Modern Gonzo in Bolivia (Redux)

Twice in a Lifetime

Two and half years later, I retrace my footsteps on the Island of the Sun. Not much has changed. The same little girl is playing on the sacred rock by the Sun Temple. The same man is rowing tourists to the south, weathered lines on his face barely betraying his immense physical effort. The most beautiful sunset in the world can still be found by hiking the Calvario, the hill that overlooks Copacabana. And in La Paz, the air remains choked with diesel fumes and speckled noise. Former eastern-bloc countries have rapidly industrialized in Europe, India and China have become economic powerhouses, and the world has become even more flat in terms of communication and trade, but Bolivia remains as Bolivia was - the poorest country in South America, seemingly barred from progress just like it has been barred from the sea.

Maybe I'm just hallucinating, my oxygen-starved brain crying for drama that isn't there. Last time, I had weeks to acclimatize to the altitude, and when visiting the world's highest capital city (3600m) and highest navigable lake (3800m), your body needs time to prepare for miserly air. This week, my preparation consisted of time in a plane, a short layover in Lima, and watching a man pass out from lack of oxygen on arrival in La Paz's very chaotic airport. Picking my backpack off the conveyer belt resulted in a staccato breath, my heartbeat racing. Thirsting for O2 at altitude literally leaves you high. It was after midnight and La Paz was freezing. Sprawled inside a dry, moon-like valley, half-built houses pockmarked the surrounding mountain, creating a atmosphere of undeniable urban decay. It is a city of only 1.5 million people, although it looks like it could easily accommodate three times that amount. Bright revolutionary graffiti decorates cracked cement walls, modern billboards are few and far between. Driving from the airport, I see stray dogs chewing garbage. The highway feels as if ten thousand pianos once dropped from the sky, and we're still driving over them. I cannot see a single crane, a single sign of urban improvement. Bolivia seems resistant to change. This is not necessarily a bad thing.

Before Thomas Friedman wrote the seminal "The World is Flat", he wrote a book called "The Lexus and the Olive Tree". It discusses how modernization battles with cultural habits, how assembly lines of products rubs up against centuries of tradition. We can clearly see the world becoming culturally pasteurized, as multinationals and their invasive brands boil away the richness of local variety. Friedman does not judge whether globalization is for the better or worse. It is a reality of modern life. To see where we're heading, look to the mighty USA. Across an entire continent, every US city has the same stores, the same strip-malls, the same same, hardly different. Travel across the developed world, ditto.

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So I appreciate that La Paz conforms to some unwritten theory of urban chaos, where round ladies wearing round bowler hats sell just about anything you can imagine on the streets. Who can afford a cup of Starbucks when it costs more than a week's wages? Who gives a shit about Gap when you're more concerned about goats? I remember well the parts of La Paz that resemble parts of Miami, and certainly there are a few tall buildings (albeit desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint). Small pockets of space serving the tiny upper-class elite, while in Sagarnaga, the backpacker ghetto, it's all Tour Operator and Internet and Hostal and enough Hebrew to make you think you've popped up in the Middle East. Israelis, like Americans, Irish, Argentineans and English, come here because it is cheap. For travellers with US dollars, Bolivia is one of the cheapest countries in the world, easily comparable to India or Laos. Ear-splitting noise, rampant corruption, fake currency, scams, absurd regulations, tap water laced with fecal matter, minimal tourist infrastructure - just a few reasons most tourists skip the country for Peru, who have managed to recognize a foreign gift horse when they see it. Yet travel across the border and you'll find some of the most breathtaking scenery you can imagine, untouched, well beneath the interests of corporate invasion. We're back on the Island of the Sun, staring out over the water at a vista inspired by the gods. The quality of light at 3800m is immaculate, reflecting off the famously blue waters of Lake Titicaca. In the distance, the Royal Mountain range is painted white with snow, floating well over 6000m like a threatening cloud. It is a tundra on the south side of the island, the vegetation barely reaching knee-high. The ruins of a temple that once housed priestesses still remain, a labyrinth of sunken rock. An old man walks past, his two donkeys loaded with wood, a few sheep padding timidly at his heels. Corporations would have to spend a lot of money to duplicate the authenticity of this old world, this theme park of the way things were, are, and probably always will be. "I'm surprised there isn't a hotel right here," says sound guy Zach, holding a makeshift broomstick boompole with a furry microphonic creature at the tip. Hard to take him seriously since his boompole "escaped" during the journey from Vancouver to Colombia. It currently resides in Acapulco in a sordid relationship with a sexy pair of headphones. "Thank God there isn't a hotel right here," I reply, and we head off along the old Incan path, passing pigs, villagers and donkeys, to the rustic village below.

A fool might bike the world's most dangerous road once, so what does that make me, riding inches away from a 600m cliff for the second time? Actually, the death road from La Paz to Coroico is safer than it has ever been, thanks to a new highway that has stolen 99% of the traffic. Buses and trucks would frequently flip off the edge of the winding, dirt track, resulting in an average of 150 deaths a year. Today, the 43km of jungle road, and the 22km of asphalt preceding it, sees more traffic from tourists on bicycles. When I was here last, the death toll for tourists was seven. Today it was eleven, the most recent being an Israeli guy who flew off the cliff just a few yards away from the first fatality, an Israeli girl who complained about her brakes from the start, and later slid off the edge. A monument in Hebrew reminds fun-loving tourists of the risks of this adventure. Her death was ruled a suicide, by Bolivian police notoriously more accustomed to cash payouts than justice. She was 23 years-old. The idea to commercially bike the death road came to a Kiwi with strange facial hair named Alistair, and once again, he was enthusiastically guiding me to the bottom. His company - Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking - was the first, is the biggest, most expensive, and with the best reputation. This counts for something when a brake is all that stands between you and a parachute-less freefall off a cliff. Injuries are still common, but Gravity has safely guided over 30,000 people down the road without any fatalities. There are now over 30 companies that claim to bike the death road, and as I discovered two years ago, zero regulation. Fly-by-night operators offer cheap prices to budget travellers, on sketchy bikes with little maintenance, and little or no instruction. That being said, Alistair can be overzealous with his instruction, reducing one girl in my group to tears with tales of imminent death. As he remarks, "If people didn't die, why would anyone want to bike the world's most dangerous road?" Because, it snakes through stunning scenery, and thanks to the new highway, is blessedly free of those rinky-dink trucks and buses waiting to terminate their journeys (and everyone on board) at every blind corner. The death road has become a fun bike ride through the mountains and lower lying jungle, descending over 3.5km in altitude until you reach the bottom. Somewhere else exists the new "world's most dangerous road", and I'm happy to stay far away from it. Besides the obvious improvement of no traffic, Gravity now end their trip at a wildlife refuge, home to rescued monkeys, cats, and birds. What a thrill to play with a baby ocelot, a beast kitten with fur so soft it has been hunted to near extinction. A baby howler monkey - the loudest animal in the kingdom - sits on my shoulder, whispering nothings into my ear. A spider monkey wraps its vice-like tail around my neck and hangs out, curiously peeking into the camera lens. I'm so distracted I fail to notice the mosquitoes and the sand-flies, feasting on my legs. Later, I count 32 bites, a new Modern Gonzo record. Driving back along the same road to La Paz, the jeep up front gets a puncture, and the driver pulls out a bicycle pump (only in Bolivia). For a half hour, we stand under a coat of stars, the Milky Way resembling a bright streak of pigeon shit across the car window of the universe. Finally we set off, drinking beer in the bus, listening to singalong songs from my iPod, a group of exhausted international travellers aware this is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of experience. As for me, with better bikes (a dual suspension $2,500 Kona), better weather, and better road conditions - the Bolivia's death road was well worth hitting the repeat button.

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Back in La Paz, and the chance to see a local derby soccer game in the national stadium. Football is religion here, and when the city's two top clubs meet each other, it's bound to be interesting. The blue Bolivars, lions supported by the lower class, versus The Strongest, tigers in striped yellow and black, and a wealthier fan base. I accompanied the hostel's barkeep, Luiz, an avid Bolivar supporter, so screw the bourgeois tigers, and viva la Bolivar! Outside the stadium, bi-partisan vendors sold all manner of swag, and $3 later, I'm sporting a soft Bolivar Viking helmet, blue ribbons and scarf. Thousands of people descend on the stadium from every direction, attacked by bowler-hat ladies selling thin sheets of foam for 5c to cushion the rows of cold cement. Bottles, plastic and glass, are confiscated at the entrance, and the fans transfer their liquids to plastic bags to drink later. Luiz tells me this is the only game where fans are separated, and opposite our blue corner, the yellow and black crowd are cheering loudly. It's warm in the sun and cold in the shade, the dry winter air blocking my nose as I breathe hard from the cross-city walk to the stadium. It cost $2 a ticket, and the stadium seems too big for the crowd, even as thousands of people continue to flock in. When the teams walk onto the pitch, a crescendo of drumming commences, fireworks explode in the sky, and a flock of birds are released, flying in circles for several minutes before they realize the way out is up. Kick-off is followed by a definite and enjoyable Latin flare in play. I cheer for the Blue, knowing full well that just about every sporting event I've ever witnessed is won by the opposing team. I am a sports jinx, nothing more to it. So when The Strongest score first, I am ready for the inevitable. The Blue crowd keep their spirits high, screaming "Puta-this" and "Puta-that", then the tigers score again, and once again, in life and in football, the working class are crushed. At the final whistle, the Blue corner of fans exits first, into a heavy barricade of armed soldiers. We walk along the human barricade dejected, but kids are smiling and wearing goofy hats, and judging by the amount of mothers, wives, girlfriends in the crowd, it has been a grand day out for the whole family, whatever the result. Teams win, teams lose, but as a means of interacting with the masses of La Paz, I achieved my goal.

With only a week in the country, there was not enough time to revisit the stunning Salar de Uyuni, so instead the crew high-tailed it to the Lake Titicaca. I was a little hungover from trying to over impress two cute American girls at the hostel bar, and leaving before sunset seemed completely unnecessary. Until the sun broke the horizon on the Bolivian Altiplano, and my iPod shuffled Your Rocky Spine by the Great Lake Swimmers, and it was more than the altitude that made the hair on my neck slow dance. There is something about the light in the Altoplano, the warmth of the winter sun, as if someone had focused the lens on the camera of my life. We arrived at San Pedro, where the bus drove onto a wooden barge for a short crossing to San Pablo. These two towns, separated by a channel of water and deriving most of their income from shepherding traffic, are the perfect setting for a novel of magic realism, a romance about the son of San Pedro falling in love with the daughter of San Pablo. I've been reading too much.

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We arrive into Copacabana mid-morning. Argentinean hippies are selling trinklets along the main strip, street vendors offer cheap traditional Bolivian ponchos, woollen hats, alpaca scarves. Two years later, the same restaurants blare the same music - Manu Chao, Bob Marley, the Beatles in panpipe - garbage and the smell of sewerage litters the shore. Bolivia's Copacabana is the original inspiration for Brazil's beach strip (and subsequently for Barry Manilow) and competes with Peru's Puno as the town to explore the beauty of Lake Titicaca. In Puno, I remember the water thick with green scum, polluted beyond repair. Despite the ever-present trash on the streets and shore, the water here is blue and clear, and Copacabana faces the sunset, every night, disappearing under the horizon.

Sunsets symbolize many things to many people, certainly as evidenced by how many people have answered "the sunset" to my questions of inspiration and daily gratitude. Like travel in general, much depends on who you are, who you are with, and how you feel. Top five sunsets that come to mind:

1. The Calvario, Lake Titicaca, Bolivia
2. Africa House, Stone Town, Zanzibar
3. Sunset Dune, Jericoacoara, Brazil
4. Anjuna, Goa, India
5. Sihanoukville, Cambodia

It's a tough hike up the steps of the Calvario, a steep hill that overlooks Copacabana and the lake. Almost a religious passage, as it is for many Bolivians who offer tributes at the dozens of Christian/Indigenous memorials found on the top. Sean was lugging his heavy A-cam, Zach and I taking turns with the tripod. A steep hike at altitude, without acclimatization, is nothing to scoff at. After waiting two hours for a chicken sandwich (there is never, ever any rush in Copacabana) we had to reach the top to catch golden hour, when the sun glides towards the horizon casting shadows over the cement crosses. Bowler women were burning oil in tribute, along with plastic cars, candles, and candy. Oxygen was hard to come by. We made the top, bought a beer, took a seat on the rocks looking out over the lake. I have never forgot the energy I felt here the first time, when I climbed the hill listening to Dead Can Dance on my iPod. This time, reggaeton was blaring from a cheap vendor's radio, but light was fading and they soon packed up, leaving a handful of backpackers to watch the best sunset on the planet. Thin clouds burst into peach and pinks, a crescent moon appeared in the sky. The lights of Copacabana flicker on, it gets dark quick. Sean has got his postcard shot, Zach keeps muttering something about "who knew, in Bolivia?". We carefully make our way down the hill, and pop into La Cupula for a superb four course meal, beer and wine included, costing $8 each. Can't fault those Bolivian prices.

It's like a religious car wash. Every day, buses, trucks and cars line up outside Copacabana's conspicuous white church to be blessed by priests. Adorned with all manner of colourful and tacky plastic kitsch, it has turned into a cottage industry for locals, as even a backpacking tour bus was in the line-up. Firecrackers, in the form of mini-dynamite sticks known as Tom Thumbs (Made in China) explode every few seconds. Ah, Tom Thumbs. Long ago were the days I used put them in milk bottles, or hurl them in shopping malls, or test a nine year-old's nerve by holding onto them as they explode at my fingertips. The very smell of their gunpowder triggered all sorts of youthful memories, and naturally I acquired a bunch to satisfy my inner child's mischief. Meanwhile, owners are blessing their vehicles by pouring wine and beer all over them, and I wonder if there's a connection between christening a boat and this somewhat bizarre Copacabana tradition. A local lends me a light and I set off a strip of Thumbs, but my nerve has faded because I'm backing away before the fuse is properly lit. Still, a small explosion hits my face as I retreat. God, I used to be fearless. After the spectacle, I set off to a local market, take a few photos, argue with some guy that I'm really not out here to disrespect his culture. I meet a backpacker from Spain who, in another world, I would probably end up backpacking with because he's of similar age, attitude and direction. I flirt with some English girls I met the night before, shop for a poncho, play some pool on Bolivia's wonkiest pool table.

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There are only two bars in town, and according to Charlene, a South African girl working at one of them, both are owned by an Argentinean family. She also works at a lakeside restaurant, owned by a German. The pizza place on the corner, another Argentine, the bar around the corner, yet another. Bus loads of backpackers arrive every day, but by 10pm the street is practically deserted. Just the smoky Sol y Luna is doing a fair trade. "Most of the backpackers chill out in the hotels," explains Charlene, who's been hanging out here for three months. "You never know if it will be busy or slow." I walk back alone to the hotel under a galaxy of stars, the déjà vu so thick it leaves me gagging for air. No, that's the altitude again. Back on Transturin's catamaran, a return to the Island of the Sun, playing with a big-eyed vecuna, dancing with a bowler lady on the boat. What are the chances, twice in a lifetime?

Will things change in this country? Will those houses every get built, the glass repaired, the vehicles fitted with an exhaust filter? Will women finally take off their bowler hats, will neon signs light up downtown La Paz? Probably not, and selfishly this reassures me. My memories of Bolivia will remain as real as the country itself, not matter how much things change everywhere else.

LAN Peru Flight 564
Somewhere Between Peru and Venezuela
18 August, 2007