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.

28.9.8 Eating flamingo and "drinking alcohol"

Early in the morning, we sailed/rowed to Patiti, an island that was once home to an Inca civilization. All that was left of them was some old pieces of ceramic, which are now housed in a very impressive museum. Whether the local inhabitants would have preferred a reliable water supply or a museum is debatable, but what’s without doubt is that the sponsoring Finns’ cash went to the pots.

The journey back with the wind was swift and peaceful among the birds. Being surrounded by all these animals must be tempting for people looking to supplement their diet. I asked our guide if they hunted the birds. He replied that they didn’t because the birds were protected before adding that flamingo is delicious.

Driving back to La Paz through the dusty Altiplano, we went past a whirlwind. Red sand spiralled up into the clouds, sending up whatever it sucked up into the heavens. As we ploughed along, Susi’s eagle eyes saved us losing our luggage when she spotted a sleeping bag flying off the roof of the car and bouncing down the road.

A little further on we stopped at a check point and got out to buy drinks from a roadside stall. As well as the usual "refrescos", there was beer and every drivers’ favourite, Ceibo. Enticingly described as “drinking alcohol”, it’s 96% booze and comes in a utilitarian plastic container. Very good for the health, the charming cholita told me with a smile.