I have been in La Paz now for more than a week, and have had far more than a week´s worth of challenges and experiences. I have a handle on this city, now, a least compared with how dizzying life here was at first. I know the streets, and can find my way around without a map. I have also gotten used to the pace of the city, its people and traffic and commerce. Walking the streets here is not only a workout; it also demands patience, quick reflexes, vigilance, and decisiveness. People walk more in the street than on the narrow and crowded sidewalks, and honking autos are either warning you to get out of the way or inviting you to ride, or both.
As for traffic, it is frantic and chaotic but somehow functional. Gas is about four times as cheap here as in the U.S., and there is much money to be made in the high-demand urban transportation industry. Taxis are everywhere, of course, but just as omnipresent and far more impressive is the vast fleet of individually owned and operated buses. There are school/tour bus-sized micros, painted in vibrant colors and images, which somehow manage to fit down narrow cobblestone streets. Even more numerous are the minis: customized VW-size Nissan, Toyota, Mazda, and generic vans from the 80s and early 90s that, when full, hold about 15 people, including the person (usually a younger boy but sometimes a middle-aged woman or man) who hangs out the window shouting the vehicle’s route and destinations, collects the modest fare from passengers (1-2 bolivianos, or about 20 cents), and opens or closes the sliding die door as people fold or unfold themselves in and out of the van.
Needless to say, public transportation is an adventure. Drivers weave their passengers through streets and traffic with an impressive combination of aggressiveness and dexterity, stopping in the street whenever a pedestrian throws out their arm for a ride. Traffic moves fast and often unpredictably, and on busy calles and intersections vehicles are rarely more than a foot apart as they honk, brake, swerve and accelerate through congestion. Outside of the centro, traffic is thinner but driving style is just as fast and aggressive, as I have learned during my two trips down the valley to the suburb of Zona Sur.
Crossing the street is an act of faith and quick reflexes,
A freestyle dance with multiple partners made of steel,
A game of rapid decision-making
Where even the most proud scamper and dodge
To the symphony of honking horns
Occasional traffic lights aside,
The game is unregulated and constant,
Life hums on a few inches from injury or death,
And no one thinks twice.
As interesting as the traffic in La Paz is the food. Everything is fresh and local, most of it coming through the markets full of produce, grains, and meat that I have described. Food can be had in whatever manner you might wish: fruit from a blanket, soup from a pot on the sidewalk, salteñas and empanadas from roving carts, meet from grilling stalls, set lunches from local restaurants, strong coffee and pastries from corner cafés, ice cream from pushcarts, or full meals from venues of all varieties of sanitation and cost. Rice is a staple, as is meat, for the protein-hungry Bolivian diet. Fresh juices, beer, and bottled water are the drinks that accompany meals. Maté de coca, or tea from the coca leaf, is the hot beverage of choice at any time of the day, the natural counterweight to the thin air and steep hills of the altiplano.
I have patronized various and diverse food styles and locations, from tourist-friendly sandwich shops to ethnic restaurants to takeout carts to hole-in-the-wall family restaurants that fill with locals during the dinner hours, and I haven’t always been as careful with my food’s sanitation as I maybe should. Other travelers I have talked to have had devastating cases of salmonella and food poisoning, but avoiding obviously sketchy food and not drinking the water has kept me clear of any serious ills thus far.
Tourism in La Paz is surprisingly low-key, considering the incredible amount of outdoor activities, cultural site excursions, and tours that are run out of this city. There is only really one area of the city that is remotely touristy, and that is the neighbourhood with the indigenous markets, artisan shops, and of course hostels and restaurants which cater to tourists. Tourists here are not the type you find in Europe, or Mexico even; most people who come here are interested in outdoor adventures and such, and are relatively independent and tough. The demographic breakdown is mostly 20-somethings, the majority of whom are from Europe (Germany, France, Britain, Italy). There are very few Americans, which is refreshing, as from my personal experience Americans seem to be the most obnoxious kind of tourists to the local mood, though Germans I have seen here are giving them some competition.
This city, while not always friendly or welcoming, is remarkably safe. Things I have done here without much concern for my safety, I would never have done even in a less poor country such as Brazil or even Mexico. People here just are not aggressive, hostile, or threatening in any way, even to a visitor from the country whose government they would happily never see in Bolivia again. For example, the other day I spent several hours threading my way up narrow streets, stairs and paths, through barrios of stacked houses that cling to the side of the canyon, on my way to climbing a huge ridge that looks over the city (see photo at top and bottom). The fringes of the capital city of the poorest country in South America might not sound like a place one would want to be hiking around with an expensive camera and my gringo appearance, but aside from some hostile stray dogs I never felt in any danger.
This feeling of relative security comes mostly from the good nature of the paceños, and in part from the omnipresent police forces here in La Paz. At times, it seems that every third pedestrian is Policia Nacional, and in every major intersection is an officer directing traffic. Also, at the door of every bank or nice store are private security guards, always armed with at least a pistol and usually a rifle or shotgun as well. The amount of firepower visible in public in this city is sobering. It seems to be the legacy of a country whose leaders, during parts of the 20th century, averaged less than a year in office, and whose citizens have seen politics often manifested in a violent cycle of protest and repression.
Coming up, I will update on some of the political developments since my arrival, including some conversations and interviews that have raised some interesting points in my thinking about Bolivian politics. I am not sure what is going to be happening in the next few days, but I should be working on having another entry up this weekend before I leave La Paz to move on through Sucre and Santa Cruz in the coming weeks.
As for traffic, it is frantic and chaotic but somehow functional. Gas is about four times as cheap here as in the U.S., and there is much money to be made in the high-demand urban transportation industry. Taxis are everywhere, of course, but just as omnipresent and far more impressive is the vast fleet of individually owned and operated buses. There are school/tour bus-sized micros, painted in vibrant colors and images, which somehow manage to fit down narrow cobblestone streets. Even more numerous are the minis: customized VW-size Nissan, Toyota, Mazda, and generic vans from the 80s and early 90s that, when full, hold about 15 people, including the person (usually a younger boy but sometimes a middle-aged woman or man) who hangs out the window shouting the vehicle’s route and destinations, collects the modest fare from passengers (1-2 bolivianos, or about 20 cents), and opens or closes the sliding die door as people fold or unfold themselves in and out of the van.
Needless to say, public transportation is an adventure. Drivers weave their passengers through streets and traffic with an impressive combination of aggressiveness and dexterity, stopping in the street whenever a pedestrian throws out their arm for a ride. Traffic moves fast and often unpredictably, and on busy calles and intersections vehicles are rarely more than a foot apart as they honk, brake, swerve and accelerate through congestion. Outside of the centro, traffic is thinner but driving style is just as fast and aggressive, as I have learned during my two trips down the valley to the suburb of Zona Sur.
Crossing the street is an act of faith and quick reflexes,
A freestyle dance with multiple partners made of steel,
A game of rapid decision-making
Where even the most proud scamper and dodge
To the symphony of honking horns
Occasional traffic lights aside,
The game is unregulated and constant,
Life hums on a few inches from injury or death,
And no one thinks twice.
As interesting as the traffic in La Paz is the food. Everything is fresh and local, most of it coming through the markets full of produce, grains, and meat that I have described. Food can be had in whatever manner you might wish: fruit from a blanket, soup from a pot on the sidewalk, salteñas and empanadas from roving carts, meet from grilling stalls, set lunches from local restaurants, strong coffee and pastries from corner cafés, ice cream from pushcarts, or full meals from venues of all varieties of sanitation and cost. Rice is a staple, as is meat, for the protein-hungry Bolivian diet. Fresh juices, beer, and bottled water are the drinks that accompany meals. Maté de coca, or tea from the coca leaf, is the hot beverage of choice at any time of the day, the natural counterweight to the thin air and steep hills of the altiplano.
I have patronized various and diverse food styles and locations, from tourist-friendly sandwich shops to ethnic restaurants to takeout carts to hole-in-the-wall family restaurants that fill with locals during the dinner hours, and I haven’t always been as careful with my food’s sanitation as I maybe should. Other travelers I have talked to have had devastating cases of salmonella and food poisoning, but avoiding obviously sketchy food and not drinking the water has kept me clear of any serious ills thus far.
Tourism in La Paz is surprisingly low-key, considering the incredible amount of outdoor activities, cultural site excursions, and tours that are run out of this city. There is only really one area of the city that is remotely touristy, and that is the neighbourhood with the indigenous markets, artisan shops, and of course hostels and restaurants which cater to tourists. Tourists here are not the type you find in Europe, or Mexico even; most people who come here are interested in outdoor adventures and such, and are relatively independent and tough. The demographic breakdown is mostly 20-somethings, the majority of whom are from Europe (Germany, France, Britain, Italy). There are very few Americans, which is refreshing, as from my personal experience Americans seem to be the most obnoxious kind of tourists to the local mood, though Germans I have seen here are giving them some competition.
This city, while not always friendly or welcoming, is remarkably safe. Things I have done here without much concern for my safety, I would never have done even in a less poor country such as Brazil or even Mexico. People here just are not aggressive, hostile, or threatening in any way, even to a visitor from the country whose government they would happily never see in Bolivia again. For example, the other day I spent several hours threading my way up narrow streets, stairs and paths, through barrios of stacked houses that cling to the side of the canyon, on my way to climbing a huge ridge that looks over the city (see photo at top and bottom). The fringes of the capital city of the poorest country in South America might not sound like a place one would want to be hiking around with an expensive camera and my gringo appearance, but aside from some hostile stray dogs I never felt in any danger.
This feeling of relative security comes mostly from the good nature of the paceños, and in part from the omnipresent police forces here in La Paz. At times, it seems that every third pedestrian is Policia Nacional, and in every major intersection is an officer directing traffic. Also, at the door of every bank or nice store are private security guards, always armed with at least a pistol and usually a rifle or shotgun as well. The amount of firepower visible in public in this city is sobering. It seems to be the legacy of a country whose leaders, during parts of the 20th century, averaged less than a year in office, and whose citizens have seen politics often manifested in a violent cycle of protest and repression.
Coming up, I will update on some of the political developments since my arrival, including some conversations and interviews that have raised some interesting points in my thinking about Bolivian politics. I am not sure what is going to be happening in the next few days, but I should be working on having another entry up this weekend before I leave La Paz to move on through Sucre and Santa Cruz in the coming weeks.
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