonged to Vicuña Tours, another agency who was collecting the people from all the travel bureaux - they are all a big Mafia up there.
"I don't care, my contract was with you", I replied.
"And I gave you the money back; but if you want to go to the police to denounce the car and the driver, it is Vicuña tours who are responsible". That threw me off a bit.
He called the agency and started arguing with them in front of me. I got fed up - I left threatening to go to the police. I had no intention to any more, but I was pissed off for no reason and wanted an argument. I had it and now I felt better. I needed a coffee, so I went to the Wall St. Café at Calle Camacho which looked really spiffy; so clean you could eat off the floor (and I know some characters who would). OK, a pastry and capuchino as they spell it (not capuccino). The coffee arrived with tons of sugar! Sent it back gritting my teeth. I did not have this sugar-goes-with-everything problem in Bolivia like I did in Brazil except now. It came back, sweet again. They used sweet chantilly creme. A black cloud started forming around my head which was spotted by the owner, Mustafa, who was Lebanese. He came over and asked me if I was diabetic (I was going to say 'Yes, that's why I ordered the pastry'). No, I just don't like sugar, thank you. "Oh, you should have asked for capuchino with milk, then", he corrected me. Of course. Silly me. I sent it back again. This time I got what I wanted. When the bill came they charged me for three coffees. I sent for Mustafa who corrected the bill to one coffee.
Was my patience snapping easily ? It was. Would this happen for the rest of the trip - I was only - well, exactly halfway - now. Calm down, John.
But I couldn't. I picked up the first film with the small Canon which I had given for development in the morning. I hated the pictures (though some of them were quite good, I decided later). I started to walk towards the plaza Murillo which I missed (can you believe that ?) and found myself in the Plaza Estadio by the tourist police again. I went off on a tangent and found myself in Laikakota Park which calmed me down with the riveting all-round views of La Paz it commands: on the left Mount Illimani with its jagged summit loomed clear on the horizon; straight on the picturesque - and lopsided- Las Americas bridge shone over the Rio Choqueyapu; and on the right the skyscrapers of Sopocachi confused the eye with their incongruous, modernistic architecture.
Well, if I couldn't go to Tiwanaku, I could at least go to its museum: the small but impressive archaeological museum of La Paz. Apart from the highly interesting Tiwanaku artefacts there was something that knocked me out for six. I have not frequently been floored by museum exhibits, but what I am about to describe was astonishing: it was two items from Peru, Nazca in particular. There were two small ceramic objects, perhaps oil lamps except they looked like caricature Chinese faces: slit eyes, thin eyebrows, black shiny straight hair, red dots on the cheeks, small mouth, inscrutable expression. I was so dumbfounded, I sent for the curator whom I eventually found in his office; he explained to me, that yes, these two vases are a mystery and have been used to hypothesise trade between the Nazca in Peru and the Chinese. WOW!
In the evening I decided to see a film. There is nothing else to do on a Monday in La Paz. So I went to see 'My Best Friend's Wedding', one of the films not dubbed in Spanish. Best thing in it was dear, dear Rupert. I liked the ending but I thought it was generally crap. Now I have to explain to you how you see a film in a cinema in Bolivia. You pay the ticket price ($2.5), you point at a seat on grand sitting plan on the wall behind the cashier. Each seat has a ticket folded and stuck on it like a dart - if it doesn't exist, you know the seat is taken. I like to sit in the front, so I said "Row 10, Number 2" please (the even and odd numbers spread out from the central corridor). I went through the armed gorilla on the door and found my seat - but imagine my surprise when I found myself on the second row from the BACK! Now that is news. Is there another country which counts theatre rows from the back ? I waited for the lights to dim to sneak surreptitiously to the front, but the cinema was filling up quickly, so I went out to change my seat. This does not happen in Bolivia. I had to negotiate with the bouncers to nip out and come back again. Well, they didn't like it, so I got very angry indeed. They had never witnessed such a spectacle before. A gringo who goes to the movies AND wants to change his seat AND swears at someone with a pistol! Oh, and the cashier was devastated. Obviously, by my action I had diminished his standing in society.
Day 32 was another Bad Mood Day. Two in a row.
My 6th day in la Paz. Would I be able to finish everything so that I could leave for Lake Titicaca tomorrow ? I had to pick up my glasses, my BA ticket, go to Tiwanaku, get my passport back, get a stamp from the immigration office and, if all went well, book a ticket to Copacabana. Clearly, I had to wake up early, which usually kills me. Mindful of the debacle yesterday in the Cemetery, I woke up at 7:00am and was at the Cemetery by 8:00. At 8:15 I found a micro leaving 'soon'. At 8:45 I, and the rest of the passengers, realised that the car had no battery; I followed a cursing local to another area and found another micro leaving for Tiwananku at 9:00. It finally left at 9:30 - but on the road to Tiwanaku I well and truly was, at last. Two of my fellow passengers were Martha, a 69-yr old American lady from Michigan with her second husband 70yo 'Duane' - a twanging name pronounced by her twanging voice. They had just entered Bolivia from Peru and last night Martha had celebrated her entry in her 100th country.
This had me thinking and I counted mine. Would the old USSR count ? "If you crossed immigration, it does". Can I count Uzbekistan separately then ? It was part of the USSR then. "No you can't". What about old East Germany ? "You can, but you count West Germany and overall Germany once". Does the Vatican count ? "Of course, it sits in the UN". But you don't pass immigration there. She gave me her algorithm. "If you pass immigration - to count East Germany -OR the place has a seat in the UN - the Vatican - OR it had a seat in the UN when you went there - the USSR -, it counts. Ultimately, it must issue its own stamps". Mmm, Pitcairn Island issues its own stamps but is a British dominion. We were both confused. You would have thought it would be easy to define what a bloody COUNTRY was, wouldn't you ? "Have you been to Pitcairn island ?", she asked me. No, I had not. "Well, forget it then". So, my count including Peru which was next in a few days' time was 42. Duane had only done 27. "You are well-travelled", she said. "I'll give you some advice: The Caribbean". What ? "Take a cruise in the Caribbean; there are these little island states all next to each other. You'll hit 50 in a week."
In the next hour in the packed micro she gave me the run of her story. She married Duane four years ago, after she was introduced to him by Duane's son who thought she'd be a good match for his Dad. They were travelling around and enjoying themselves immensely in their twilight years. Wonderful.
We were in Tiwanaku at 11:15am. Shit. I had to be in the embassy before 3:00pm. It looked as if I'd stay one more day in La Paz. So I relaxed and hung around with the American couple. I translated the local museum's exhibits for them; I even told them the history. Which goes like this:
Tiwanaku was a civilisation that started at the same time as Ancient Greece and went on for centuries, peaking when the Arabs were expanding. Around the period of the Crusades it fell into a strange and unaccounted-for recession and split into various Aymara fiefdoms a few centuries before the Inca expansion. It was a very interesting culture which covered the subsequent southern Inca territory in Bolivia, South Peru and Northern Chile. As usual there were the bog-standard virgin sacrifices (beheadings mostly), but a culture that revolved around hallucinogenic drugs - and we're not talking wimpy coca leaves here - and administered the heaviest ones through ENEMAS is way up in my estimation. No shit (no pun intended).
Furthermore, in a country like Bolivia, which in the 20th century lives by subsistence farming, Tiwanaku had developed a form of raised farmbeds - later adopted and perfected by the Incas in the sloping terraces. In Bolivia the only raised farmbeds survive 10km east of the ruins, in Pampa Koani. The cultivation of those terraces not only survived the drought of 1983 (the terraces acted as a water retainer) but also the floods of 1985 (the terraces were higher up). These observations were enough for interest in the old culture to be re-ignited and serious excavations to start. It is only since the mid eighties that we have come to understand that the developed Inca state did not appear ex nihilo, but followed a well-organised civilisation with roads that led to commercial llama caravans to the Pacific zone over the Andes and excellent stonework as displayed in the current ruins of Tiwanaku proper. When the Incas came, the place was already in ruins and the locals could not explain who the builders of the temples were. There are many imposing sights in Tiwanaku: the Gate of the Sun and the Moon, the pyramid of Akapana and three carved monoliths showing humans with two left-hands. There was one monolith of a bearded man - beard? on the Andes ?
As I was climbing the main temple of Kalassasaya I heard a familiar voice behind me "Hello John".
I turned around. It was Katrin. "Hi Kirsten", I said. "I mean Katrin".
"What ? You called me Kirsten ?" She turned around to her companion who was introduced to me as Lisa from London "I saved his skin and he forgot my name!"
I cringed. "Sorry, Katrin. I have a lot of my head" (inwardly I was biting myself). She noticed my new camera and backpack with the familiarity of an old relative. I put her in the picture regards the progress with the police and the embassy.
"How did you come here ?", I asked.
"With Diana tours", she explained. "I met Lisa in the tour bus".
I shook my head and told her the story about Diana tours and Chacaltaya. She laughed aloud. "It's not your week, is it ?", she said.
"Nor mine", said Lisa. "I was robbed in the market yesterday. Thankfully they only took money but $50 is a lot to me."
"How was Lake Titicaca ?", I asked. She had a good time trekking on the islands. So, would I see her tonight ? I wanted to take her out for a meal to thank her for her help. She declined. "I have to see my uncle. He's back today and I am off to Coroico tomorrow" as her excuse. I said I was hoping to leave tomorrow or the day after for Copacabana. Lisa butted in - she was going there, as well. Would I go with her ? She had heard about my $1600 and was looking at me like an eligible bachelor. If I could have my passport back by 3pm, which looked increasingly unlikely. It was by now 1:00pm.
Suddenly, I had an idea. "When are you leaving Tiwanaku?"
"In about ten minutes, by the restaurant at the exit."
"Are there any seats ?", I asked. She looked at me in disbelief.
"Katrin", I said. "It may take me 2 hours to get back to La Paz".
"Try your luck", she said. "There's our guide".
I approached the Diana Tours guide. Would it be possible to hitch a ride with them back to La Paz ? Of course, I would pay some compensation to him personally. How much ? Will three dollars do? They would do nicely.
I was in! Katrin smiled. "I saved you again, didn't I ?"
"You are my guardian angel", I replied.
I said good-bye to the Americans who were sitting in the restaurant having lunch and wished them good luck. They were off to Sucre tomorrow, godblessthem.
On the way back, the tour stopped at Laja for fifteen minutes. Laja was the site of the original city of La Paz; but the Spanish left coz there was no water. Now it only has an interesting church and Plaza de Armas. Even with this stop, we were in La Paz by 2:00pm. It was time to say the final good-bye to Katrin. Thankfully it was short coz I was in a hurry. I was, and still am, eternally grateful to her. "Send me a postcard from Chile", she sniffed and was gone.
I jumped into a taxi and was at the Embassy with half an hour to spare. Lisette smiled and gave me my new burgundy EC/UK passport. I must be the only Greek-born British citizen with a passport issued in La Paz. And what did I do first thing ? I took a photocopy of my new passport :-)
What about British Airways ?
"The agency who issued your ticket gave us permission to reissue it", the girl informed me. They had it ready, but I gave it back. The reason put for re-issue was 'ticket lost'. I wouldn't have that. I wanted it changed to 'ticket stolen'. When they realised they wouldn't get rid of me, they relented and changed the reason manually to shut me up.
I took another taxi to the immigration office. Gringos are dealt with on the top floor very efficiently. They were very helpful - and they were not shutting until 7pm. They kept the passport, the denuncia, my plane ticket from Corumbá to Santa Cruz (proof of the date of entry to Bolivia) and my international driving licence which I had been using as an ID all along. I should come back in two hours for my stamp.
I dashed to the opticians in Calle Comercio by Plaza Murillo. My glasses were ready. But then I had a brief moment of panic when I couldn't find my credit card to pay for them. I found it eventually, but I was so panicky I felt dizzy and had to seat down in the Plaza. I was apprehensive. Being on the road meant: buses, luggage, thieves. The Oruro nightmare was re-enacted for instant in my mind. Good grief, I was a live wire. Much that I joked about it, I was not over the shock completely. All this rushing about and the stress were on the process of ruining the trip. I took a deep breath and made one of these snap decisions.
I would throw money at the problem. I had to calm down. I was going to pay over the odds for a luxury tour that would take me to Copacabana and all the way to Peru and Puno. I was not going to worry about ill-lit stations and bags and passports for the next few days. I had to put everything behind me. I went to a tourist agency whose office I had passed several times: Crillón tours. I paid the extortionate amount of $180 for transfer to lake Titicaca, breakfast in a 5-star hotel by the lake, a trip to the Islas del Sol and de La Luna by private hydrofoil and transfer to Copacabana, where I would spend two days at the best hotel there (Playa Azul for which I had to pay separately) and then continue by private coach to Puno in Peru. It now seems an enormous amount of money and it was then too. But it had the desired effect. I calmed down; forgot about buses and border crossings and returned back to my usual composed self. That was where the $180 went to. I started to enjoy my journey again.
Just for the record: I picked up my immigration stamp as planned and crashed back at the hotel for a few hours. Then I went out for an Argentinian churrasco. I ordered a Chilean wine, but they had run out; the only wine on offer was Bolivian, from Concepción. I relented. I was going to have an expensive meal as a present to myself. By expensive I mean I spent $15 including wine. But that wine or the meat or the béarnaise sauce gave me a very strong belly ache, the only one during the trip. I can usually eat nails for breakfast and drink my weight in alcohol with no adverse effects. "It will be over by morning", I thought dismissively.
What I did not know was that this was a case of food poisoning. By the time I reached Copacabana I would be on a full-blown gastro-enteritis trip.