A Saucerful of Secrets

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Dread Point

La Paz - the capital of Bolivia - is a city of around 900,000 people. It is draped over the rim, sides, and bottom of a wide canyon.

Long after the sun has disappeared below the horizon, the bus Anna and I are on enters La Paz from the Southeast and runs along the upper edge of the canyon for about half an hour before descending into the heart of the city. This affords us a magnificent view of the lights of the capital both below and along the opposite slope - forming a curved grid like an illustration of the curvature of the universe in a cosmology documentary.

I'm not one to do much planning or worrying. But I am an incessant list maker. Within the loose structure of any plan I do happen to make is invariably nested a list of what I call "dread points". Whether preparing for a meeting, travel, an inevitable verbal altercation, or anything else, I always identify the moments that I'm not looking forward to. These are moments I see as being inherently risky, difficult, or just damn annoying. I enter the situation with a count of these moments, and tick off the percentage each time I manage to get past one. "Ok, got that one out of the way. 2 out of 3. 1 left."

The main bus station in La Paz is one of the few dread points I have listed for this trip. There are a few small organized crime groups that haunt the station and look for backpacker victims.

Here is how it works: You get into a taxi. Less than a block later, a man flags down the cab and gets in. He flashes a badge to you and the driver and claims to be a narcotics officer. He politely explains to you that there have been a lot of problems with tourists bringing drugs into the city, and that this is just a routine check. First, he looks over your passport and asks to examine the contents of your wallet. One way or the other, he finds "an anomaly" with your passport or is concerned about potentially counterfeit cash. He regrets to inform you that he'll have to divert your taxi ride to a police station to clear it up. He is sure you have done nothing wrong, but this is just normal procedure.

Rather than going to a police station, the "taxi driver" and "policeman" take you to the outskirts of the city to a house or building where they tie you up and take your stuff. They force you to give them the PIN for your bank card. They then leave you tied up for several days and continually withdrawal money from ATM's until your bank account is empty. Then they drop you off in the middle of the city somewhere with nothing.

A dreadful dread point, indeed.

There are two upshots to this. One is that most of the gangs have been caught and the situation has improved immensely over the past two or three years. Second, is that, armed with the proper knowledge, you can easily evade this attack.

It isn't like armed robbery. If someone runs up to you in the middle of the day and puts a knife to your throat or a gun to your head, there is nothing you can do about it. But this rarely happens in La Paz.

There are, however, several things one can do to thwart the fake policeman. First, is simply understanding the situation. The real La Paz police will, under no circumstances, approach you (unless you're doing something blatantly illegal in the street). So it is safe to assume that, if someone in plain clothes flashes a badge and claims to be the police, he isn't. The second thing to watch for is taxis. The fake taxi drivers that are part of the scam are driving around in unofficial cabs. These are easy to spot as they have no official company information on the side or call radio in the dashboard. So you just don't get into "Jose's Taxi". If you are in a taxi, and the above scenario plays out, you don't panic. You're in central La Paz with all the heavy traffic and swarm of pedestrians. When you get a chance, you hop out of the taxi. If your stuff is in the trunk (better if it's not) you start yelling and call attention. You demand that the taxi driver open the trunk. He doesn't want the attention of other people and can't get too far too fast in this dense and crowded city.

In the absolute worst-case scenario, you find yourself tied to a chair somewhere outside of town. Terrifying, but not fatal physically nor financially if you keep your cool, cooperate, and have taken intelligent precautions.

Keeping your cool and cooperating is self-explanatory. These aren't serial killers. They are cockroaches. They want your money. One max withdrawal from your ATM card can be equivalent to what the average employed Bolivian makes in a few months. Despicable, but numerically understandable. Anyway, that is their motivation. I would worry more about being robbed by some punk 22-year old in the developed world who just might shoot me in the end just to make himself feel like a Man.

There are financial precautions you take before traveling anywhere remote. It helps to have two bank accounts. A vast majority of the funds are kept in one account which is entirely inaccessible from your ATM card. Overdraft protection is disabled. This means the only way to get to this money is to do an online transfer through your bank's website from the safe account to your ATM account. You keep several hundred dollars in the ATM account, and do subsequent transfers as needed on your trip. That way, in the event of catastrophe, they can only take the small amount available. The cockroaches are happy, but you are not screwed.

"But I don't trust doing online transfers in another country!" Who invited you sissy whiners to the 21st century? It's called SSL - look it up.

So you are not helpless. I made an effort to research this topic quite a bit. I read about dozens of cases. Every single person I read about who was informed and took precautions got away from the attempted scam without losing a dime. The other many cases that were not so lucky had not heard of the problem and were not prepared.

But it's still a dread point that I want to get past.

I've been prepping Anna on the subject so that she will be ready for whatever might happen. She has been in a few crazy places, so she isn't too worried. Good. Fear is the enemy. Common sense and a little attention will save you 95%!o(MISSING)f the time. Chuck Norris will save you the other 5%! (MISSING)

We arrive at the bus terminal, grab our stuff, and head to a side street to find a taxi passing by. A few drive by, but they look a bit dodgy and "clandestino"; so we pass. Maybe they're fine, but probability figures are not to be taunted at dread points.

Anna leans out over the road to try and spot a taxi coming our way. She turns to say something, pauses, and looks over my shoulder.

"Um,"

I turn around. A mustached man in his late thirties is standing behind me, hovering close to my large backpack. He is wearing a well-pressed black suit with a blue tie. The street is not crowded at all, so there is no reason for him to be that close. There is nothing valuable in my large pack, but I turn and face him, anyway. I raise my eyebrows politely as if to ask "Can I help you?" His dark eyes are shifting back and forth between the two of us beneath the thin lines of his brows and a dull widow's peak exposed by his black, slicked-back hair. The movement of those eyes is his downfall - over-anxious, over-prepared. They reveal the adrenalin in his blood.

He smiles gently, raises a finger, and sweeps it back and forth to indicate the stretch of road, "I don't know if anyone told you, but you need to be very careful with the taxis here."
"Oh, yeah we know. We read all about it, thanks very much," I respond, smiling.
"Oh good. It's just that it's so late. Look, if you want, I can give you a ride to wherever you're going. It would be much safer."
"Oh, no thanks. We'll just grab a radio taxi and I'm sure we'll be fine. But really, thanks."
"Are you sure?" he asks, "I really don't mind. Just 7 Bolivianos. The taxis will charge much more."
The curve of my smile flattens and I feel my eyes change, "No, thank you," I say in English. I've gone from defense to offense. I want to grab this guy by the knot of his cheap, polyester tie and say whatever it takes for him to truly comprehend that he is a cockroach - a Kafkan waste of the precious, high-altitude dioxygen molecules he is using to pump his nervous blood and the saline sweat that is no doubt building up under his arms and at the small of his spineless back. But I'm especially pissed off by the insult of intelligence.

Am I to believe that some kind, affluent business man just happens to be hanging around this grungy street behind the bus station late at night? Did he think the suit would sell it? Then to cite a tiny fee as some sort of extra incentive? As if it didn't add a new level of strangeness to the situation? How stupid does he think we are?

The cockroach drops the attempt without a word and walks several feet away to light a cigarette and wait for another victim. I stare after him as he leaves and Anna tugs at the sleeve of my jacket.

"Got one," she says flagging down an official radio taxi. I throw all of our stuff into the back seat with her and take shotgun next to the driver.

"That was a bad man," I say.
"I know. They do the same thing in India. Dress up in a nice suit and try to 'help' you."

The driver takes us to our hostel near Plaza Murillo and charges 6 Bolivianos - 1 less than the cockroach wanted.

Anyway, we made it.

Equinox

Today is Sunday, the 21st of September - the first day of Spring in the Southern Hemisphere.

Anna and I get up, have breakfast, and walk over to Plaza Murillo where a marching band is putting on a small performance to celebrate the seasonal change. We sit on the steps with the rest of the small audience and listen for a while. This is the official band of the Bolivian Air Force. They have invited a guest singer and are performing Luis Miguel covers. Odd. But it works.

At around 3,600 m (~12,000 ft), La Paz is the highest capital city in the world. This elevation in combination with the varied shape of the city creates a curious real estate situation. There is a very noticeable change in the level of oxygen between the center and bottom of the city, and upper edges of the canyon. Therefore, cost of living at the bottom is significantly higher. This is where the more affluent people live and breathe. As you climb up the slopes of the canyon, the prices decline sharply along with the oxygen density. The least wealthy live at the top of the city.

It is the only place I know of where the poorest of a community have the best view.

We're back in the Andes. Despite the hustle and bustle of this modern city, we are definitely in indigenous territory. Even at the wealthy lower levels of the city, a majority of women over a certain age are wrapped in dresses and shawls similar to those seen in Potosí. But this comes with an unexpected and interesting difference. The wide-brimmed hats I saw in Potosí are replaced here - without exception - by men's Bowler hats. The colors range from beige to black, but the iconic 19th century design is unmistakable.

Bolivians certainly aren't the tallest people in the world, and these older women are usually the shortest of the lot. But take a ride in a microbus and you will see these women sitting bolt upright and still - a posture I can never hope to duplicate or maintain. Sitting still and silent with the Bowler hat perched high atop their long braided hair, you might think they were the tallest person in the micro.

It takes a bit of hunting, but we eventually find one of the covered markets to which we have become so accustomed. This one is a bit smaller - a long, thin corridor of stalls that winds its way up one of the city's more gentle but countless hills. Women in white frocks call out the menus of soups, trout, and milanesa. I'm drawn to one particular corner of the market where a short, gray-haired woman announces "Chorizo!". She serves me an enormous pita bread sandwich stuffed with spicy sausage, grilled onion, and crimson tomato. It is the best sandwich I've ever had for $.50.

Not far beyond, in a small, quiet square, we find a line of fruit vendors offering fruit salads. The woman at the far end makes the best. Late in the afternoons, we make our way to her booth where she grins in recognition with a wave - her smiling face barely visible from behind the pile of apples, oranges, bananas, strawberries, and kiwis piled impossibly high before her.

Tiwanaku

I've mentioned microbuses a few times. For those who don't know what a micro is, it deserves an explanation. Put simply, a micro is a cramped, uncomfortable, dingy, wonderful thing. It is a permanent icon of South American transportation. A micro is a bit like a van - actually they look almost exactly like the old Volkswagen minibus. And although you may still see a few VW micros running around, a vast majority of them are newer Nissans. I'm not sure how they start their existence, but once they get to South America, the insides are ripped away and up to four bench seats are installed in the back. These are extremely basic seats that provide a bare minimum of comfort and space for a normal-sized human being.

There are two types of micros. One is just like any city bus that takes a more or less fixed route through town - picking people up wherever they happen to wave for a ride and dropping them off wherever they happen to cry out "Getting off!" These are usually manned by two people - a driver and his assistant. The assistant stays in back hanging out of the open door announcing to people on the street the names of destinations at unthinkable speeds followed by the price. The poor guy rarely has a moment to sit down (assuming they aren't doing killer business and there even are seats available). And even when he does, it only lasts about twenty seconds before he has to slide the door open again to let someone in or out, or try to persuade new passengers in a group of pedestrians.

The second kind are the ones that go between villages, towns, and even cities. You can usually find these grouped together near town squares, bus stations, markets, or anywhere where a lot of people happen to be and might need a ride. A thin steel ladder is bolted to the left side of the vehicle. Before taking off, you'll usually find the driver standing on top as boxes, crates, barrels, bags, and (of course) backpacks are hoisted up to him to be strapped down with rope. A lesser experienced traveler might be pleased to find a nearly empty micro to take them a few towns away. But the wiser ones know better. For a micro is not on a timetable, and deriving profit from such a venture requires volume, volume, volume. A micro will not leave until it is at at least 80% capacity. This might take 5 minutes. It might take 45 minutes. And if the capacity reaches 115% - even better.

So why would anyone subject themselves to such a thing? Simple. How else can you get from one side of a city to the other for less than $.20? How else can you take a three hour trip out of town for $2? It's dirt cheap.

Moreover, you get to travel with the locals and absorb some culture.

Anyway, a micro is the only way to get to one of the most important archaeological sites in South America - Tiwanaku.

We get up early one morning and grab a taxi to Cementerio. This is a neighborhood outside the city center where dozens of micros can be found going to all kinds of places. After walking around several streets, we find the micro headed for Tiawanaku and climb in.

After waiting at a few different parts of the city to fill the van, we finally take off and leave La Paz. About an hour later, Anna and I are dropped off in the absolute middle of nowhere. The highway runs through a nearly barren plateau of sparse brown grasses with the Andes seen in the distance. We tighten the straps on our day packs and head off on a dirt road toward a small cluster of hills a few kilometers away.

It takes half an hour, but we eventually start to see traces of rustic civilization on the outskirts of the small town of Tiwanaku. Tiny, simple houses stand near the road with the occasional cow or horse milling around outside. Far ahead of us and on the right, we can hear the festivities of an ongoing wedding. A man is yelling over a loudspeaker, and the guests cheer in response as the music picks up again.

We reach the town center where buildings are more closely packed together. We find a small cafe with three tables and sit down for a lunch of soup, rice, and milanesa. An ancient television on top of the small refrigerator in the corner shows news about protests in Pando and Santa Cruz despite ongoing peace talks between the government and opposition groups.

We thank the woman who runs the place, pay her, and ask which way to go to find the ruins. She takes us to the open doorway and points down the street and tells us to walk five minutes out of town. Can't miss it.

We stroll around the town center for another half hour then head out toward the excavation site.

The Tiwanaku people were a major power in this part of Bolivia that thrived for five hundred years until around 1000 A.D. They are considered by modern scholars to be one of the most important precursors to what would become the Incan Empire.

The Tiwanaku were highly skilled at working with stone and sculptures. This can be seen in a large array of walls and a large raised plateau in the center of the ruins. Near the center is a sunken temple. Embedded in the inner walls of the temple are sandstone carvings of various faces - some looking rather alien.

One of the main cultural aspects that would be inherited by the Incas was their polytheistic religion. Like the Incas, they worshiped Viracocha - a god of "action shaper of many worlds and destroyer of many worlds". It was believed that he created the people of Tiwanaku out of stone and gave them life. He also accompanies a familiar legend of a great flood on becoming dissatisfied with his creations.

We walk around the ruins for a while. There is still a lot of work going on here. Workers can be seen doing digs and restoration work due to centuries of pillaging and careless excavation.

In the afternoon, we head back to the present-day Tiwanaku where a few micros are fishing for passengers back to La Paz. This time, we are lucky and the local school is just letting out. We squeeze into the micro with eight or nine of the teachers that live in La Paz, and head back.

Wild Rover

Anna and I are staying at the Wild Rover hostel. It is Irish owned and run. It even has its very own Irish pub right inside. It is, as you can imagine, full of Irish. In fact, I'd have to say the Irish are one of the top three nationalities I run into on this continent. They are everywhere. The Australians and the English have some fierce competition.

There are a few of them staying in our room. One evening, while Anna and I are resting for a bit, one of their friends comes over from another room. Everyone gathers around him and listens to his tale of San Pedro Prison.

San Pedro is considered to be one of the most notorious and corrupt prisons in the world. The inside is rather like a separate society removed from the rest of the city. If you happen to be convicted and sent there, your living conditions will depend heavily on how much money you have. The social strata inside range from a hellish nightmare of violent squalor to something approaching luxury. A very popular book about the prison was written by a former inmate called Marching Powder. Anna has read it and says it is very disturbing. I have it on my list to read.

Corruption in the prison is rampant. Although it is highly illegal, a tourist can pay a few hundred Bolivianos and take a protected tour of the prison. Getting a tour is a bit tricky, but certainly feasible. There are guys who stand on the corner next to the prison. When they see tourists walk by, they offer to talk to the guards and get you in. This is the wrong way. They take your money and tell you to meet them at a certain time at the main gate. They never show up. The best way is to track down the phone number of an inmate, call them, and ask them to get you inside. That's right - some of the inmates who have it good have their own phone lines.

Needless to say, the tour you get is of the nicer, safer parts. Going to the other side is a bad idea for anyone.

The Irish guy did the tour and tells us all about it. He is a very short, wiry guy with wild red hair.

"Man, were you scared at any point?"
"Well, it's weird because you know it's a prison. But the part they show you is pretty laid back. Besides, these Bolivian guys are all about the same size as me, so it would have been a fair fight!" he laughs.
"So is it like a hell hole?"
"No, not at all, not the part I saw. To be honest, it was like, well," he looks around our dorm for a second, "Truth be told, it was just like a really nice hostel."
"Did you like talk to any of the prisoners?"
"Well I don't really speak Spanish, but yeah chatted with a few of them at the bar."
"There's a BAR?"
"Yeah!"

Having read the book, Anna is intensely interested in the prison. Neither of us are keen on going inside, but we both want to at least see it.

It is not far from the city center, so one afternoon we walk over to take a few pictures.

There are a lot of people in the square in front of the prison. In the distance a block or two away, I can hear a bull horn and someone speaking. I can't quite make it out. A well-dressed woman sees us and walks up to us.

"Hello. Look, maybe you two shouldn't be here today. There is a demonstration going on over there. Better to come back tomorrow."
"What, Morales supporters?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Are they going to get violent?"
"Probably not but... This is a rough crowd. It could get bad."

As if to confirm this, the muffled sound of the bull horn cuts out with a shout of conviction and is followed by a roar of voices. These are not the voices of a crowd of indigenous activists making their case - but of a crowd of men. Angry men. Men of fighting age.

Andean fascists?

We thank the woman and wander away from San Pedro prison. I look back when the cadence of venomous cries erupts again. The crowd is moving toward us - toward San Pedro. I get the impression that the demonstration might somehow be connected with the prison. That might explain the makeup of the crowd.

As we walk back up the street toward the center, the rhythm of the testosterone-flooded chants grows louder.

Part of me wants to go back and try and hear what they are saying and get a few pictures. Sometimes that is all we can do - bare witness.

It is an unusually hot day in La Paz, and I'm damp with sweat. Perhaps somewhere above the city hovers Viracocha - destroyer of many worlds - gently exhaling his heated breath of contempt down onto his creation.

-

Every morning at Wild Rover starts the same. I wake up in my top bunk, and look across the room to Anna in her top bunk.

"Good morning."
"'Morning."

Then we peer over the sides of the excessively tall bunks down to the floor far below. It isn't enough that we're in the highest capital on the planet. Some smartass carpenter had to add 2.5 meters onto it. Will today be the day one of us shatters an ankle on the way down?

Every morning I make it down in tact and go to take a shower. Anna is one of those who showers at night, so she gets dressed and goes into the pub where breakfast is served. After my shower, I walk into the pub where Anna is invariably sitting at a small wooden table at the far end next to a fake fireplace over which hangs a nylon Irish flag. She reads through her Lonely Planet guide on South America. A plate with biscuits waits for me next to a cup of coffee. I protested on the first morning at such undeserved kindness, but she achieves a perfect balance of butter and jam on the bread - something I can never get right.

At the other end of the pub is a small television. A few Irish guests (often with a slight hangover) are huddled around it watching the broadcast of a football game - between two Irish teams on occasion. How are they getting that here in Bolivia? Anna is Polish, but lives and works as a chemist in Ireland. I lean over and ask her in a hushed voice about the two teams playing and for whom I should be rooting. Just in case it comes up.

While we have breakfast, she flips through her guide book's section on La Paz and we plan out the day for museums, parks, and monuments to visit.

But this morning - our last - we are finalizing our move to Sorata. Sorata is a little-known small town between here and Lake Titicaca. It is nestled in the mountains and is supposed to have some spectacular hiking. I had been planning on going straight to Titicaca, but Anna has convinced me that this might be worth doing before it becomes more popular and riddled with tourists. You have to enjoy these places while they last.

The most important part of the planning was completed last night. The two of us sat in the pub with a few beers and played out a grueling game of Yaniv. Whoever won was to get the window seat in the micro on the three hour journey to Sorata.

We finish breakfast, gather up our stuff, and grab a taxi to Cementerio. We find the micro to Sorata and heave our large packs up to the driver.

Anna takes her honored window seat and I cram myself in the middle between her and a woman holding a toddler on her lap.

I'm sick of Yaniv.

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Photos

Air Force Band
Photo by Anna

Valle de la Luna
Just outside of La Paz

Viracocha
Image pilfered from Google. Sue me if you can find me.

San Pedro Prison
There was a prisoner transport going on at the time