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Published: September 1st 2013
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I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel sake. The great affair is to move. (Robert Louis Stevenson.)
Wandering down the cobblestone streets in front of our hostel, I turn right into Saragenara street, drop a few coins in the beggar women’s tin, brush off the guy selling happy mushrooms, pass the restaurant where we ate llama and pollo last night, the many shop fronts with their color full beanies, jumpers, scarves, skirts and other lama wool garments, the leather bags, t shirts with Che’s picture on front, the silverware and of course the music shops full of guitars, shakers, bongos and ukuleles. From his doorway the travel guy enquires about our plans. Have we been to Sucre? Have we seen the salt flats of Uyuni? Do we want to fly to Rio? And have we experienced Death Road?
Turning the corner in to Murrillo Street, which is just up from St Francisco Basilica, (a massive stone place of worship with a bell tower to make Victor Hugo's hunchback jealous), I hail one of the many taxis sharing the streets with the vans. These vans are buses with the ladies yelling destinations
to the potential clients as they slide open the side door and collect another customer, without the van completely coming to a halt. The old buses roll on by, 1960s vintage, filled with stony faced passengers who stare right through you on their journey home.
My driver smiles and addresses me in Spanish, my reply clumsy as I try a few selective words of hello. In my hand I have my destination written and he smiles and nods as we travel on our way hopefully to my destination. The radio blares out a reggae tune seemingly in beat, as we weave our way through the traffic, horns blaring, people yelling and arms waving, as the cars somehow avoid each other on their way down the road.
Coming upon a roundabout, my foot goes to the floor but the brake is not to be found. We squeeze between a bus and a van, cut behind the taillights of another taxi and shoot out the exit down another one way street. I turn my head to see Carlos tapping on the steering wheel and grinning at my discomfort.
The cross streets are full of fruit and vegetable sellers, their
produce covering the ground; bananas, pineapple, potatoes, onions, herbs, spices; the aromas filling my senses as we pass.
In front of her stall an old lady, wrinkled from the sun, dressed in her traditional heavy woolen skirt and jumper, snoozes, her head tilted to one side, somehow her bowler hat in place on her long black plaited hair. It is after lunch so a siesta is necessary to recharge the body.
Up ahead a pantomime is being performed on the street. Dressed as a cat, an actor is playing with the traffic, slowing it more to the honking of horns, yet the delight of the gathered crowd.
The taxi comes to a halt and I alight, handing my Bolivian Sols to the driver with a “muchas gracias”, I realize I have become comfortable with La Paz; it is time to move on.
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tarsh
non-member comment
comfortable?
feeling comfortable? you should've gone to san pedro jail that would have ruffled your feathers.