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.
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
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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