Just don´t tell ´em that you know me

La Paz is an amazing city, not just for its astonishing physical layout, but also for the high-tempo and frenetic energy that pulses like a tecno beat in a dance club. None of the descriptions that I read about the city even come close to capturing its essence and I have no doubt that this one will fall short as well. Approaching from the Southeast, the 52 passenger bus rolled smoothly across the altiplano due to the paved roads that faithfully supported its tires. Passing through many pueblo and aldeas, we would occasionally pick up salesmen hawking differnt types of wares. Just outside of Cochabamba, three ladies hopped on with their satchels of bread, sweets and another popular combo, roasted corn and cheese. I was hesitant to partake in the the latter option as I observed a young lady reach barehanded into her pail to produce a chunk of white material. A little further down the road, a man joined the merrymaking selling anti-parasite tea. At first I thought that he was delivering an evangelical message, but it became clear that his Western-based medical theories were actually endorsing a remedy. By the time the last salesman started into his spiel, I was frankly fed up with suave talkers attempting to solicit the funds that the passengers on the bus probably didn´t have for a product that they probably didn´t need. All I wanted to do was read my book, "House of the Spirits" and look out the window at the distant, snow-covered peaks in peace. The living advertisement finally cemented his jaw as we arrived in El Alto, a suburb just outside of La Paz. Nearly half the bus disembarked here, carrying a multitude of wares all covered by the ubiquitous blue utility sack. I would tend to think that the bus companies could charge extra for bringing along a small store, but then again, "this certainly isn´t Kansas anymore Toto".

After leaving El Alto, an immensely humongous valley with houses plastered to its walls and high rises blanketing its center revealed itself. The city that sits 3600 meters above sea level, that is considered by outsiders and negated by many residents to be Bolívia´s capital city and was an initial spectacle unlike any I had ever seen. I don´t know what it is about busses and fights, but I almost witnessed another one when we pulled to a halt and were retrieving our bags from the bowels of the bus. Apparently there was a discrepancy over one brute´s bag, so he proceeded to yell at the young man unloading the baggage. He eventually reached a boiling point and attempted to push and kick the employee. I decided it was about time to high-tail it on outta´ there, as much as I do enjoy spectating a good squabble every once in a while...

Hoofin´ it down the street with the destination of Hostal Milenio in mind, I sniffed it out without much to do at all, which is surely a first in itself. Going out on a limb for you all and exposing my inner nerd, I walked in to the chosen place of lodging and my eres went immediately to the book exchange to the right of the reception desk. On the second shelf down was the third book in Robert Jordan´s "Wheel of Time" serie, The Dragon Reborn... in English! I was beside myself due to the fact that I had finished the second book of the series early on in the journey. I was hankering for more fantastical literature like a schoolboy does for his sweetheart on the playground. I traded my two haggard copies of "Devil in the White City" and "The Da Vinci Code", set my bags in habitación numero 5 and proceeded to take a stroll through the streets of La Ciudad de las Estrellas. This nickname comes aptly from the infinite amount of lights that cover the valley come nightfall, you really can´t see that many stars given the million or so people that live in La Paz proper and the other million in its outskirts.

On the morning of the 18th I bee-lined it for El Museo de Instrumentos Musicales where I found a collection of musical instruments larger and more varied than I ever imagined could exist. Charangos, a much smaller version of the guitar with 5 string, whose bodies consisted of armadillo carcasses and others of turtle shells. Double-necked guitars lined the walls that would make Jimmy Page drool. Wooden horns, that I was sure were impossible or at least impractical to play until I saw a picture of a Bolivian performing the feat, spanned a good 5 meters (yes 15 feet) overhead. Crazy and completely unique instruments that whose designs I had not fathomed came from all over the world. Guests could even try their hand at playing some of them. The owner of the impressive museum, one Ernesto Cavour, asked to see my ticket first hand, but promptly departed without further conversation after he was assured I had payed the 5 Boliviano entrance fee. Apparently in his musical career that has spanned more than 50 years he has performed all over the world including in Japan, Germany, France, the United States, all over South America and definitely many more locations. In the last exposition I found posters advertising both his solo concerts and those in which his band rocked the house, awards from record companies and the Bolívian government and a stack of records "to beat the band", to borrow the colloquialism. An impressive sight indeed.

Rambling on throughout the city I stumbled onto "Olliver´s Travels", the one and only "fake English Pub" in La Paz. I was disheartened to find the same selection of light, watered-down beers common to all the other parts of Bolívia that I have been able to frequent. If you like PBR, Coors Light or Busch, well, Bolívia is surely your hog-heaven for beer. I walked out of the place without taking advantage of the free bathroom. Already having to take a leak I decided that the next restaurant I see would be a 2 for 1 shot, bathroom and lunch. This turned out to be a mistake. Silpancho is a typical Paceña (of La Paz) dish and Silpich´s happens to serve an extra large version. Two eggs over easy on top of a sheet of beef, a foot and a half in diameter, on top of potatoes, served over rice disappeared from my plate as I either forgot or politely ignored rule #2 of life in high altitude cities. Anda lento, come poco y duerme solito, or rather, "Walk slow, eat little and sleep by your poor little self" did not find themselves as being part of my central tenets that day. My luck with women dictates that I hardly ever have to worry about breaking rule #3 and having never experienced altitude sickness before, I attacked the meal with tenacity. My stomach was still queasy and I was still plagued a nice case of los descompuestos during the writing of the original draft, a day and a half later, although I am presently flourishing at nearly 4,000 meters above sea level.

Needless to say, I took it easy on Friday the 19th, sleeping in and drinking trimaté, a concoction containing manzanilla, coca y anis, or, camomile, coca leaves and anise. This infusion turned out to be a great help for the digestive tract. Not having the energy to do much else, I plopped down on a bench in Plaza Murillo and watched innumerable amounts of palomas, or, pigeons being fed from children and adults that shared more or less the same level of excitement. The little girl to my left, funded by her grandparents´ seemingly endless supply of Bolivianos, was more aggressive than most. I found myself laughing when she tried to grab the winged creatures, feathers scattering everywhere. The chitlin was successful on more than one account and the other kids around her would automatically stop what they were doing to stare with bulging eyes at this rebel child. The grandparents paid for a photo to be taken of the young girl holding one frightened bird for a mere 10 Bolivianos. A while later the granfather and I got to talking about the verbal calls the Bolívian troops used in la Guerra del Chaco. Apparently the troops stationed on a hill near the present-day border of Bolívia and Paraguay would sense that someone was approaching and emply a call and response system to verify that it was in fact friendlies. The troops on the hill would call out ¡Plato! or, "Plate!" and their comrades woudl know to answer with ¡Cuchara! or, "Spoon!" to verbally acknowledge that they fought with the same cause. When the need to change the verbal accord presented itself, the Bolívian army started using the call and response of ¡Pantalón! or, "Pants!" and ¡Calzoncillo! or, "Underwear!" Despite the ingenious system they had for recognizing their own troops, Bolívia ended up losing a vast amount of oil-rich land to Paraguay in this war. Later on in the conversation he launched into the necessity to have Jesús in your life so we discussed religion for a while. I admitted that I believe there is a higher power out there, but for me, religion or spirituality is a very personal phenomenon. I told him that I experience God through being in nature, meeting people and hearing their hardships, struggles and triumphs. Nevertheless I did appreciate his benedictions that "God will protect me".

Teeming in the streets of La Paz are lustradores, or, shoe-shiners that wear masks to cover their faces. I asked why people of their profession wear the masks and the answer I got served to generate many more questions in my mind. Accoring to this one 20 year old individual, the masks conceal their identity so that the lustradores are not discriminated against in their daily lives. He said that the general population think that all shoe-shiners drink alcohol and inhale cheap substances to get high while on the job. This kid didn´t seem to be under the influence, but there was no way to tell for sure. In high school, when he started shining shoes to make an extra Boliviano on the side, he didn´t wear a mask. Some of the other kids in his classes at school would ridicule him to a point that made him conform to the shoe-shiners´ code and put on the mask when he was working. Just the other day I was walking through an alley that had many food vendors closer to the entrance, but became more sparse as the alleyway continued on. Three lustradores were seated on the stools they use to support customers´ feet, facing the wall. Their masks were raised up over their foreheads in order to eat a bowl of soup, but they still guarded their identities by sitting so close to the wall. Even the grandmother of the bird-catching little girl I mentioned earlier told me, "Ahh, no necesitas sus servicios", or, "Ahh, you don´t need their services". It´s definitely true that the shine product would have been a waste on my old sneakers, but I couldn´t help noticing the despective tone in her voice. I wonder if shoe-shining is disrespected "solely" in Bolívia, or if it is just as looked down upon in other regions of the globe? Was it always viewed as a way of earning a buck for the lower classes, since the first entrepreneur whipped up a batch of leather shine and took to the streets, or has the degredation of the profession devolved over time?