High Plains Backpacker: La Paz journal, Day 2

[Andy Carvin]

Wednesday, September 9
La Paz
In Search of Pachamama and a Hearty Lasagna

I awoke just after 7am with a bit of a headache. Both Susanne and I had been
plagued by a nasty head cold since our departure from Machu Picchu; since
Copacabana I had wondered whether it had grown into a full blown sinus
infection. As far as I could tell the worst was past for me; I was no longer
waking up in the middle of the night to blow my nose every other hour.
Susanne's cold, on the other hand, seemed to be running a few days behind
mine. Hopefully she wouldn't have too many problems, especially now that we
were in the warmer and cozier surroundings of La Paz.

Susanne and I got breakfast at the Hostal Republica's small restaurant. They
had a desayuno Americano for 15 bolivianos that included both ham and sausage
- a little more arterial poison than I could handle. Instead I chose the
desayuno Continentale, a 10 boliviano plate of stale toast, butter cookies,
coffee and pineapple juice. The small cookies went well with the rich coffee
but the toast was by far the worst I've ever had - I could see they had two
dozen pieces of toast in the oven at once, dessicating slowly at a low heat.
"Tomorrow let's eat somewhere else," I said to Susanne, thumping the
petrified toast on the table.

We didn't have much of an agenda for the day apart from walking around and
getting to know the city. I suggested we start off the morning with a stroll
to Plaza San Francisco, the home of the exquisite Iglesia de San Francisco.
After leaving the hotel and walking a half a block down Illimani we turned
left to walk downhill along Calle Loayza before heading right along Avenida
Potosi. Calle Loayza makes a steep drop towards the Prado, La Paz's main
commercial thoroughfare, three blocks away. There's a 50-foot drop between
Illimani and Potosi that forced city planners to incorporate a set of stone
steps down the sidewalk, just to stop people from sliding down the
embankment. I could see why so many people have compared the streets of La
Paz to San Francisco, California - San Francisco at an altitude of the Rocky
Mountains, perhaps.

As we turned right on Potosi the avenida flattened out into what appeared to
be a banking district. Small casa de cambios occupied the space between large
banks with armed guards standing out front. We followed Potosi for five or
six blocks until it terminated at a busy intersection of the Avenida Mariscal
Santa Cruz - one of the many individually named sections of the Prado. After
dashing across the avenida and dodging the morning rush hour traffic we found
ourselves at the edge of Plaza San Francisco, the home of the oldest major
church in La Paz, the Iglesia de San Francisco. The church was founded in
1548 by Fray Francisco de los Angeles and was built soon after. Sixty years
later a snowstorm collapsed the original structure; over a century past
before the iglesia was rebuilt in the mid-1700s.

Both the church and the plaza were constructed out of brownish grey stone
blocks: earthy clay hues that would have rendered the entire image as a
sepia- toned daguerrotype if it weren't for the dozens of brightly dressed
campesinas occupying the plaza benches. Several hundred people in all mulled
about the plaza, reading newspapers, gossiping, getting shoeshines, selling
trinkets. As Susanne and I entered the plaza an older gentleman approached us
and held out his hand just below my face. "Trilobite señor?" he started to
ask as I politely waved him away. "Did he say trilobite?" I asked Susanne. "I
think so," she replied. "It looked like a fossil." The sedimentary rocks of
Bolivia are well known to brim with bounteous paleontological treasures, but
it struck me as odd that the local touts would hawk fossils as readily as the
local street children offered shoeshines.

Susanne and I walked around the plaza, people-watching and taking pictures as
unobtrusively as possible. A trio of soldiers stood outside the church
entrance; I tried to get a photograph of them with my telephoto but one of
them spotted me and gave me the evil eye. We worked our way to the church
itself, curious to see if it was open for visitors. Indeed, I spotted several
families going in and out its massive wooden doors, so we put away our
cameras into our daypacks and entered the church. The interior was decorated
in the typical Andean colonial style, not unlike the cathedral in Cusco. One
different I did note, though, was the plentiful light that beamed through
high stained glass windows. While Cusco's cathedral was dark and sombre,
Iglesia del San Francisco glowed from the rays piercing through the portals.
Twenty or so parishoners sat along its aisles and prayed; several campesinas
kneeled. Susanne and I paced the perimeter of the interior, making our best
effort not to interfere with the parishoners. Along the church walls stood
large altars, each manned by a resident saint that appeared to have been
sculpted in wax. Perhaps they were plastic or frescoed plaster - I couldn't
tell without more light. Near the far end of the church I noticed one statue,
San Francisco de Los Angeles himself, who possessed a neon halo radiating a
bright day-glo blue. "Neon inside a church?" I whispered to Susanne. "I
haven't seen religious neon since that streetside mission in southside
Chicago." Actually, the more I stared at the luminescent saint the more I
liked it. Perhaps they're on to something here.

Returning to the bright, busy scene along Plaza San Francisco, Susanne and I
walked towards the street along the left side of the church. We were at the
bottom of Calle Sagarnaga, the steep cobblestone road known as Artesenia
Alley because of its abundant folk crafts shops. Sagarnaga was the lifeblood
of the La Paz shopping scene, at least as far as visitors are concerned:
sweaters, leather goods, wall hangings, silver, pottery, even musical
instruments could all be found within a few steps of each other. I imagined
we'd spend a good part of the next few days right here, shopping for all
those knick-knacks and curios we'd managed to neglect buying in Peru or
Copacabana. Even if we didn't actually purchase much along Sagarnaga, I
quickly felt as if I could spend hours wandering the shops and stalls,
watching campesinas haggle with itinerant visitors day and night.

While there were ample opportunities to keep busy here in this artists'
colony, our next stop would be a market with a much darker side. Somewhere
not far from here we would find this place which goes by many names,
including El Mercado de Hechiceria (the Market of Witchcraft) and El Mercado
de los Brujos (the Market of Wizards). To local Aymara campesinos, though, it
is simply known as Laki'asina Catu: the Witches' Market. For years the Aymara
have come to the Witches' Market to purchase potions, powders, talismans and
other magical items that carry weight in the spiritual world. Whether you
were looking to improve your fertility or to place a curse on your
mother-in-law, you'd probably be able to find the right mystical tool at the
Witches' Market. Everything I've ever read about the market has always
highlighted one particular item - preserved llama fetuses. Llama sacrifice
has been an important element in Aymara ritual for centuries, especially when
it comes to consecrating a new home; even today you'll find many businesses
sacrificing a llama to commemorate a new office building. Yet the average
Aymara family cannot afford to buy a full-grown llama, so over time the
campesinos adopted the practice of offering llama fetuses as a sacrificial
substitute. Dead animals, potions, curses: the Witches' Market sounded like a
throwback to a medieval Andean epic. I was eager to find out whether its
reputation was a well-earned spookfest or simple tradition played up for the
turistas.

Susanne and I walked the short distance up Sagarnaga before taking a right on
the next street. I was under the impression that the Witches' Market would be
somewhere near the end of this block, yet all we found here were several wood
shops, each with stacks of freshly varnished desks and chairs piled along the
curbside. I pulled out my Lonely Planet and flipped through its pages to find
the map of central La Paz. After staring at the map for a moment I realized
we were still one block below the market. "We should have continued up
Sagarnaga for another block before making that right," I said to Susanne. "I
assume if we take a left on the next street and head uphill for one more
block we should be able to find it." We passed two or three more wood shops
before reaching Calle Santa Cruz (not to be confused with Avenida Mariscal
Santa Cruz, which is probably one of the many good reasons why they refer to
that avenida as the Prado instead). Santa Cruz was an archetypal La Paz
street, a crowded thoroughfare of shops and market stalls sloping high up a
steep hill. Susanne and I both took our time mounting the hill; even though
we've probably adapted to the altitude by now, we saw no reason to kill
ourselves this early in the day. Both sides of the calle were lined with
sporting goods shops - trophies, soccer cleats, game balls and uniforms. I
had mentioned to Susanne several weeks earlier I wanted to get a Bolivian
soccer shirt in La Paz. It looked like we'd found the place to buy it. "Let's
come back here later and find that shirt," I said.

We soon reached the corner of Santa Cruz and Linares, the intersection that
marked one end of the Witches' Market. Calle Linares was a long, rolling hill
covered in rounded cobblestone - the kind of pedestrian-unfriendly
cobblestone I've tripped over on so many occasions, from the winding
passageways off Edinburgh's Royal Mile to the alleyways of Barcelona's Barri
Gotic. Further up the road I could hear music playing from a charango shop.
Nothing seemed really out of the ordinary until I saw several market stalls
lined along the left side of the street. Young campesinas stood guard over
their alchemist's paradise of magical goods - statues of the goddess
Pachamama; plates of powdered sulfur, iron ore and assorted mineral dusts;
tiny glass bottles of mysterious tinctures, solutions, and other elixers of
toil and trouble. There was no mistaking it; we had found el Mercado de
Hecheceria. The Witches' Market was much smaller than I expected: hardly a
market at all in the typical crowded-with-shoppers sense, in fact. There were
no more than three or four women selling things here, and at that particular
moment we were the only customers in sight. Then again, it's not every day
that the average campesino has to build a house or alleviate a curse. The
Witches' Market was an open-air specialty shop. You come here when you need
to.

We, of course, didn't exactly need to be here, but the idea of a real-life
witches' market was too intriguing to pass up. The campesinas didn't seem to
mind our browsing, as long as we didn't jump in their faces, snap pictures
and run off like other tourists have been known to do. The colorful
concotions and the staring faces of the Pachamama statues were the first
things that caught my attention. I then looked down to a large cardboard box
just below the table and noticed what appeared to be shriveled My Little Pony
dolls with matted hair, big cartoon eyes and absurdly long legs. It took me a
moment to realize that I had been staring at dead llamas fetuses. I really
had no conception of what they might look like; for some reason the haphazard
arrangement of these strange, freeze-dried creatures in a discarded appliance
box caught me off guard. "I take it you've noticed the llamas," I said to
Susanne, staring at the fetuses. "Of course," she replied. "First thing I
saw."

I walked closer to one of the market stalls and perused the selection of
Pachamama statues. Several dozen of them occupied a wooden shelf, most no
taller than six or eight inches. "Pachamama, sí," the campesina said to me,
pointing to the array of stone figures. Many of the statues showed Pachamama
as a campesina with a young child and several small animals clinging to her
back. "Ésta es Pachamama y su hija Mama Coca." Pachamama was the mother earth
goddess to both the Aymara and Quechua, while her daughter, Mama Coca,
represented the power and the bounty of the sacred coca leaf. "Pachamama,"
the campesina continued, pointing to the images on the statue. "Mama Coca, y
animales: la rana, la serpiente, la tortuga..." The frog, snake and turtle
were all talismans of good luck, as were the images of Pachamama and her
child: to possess the statue was to possess the protection of the goddesses
and their familiars.

While I wasn't in the market specifically for spiritual protection, I liked
the idea of bringing home a Pachamama statue for myself, perhaps for my mom
as well (she collects pre-Columbian figurines). I found one particular statue
carved out of a white soapstone whose thin goddess faces reminded me of a
Modigliani painting. I asked the campesina how much she wanted for it.
"Veinte bolivianos," she replied, just under four dollars. Before I would
proceed with the haggling process I asked her to hand me the statue. I placed
it on a flat surface to see how well it would stand. To my disappointment it
immediately leaned to the side. I gave the statue a slight tap, causing it to
tumble over into my hand. My little Pachamama was cursed by a dangerously
high center of gravity. After trying to stand the statue once again I
returned it to the campesina. "No, gracias," I said to her, hoping she would
sympathize with my plight. "Malo, malo," she replied, shaking her head as she
returned the statue to its place on the shelf. "Malo means bad, right?" I
asked Susanne. I didn't intend to be a bad customer - perhaps I'd have better
luck later. There was plenty of time to find the right Pachamama.

We continued along the sloping cobblestone of Calle Linares, eyeing the
Witches' Market stalls and music shops. Each music shop had its specialty
items, usually zampoñas, flutes and other wind instruments, as well as
guitars, charangos, and assorted implements for strumming a tune. I seriously
considered buying a charango - the 10-string, eukalele sized instrument would
be small enough to bring home - but the better hand-made charangos easily
surpassed 500 bolivianos. Unless I was serious enough to learn how to play
Andean music I wasn't sure if I wanted to make the investment. I was also in
the market for another sweater, though from what I had seen along Sagarnaga,
the sweaters here were pricier and more limited in variety compared to the
ones I had seen in Cusco. In hindsight that was a little frustrating, but
hopefully I'd still be able to spot a bargain somewhere in town.

The Witches' Market petered out by the time we reached Sagarnaga. On the
other side of the intersection I could see a variety of colorful streamers
strung from one side of the street to the other high above the cobblestone.
The streamers instantly reminded me of Kathmandu, which had been decorated
generously with streamers for the Newari new year during our 1996 visit. Most
of the streamers were in Spanish but one announcement caught my eye: Internet
Cafe. I pointed at the streamer and smiled. "Shall we check in with home?" I
asked. Susanne agreed, so we stopped briefly at the cafe - an office on the
second floor of a courtyard hostal - sending emails to our families and
catching up with the latest news.

After using up most of our 30-minute Internet allowance Susanne and I
returned to Sagarnaga hoping to find a good place for lunch. Back in
Copacabana our friend Scott had recommended a place called Lobo, known for
its cheap eats and backpacker crowd. I noticed that Lobo was a block or so
east of Sagarnaga on Calle Illampu, also only a block further up the hill. We
proceeded to walk high up Sagarnaga, passing a variety of tour agencies and
hostals. Sagarnaga appeared to become more of a typical business district
here, with appliance stores and wholesale fabric shops lining the left side
of the road. It didn't seem like we were going to find much of interest in
this part of town, so we hung a right on Illampu and walked until we found
Restaurant Lobo.

Just as Scott had described it, Lobo was a backpacker joint: menus were
available in both English and Hebrew. In fact, just as we were settling in to
place our order, the two Israeli women we had met on the bus ride from
Copacabana walked through the door. "Long time no see," I said to them.

"Is this your first time at Lobo," asked the brunette woman, who appeared to
have recovered well from her seasickness. "This is our third time." As they
wandered off to find the Hebrew menu Susanne and I both ordered veggie lentil
burgers. A few minutes later the waitress returned with two plates, each
covered in huge round slabs of processed lentils on top of open buns
slathered in butter. "Now that's one hell of a veggie burger," I said. "I
just wish they hadn't coated it with butter," Susanne replied, scraping it
off with a knife. Considering we were eating in beef country I was surprised
they even had lentil burgers in the first place, let alone delicious ones. I
soon slumped over, having gorged myself to full satisfaction.

After paying the check we went over to the Israelis to say goodbye to them.
Before leaving I asked them what else they've done in La Paz. "Have you been
to the prison?" the brunette replied.

"Is there much to see there?" Susanne responded, surprised as I was with the
question.

"Oh, it is sad," she replied, "the conditions there are not very good. You
really should go."

"Okay," Susanne answered. "We'll think about it."

"The prison?" I said to Susanne as we descended the stairs to the street
below. "I have no idea either," Susanne replied. "Perhaps they knew someone
who was arrested and spent some time there." I couldn't figure it out but it
sounded like it could have been interesting in a Midnight Express sort of way
if there were time available for it. For now, though, my only major concern
was some serious shopping time along the Witches' Market.

After leaving the restaurant we backtracked to Sagarnaga and walked down the
hill towards Calle Linares and the Witches' Market. Immediately to our left
we found a string of witches' shops that had opened since our initial visit
earlier this morning. One older woman with a small shawl wrapped around her
head was selling more Pachamama statues. I looked at several of the statues
and found two that I particularly liked, which of course made it harder to
decide which one to buy. "Cuanto cuesta?" I asked her. "Quince bolivianos,"
she replied - about three dollars. As I examined the Pachamamas I realized
the two statues were almost mirror opposites of each other - one with Mama
Coca hanging on to Pachamama's left shoulder, the other with Mama Coca on her
right shoulder. "I bet these would make good bookends," I said to Susanne.

I held the two statues up to the woman and asked for a llapa, a discount for
buying more than one. "Veinte bolivianos," I offered. The woman shook her
head and repeated, "No llapa, no llapa - treinte bolivianos." Thirty
bolivianos was no bargain, so again I insisted on 20 bolivianos. Eventually
the woman relented and began to drop the price, but she froze at 25
bolivianos - just under five dollars for the two statues. That was good
enough for me, so I agreed to the price. She then proceeded to tie a rainbow
colored braid of alpaca yarn around each statue's neck and wrapped them
neatly in several layers of newspaper. Susanne asked if she could take a
picture of her. Normally the women of the witches' market frown upon
photographers but they're sometimes persuaded when the request follows a
successful business transaction. The woman nodded her head in approval and
straightened her shoulders for the photograph.

A few steps up the curb sat an older gentleman neatly dressed in a suit
jacket and hat, sunning himself on a stool. He was an image straight out of
an old European photo album. I approached him, saying "Buenos tardes, señor"
as I pointed to my camera. He looked at the camera and smiled, replying "Sí,
señor." Assuming he wanted a couple bolivianos for his time I asked him how
much he would charge. "No bolivianos," he replied. "Coca, coca..." A barter
of coca leaves for a picture? That would be fine with me but I didn't have
any coca, nor did I know where I could get any (though I probably could have
approached any campesina in the local shops and asked her for some).
"Permiso," I replied, "no tengo coca, señor. Dos bolivianos okay?" "Okay,
okay," he muttered as he suddenly got up and walked away. Where was he going?
The man crossed the street and grabbed a small sack, pulling out a colorful
red cap and a poncho. Apparently he though I wanted him to pose in Aymara
costume. "Oh no, señor," I said, hoping not to lose face in any way. I
pointed at his jacket and hat and smiled. "Bueno, señor." "Okay, okay," he
again replied, settling back down on his stool as I squatted on the pavement
to take the photograph.

We spent the next hour or so shopping in the many artesenia co-ops along
Sagarnaga. I had read somewhere that the more expensive shops tended to be
further down the street, towards the Plaza San Francisco and the Prado, while
the cheaper stores were usually higher up the hill. I guess it's all a matter
of shoppers' endurance - if you're wealthy and lazy you won't want to bother
with climbing all the way up the road. The inverse would be those of us who
were willing to cough up a lung conquering the steep hillside in search of a
good bargain - if you climb it, you'll get a discount for your effort. Calle
Linares appeared to be the treeline between retail and bargain prices: all
the shops we visited below Linares had inflated prices for most of their
goods, especially sweaters. I was actually quite disappointed with the
sweater selection. Most shops sold the same collection of a dozen or so
varieties for prices starting at $30 to $40, much more expensive than the
shops in Cusco. Other stores sold unique sweater patterns at inflated prices
of $70 or more. I really enjoyed poking my head from one store to another but
found it hard to get serious about buying anything today. Perhaps tomorrow or
Friday would be better.

As we descended Sagarnaga towards the plaza Susanne pointed at a man across
the street. "Isn't that Scott from Copacabana?" she asked. Indeed it was
Scott, the long-haired blonde guitarist we met at the Hostal Cúpula. We
called out his name and got his attention, clearly surprising him in the
process. "Hey there," he laughed "welcome to La Paz!" Scott had spent the day
shopping and was clearly more successful than we were, holding several small
bags in a fishnet sack slung over his shoulder. "I'm doing all my Christmas
shopping here," he said. "Where else can you shop for 30 people and not bust
your bank account?" Scott pulled out a small watercolor he purchased from an
art gallery across the street. It was a pretty black and white La Paz street
scene. "I got this from an artist in the shop over there," he said. "I might
have to go back and get some more." Scott then asked if we had any dinner
plans tonight. "This is my last night in La Paz so I want to go out in
style," he said. "There's a great Italian place called Restaurante Pronto in
the Sopacachi neighborhood. It's really classy but they don't care if people
show up dressed like us." Like us?, I thought? I knew I hadn't shaved in a
few days, but... He wrote down the name of the restaurant and "Sopacachi" on
a small piece of paper. "It's kinda hard to find," he continued, "so why
don't we meet at Cafe Montmartre around 7:30? It's right around the corner
from the restaurant and every taxi driver will know where it is." Susanne and
I both thought it sounded like fun so we agreed to meet him at the cafe.

After parting company with Scott we visited the art gallery he had just
recommended. The resident artist specialized in watercolors and oils, with
styles ranging from abstract to primitive. Susanne and I found a few nice
paintings of rural villages and Aymara campesinas, including one marvelous
blue watercolor of a campesina standing on a hillside as a storm came in.
Susanne strongly considered buying it but decided to hold off and see if she
still had the urge later in the week. We then stopped at a small cafe inside
the mall and split a piece of angel cake over a couple of Cokes (including my
first glass bottle Diet Coke - I think old fashioned glass bottles were gone
by the time Diet Coke came out in the States). As we sat in the courtyard
enjoying our snack we noticed a quartet of mannequins propped up near the
exit, each dressed in garish polyester. Their accoutrements were bad enough,
but the mannequins' most haunting features were their faces - 1950s
howdy-doody teethy grins straight out of an abandoned Montgomery Ward. Papa
mannequin looked like a bald Jim Carrey in the middle of a knee-slapping
pratfall; Mama mannequin bore the false eyelashes, greasy rouge and marachino
lipstick of an old French whore; Brother and Sister mannequins were
characters in a late-night pay-cable B-movie horror flick - "The mannequins
are alive, and they're out for blood!!!" "Why on earth would anyone be
inspired to buy that clothing after looking at those awful things?" Susanne
asked. "Comedic irony?" I wondered.

After paying the tab Susanne and I continued our walk past the Iglesia del
San Francisco and Plaza Murillo until we reached our hotel. The Pachamama
statues I had been lugging around were beginning to put a strain on my back
so I was eager to drop them off in the room. When I approached the front
desk for our key the resident travel agent informed me that tomorrow's trip
to Tiwanaku would probably be cancelled due to a blockade along the main
highway. Apparently a group of cocaleros - native coca farmers - were
blocking the road to protest President Banzer's coca eradication policy. "The
protest may end tonight," she said, "so check with me tomorrow morning and
we'll see if you can go. Otherwise you can visit Tiwanaku the next day."

Susanne returned to the room while I discussed our options with the tour
agent. Meanwhile, the hotel receptionist, a cherubic, freckly redheaded woman
named Katrina, asked me out of the blue, "Do you know anything about the
Internet?" I was rather surprised by the question - rarely has anyone ever
brought up my profession without my prompting on our trips outside of the US.
"Sure," I said, "I do a lot of work with schools and communities on the Net.
Why do you ask?"

"I just finished taking a course on Windows 98 and Microsoft Office and was
wondering how difficult it is to learn how to go online," Katrina replied.
Windows 98? Microsoft Office?, I thought to myself; where did she learn her
English? Reading Bill Gates biographies? "It's really easy," I said. "Internet
software has gotten smart enough for anyone to learn how to do it."

"I really want to learn about the Internet," she continued, "but it's so
expensive in Bolivia. Not even most big businesses can afford it. Only a
couple of companies offer Internet access so it's almost cheaper to get an
account in Peru and make an international call rather than pay for it here."

"Well, that's the way it often starts for countries new to the Internet," I
said. "A few companies will use the Net, their employees with introduce it to
their friends and families, so the demand will spread. The government may
begin to use it, increasing the number of people who want it. Eventually
prices will come down but it may take a few years."

"Prices won't come down here, thanks to our president," Katrina grimaced.
"Banzer is an old man who probably won't run again, so he just doesn't care
about helping the rest of us. Our last presdient, he was really connected to
the people, but he lost to Banzer. Sanchez was educated at Harvard and spoke
Spanish like a Norte Americano. Banzer's campaign ads would say 'how can you
trust a president who speaks Spanish like a Gringo?' Now Banzer is president
and we're stuck with him."

"I have to ask," I interrupted, "Where did you learn your English?"

"In Texas," she smiled. "I spent seven years in Houston when I was a kid.
But then I moved back to La Paz and didn't speak English for nine years until
I got this job about a year ago. At first I didn't speak it well but the more
I get to practice the better it gets."

We continued to chat for a while until I realized that Susanne must be
wondering what had happened to me. I wrapped up my conversation with Katrina
and returned to the room, where I found Susanne sitting on the bed looking
over her journal. "What happened to you?" she asked.

"Internet and politics talk," I replied. "And no, I didn't start it." I
looked at our travel alarm clock and saw that it was just after 4pm: that
gave us some time to relax, maybe go for a walk, then head to Sopacachi for
dinner with Scott. I looked at one of the maps in my LP guide and estimated
it would take us about half an hour of walking to reach Sopacachi from our
hotel. "Let's check out Murillo Plaza for a little bit," I suggested. "We can
then head back to the hotel around 6pm, grab our jackets and walk down the
Prado to Sopacachi. We should get to Cafe Montmartre around 6:30, which'll
give us plenty of time to grab a drink before we meet Scott." I removed the
Pachamama statues from my backpack and propped them like bookends on a night
stand, placing my journal and sketchbook between them. "That'll look good on
my shelf," I said.

-----

Susanne and I walked down Comercio towards Plaza Murillo, once again
constantly crowded off the slender sidewalks by businessmen barreling down
the path. I thought of the anonymous loser in Doestoyevksy's Notes From
Underground, walking down the avenues of St. Petersberg full of anxiety each
time an oncoming pedestrian ventured in his direction."Will I have the
strength, just this once, to make him step off the sidewalk instead of me?"
he would question himself in pathetic dread. Time and time again he backed
down, stepping off the path to allow yet another person to dominate him.
Doestoyevksy's Man With No Will would not fare well in La Paz, I smiled to
myself.

As we approached Murillo I could see several well-armed military policemen
redirecting traffic away from the plaza. Beyond them appeared to be rows of
soldiers standing at attention. "What's going on?" Susanne and I asked each
other. The closer we got we could see the soldiers were wearing Spanish
colonial redcoat uniforms, the type that I thought went out of style not
long after Bolivar himself gave up the ghost. The redcoats stood in parallel
lines, three or four rows deep, apparently waiting for something to happen,
someone to arrive. Indeed, I then saw 20 or so men armed with the big brass
implements of a proud military band. Some VIP was bound to show up any
minute, we figured, so Susanne and I joined the crowd and watched.

A few moments later a motorcade of five or six bulletproof Mercedes Benzes
pulled up in front of the presidential palace. A well dressed man exited the
first car and walked to the second - this one marked by Bolivian flags
fluttering above the front lights - opening its rear door to allow an older
greyhaired gentleman to step out onto the sidewalk. The redcoat's drill
sergeant immediately belted out a command, bringing his men to full
attention. Was this man President Banzer himself? From this distance I
couldn't tell for sure - I wished I had brought my telephoto lens with me. As
the first two cars moved forward the third car pulled up, this one bearing
the British Union Jack above the headlights. Another chauffeur opened the
door, allowing a middle aged, overweight man to step outside. "Does he look
familiar?" I asked Susanne. "No, not really," she replied. "It's certainly
not Tony Blair, though."

President Banzer (or not Banzer) stepped forward and shook the VIP's hand.
They both turned towards the redcoats, prompting the band to break into the
Bolivian national anthem. As soon as the band finished the anthem they took a
crack at "God Save the Queen"; unfortunately it sounded as if someone had
lost the sheet music and forced them to rely on their impressions of what the
anthem should sound like. As the music ended the two men entered the
presidential palace, leaving the redcoats lined in front of the plaza.
Susanne and I crossed the plaza to reach the far end of the presidential
palace, not far from where the VIP's limousine waited. I snapped several
pictures of the redcoats as well as the military police, young mestizo men
armed with shotguns and tear gas launchers. The weapons seemed unusually
large for their small Quechua build, like young Afghan boys armed with
CIA-supplied carbines, waiting eagerly for their first chance to kill some
Soviets. One MP stood right in front of me, turning his head slowly in search
of trouble, his fingers tightening and relaxing around the pump of his
shotgun.

Eventually we realized it was getting closer to our dinner plans, so Susanne
and I made a brief stop at the hotel in order to pick up our sweaters. We
then began the half hour-long walk to Sopacachi, an upscale neighborhood on
the eastern end of the Prado. Sopacachi is well known for its
turn-of-the-century villas, many of which are used as embassies. The Italian
restaurant Scott selected for us was somewhere deep within a nondescript
Sopacachi alley, so we would rendezvous at Cafe Montmatre, a cafe and bar
adjacent to the French embassy and the Alliance Francaise. Susanne and I
walked down the steep hill along Calle Bueno, which bottoms out just before
the Prado, near the Mercado Camacho. As always in La Paz we had to watch our
step, given the steep grade of the street. "Of course, this only means we'll
have to walk back up this hill," I grimaced to Susanne.

We soon arrived at the busy intersection of Calle Bueno and Avenida Simon
Bolivar. The Camacho market appeared to be wrapping up for the evening, so
there wasn't much to see, but for the first time since we drove into the La
Paz valley last night we could see a beautiful view of Inti Illimani, its
gargantuan snowcapped peak dominating the eastern El Alto skyline. Just
before we reached the Prado I noticed a small crowd gathering around the
entrance to an office building. A man with large video camera hovered over
the crowd, trying to capture whatever was going on at its center. For a
moment I could see a man in the middle of the crowd, spraying a bottle of
chicha on the doorsteps. "I wonder if they're performing a ch'alla ceremony
for the opening of a new business," I asked Susanne.

Just beyond the office building Susanne and I reached the Prado, La Paz's
bustling Champs Elysee. My first impression of this part of La Paz was, well,
this wasn't La Paz - at least not the La Paz we'd experienced so far. This
wide, treelined boulevard was jammed with international airline offices,
galleries and Coco Chanel shops. An enormous McDonalds loomed to our left.
The Prado seemed as if it had been ripped from the center of Paris of Berlin
and dumped in the middle of old Spanish city. We walked east down the Prado,
navigating the pedestrian pathway in the center of the boulevard. There
weren't as many people strolling about as I expected, but the restaurants all
seemed to be overflowing with people waiting to get inside for an after-work
drink. As we passed Plaza del Estudiante we reached the main campus of
Universidad Mayor de San Andres. Several hundred students hovered in front of
a large hall along the Prado - classes must have just let out. A few blocks
later we arrived at Calle Fernando Guachalla, which meant that the Cafe
Montmartre must be somewhere to our right. As soon as we turned the corner we
entered another world - quiet, cobblestone streets, gas lamps and Victorian
villas. "Where did this come from?" Susanne said, shaking her head. "It feels
like we dropped off the map and landed in upper Georgetown," I replied.

Two blocks down Fernando Guachalla we found Cafe Montmartre, an unassuming
bar at a peaceful intersection. I could tell up front this would be a good
place to unwind. The inside of the cafe was dimly lit, the walls decorated
with Toulouse Lautrec posters and fancifully drawn wall paintings of the
Parisian skyline. Susanne ordered a Sprite while I requested a glass of
Amstel. A few moments later her soda arrived, but to our chagrin the glass
contains several large chunks of ice. "Oh, sin hiero, señor," I said to the
waiter. He nodded his head and walked behind the bar. I then watched as the
waiter took a spoon and scooped the ice out of the glass, topping it off with
a little more soda before returning to our table. "Well, I guess it didn't
have that long to melt," Susanne said. "Pass me the Peptos just in case."

As we finished our drinks I noticed it was now 7:15pm - Scott was about 15
minutes late. "No big deal," Susanne commented. "He's been in South America
for so long he's picked up the habit of being fashionably late. I'll go stand
outside while you polish off your beer." Susanne disappeared around the
corner while I relaxed, enjoying the last suds of Amstel to the plaintive
reminiscences of Edith Piaf. By 7:30, I joined her outside, leaning on the
cool brick of the cafe. "How long do we give him?" I asked. "No rush,"
Susanne replied. "Let's wait til eight and worry about it then." A moment or
two later Scott appeared, stepping out of a taxi. "Hey guys," he smiled,
"let's eat." Restaraunte Pronto, it turns out, was just around the corner,
hidden down an alley in a basement. "You're right," I said to Scott, "we
probably wouldn't have found this place."

We were the first people inside the restaurant that evening, so it was quiet
save the voice of Luciano Pavorotti emanating from speakers in the ceiling.
"Everything is good here," Scott said. "I had the lasagna last time." The
last lasagna I had was in Cusco two weeks earlier and it had left much to be
desired; perhaps ordering it here might restore my faith in the dish. I
decided to give it a shot while Susanne selected the Spinach ravioli and
Scott ordered the fettucine alfredo. Ever looking for an excuse for a bottle
of wine, we asked for a Bolivian merlot. Bolivia isn't exactly known for its
wines - it's certainly no Chile in that regard - but we figured we should at
least give it a chance. The wine soon arrived with toasted garlic bread and
breadsticks, which we enjoyed as we talked about our travels. Scott was happy
to be going home to California; he was flying to Brazil tomorrow but would be
back on Catalina Island within a few days. "Sopacachi really reminds me of
Brazil," he noted. "Lots of towns actually look like this, with the
cobblestone and the Old Money estates."

Our waiter returned with our entrees as a group of American women settled
around a table not far from us. As I dived into my lasagna (delicious, by the
way), I overheard one of the women say, "I really enjoyed living in
Washington... Georgetown can really be a great place." Susanne and I looked
at each other - it was as if Washingtonians followed us wherever we went,
whether it was Bolivia or India or Cambodia. As we polished off the last
drops of wine we passed around what was left of our dinners; everyone wanted
to try each other's dish. In both cases, the ravioli and alfredo were
fantastic. I guess Scott was right when he said everthing was good here. In
the end, our bill was 135 bolivianos - less than $30. "If only we could get
Italian this good in DC for 30 bucks," I sighed.

Scott had an early morning flight the next day but we decided there was
enough time for a drink next store at Cafe Montmartre. The quiet restaurant
had transformed into a crowded bar where chainsmoking thirtysomethings
shouted over the din of dance music. "Welcome to Sopacachi nightlife," Scott
said. Susanne got a beer while Scott and I each ordered hot chocolate (an
instant powder mix improved significantly by a generous dollop of whip
cream). It would have been nice to stay for a while and chat, but the
claustophobic cacophany and Scott's impending 5am departure convinced us that
we should call it an early evening. As we hailed down a couple of taxis, we
exchanged addresses with Scott. "Let me know if you're ever near Catalina,"
he said. "And send us an email if you're ever online," I replied. "Me?
Online?," he laughed to himself as he climbed into his cab and closed the
door.

Susanne and I hailed the next taxi a moment or two later. "Hostal Republica -
cuanto cuesta?" I asked the driver. "Sies bolivianos," he replied - just over
a dollar.We got into the back seat of the cab and were immediately
overwhelmed by the roar of a live soccer match blaring from the car radio.
The driver must have seen our expression for he lowered the volume -
marginally - as he started the drive. I've always been impressed with Spanish
soccer announcers - the fasting talkers of a consistently fast language. A
man with a deep radio voice screamed out the play-by-play, belting out the
names of players like an auctioneer throwing out the next bid. I managed to
catch the words "La Paz" and "Cocabamba," so at least I was able to figure
out who was playing. Other than that I was at a complete loss until the
announcers voice began to get faster and higher, higher and faster, faster
and higher, and

"Goooooaaaaaaalllllll! Goooooooaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllll!"

An enormous smile overtook my face. "You know," I said, "there's really
nothing like taking a cab through the bustling streets of La Paz as the local
team kicks some Cochabamba butt.... I really love this town."

Next: La Paz, Day 3

Andy Carvin
aca...@gsn.org
http://edweb.gsn.org/andy.html

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