High Plains Backpacker: La Paz journal, Day 3
Andy Carvin
Here's the latest installment of my journal High Plains Backpacker, which
covers my September 98 trip to Peru and Bolivia.
This episode: La Paz, Day 3.
If you'd like to see my previous posts, visit http://www.dejanews.com and
search for High Plains Backpacker.
And please excuse any typos or minor errors, especially with my Spanish. I'm
still editing the text.
Andy Carvin
aca...@gsn.org
http://edweb.gsn.org/andy.html
--------
Thursday, Sept 10
La Paz
March of the Cocaleros
Susanne and I both had a hard time sleeping last night thanks to the
infections we developed back in Cusco. My sinus infection seemed to be
improving, but Susanne's cold still hadn't bottomed out yet. Because there
was a good chance our Tiwanaku tour would be cancelled again due to the
protester's roadblock of the main road, I let Susanne sleep in while I
checked with the hotel front desk. Before I could even get the question out
of my mouth, one of the women behind the counter shook her head and said, "I
am so sorry... The protesters are still blockading the road to Tiwanaku, so
there will be no tour today. I am sure you will be able to go tomorrow - the
protests never last this long." If they've never lasted this long, I thought
to myself, it seems like they're already breaking new ground. I had a bad
feeling tomorrow wouldn't be much better.
Katrina, the freckly faced desk attendent, was also working that morning so I
asked her if she could help me out with a trip to the pharmacist. "Your
friend isn't feeling well this morning?" she asked. "No problem. Tell me her
symptoms and I will write them down. My father is a pharmacist, you know."
Katrina then proceeded to walk me through a medical consult: "Is she coughing
a lot? Is the cough coming from her throat or from her lungs? How long has
she had the cough?" And so on, as she scribbled notes in Spanish on a slip of
paper. "Take this to a pharmacy and they will get you what you need. He will
probably give you some cough syrup and some Contac."
Armed with the medical confidence supplied by a Bolivian pharmacist's
daughter, I walked down the road to the local pharmacy. As I walked in I
noticed a man sweeping the floor, with several chairs turned upside down on a
counter. The man gave me a stern look and pointed at the clock on the wall; I
concluded he wouldn't open until 9 o'clock. That gave me 45 minutes to walk
down to a cafe and get some breakfast. The Lonely Planet recommended the Cafe
Torino, about a block down the hill from Plaza Murillo. Cafe Torino was a
spacious split-level cafe adjacent to the Hotel Torino and its ritzy
restaurant. I ate the resident Desayuno Americano, a platter of toast, eggs,
coffee and orange juice, as I was serenaded by a radio playing classic 80s
pop: The Bangles, Journey, Culture Club. Before I even finished my coffee I
knew that the squealing voice of Steve Perry singing "Don't Stop Believing"
would haunt me for the rest of the morning.
After cashing a traveler's cheque I stopped at a bakery for some croissants
before returning to the hotel. Considering the mediocre experience we had at
the Republica's "restaurant" I figured Susanne would appreciate the fresh
bread. I stocked up on half a dozen small croissants for three bolivianos. It
was now around 9:30am, so that meant I could go to the pharmacy and pick up
the cold supplies for Susanne. The old pharmacist who had shooed me off
earlier now welcomed me with a bright "Buenos dias, señor... Como esta?" I
handed him the slip of paper that Katrina had written, hoping the note would
make him realize I spoke practically no Spanish. Nevertheless he immediately
started to quiz me about her symptoms in Spanish. "Uhh.... Yo hablo Espanol
solamente poquito," I stuttered, hoping that made sense. I pointed to my
throat and made a gutteral noise - a feigned phlegmatic spasm that I hoped
would convey some meaning. "Ok, ok," the pharmacist said, thumbing through
the drugs on his wall. I continued my theater of the afflicted routine with
some wheezes and a sinusoidal snort, to which the man gave me another "Ok,"
as if he needed no more demonstrations in order to make his diagnosis.
Eventually he returned to the counter and handed me a bottle of purple cough
syrup and several packets of Contac cold medicine, just as Katrina had
originally suggested.
By the time I returned to Hostal Republica Susanne was up and around, sitting
by the bed and reviewing her journal. I handed her the pills and the cough
medicine, which she swallowed immediately. My stomach twisted as I watched
her consume the purple liquid. "Ugh," I said with a grimace, "I don't know
how you can drink that stuff so easily." "It tastes pretty good," she
replied, licking the spoon clean. The sight of her drinking the syrup put an
awful taste in my mouth, so I quickly suggested we get some coffee at the
hotel restaurant.
Our bag of croissants sprawled on the table, we enjoyed our coffees as a
group of British backpackers settled in for breakfast. Wondering about last
night's ceremony at Plaza Murillo, we asked them if they knew if any British
VIP was in town. "What'd they look like?" one of them asked. "Middle age,
grey hair, overweight," I started to reply. "Well, then," another one of them
cut me off, smiling. "Whoever it was, they definitely sound like one of
ours."
After nibbling on several of the croissants Susanne and I left the hotel,
heading for Plaza Murillo. As we approached the plaza we heard a series of
police whistles accompanied by clapping. Down the hill to our left, we saw a
procession of some sort making its way down Avenida Potosi, surrounded by a
large crowd of pedestrians. Excited about the possibility of witnessing a
protest march, I ran down the hill, holding my camera in my right hand to
avoid having it swing arbitrarily around my neck. As we reached the crowd we
realized it was a student protest - not college students, mind you, but
primary and secondary students. Hundreds of uniformed children marched
silently down the avenida. Many of them were holding elaborate standards
representing their schools, while others carried simple cardboard placards.
From what I could figure out, it appeared they were protesting the amount of
federal funds (or lack thereof) earmarked for education. Based on this
assumption, Susanne and I were both rather surprised: "Can you imagine US
students striking for a day to protest the quality of their education?"
Susanne remarked. Several well-armed policemen separated the crowd from the
protesters, lining the stree with wooden barricades. The whole scene struck
me as unusual. Like it or not, "free expression" wasn't the first thing that
came to mind when I thought of Bolivia. The recent end of years of military
repression had turned the circumstances around, I guess.
After the tail end of the procession passed us Susanne and I returned uphill,
arriving at Plaza Murillo before continuing down Calle Commercio's pedestrian
mall. Commercio once again was teeming with shoppers, though today it seemed
there were many more soldiers than there had been the evening before. In
fact, the soldiers were all standing around with large metal barricades
stacked up at each street corner. Susanne and I looked at each other: what
was going on? Neither of us could tell if these security forces were here
under extraordinary circumstances or if this was de rigeur for downtown La
Paz. Certainly the local civilians weren't going to give up the secret
easily. Apart from the two of us, every other pedestrian ignored the security
squads as if they were a pair of street cops noshing on a box of donuts.
I was really struck by this nonchalance, this lack of concern towards the
security police. In so many western countries, especially the United States,
this show of force would be seen only in an emergency, such as a riot or a
terrorist threat. Even in Israel, where armed security forces are common
throughout Jerusalem's Old City, there's a palpable tension in the air, a
sense of paranoia in which any civilian could actually be a terrorist. But
here in La Paz it was different. No one seemed even slightly phased by the
heavy police presence. To the uninitiated, the streets of La Paz seemed like
martial law, but to the locals it was just the way things were.
As we approached the Avenida Santa Cruz section of the Prado, more police
officers were standing around with barricades, though this time the
barricades were actually in place to redirect traffic. Perhaps the student
protesters had looped around the downtown area and were returning to Plaza
San Francisco. Then again, perhaps it was an entirely different protest.
Either way we'd soon find out. Once we reached Avenida Santa Cruz it became
readily apparent what was going on: hundreds of campesinas and campesinos
were staging a sit-in along the Prado! I almost couldn't believe my eyes -
the biggest thoroughfare in La Paz was completely shut down by the protest.
Susanne and I immediately removed our lens caps from our cameras. "If we get
separated I'll meet you in front of the church," I said to Susanne. It was
time to play photojournalist.
There were several thousand people scattered along the Prado and Plaza San
Francisco. On the avenida itself, small groups of Aymara women squatted on
the pavement, chatting with each other, weaving cloth, chewing coca leaves.
It was as if a large village market had been magically transported from the
countryside into the center of La Paz. Many of the women held checkered
rainbow flags - the symbol of the Altiplano's indigenous peoples. Aymara men
soon arrived, dumping baskets of dried coca leaves onto the pavement. These
were the cocaleros - Bolivia's traditional coca farmers. Coca farming is a
sensitive subject in Bolivia, for coca is cultivated for legal, personal use
as well as for illegal processing into cocaine. In some parts of Bolivia,
like the Yungas region, most of the coca is grown for legal purposes. But in
other districts, like Chapare, the vast majority of coca goes into the
cocaine trade. These cocaleros had marched hundreds of miles from Chapare to
protest President Banzer's coca eradication policies. Because American aid to
Bolivia is pegged to Banzer's destruction of illegal coca crops, Banzer has
aggressively complied with these conditions.
To the cocaleros, most of whom are dreadfully poor and uneducated,
eradication has lead to more suffering. In many cases Bolivian anti-drug
raids have destroyed coca crops (and any other crops nearby) without offering
any kind of crop replacement assistance to the farmers, leaving the cocaleros
destitute. In other cases, crop replacement policies have completely flopped.
One reason farmers cultivate coca is because it isn't perishable: once you
dry out the leaves they're good for months. However, if you want to farm
bananas or other perishable fruit, you've got a limited amount of time in
which you can bring your produce to market. Unfortunately, many cocaleros are
so poor they can't afford anything more than a donkey cart, so transporting
an entire fruit crop to market before it spoils is next to impossible. On top
of all this, the cocaleros charge that Banzer's anti-drug squads have used
force as a tactic against many farmers, killing some cocaleros in the
process. So while the US and the Banzer government view coca eradication as a
necessary step in the war on drugs, the Aymara cocaleros see it as a violent
attack on the only way of life they've ever known. To date there has been no
solution that has proved satisfactory to both sides.
I walked the length of the avenida, observing the campesinas as they settled
into their groups along the asphalt. On several occasions I noticed people
selling food, drinks and newspapers to the campesinas as if they were hocking
beer and peanuts at a baseball game. Apparently the campesinas weren't
planning to go away anytime soon. Beyond the Prado, along the upper part of
Plaza San Francisco, hundreds of protestors were hanging off a marble wall,
unfurling Aymara flags and large placards reading "Banzer=DEATH," "Banzer
Stands for the Yankees," "Police Forces: Leave Chapare!" and (literally)
"Yanqui Go Home!" It was a different crowd here, largely younger and dressed
in jeans instead of traditional Aymara costumes. Perhaps they were students
supporting the cocaleros.
I soon spotted Susanne, who was on the plaza just across from the Iglesia San
Francisco. Beyond her I could see a column of protesters marching up the
Prado, shouting slogans, waving more flags and placards. I got Susanne's
attention to let her know where I was before darting into the march, walking
backwards to get some pictures. Susanne motioned to me as if to say, "Is that
a good idea?," to which I responded with my own wave of the hand to reply,
"Don't worry about it." I was positive that I would be fine this time, but
Susanne certainly had good reason to worry: less than 20 years earlier at
this same spot, Bolivian military helicopters opened fire on a protest,
killing hundreds of demonstrators. But things were different now, I hoped;
today would not be the day I became collateral damage caught in an accidental
crossfire.
I continued to snap pictures of the marchistas. Men held their flags high
when they saw I had a camera. I probably could have spent all afternoon here
but realized that five rolls of protestor photos would quickly begin to look
alike. As I left the march one of the campesinos handed me a leaflet
outlining their cause and their demands. On the back of the leaflet I found a
series of slogans highlighted in bold, uppercase letters:
LA LUCHA ES DE TODOS!
FUERA TROPAS DEL CHAPARE!
DIOLOGO CON LOS COCALEROS SÍ, BRUTALIDAD POLICIAL NO!
MARCHISTAS POR LA VIDA, COCA, SOBERANIA, TIERRA Y TERRITORIO
THE FIGHT IS FOR ALL OF US!
GO AWAY, THE TROOPS IN CHAPARE!
DIOLOGUE WITH THE COCALEROS YES, POLICE BRUTALITY NO!
MARCHISTAS FOR LIFE, COCA, SOVEREIGNTY, EARTH AND TERRITORY
I soon returned to Susanne's spot along the Prado to see what she wanted to
do next. "Let's walk up by the protestors along the marble wall then head
back towards the Witches' Market," she suggested. We crossed the plaza and
arrived at the upper end of the hill, where the well-dressed college students
were staging their support protest. Susanne and I both began to take pictures
as one of the students yelled over to us, "Norte Americanos?"
"Sí," I replied, "Estados Unidos."
"USA!" he yelled back, smiling and waving us over to take more pictures. The
next thing we knew, several of them came up to us and were encouraging us to
join them for a group photo. Susanne and I looked at each other grimly,
wondering what we were getting ourselves into. "Ah, so what," I said. "I'm
sure the DEA won't mind." As we handed them our cameras, the protesters
offered us some props - for me, a campesino flag and a large handful of coca
leaves. Susanne, to her chagrin, was draped in a large, green plastic coca
leaf. Susanne stared back at me, giving me a "what the hell are we getting
ourselves into?" look. I could only laugh as she donned the coca costume.
Before we could even think of changing our minds they took a group photo of
us, surrounded by dozens of protestors holding up signs proclaiming "Todos
Somos Cocaleros" - "We Are All Cocaleros." The crowd of protesters roared in
approval. One of them handed the camera back to Susanne so she could get a
closeup of me with the checkered rainbow flag of the Aymara and the handful
of coca. As Susanne removed her coca costume I offered to return the coca to
one of the students. "No, no," he said, shaking his head. "Your souvenir." He
folded a small Todos Somos Cocaleros sign into an envelope and handed it to
me. "Gracias," I replied, stuffing the stash into the paper.
"Remind me to get rid of this before we return to DC," I said to Susanne as we
parted company with the protestors. We both shook our heads and laughed.
-----
Having departed our new marchista friends, we walked up Calle Santa Cruz in
the direction of the Witches' Market in the hope of finding me a Bolivian
soccer shirt. After visiting several shops I found one store with a nice
green shirt with an eagle emblem, which I bought for 35 bolivianos. "It's a
great shirt," I said to Susanne as I walked out the door, "but I wonder
what'll happen when I wear it back in DC... All the local Bolivians will
think I speak Spanish."
We spent the next hour or so wandering the shops along Calle Linares and the
Witches' Market. Many of the shops were cooperatives run by local artists, so
we wandered from stall to stall, examining sweaters, leather goods,
silverware, wall hangings, sandals and pottery. As always I was in the market
for another sweater, and I eventually found one I liked in the back of a
large co-op. A young girl, perhaps 10 or 12, was running the shop while her
mother took a siesta. After I tried it on, she asked for 100 bolivianos -
just under 20 dollars. I replied with an offer of 50 bolivianos, to which she
shook her head and rolled her eyes upward. We threw numbers back and forth
until we settled on 72 bolivianos.
Despite my personal enthusiasm for shopping, Susanne seemed largely
indifferent. "I don't know," she said. "I just don't see much I really want
to bring back. I did like that wall hanging we saw a little while back,
though..." Being one who feels strongly about always returning home with some
kind of souvenir, I insisted we return to the shop to check out the wall
hanging. Indeed, it was a beautiful piece of art: a large wool rug knitted
with thick stripes and images of alpacas. Susanne asked how much it was, and
the young woman running the shop said 350 bolivianos, over 60 dollars. I
tried my best to bargain with her but she was tough. From what I could make
out of her Spanish, she said it wasn't her shop and she'd be fired if the
owner caught her bargaining too low. After several minutes of difficult
haggling she offered it to us for 270 bolivianos, but would budge no further.
"It's totally worth it," I said to Susanne. "You'll always be glad you got it
- or always regret it if you didn't." Susanne seemed to agree more with the
latter part of my argument, so she nodded her head and bought the rug for 270
bolivianos.
By 1pm we were getting hungry so we walked uphill along Calle Sagarnaga in
search of some lunch. I spotted a sign for a restaurant called Huari which
advertised a fixed price almuerzo for 10 bolivianos. The restaurant was on
the second floor of a small mall, and was packed with Bolivian families
feasting on large meals. The room smelled delicious, so we sat down and
ordered lunch. Susanne got an omelet while I enjoyed a generous almuerzo of
minestrone soup, chicken kebab and fresh papaya. As we finished our lunch I
noticed a sign on the wall that said "Huari Pena" next to a small bandstand -
apparently the restaurant had a pena, a live folk music show at night.
Perhaps we'd come back and check it out. I grabbed a restaurant business card
as well departed.
We spent the better part of the afternoon milling about Calle Sagarnaga and
the Witches' Market, soaking in the atmosphere. As we exited one particular
shop I noticed a tall, goateed young man with a pair of friends - it was the
French student we had met at a cafe in Copacabana. "Bonjour, hola," we said
to them. "Hello again!" the goateed man responded. Susanne asked him if he
ever got a new battery for his camera, an issue from our last conversation.
"Oh, sí, sí," he replied. "Everything is working fine now." One of the others
explained that this was their last day in La Paz before they had to return to
school in Peru. For a city as large as La Paz is, it was strange how we kept
bumping into people we knew.
By late afternoon we returned to Plaza Murillo, which was once again crowded
with people along the benches and marble steps. We found a free bench which I
claimed while Susanne purchased two bags of corn from a campesina so we could
feed the pigeons. A flock of several dozen pigeons settled in front of us,
eagerly awaiting each handful of corn. Susanne held out her hand with several
kernals in her palm. A few moments later a pigeon jumped onto her fingertips
and pecked away at the corn. "Now you try it," Susanne encouraged me. The
pigeons, it seemed, weren't as enthusiastic about jumping on my hand as they
had been with hers, but eventualy one bird flapped its wings and perched on
my hand, its claws digging into my index finger. Startled by the claws I
accidentally scattered the corn, which the pigeon followed in earnest.
"Perhaps this pigeon- in-hand thing isn't exactly for me," I sighed.
Neither Susanne nor I was hungry enough for a full dinner that evening, so we
decided to snack at some of the local cafes. First we visited Cafe Paris, on
the far end of Plaza Murillo. Susanne bought a small bag of cookies while I
had a brownie. It wasn't the prettiest cafe in La Paz but the owner and his
wife were hanging out with friends up front, so it felt like we were having
dessert in a neighbor's kitchen. We then walked downhill to Cafe Torino,
where I'd had breakfast earlier that day. Susanne and I ordered cappuccinos
while I also indulged in a large slice of lemon meringue pie. Our waiter
wasn't the brightest man in La Paz - first he forgot one of our coffees and
then forgot my pie - but at least his errors allowed us to stretch out our
say, doodling in our journals and watching people descend the steep hill
outside our window.
By 7pm we were ready to return to our hotel. Instead of calling it a night we
settled into the hotel restaurant over a couple of Fantas and sketched in our
journals. Susanne drew a picture of a campesina woman by a door while I
worked on a sunset over Lake Titicaca. I practiced on a scrap of paper,
blending orange, yellow and red pastels over a sea of blue before attempting
a similar picture in my sketch book. In the end I wasn't very happy with the
sunset I drew in the book - a little too forced, I thought, though Susanne
disagreed. Practice makes perfect, I suppose. As I cleaned the orange pastel
dust from my fingers I realized it was almost 10 o'clock: time to get some
sleep in order to wake up early for that tour of Tiwanaku, assuming it wasn't
canceled yet again.
Next: La Paz, Day 4 (last day)
Andy Carvin
aca...@gsn.org
http://edweb.gsn.org/andy.html
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