My visa is running out, so I went down to the Oficina de Migration. It was a simple process; two minutes later, I was out with a stamp to stay for another 60 days. How different it would be if I was from the USA. Citizens of the Land of the Free have to jump over a lengthy series of bureaucratic hurdles and pay an administration fee; in short, they are put through the same nonsense that visitors to the USA have to go through (even the fee is the same amount).
This completely unreasonably warmed my heart, I suspect most Yanks (I can’t just call them Americans, as that’s everyone on the continent) here are as pro-Bush as Ken Livingston.
Morales needs to be careful not to antagonise the USA too much, as much fun and warranted as it undoubtably is. He has valuable gas reserves and his credentials as a democratically elected leader would not save him. In 2002, they backed a failed coup to overthrow oil-rich Venezuala’s elected leader Chavez.
The history of the continent shows the USA will always back a compliant, murderous dictator (ideally, one they trained themselves) over a troublesome, democratically elected pinko. And when there’s energy involved as well…
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
23.03.08 Ruined
We had planned to go to Lake Titicaca but, of course, the place we wanted to stay was fully booked. I suspect a global conspiracy; it does not really exists. How can it? Lake Titty Caca, indeed. Instead, we took a tour to ancient Tiahuanaco. On route, we stopped for a photo break at nearly 4,000 metres, where our guide pointed out the lake in the distance. I was not falling for it, that smudge could have been anything.
The site of Tiahuanaco is on the plateau; as it was a clear day, the view was amazing, if the ruins were largely underwhelming. Our guide was a walking fountain, who spouted streams of facts and figures, which we were required to pay attention to. Feeling increasingly sheep-like and slack-jawed, I sloped off to explore on my own.
My strongest memory was sitting on the Akapana pyramid and being awe-struck by the majesty of the sky, streaks of whitest cloud accentuating the deep azure. I drifted into reverie, until a siren went off and a loud hailer bellowed—I was sitting in a protected area and had to move.
The site of Tiahuanaco is on the plateau; as it was a clear day, the view was amazing, if the ruins were largely underwhelming. Our guide was a walking fountain, who spouted streams of facts and figures, which we were required to pay attention to. Feeling increasingly sheep-like and slack-jawed, I sloped off to explore on my own.
My strongest memory was sitting on the Akapana pyramid and being awe-struck by the majesty of the sky, streaks of whitest cloud accentuating the deep azure. I drifted into reverie, until a siren went off and a loud hailer bellowed—I was sitting in a protected area and had to move.
Sunday, 23 March 2008
22.03.08 Boli Belly
Susi has developed Boli Belly, so I left her at home and took myself out for dinner. The Bolivians will claim any excuse for a march and today was the anniversary of losing their coast to Chile—a peculiar event to turn into a show. I sat myself on the balcony of the Irish bar overlooking the route and prepared for the jollity. Despite the booze ban, the Irish bar was joyously true to stereotype and happily served me beers, although I was in clear view of the cameras giving live TV coverage of the procession.
We started with a very jaunty marching band; there was no singing but I like to think the lyrics were “Bolivians never, ever, ever shall be crapped on by seagulls”. Next were some soldiers mounted on beautiful horses (certainly not seahorses), metrosexually clad in pink, yellow and green.
The baton twirling was superb, behind the twirler and band were representations of each of the armed forces. The air force had inflatable planes attached to the ends of their rifles, the army carried paper lanterns in the national colours and the navy sported little paper boats with candles in. The whole procession was refreshingly light on armaments but as a display of military might or even commemoration, it all seemed rather wussy and lacking in gravitas.
We started with a very jaunty marching band; there was no singing but I like to think the lyrics were “Bolivians never, ever, ever shall be crapped on by seagulls”. Next were some soldiers mounted on beautiful horses (certainly not seahorses), metrosexually clad in pink, yellow and green.
The baton twirling was superb, behind the twirler and band were representations of each of the armed forces. The air force had inflatable planes attached to the ends of their rifles, the army carried paper lanterns in the national colours and the navy sported little paper boats with candles in. The whole procession was refreshingly light on armaments but as a display of military might or even commemoration, it all seemed rather wussy and lacking in gravitas.
21.03.08 Tip top tennis
Today, Susi and I found out that there was some method to the traffic madness. The out-of-work actors and students in zebra suits mincing about at the traffic lights are there to stop the cars driving on to the zebra crossings. Some logic, at last.
I played my first game of tennis at altitude this afternoon. The process of dragging myself from impending ignominy to a simple defeat was absolutely exhausting. I’d not played in months and never on clay before. And Tom was better than me. Swine. The view from the court at the German club, however, was stunning; if only I could raise my game to meet the sublime setting. The post-match drinks were much more of a success.
I played my first game of tennis at altitude this afternoon. The process of dragging myself from impending ignominy to a simple defeat was absolutely exhausting. I’d not played in months and never on clay before. And Tom was better than me. Swine. The view from the court at the German club, however, was stunning; if only I could raise my game to meet the sublime setting. The post-match drinks were much more of a success.
20.03.08 The message of Easter
After lunch, I visit a café with WiFi to research stories and keep up my correspondence. However, I am being stalked from place to place by James Blunt. He appears in the most unlikely venues (surely, I would be safe from his MOR intrusions in somewhere called Beiruit?). I’m not sure what makes me more uncomfortable, whether it’s the proclamations of my beauty or the laments over our ill-fated love. Pull yourself together man.
To try and sweeten the pill, I tried to buy a beer. Again I was thwarted, this time by the law. It would appear that, in addition to its religious significance, Easter in Bolivia means a four-day festival of drink driving. Four thousand extra police hit the streets to try to stem the exponential growth in road accidents over recent years and, crucially, the sale of alcohol has been prohibited. But I don’t even have a car! This would never stand in Dalston.
To try and sweeten the pill, I tried to buy a beer. Again I was thwarted, this time by the law. It would appear that, in addition to its religious significance, Easter in Bolivia means a four-day festival of drink driving. Four thousand extra police hit the streets to try to stem the exponential growth in road accidents over recent years and, crucially, the sale of alcohol has been prohibited. But I don’t even have a car! This would never stand in Dalston.
Thursday, 20 March 2008
18.03.08 Does he take azucar (sugar)?
Susi meets me in the park and then we go for lunch. The waitresses clearly prefer to deal with Susi’s perfect Spanish than my garbled, mispronounced nonsense. I am doing my best though, damn them, which makes it so depressing when Susi is asked to translate what I have said or questions about my lunch are referred to her.
It can become even worse when I am on my own. This afternoon, I ordered a Huari (a brand of beer). 4.30, I was told in reply (it was my first of the day, honest). Being able to order a beer must be the lowest rung of the language ladder, which means I am reduced to looking thirstily on.
It can become even worse when I am on my own. This afternoon, I ordered a Huari (a brand of beer). 4.30, I was told in reply (it was my first of the day, honest). Being able to order a beer must be the lowest rung of the language ladder, which means I am reduced to looking thirstily on.
17.03.08 Parklife
After Spanish, I sit in the park under my splendid hat and try to learn the new streams of vocabulary. The weather is ideal, we’re enjoying a golden patch between summer (the rainy season) and winter (the dry season) taking in the best of each.
Plaza Avoroa is beautifully maintained, teams of gardeners sow tiny plants in perfect patterns around the tropical trees. The centrepiece is a huge statue of Eduardo Avoroa caught for perpetuity seemingly fallen over drunk while mid rant. Who knows, perhaps it’s how he wanted to be remembered.
As a gringo novelty, I have more than my fair share of approaches from the militant shoe shiners. A very friendly bunch, the relationship is tainted with a sinister edge because, although they offer something ostensibly positive, they would happily run off with every Boliviano I have. I imagine being surrounded by Scientologists would feel much the same.
Plaza Avoroa is beautifully maintained, teams of gardeners sow tiny plants in perfect patterns around the tropical trees. The centrepiece is a huge statue of Eduardo Avoroa caught for perpetuity seemingly fallen over drunk while mid rant. Who knows, perhaps it’s how he wanted to be remembered.
As a gringo novelty, I have more than my fair share of approaches from the militant shoe shiners. A very friendly bunch, the relationship is tainted with a sinister edge because, although they offer something ostensibly positive, they would happily run off with every Boliviano I have. I imagine being surrounded by Scientologists would feel much the same.
Wednesday, 19 March 2008
16.03.08 The illusive lake
Today was our second attempt to visit Lake Titicaca, after we had to abort last week's due to illness. We left in Fiona’s car and hit the traffic, made it out of the city in fits and starts, and up to El Alto. Here things slowed both further and markedly, the area around the vast black market was chaotic, past there it barely improved. A mash up of old cars, 4x4s, trucks and buses rolled along beeping their horns and changing lanes on the deeply pockmarked four lane dust track; people constantly wandered through the traffic and policemen waved us through red lights,
Eventually, we gave up the road in favour of an as yet undiscovered short cut through the flat endless expanse of low, shabby, brick houses. On a desolate wasteland, we went past a herd of llamas sporting coloured ribbons. Llamas, hooray! We ended up in a short queue for our turn to cross through a fast flowing river in our 4x4 and escape on to what we hoped would be open road. Instead, some policemen waved a 1950s Chevvy bus past the audience and into our path, we gave way, and it promptly got stuck in the middle of the river. So that was the end of our second attempt to visit Lake Titicaca.
And so we went elsewhere: another smaller lake. On the route, we went past a man in a manicured garden rocking out playing air guitar and then headed down into the valley. It was a beautiful place marred by the crassest tourism, still at least we had a go in a pedalo. Lake Titicaca will have a wait another week. We headed back into town as the sun set; at twilight, this really is the most stunning city.
Eventually, we gave up the road in favour of an as yet undiscovered short cut through the flat endless expanse of low, shabby, brick houses. On a desolate wasteland, we went past a herd of llamas sporting coloured ribbons. Llamas, hooray! We ended up in a short queue for our turn to cross through a fast flowing river in our 4x4 and escape on to what we hoped would be open road. Instead, some policemen waved a 1950s Chevvy bus past the audience and into our path, we gave way, and it promptly got stuck in the middle of the river. So that was the end of our second attempt to visit Lake Titicaca.
And so we went elsewhere: another smaller lake. On the route, we went past a man in a manicured garden rocking out playing air guitar and then headed down into the valley. It was a beautiful place marred by the crassest tourism, still at least we had a go in a pedalo. Lake Titicaca will have a wait another week. We headed back into town as the sun set; at twilight, this really is the most stunning city.
15.03.08 The fifth best bar in La Paz, they claim
After some research, I had found somewhere showing the final games of the six nations rugby. Understandably, Oliver’s Travels is not a typical Bolivian bar but claims Lonely Planet’s view that it’s “the worst cultural point in La Paz” as an honorific. Over a Bolivianised full English breakfast and a beer in the “100% fake English pub”, I watched the games with Gustavo and his English friend Tom. Very good. There was one Bolivian in there and, of course, was behind the bar.
After a kip to sleep off the breakfast into lunchtime and then afternoon beers, we spent the evening at Fiona’s for Peru's national drink—Pisco Sours—made by a proper Peruvian. Delish and the raw white didn't cause any complications. I have the recipe, if anyone is interested.
After a kip to sleep off the breakfast into lunchtime and then afternoon beers, we spent the evening at Fiona’s for Peru's national drink—Pisco Sours—made by a proper Peruvian. Delish and the raw white didn't cause any complications. I have the recipe, if anyone is interested.
Monday, 17 March 2008
14.03.08 Everything is going to be alright
My Spanish lesson was disrupted by bangs, it sounded like a busy day in Baghdad. These bangs are common in La Paz, it’s not guns (well nearly always, I’m told) but marchers setting off firecrackers. Today, it was the miners turn to demonstrate and they were going to town with fuses and gunpowder. At one point, the noise was incredible and prolonged, and even Julio thought it was too much—they must be very angry. For former demonstrator Evo Morales it must be echoes of his past coming back to haunt him. How long until he cracks down?
In the computer room after class, I introduced myself to a fellow gringo who was crying. The poor girl was ill after eating street food. It would appear that a lunch of cow’s heart dowsed in kerosene and then lit may have repercussions beyond indigestion. I was sympathetic but hardly surprised. Fool that I am, part of me really admired her balls for even attempting such a thing.
Walking down from our future landlady’s, I went past an angry crowd. In the middle was a tall, light-skinned man bleeding freely from a cut left eye. All I caught in the shouting was the word “ninas” or children. I wondered if the kids I had seen yesterday were responsible in some random meaningless attack.
I submitted my first commissioned piece today to The Tablet. It’s not the world’s longest but I had found, researched and written the story from scratch, and it means that, if anyone bothers to ask, I can say that I am a foreign correspondent. After a beer or two, I went home and attempted to learn some Spanish. Instead, I was distracted by the bright-blue sky, cotton clouds and view of the rocks. As the sun set, the sky turned a darker blue and the rocks’ colours were accentuated, I listened to Lemonjelly and thought everything is going to turn out fine.
In the computer room after class, I introduced myself to a fellow gringo who was crying. The poor girl was ill after eating street food. It would appear that a lunch of cow’s heart dowsed in kerosene and then lit may have repercussions beyond indigestion. I was sympathetic but hardly surprised. Fool that I am, part of me really admired her balls for even attempting such a thing.
Walking down from our future landlady’s, I went past an angry crowd. In the middle was a tall, light-skinned man bleeding freely from a cut left eye. All I caught in the shouting was the word “ninas” or children. I wondered if the kids I had seen yesterday were responsible in some random meaningless attack.
I submitted my first commissioned piece today to The Tablet. It’s not the world’s longest but I had found, researched and written the story from scratch, and it means that, if anyone bothers to ask, I can say that I am a foreign correspondent. After a beer or two, I went home and attempted to learn some Spanish. Instead, I was distracted by the bright-blue sky, cotton clouds and view of the rocks. As the sun set, the sky turned a darker blue and the rocks’ colours were accentuated, I listened to Lemonjelly and thought everything is going to turn out fine.
13.03.08 Underclass
Social groups are very easy to spot here because they fall along strict, simple racial lines. Today I came across something different: a street gang. Scruffy, filthy, of indeterminate sex and race, they were a breed apart. One gesticulated with a pair of grotesque, twisted, bulbous fingers, then picked up a bin bag and threw it absentmindedly at a passing car. They laughed, pushed each other around and took over the pavement. They clearly could not give a fuck about anything or anyone. As hideous as they were, at least they were not going to play anyone else’s game.
Paying for Spanish lessons is a revelation; today, I was set homework but I didn’t think it was worthwhile, so I said so. And that was that—it was cancelled. If only I could have dared dream, perhaps this would have worked at school.
Paying for Spanish lessons is a revelation; today, I was set homework but I didn’t think it was worthwhile, so I said so. And that was that—it was cancelled. If only I could have dared dream, perhaps this would have worked at school.
Friday, 14 March 2008
12.03.08 Wear sunscreen
While it is not hot here, the sun is dangerously powerful. Even the short walk to my Spanish class is long enough to catch the sun; afterwards, I feel tiny pinpricks of sun burn across my cheek bones and nose. And this is wearing protection (yes, suntan lotion). I look forward to wowing the La Paz crowd with my cricket hat, once it is out of the dry cleaners.
After class I go for lunch and read over what I am supposed to have learnt. Every café, bar and restaurant has a security man. They vary enormously from those who look like a shambling, hungover Deputy Dawg, to others who may have arrived via helicopter, parachute and the window. What links them all is that they don’t have a single thing to do. They are little more than frustrated doormen.
After class I go for lunch and read over what I am supposed to have learnt. Every café, bar and restaurant has a security man. They vary enormously from those who look like a shambling, hungover Deputy Dawg, to others who may have arrived via helicopter, parachute and the window. What links them all is that they don’t have a single thing to do. They are little more than frustrated doormen.
11.03.08 My first Bolivian hangover
Over the years I would say I’ve run the gamut of hangovers: the sucker punch that you thought you’d got away with; the guilt-laden, teary, soul-sapper; the nauseating, painful, sickener; the dreamy, floaty giggler; the detached, untouchable, isolator; the ratty, grumpy bastard… but nothing like this. Everything was in super-sharp relief, colours and sounds were acute, extraordinarily acute. And the area in and above my left eye, pain. Oh lord, pain!
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
10.03.08 A humbling experience
Susi’s birthday and I was a hopeless boyfriend: no card, no presents. Pathetic. She was wonderfully sympathetic, which was a relief. While I knew what I wanted to buy, I’ve been hamstrung by illness, not knowing where to get them, or what they’re called. Infuriating. In the end, I managed to acquire a card (technically, a postcard), some flowers (a huge, beautiful array) and a plastic jug to put them in. Not a complete success, but I did take her out for dinner as well. While this was not all I had planned, it still felt like an achievement and she was a happy lady. I am a very lucky chap.
I went to interview Juan Mauricio Choque Apaza. It was very different experience to last week: he was now in his 14th day of hunger strike and weak, his room was stripped of all its anti-Morales posters and bright flags, and he was completely on his own. A few days earlier, there had been five hunger strikers, when government officials arrived with the police. They knew to expect trouble and ran, leaving their visitors to take everything they could steal. Juan Mauricio Choque Apaza was told they were going to kill him, but he escaped. Despite the intimidation, he has vowed to carry on for another couple of days. Lying there now he looks incredibly vulnerable, he’s utterly defenceless. His bravery is in the name of democracy and it struck me how we in the UK treat our liberties with such disregard.
I went to interview Juan Mauricio Choque Apaza. It was very different experience to last week: he was now in his 14th day of hunger strike and weak, his room was stripped of all its anti-Morales posters and bright flags, and he was completely on his own. A few days earlier, there had been five hunger strikers, when government officials arrived with the police. They knew to expect trouble and ran, leaving their visitors to take everything they could steal. Juan Mauricio Choque Apaza was told they were going to kill him, but he escaped. Despite the intimidation, he has vowed to carry on for another couple of days. Lying there now he looks incredibly vulnerable, he’s utterly defenceless. His bravery is in the name of democracy and it struck me how we in the UK treat our liberties with such disregard.
9.03.08 If it’s good enough for the Queen…
What a strange night: I woke when it was still very dark with my stomach making peculiar noises. It reminded me of being a small boy waking scared in my aunt’s ancient house in Herefordshire. In my Superman jimjams in the darkness (as a boy, not now), I was captivated by the unexplained sounds of creaking, banging, stuttering and gurgling. Now my own body was reproducing the unsettling noises and effect of the timber and pipes at The Old Forge. Something is definitely not right.
The local cure for my ailment is coca, in fact, it seems to be the local cure for everything. It might work, so we have bought coca tea bags from the local supermarket. I could not resist the Windsor brand—I like to think of the royal family tucking in for a revitalising cup illegally imported in the diplomatic bag. Cheers, maam.
Feeling stronger in the morning, Susi and I went out to look for somewhere to live for the rest of our time in Bolivia. On our way home a police bike went past, riding pillion was a man dressed in a police-dog outfit waving to children. What with this and the zebra, it is easy to see why drivers treat the rules of the road with such disrespect.
The local cure for my ailment is coca, in fact, it seems to be the local cure for everything. It might work, so we have bought coca tea bags from the local supermarket. I could not resist the Windsor brand—I like to think of the royal family tucking in for a revitalising cup illegally imported in the diplomatic bag. Cheers, maam.
Feeling stronger in the morning, Susi and I went out to look for somewhere to live for the rest of our time in Bolivia. On our way home a police bike went past, riding pillion was a man dressed in a police-dog outfit waving to children. What with this and the zebra, it is easy to see why drivers treat the rules of the road with such disrespect.
8.03.08 All hands to the pumps
I’ve been very inactive for the last couple of days, apart from the area between my ribs and hips, which is furiously busy. Whether I have poisoned myself or not (I’m blaming bad, yet delicious, gambas from a restaurant), I do not feel good.
Being ill and not eating leaves me in a very peculiar state, I am simultaneously hungry and repulsed by food. This is particularly acute as I walk back from Spanish. The Bolivians love a road-side treat: the air is thick with rotisserie chicken, fat chorizo and other salchichas (sausages) being griddled, wafer-thin slices of sizzling llama steak, and empanadas (delish Bolivian pasties) winking enticingly. I love and hate these meaty treats equally; when I am well, I am going to EAT!
The short walk to Spanish or a café for its internet connection have been my entire time outside. On route, I’ve been surprised by the various types of entertainment at traffic lights: jugglers, singers, guitarists and people doing that spinning a plastic thing on string, they’re all out plying their trade. It’s like a visiting a rubbish circus every time the lights are against you. And once I saw a man in a zebra outfit directing the traffic.
Being ill and not eating leaves me in a very peculiar state, I am simultaneously hungry and repulsed by food. This is particularly acute as I walk back from Spanish. The Bolivians love a road-side treat: the air is thick with rotisserie chicken, fat chorizo and other salchichas (sausages) being griddled, wafer-thin slices of sizzling llama steak, and empanadas (delish Bolivian pasties) winking enticingly. I love and hate these meaty treats equally; when I am well, I am going to EAT!
The short walk to Spanish or a café for its internet connection have been my entire time outside. On route, I’ve been surprised by the various types of entertainment at traffic lights: jugglers, singers, guitarists and people doing that spinning a plastic thing on string, they’re all out plying their trade. It’s like a visiting a rubbish circus every time the lights are against you. And once I saw a man in a zebra outfit directing the traffic.
Friday, 7 March 2008
6.03.08 Shoe-shine fear
This was a very quiet day following a night of very little sleep and an unsettled stomach. Thinking about the possible causes produced a prodigious list of potential culprits. Worryingly, Sanna has gastro enteritis; surely, I haven’t poisoned us?
I gingerly walked to my Spanish class through the Plaza Eduardo. It’s a lovely square, which is a hot bed of smoochers, slackers and shoe-shine boys. These lads represent the militant arm of a humble, inoffensive job. The boys cover their faces with balaclavas and adopt the proactive approach of chuggers, only without the false smiles or good intentions.
I gingerly walked to my Spanish class through the Plaza Eduardo. It’s a lovely square, which is a hot bed of smoochers, slackers and shoe-shine boys. These lads represent the militant arm of a humble, inoffensive job. The boys cover their faces with balaclavas and adopt the proactive approach of chuggers, only without the false smiles or good intentions.
5.03.08 Love is in the air
Susi lunches with her colleagues and today they ate a locals’ place. It was a small unsophisticated restaurant with a powerful stereo. In an alchemic piece of cross-culturalism, it played very loud pan pipes renditions of classics, such as the timeless Lady in Red, Celine Dion’s unforgettable theme to Titanic and a compulsory Everything I Do (I Do It For You). And where was I, like a fool, during this cultural feast? In the Bolivian answer to Starbucks listening to James Blunt, without a pan pipe in ear shot. Surely, You’re Beautiful is crying out for the Andean treatment?
La Paz is a very romantic city. In every park, street corner and bench, there are teenagers and people old enough to know better canoodling and snogging. While this is going on everywhere, it appears somehow chaste and innocent, and rather charming.
La Paz is a very romantic city. In every park, street corner and bench, there are teenagers and people old enough to know better canoodling and snogging. While this is going on everywhere, it appears somehow chaste and innocent, and rather charming.
4.03.08 Not what I am used to
I had my first Spanish lesson since leaving London with a kindly teacher at the inaccurately titled Instituto Exclusivo (well, they took me)—and it appears I have not improved. As luck would have it, there is plenty of opportunity for me to practice.
In the afternoon, I returned to the Iglesia de San Francisco to interview Juan Mauricio Choque Apaza, who is on hunger strike. A charming, vibrant man in bright, traditional clothes, he enthusiastically described how Evo Morales’ government was only good for socialists. Interestingly, he also drew comparisons with Nazi Germany and apartheid. In his room lined with posters denouncing the government and explaining his strike, he was solely sustaining himself on coca leaves and cigarettes. I found his demands impossibly and possibly suicidally woolly—for the government to move to social democratic principles—but I was impressed by his bravery. Only last week, supporters of the Morales’ Movement Towards Democracy knocked him unconscious at a demonstration.
As my first piece of work since leaving ILN, the contrast between the conviction of this man to starve himself for his principles and subbing the fluff I was used to in London could not have been greater. In fact, I took myself off for a beer to muse further.
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
3.03.08 Body clock bullying
In London, my cast-iron body clock had always been a misplaced source of pride; now, is badly letting me down in steadfastly refusing to acknowledge our new circumstances. Instead, at 3.30am ever morning, I am wide awake in the pitch black with an overriding requirement to start my daily routine. This is becoming tiresome.
I had arranged to meet Susi and Fiona at their office for lunch. It’s only a few minutes’ walk down the hill and on the way a fight started. There was no way of avoiding seeing the fisticuffs but as I got nearer one man was knocked to the ground and two others started kicking him. I was in that horrible position of knowing someone had to do something but wishing it wasn’t me. Fortunately, just as I was about to start running and shouting (as if that would be enough), a policeman broke them up. It is concerning to see something like so close to home and Susi's work.
Susi’s German colleague Sanna came over for dinner. A former political scientist, she is intimidatingly well informed about Bolivia and drew parallels between Evo Morales’ regime and Nazi Germany. From anyone else, this would be easy to dismiss as hyperbole. She was recipient of my first attempts at cooking here; it didn't taste bad, but I would happily settle for not poisoning her. Fingers crossed.
I had arranged to meet Susi and Fiona at their office for lunch. It’s only a few minutes’ walk down the hill and on the way a fight started. There was no way of avoiding seeing the fisticuffs but as I got nearer one man was knocked to the ground and two others started kicking him. I was in that horrible position of knowing someone had to do something but wishing it wasn’t me. Fortunately, just as I was about to start running and shouting (as if that would be enough), a policeman broke them up. It is concerning to see something like so close to home and Susi's work.
Susi’s German colleague Sanna came over for dinner. A former political scientist, she is intimidatingly well informed about Bolivia and drew parallels between Evo Morales’ regime and Nazi Germany. From anyone else, this would be easy to dismiss as hyperbole. She was recipient of my first attempts at cooking here; it didn't taste bad, but I would happily settle for not poisoning her. Fingers crossed.
2.03.08 Church, fetuses and line dancing
The rock surrounding La Paz is more colourful than I could have imagined. Areas are grey, others green and elsewhere it’s a vibrant red. Even at night, there is still colour. Against the pervading blackness, the communities of houses precariously nestled into the rock wall give off distinct patches of colour made up of bright pinpricks of white, yellow and red lights.
This was Susi’s last day of holiday and we had been neglecting our tourist responsibilities. So we took our guidebook’s suggested tour. We were quickly ushered out of our first stop—the Church of San Francisco—because it was closing. Walking alongside the church, I saw a sign about a hunger strike and made a mental note to investigate further. Our next stop was the witches’ market, which undoubtably offers the finest range of llama fetuses I have ever come across. There were no obvious witches but perhaps they have Sunday off. And so on to the black market: there’s no attempt to hide its illicit purpose under any subterfuge, this shabby area is marked the Mercado Negro on all the maps. Perhaps Brick Lane market should rename itself Thieved Bike Market in a similar vein of up-front dishonesty.
On reflection of the walk, my first sense was of the poverty that surrounded the inhabitants and I felt a strong sense of pity combined with a desire to return to the German Club’s green space. With the exception of the professional travellers and the singing-and-line-dancing-for-Jesus march that passed, it was a sober reminder that 2/3 of Bolivia’s population lives below the poverty line.
This was Susi’s last day of holiday and we had been neglecting our tourist responsibilities. So we took our guidebook’s suggested tour. We were quickly ushered out of our first stop—the Church of San Francisco—because it was closing. Walking alongside the church, I saw a sign about a hunger strike and made a mental note to investigate further. Our next stop was the witches’ market, which undoubtably offers the finest range of llama fetuses I have ever come across. There were no obvious witches but perhaps they have Sunday off. And so on to the black market: there’s no attempt to hide its illicit purpose under any subterfuge, this shabby area is marked the Mercado Negro on all the maps. Perhaps Brick Lane market should rename itself Thieved Bike Market in a similar vein of up-front dishonesty.
On reflection of the walk, my first sense was of the poverty that surrounded the inhabitants and I felt a strong sense of pity combined with a desire to return to the German Club’s green space. With the exception of the professional travellers and the singing-and-line-dancing-for-Jesus march that passed, it was a sober reminder that 2/3 of Bolivia’s population lives below the poverty line.
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
1.03.08 Anyone for a quick game of tennis?
Fiona and Gustavo kindly took us out to look for flats before we had an alfresco lunch, where I ate an enormous steak and foolishly got sun burnt to the sound of recorded traditional Andean music. Unlike “bohemian” Sopacachi, where we live, we had gone down to the relatively swanky Sud Zone. Here it is smarter, the ground is flatter and it is even considerably warmer. Unusually, the rest of the city gets to look down upon the posh part of town and the drivers must lack the fabulous clutch control of their northern neighbours.
In the afternoon, we visited the German club for a touch of ex-pat glamour. Here, for those who can afford it, are fabulous facilities set in beautiful gardens. I was a little concerned about the tennis: no ironic sweatbands, it was all quality equipment being used by players who were significantly better than me. I wouldn’t mind but they were all children.
The club is strikingly green, with extraordinary views down into the valley where lightning flashed and thunder crashed. While Gustavo played with his son, Fiona told us La Paz would disappear in 20 years: once the glaciers had melted and poured down the stone walls, the city would be destroyed.
In the afternoon, we visited the German club for a touch of ex-pat glamour. Here, for those who can afford it, are fabulous facilities set in beautiful gardens. I was a little concerned about the tennis: no ironic sweatbands, it was all quality equipment being used by players who were significantly better than me. I wouldn’t mind but they were all children.
The club is strikingly green, with extraordinary views down into the valley where lightning flashed and thunder crashed. While Gustavo played with his son, Fiona told us La Paz would disappear in 20 years: once the glaciers had melted and poured down the stone walls, the city would be destroyed.
29.02.08 Sweet dreams
Our first full day in La Paz and to celebrate we spent most of it asleep in our apartment hotel. Happily, we were woken for the arrival of breakfast, a simple Continental number of delicious rolls, jam and coffee, as well as the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had. It was a revelation to discover that even the finest chocolat chaud I’d had before was really no better than river silt.
After dinner in a Mexican restaurant, Fiona and Gustav (her colleague and fiancée) ambitiously took us out to a rock concert in a cinema. We were privileged to have the hottest tickets in town—this was the city at its vibrant peak. Unfortunately, I pulled a Smye and passed out as soon as I sat down.
After dinner in a Mexican restaurant, Fiona and Gustav (her colleague and fiancée) ambitiously took us out to a rock concert in a cinema. We were privileged to have the hottest tickets in town—this was the city at its vibrant peak. Unfortunately, I pulled a Smye and passed out as soon as I sat down.
Monday, 3 March 2008
28.02.08 Arrival
La Paz's airport is in El Alto, remarkably this town is even above La Paz and stepping off the plane we walked past half a dozen oxygen tanks with masks attached to treat those who cannot breathe unaided at the altitude.
At the carousel, it became clear that Miami airport must have something going for it because all of our luggage had decided to stay. Unencumbered by our belongings, we were collected by Susi’s colleague Fiona. The drive through El Alto was an obstacle course past beeping cars, roaming dogs and careless pedestrians (real ladies in bowler hats, worn high and at a coquettish angle, gasp!), which are strewn around the potholed (this does not give their size credit), rubbish-covered streets. In short, not pretty.
However, once the nose of Fiona’s 4x4 peaked over the plateau, the view was incredible. The vast, vertical-sided, rock-walled bowl that contains La Paz opened up before us. Occasionally, we would have glimpses of the snow-covered peak of the magnificent Mount Illimani in the distance. Everywhere else was rock with buildings perched unconvincingly on it.
We had made it.
At the carousel, it became clear that Miami airport must have something going for it because all of our luggage had decided to stay. Unencumbered by our belongings, we were collected by Susi’s colleague Fiona. The drive through El Alto was an obstacle course past beeping cars, roaming dogs and careless pedestrians (real ladies in bowler hats, worn high and at a coquettish angle, gasp!), which are strewn around the potholed (this does not give their size credit), rubbish-covered streets. In short, not pretty.
However, once the nose of Fiona’s 4x4 peaked over the plateau, the view was incredible. The vast, vertical-sided, rock-walled bowl that contains La Paz opened up before us. Occasionally, we would have glimpses of the snow-covered peak of the magnificent Mount Illimani in the distance. Everywhere else was rock with buildings perched unconvincingly on it.
We had made it.
27.02.08 And we're off
The grumpiest Turkish taxi driver this side of Istanbul took us to Heathrow, where we were met by Nicky, Richard and Sally. Charming people all, they gave us a lovely farewell.
Susi and I are at the tail end of man flu. Independently, we cough, sneeze and splutter. It’s not pleasant but put together we generate our own noisy, germ-laden ecosystem. I pitied our fellow passengers.
After some hours, we were in Miami. In retrospect, I was being overly optimistic to expect Will Smith to greet us off the plane in his speedboat and take us on a tour of nightclubs filled with girls in bikinis drinking daiquiris. But surely, we could have hoped for more than this: wearing an overcoat in a succession of queues of people in flip flops and lurid clothing. And at the end of it all, we were lucky to buy a beer in a plastic cup. I felt personally let down.
Susi and I are at the tail end of man flu. Independently, we cough, sneeze and splutter. It’s not pleasant but put together we generate our own noisy, germ-laden ecosystem. I pitied our fellow passengers.
After some hours, we were in Miami. In retrospect, I was being overly optimistic to expect Will Smith to greet us off the plane in his speedboat and take us on a tour of nightclubs filled with girls in bikinis drinking daiquiris. But surely, we could have hoped for more than this: wearing an overcoat in a succession of queues of people in flip flops and lurid clothing. And at the end of it all, we were lucky to buy a beer in a plastic cup. I felt personally let down.
Saturday, 1 March 2008
26.02 My Bleeding Heart
This was my final day in the office, as such there was a compulsory leaving lunch. Clerkenwell’s The Bleeding Heart is widely recommended, so Claire, Kate, Laura, Sinead (alphabetical order) and I skipped down there. It's an institution, there’s been a restaurant here since 1746. The more recent arrival of French owners added, I suspect, considerable subtlety to the cuisine as well as the piquance of effortless Gallic rudeness. Still it was a jolly meal and the food was delicious.
Back at the bureau and counting down the hours, I was the subject of a surprisingly flattering leaving speech. Many thanks, Alison. Over the next few hours I was asked a couple of times whether I was sorry to leave. The correct answer is a delicate balance of enthusiasm and warmth about missing the questioner tempered by excitement about the move. My rushed answer “Sorry to leave! Why would I be sorry to leave?” left a lot to be desired and I can only put it down to the rush of the moment. It’s also not true, I’m going to miss my friends more than I care to think about it.
And so on for drinks at Malmaison on Charterhouse Square. As well as showing off my splendid leaving card and trying to convince people that I really had not packed yet, the evening culminated in being serenaded by a remarkable rendition of The Lion Sleeps Tonight. Thanks everyone for coming.
And so home to pack. A simple process of shoving whatever was left in a suitcase, which I achieved effortlessly, apart from the short, if lively, 10 minutes when I lost my passport. Closing the suitcase was more difficult and required all the weight I could muster: so I sat on it, naked, as this was the last thing I did all day, as well as the least elegant. Oh dear.
Back at the bureau and counting down the hours, I was the subject of a surprisingly flattering leaving speech. Many thanks, Alison. Over the next few hours I was asked a couple of times whether I was sorry to leave. The correct answer is a delicate balance of enthusiasm and warmth about missing the questioner tempered by excitement about the move. My rushed answer “Sorry to leave! Why would I be sorry to leave?” left a lot to be desired and I can only put it down to the rush of the moment. It’s also not true, I’m going to miss my friends more than I care to think about it.
And so on for drinks at Malmaison on Charterhouse Square. As well as showing off my splendid leaving card and trying to convince people that I really had not packed yet, the evening culminated in being serenaded by a remarkable rendition of The Lion Sleeps Tonight. Thanks everyone for coming.
And so home to pack. A simple process of shoving whatever was left in a suitcase, which I achieved effortlessly, apart from the short, if lively, 10 minutes when I lost my passport. Closing the suitcase was more difficult and required all the weight I could muster: so I sat on it, naked, as this was the last thing I did all day, as well as the least elegant. Oh dear.
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