We’ve made it down to Santa Cruz, the home of the drive for autonomy. The city has a very different feel to La Paz, its western rival. The drive into town from the airport follows a long, flat strip of stores and restaurants. Curiously without potholes, it’s about as different in terms of topography and culture from El Alto as is possible to imagine.
Our grotty hotel was just off a glorious plaza, with an impressive cathedral, where the citizens were strolling between the palm trees in short sleeves enjoying the warm evening. As residents of La Paz, we are pre-programmed to dislike Santa Cruz, so this was all a little disarming.
In the morning, we returned to the plaza, which is emblazoned with the green-and-white flags of Santa Cruz. One of a group of friendly girls in the city’s colours gave me a pro-autonomy leaflet belonging to a right-wing political party that called itself “socialist”. Not great connotations in an area with a flourishing fascist youth movement. There’s no doubt the genetic makeup is different here—there are very few chollitas, and the people are noticeable whiter and taller.
We belted out of the city in a taxi, heading to Buena Vista in the countryside at breakneck speed. At a garage, our old cab was filled with petrol by a pretty girl in tight trousers and a low-cut top. Looking round it was clear to see this was the employment policy. I reminded myself that I disapproved—there’s a level of machismo here that I am not used to.
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