New life in the cemetery district

A trip to the cemetery district can be as uninviting as it sounds. The first time Susi and I went, for our own safety, our fellow travellers begged us not to get off the bus until the sun rose. Outside there was plenty of drunkenness and the odd fight but it didn’t really warrant these villagers’ terror.

This time we arrived in a car and our driver was a trained bodyguard—more to protect Patricio’s camera than us. Our destination was a club with doormen in full riot gear.

We were here for El Alto’s first-ever transvestite cholita—bowler-hatted indigenous ladies—competition. It was held in La Paz, not El Alto, because the organizers couldn’t find a venue to take them in their hometown.

Official kick off was 7pm, but we’d been given the wink not to arrive until 8pm. Smugly, we found great seats. A mere three hours later, the pageant began and Calypso was packed.

The event was to celebrate the 200 anniversary of Bolivia’s first cry for independence from the Spanish. This event may not have been what the original anti-colonialists were expecting.

Pretty boys ostentatiously held hands and snogged on the dance floor, something unimaginable outside the protection of the paramilitary bouncers. Same-sex couples danced together, which isn’t allowed in the mixed clubs gay El Alteños have to frequent on the Altiplano.

The friendly wooping crowd applauded the performers. A lesbian and transvestite pair did a role-reversed version of a traditional dance. Bolivia’s number one transsexual put on a very indiscrete show, with an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction à la Janet Jackson. Mr Gay of El Alto karaokeed in a Mexican-style.

The cholitas themselves wore extravagant outfits and spun like heavy-set, heavily made-up whirling dervishes. Under the disco lights, it was a dramatic spectacle and refreshing to see such a variety of sexualities.

This was the most inclusive crowd we had seen since arriving in Bolivia but one group was noticeable by their absence: female cholitas.

Pinching policemen, prisons and partying with drug lords

In the morning, I like to buy my fruit at Sopocachi market; now I have some confidence in my language skills, it’s incredibly well stocked, friendly and cheap, rather than merely terrifying, as it used to be. On my way there this week, I saw a uniformed Policia Municipal walk up to one of the stalls and then pinch a cheap, lattice shopping bag.

He then stood a few yards away, looking ridiculous carrying the empty, bright swagged bag until the stall holder pleaded for it back. The thieving swine returned it, before he and his two female colleagues strolled off without even the decency to look sheepish. It made me feel very angry to see, if the police are no better than the shabbiest thieves then what hope justice?

The prison system is in the process of being cleaned up. The infamous San Pedro prison, once open to the paying public for tours, “the best cocaine in South America”, cheap restaurants and beds for the night is being closed. And so ends one of La Paz’s most infamous tourist attraction.

For the public, at least. The inmates, however, are going nowhere, but their wives, children and traditional sources of income will be gone. Unless the new regime becomes as corrupted as the last one and the old ways slip back in.

The Bolivian prison system has seen a new inmate this week. The former “Minister for Cocaine” has been extradited from the States. Not so fresh from 30 years in a US jail, Luis Arce Gomez will be finishing his days in El Alto’s insalubrious Chonchocoro prison. He once employed the Nazi Klaus Barbie as an advisor and seemed to take his advice to heart—he had been key to one of Bolivia’s most unpleasant dictatorships.

Back in Luis’ 1980s pomp, the Bolivian economy relied heavily on cocaine. A well-connected friend went to party hidden near the Brazilian border for the 15th birthday of a senior drug lord’s daughter. The private airstrip was busy with private jets landing unloading guests keen to enjoy the fabulous hospitality of the drug baron.

Among the luxuries in the house, a fountain spouted champagne. The glory days were not to last however as the Americans were after him. To avoid extradition, he offered to pay Bolivia’s entire national debt but it wasn’t enough and he’s staying at President Obama’s pleasure. It would seem that sometimes no amount of money can save you.

Pirates and coca over knitwear

Having segued effortlessly from jet lag to upset stomach to cold since arriving back, life has been fairly uneventful and home-based. Yesterday, however, we made a brave outing to refresh our DVD collection.

The walk to the DVD street took Susi, Mikael and me through La Paz’s most tourist area: a succession of shops selling ethno tat leading to a succession of stalls selling llama fetuses.

As we walked a normal-looking man stopped and swore at Mikael. Why he would swear at random foreigners was unexplained and why he would pick the largest man within a mile radius seemed suicidal. Anyway, Mikael and I swapped pleasantries with the man before we hit second-hand clothes street.

Hawking “pre-loved” clothes is illegal in Bolivia, so occasionally these stalls are clamped down on. The theory is tailors should be protected; people should only buy new Bolivian-made clothes, which seems rather tough on the poor. The rag trade is in bad shape since the US ended trade preferences with Bolivia, jeopardizing 25,000 jobs.

Morales chose to defend the booming coca industry (his electorate and fellow unionistas) against the (albeit bonkers) War on Drugs and so sacrifice hope of an improved relationship with the US. Even Chavez gets on better with the US than Morales now, and that’s about as bad as relationships get.

Much more legal than the shifty business of selling clothes is flogging illegal DVDs. An entire road is dedicated to knocked-off movies in shops and stalls. From the latest blockbusters to Boobs and Butts 3, it’s all here.

For £10, we bought the second and third series of Battlestar Gallactica and the second series The Sopranos. Bargain! I tried to buy the new Star Trek film but the salesman told me his wasn’t a good-quality version and advised waiting; they’re even honest(ish).

All the way from the San Francisco church to Plaza Estudiantes, the Prado was packed. Excited Bolivar football fans waved flags out of hooting cars. Under the huge, full moon, hundreds of fans accumulated at the plaza, singing and chanting.

Being outside is certainly more interesting than watching Lord of the Rings. Again.