Turning the corner

Armed with large bottles of water and long midday lie-downs, I'm fighting back against 12,000 feet of elevation. With crooked streets flanked by narrow sidewalks at steep inclines, and all the best stuff at the top of the hills, La Paz is fighitng back. Yesterday, the city won a phyrric victory. I managed to explore all manner of Aymara markets, penetrating deep into La Paz's indigenous commercial sector, but I was generally too dehydrated and disoriented to take advantage.

Sure, every time I saw the light filtering alluringly through the coloured awnings of another row of stalls, I clambered up, lost my breath, and inspected the stuffed animals, plastic toys, or strange animal parts that were on display. Yet I missed a million opportunities to rehydrate, failed to find myself a cup of coca tea (then foolishly purchased mate de cedron--whatever that means--from two charming-looking but apparently unconversatoinal young women and burnt my mouth because I could think of nothing to say), and forgot to buy one of the grandfather-style sweaters all the locals wear. I looked longingly into miniature cafes but didn't go in, inhibited by a combination of self-consciousness, shyness, and fear of the unknown. (Not sure why that whole paragraph is written in lists of three...)

It's true that I witnessed moments of true charm--four-year.old girls throwing way too much feed at pigeons in Plaza Murillo and then snuggling up to their mothers. The daughters would be in western dress--leggings, sweaters, etc--and the mothers in more tradional indigenous garb, poofy skirts, shawls and bowler hats. Many were enjoying jello and ice cream. Of course, the same mother-daughter combination appeared much more often, and with more pathos, on busy and not-so-busy streets, some begging, some with impressive stands of candybars and trinkets, and some selling as little as little bags of lemons.

Today, my sorties were shorter but better-organized. Recognizing that La Paz's forces, at least for the moment, were better mobilized than those of my body--which thinks I invented my past as an athlete in order to taunt it--I moved strategically. I'll spare you the details and me the typing, but for a few highlights. I managed to get lunch consisting of salad, a delicious giant bowl of soup (trying to separate a chunk of meet from its bone, I splashed generous quantities onto my shirt, so I'll be able to analyze the ingredients), a couple hot-dog-style sausages over a mound of mashed potatoes, and a piece of fruit in sweetish water, all for less than a dollar. The fact that coins here weigh less than poker chips also tells you something about the strength of the local currency. This evening, I managed my first impromtu chat with a local, the owner of a cafe/bar (I had cammomille tea and sponge cake) who gave me his thoughts on life in La Paz and his hopes and fears for the new government. I look forward to more of these chats, and understanding more than 50 per cent of what's said. When I mentioned I would be looking into the aftermath of the water wars in Cochabamba, he told me the recent floods had been a real tragedy. So today was an encouraging draw.

I leave you with a quotation from the Museo de la Coca, which not surprisingly comes out heavily pro-coca and anti-cocaine. (Cleverly in tune with current government policy.) On the effects of coca:

Y al igual que el orgásmo conseguido por la masturbación, nunca es suficiente y
pierde su verdadero sentido, el orgásmo químico de la cocaína sólo crea más
deseo y al mismo tiempo aísla y deprime al individuo cuando esté despierta de su
sueño de placer y éxito artifical.

Roughly translated, "And much like the orgasm that follows masturbation, it's never sufficient and loses its feeling, the chemical orgasm of cocaine only creates more desire while at the same time it depresses the individual when he awakes from his artificial dream of pleasure."

That was by far the museum's most devastating insight.

(I'm assuming you all already know that the coca leaf isn't satan-spawn.)

The Peace, Part I

I'm liking La Paz a lot better than Caracas. Feel safe, people wearing sweaters, way fewer cars.

Also, though there is less Caribbean warmth, people seem more comfortable in their skin. Not a scientific observation, obviously.

Haven't seen any of the Evo sweaters yet, but have found the Che t-shirt sector. (Coincidentally, also where many of the tourists hang out.)

Bolivia, here I come

Last night, a taxi picked me up at midnight (on reccomendation of the lady who picked up the phone) to take me to the airport . We drove on the provisional road to the airport (long story), which was so windy in some places the posted speed limit was 20 km/hr. Fortunately, my taxista knew an unposted rule that says if there aren´t a lot of cars and the turns are tight, it´s no problem driving in the oncoming traffic lane. When I smelled skunk through the window, I felt a strange burst of nostalgia for Toronto.

Obviously, the trip took half an hour, leaving me with a 4h30 wait before my flight (actually, more like 6h00 with the delay). Here´s a poem I wrote while I was waiting (internet café was closed; i used a pen, which felt strange):

simon bolívar airport
12:46 am
nothing open--nothing to eat or drink
i have a 5000 bs note
(worth about 2 US dollars)
no coins or smaller bills
the vending machines might as well be plastic pelicans
anyone i could ask for change
(i see one person from where i´m sitting, his head is on the table)
would be so depressed already
the mere sound of my voice
would cause him to burst into tears

solid plastic booth--
you´re so cold
i don´t blame you for being a soulless polymer
i have compassion for you
for my own sake
we´re in this together, booth
we´re reproducing a cliché
(itself a cliché idea)
i´m about as original as this table
thirsty, too.
the dry taste of my goodbye beer in my mouth--
it´s not so great

..

so there you have it, a tribute piece to my teenage angst.

anyway, now i´m in santa cruz, the city that narco-trafficking built (according to coca--in this case the name of my older sister--and my paperback guide to latin america); also the second biggest city in bolivia. i have a 10-hour layover and decided to check out the city. asking the bus driver whether he stopped at the plaza 14 de septiembre was a minor faux-pas (it´s actually the 24 de septiembre). anyway, it´s not a bustling metropolis. but it´s sunday, so no one´s judging.

..

later tonight i arrive in la paz, where i plan to spend a few days knowing nobody before heading to cochabamba. in theory, the next two months will be not only a cathartic but a journalistic journey as well. i´ll keep you posted on both. (yes, there will be much more blogging now.)

i promise to also try to drop this tone of western insouciance, obviously a symptom of my fear of earnestness and/or sincerity, and try to give you the straight goods on the revolutionary scene.

..

last night, i asked dave´s and my chavista waiter friend whether there was anything he wanted me to ask evo for him. he became embarassed and said no.