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.

30.06.08 Caught by the fuzz

On Saturday night, we went to a Sex in the City party. It was an interesting evening for three reason, firstly, we were spared the film, which I can only imagine is eye-gougingly awful; secondly and refreshingly, there were openly gay people there—the first we’ve seen since leaving London; and thirdly, we were stopped by the police on the drive home. Back in Blighty, this would have been serious: the car was overloaded, had only one headlight and was being driven by someone who, while not drunk, would not pass a breath test. Here, there were anxious moments, some uncomfortable grovelling, the passing of a 20 boliviano note and we were on our way. The most depressing part of this was how pathetically cheap it is to corrupt the police: 20 bolies is about £1.50.