Tag Archives: La Paz

Being a bad tourist in La Paz

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Tourist targeted

I’d love to tell you that I mean bad as in badass movie style bad girl, a rebel out to cause chaos in La Paz. Despite some flirtations with danger, the truth is a little less Hollywood.

During a week in La Paz I managed to avoid most of the usual tourist traps like the trudge up to the Kili Kili viewpoint of the city, or the climb up Huayna Potosi. I didn’t swot up on Coca leaf history, and I missed out on hanging out in Route 36 (what has to be one of the only clubs in the world to openly sell you a gram of coke to your table) and I didn’t party with a predominantly gringo crowd in the Blue House.

I didn’t visit any of the museums. I had wanted to check out the Coca Museum (Linares 906) and the Bolivian Musical Instruments Museum (Jaén 711) and the Museum of Ethnography and Folklore (Ingavi 916 esq. Jenaro Sajinés) but time just disappeared. I didn’t prioritise them. And I also missed out on others, such as Museo de Textiles Andinos and the National Museum of Art, the National Museum of Precious Metals and the National Museum of Archaeology.

But I did swing by the San Pedro prison, go out to some traditional peña and face paint up for a party where someone got stabbed. I went to the sketchy area of El Alto and watched Cholita Wrestling and locals dancing and playing competitive table football. I got a pretty, beaded lulu knotted into in my hair, I had customised rain trousers made for 80Bs. and I went shopping for woollen dresses and presents and a travel guitar. I queried the purpose of dried llama foetuses and healing herbs at the Witches’ Market, and I took taxis all over town in search of doctors and hospitals and testing laboratories. I sat in a posh hairdresser and for the first time in a year had someone attempt to do something with my hair for a price I could actually afford. And I survived a stay in a Loki hostel.

So in terms of being a bad tourist, I’d love to tell you that I mean bad as in badass movie style bad girl, a rebel out to cause chaos in La Paz. The truth, however, is that my time there was not about losing my cocaine virginity and getting lost in hedonism, and had very little to do with gangsters and corrupt authority figures.

In a way, I just lived La Paz. Not as a local, I shan’t pretend, but I pottered about and got a feel for the city. And I’m all okay with that.

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La Paz mapped

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Weird wonders at the Witches’ Market

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Occupying a small section on the corner of Santa Cruz and Linares is El Mercado de las Brujas– The Witches’ Market – a market for all things herbal, natural and superstitious. Do you have your shopping list to hand? Might it include tea for a bad belly? They’ve got it here. Llama foetus for a ritual offering? Tick. San Pedro cactus or ready to take powder? Time to get seriously spaced out.

Intrigued but slightly unsettled, I had a peek around a few shops and stalls. On seeing the llama foetuses I asked the shop owner how they were used.

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Llama foetuses

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For offerings’, she said, ‘to Pacha Mama’. ‘How?’ I asked. ‘Do they burn them?’ ‘Yes, they burn them during ceremonies’, she told me. Later I heard that the llama foetuses are also buried in the foundations of a new house to protect the inhabitants from evil spirits. I’ve no idea which account is correct. Maybe both.

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San Pedro

Strangeness aside, La Paz is said to be a great place to stock up on clothing and gifts before moving on or heading home. Bargaining isn’t always easy but when bulk buying in a shop, owners may swing you a deal.

Close to the Witches’ Market are a host of music retailers. In between places selling inferior quality instruments (such as travel guitars for 300Bs.) are some more legit dealers whose prices are pretty much double.

Still further along Linares is the more expected artisanal market where colour spurts out onto the street in the form of blankets and throws, cushion covers, woollen dresses, hats, scarves and obligatory gringo jumpers. Here I stocked up on presents and warm knits and then posted some of this Bolivian love on to my family. Around this area are also tailors who will stitch you together an outfit for a reasonable price (such as custom rain trousers for 80Bs.).

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Linares markets, La Paz

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Linares markets, La Paz

Close by and in the other direction – a little off Jimenez and on a constant incline – is the ‘American’ market, the place to buy your more everyday clothes and shoes.

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The American Market

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Shoes at the American Market

Trainers cost around the 220Bs. (£20.27 / US$31.60) mark, jeans 100Bs. (£9.21 / US$14.37 and rucksacks between 90Bs. (£8.98 / US$12.93) and 180Bs. (£16.59 / US$25.86) . I found bargaining here near on impossible but still managed to snap up a nice pair of Converse All Stars (having only just avoided the cheaper All Stan alternatives). I knew I would be heading back to Australia where shoes and clothing cost a small fortune so buying in some basics was a sensible move, even if it meant that my prided little backpack now started to spill over into another bag.

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Getting told off at San Pedro Prison

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Hanging out in the plaza directly opposite the prison

Some guys at my hostel told me they’ll probably let us in if we slip them a twenty’, said Blair, my Kiwi travelling friend. I’d met up with him in the sunshine flooded San Pedro plaza where people sat around and socialised, seemingly oblivious to the criminals contained behind the gates of San Pedro prison just across the road.

Since Thomas McFadden, a Brit banged up for cocaine trafficking, decided back in in the late 1990s to start up prison tours and Lonely Planet jumped on board with unintentional promotion, backpackers have found ways to enter Bolivia’s notorious prison for a bit of a nosy. Bribing poorly paid guards, for example, seems to have worked for a fair few people.

But what are visitors actually hoping to gain from getting inside San Pedro’s belly? The legendary, cheap cocaine? Insight into a lawless society? The thrill of being so close to criminals and the taste of danger? Did anyone really care where their money was going? Or the underhand methods at play? Or, as with so many travelling experiences, was it just to see something different?

It was April 2012 and research told me that the San Pedro prison tours, despite being openly discussed amongst travellers, were banned once again. Brad Pitt’s upcoming film adaptation of the book Marching Powder is suggested to have panicked the government and triggered a clampdown on prison tourism. Bolivia is, after all, trying to build-up its reputation beyond that of cocaine and criminality. For the super keen, however, I knew that there was always a way around these rules. Whilst I’m no goody-two-shoes, did I really want to break these rules? And if so, why?

BoliviaBella.com makes a clear case for not supporting these illegal tours, asking instead for a more responsible, ethical approach. She adds that ‘there is nothing benevolent or altruistic about taking this tour’ and that, asides from the voyeuristic nature, it is also ‘a risk to you and your liberty’.

Like many other travellers before me, I stood outside of the prison and pondered: did I want to find a way to get inside? I wandered around looking up at the great grey mass of concrete, questions and butterflies flitting around inside me. Placed centrally within La Paz, it took five minutes to stroll the perimeters.

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San Pedro prison perimeters

What struck me about this infamous place was the size and location. I’d just started to read Marching Powder and as a result I expected these heavy, windowless walls to contain a massive village of activity, yet here, in reality, I couldn’t imagine it was actually that big inside. I guess that looks can be deceiving… but still… it seemed surprisingly small.

A glamorous girl in her late twenties balanced a young child on her hip whilst she rang the bell of a discreet side door. The door opened and a woman let her in. ‘Is this the entrance?’ we asked. ‘Are you here to visit someone?’ she quietly asked back. We weren’t. Time to move on.

A bustle of people clustered outside the main gate opposite the plaza. I walked over to get a closer look and saw a single iron gate leading into a courtyard crammed with men. Some waved. Dangerous criminals? High security? It all felt very close and accessible.

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Main gate at San Pedro prison, La Paz

I crossed back over to the plaza and watched from a bit of a distance as a prisoner exchange took place. Above the archway into the jail, prisoners gathered at the window and watched the outside world and their new inmate arrivals. It surprised me how relaxed the whole operation was, how security was kept to a minimum.

And then suddenly two guards were in my face. They grabbed my camera from Blair. ‘Where is your camera?’ they barked at me. I told them that what they had was actually my camera. They refused to give it back to me. It was forbidden to photograph the jail, they told me, didn’t I know?

I thought quickly about everything I’d read and heard about San Pedro prison and wondered whether a bribe was in order, whether it was expected. Instead I persuaded them that I was sorry and would delete the photos.

They held on to the lead whilst I showed them the photo of the prisoner exchange. They weren’t happy. I got a lecture and a telling off in Spanish. And then I deleted the best photo of my trip to the prison. They seemed appeased and sent us off into a La Paz midday.

I feel like we’re not having the full experience’, said Blair as we skulked away from the prison. I understood what he meant yet, at the same time, prison tours have been banned (again) for good reason. All it took was a small photography altercation and my mind had been made up. I didn’t want to mess with these guys. Why had I even considered it?

So I dodged the con artists trying to sell tours that wouldn’t materialise and I avoided bribery of any sort at the gate. I left with mostly a clean conscience and only a few photos of the outside of the prison.

An eye-opening experience or a sensationalist enticement that ultimately allows the wrong people to profit? Without having done the prison tour proper, it’s difficult for me to fairly comment.

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Why you should skip the tourist bar and head straight for a peña instead

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Trad play

After a night out in a pretty nondescript club where the only thing unusual was a stabbing on the dance floor, I was more than happy to sample something a little more… more typically Bolivian, I guess.

My friend Max suggested a peña. ‘It’s a place for traditional music’, he said. Did I fancy it? Sure! Of course! Something different, something local. Finally.

Me and a little posse of travellers made our way along a side street in La Paz and down some stairs into the belly of a building where musicians sang and played woodwind and percussion whilst groups of friends clustered around tables, chatting, drinking and welcoming in a Friday night.

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Candlelit moodiness and music

Ojo de Agua didn’t fit with Frommer’s comments about peñas tending to be very touristy. We were pretty much the only tourists in there, and it was obvious. So we split up and mixed and merged.

By candlelight I drank te con te, a hot alcoholic drink, and chatted and danced with locals. Pan pipes, accelerating beats and spinning around and around after too many shots of warm, alcoholic tea made me deliciously dizzy.

As the music wound down, we all climbed back up and out of this high ceilinged, lightly populated dance hall and back into the cold, cold chill of La Paz. Early evening fumes had lifted and the streets were surprisingly quiet for a city on the brink of a wild weekend.

The evening finished further away from the centre in a softly lit bar bursting with Bolivians and the smell of cigarette smoke and rising heat from a huddled collective of bodies. People bent in to hear near whispers, orders were murmured at the bar. A man perched on a stool crooned away, finishing songs with a dramatic burst of strummed chords, claps and whoops exploding after the final slap.

I may have missed out on the salt flats eco rave but this low-key night out was a cosy little moment in the great city of La Paz and a lovely little reintroduction to a social drink and dance after far too long on antibiotics.

As the only tourists in both places, it was also a teeny taste of the real La Paz.

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Who goes to watch women beat the crap out of each other?

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Outside the venue in El Alto

I’m not quite sure how I ended up parting with 80Bs. (£7.29 / US$11.49) in order to go and watch a load of women taunt and beat each other up in the rougher La Paz district of El Alto, or why I didn’t stay behind with my hungover friends and eat pizza on a Sunday afternoon rather than join a load of excited locals and a few busloads of bemused backpackers to sit down to three hours of fakery.

But I did.

Cholita wrestling, as it is called, has been packaged up and commodified for the tourist market. Vouchers for drinks and popcorn and little welcome packs containing postcards and a mini figurine are included in the entry price. I do wonder, however, just how inflated the ticket prices are compared to what the locals pay? And wouldn’t some of the kids in the audience enjoy the goodie bags too?

Cholita seems to gain its meaning from the cholo, a reference to a Hispanic man of mixed racial background. It is often associated with low-income and a tough sub-culture. Cholita can be used in a positive sense but is often associated with that of being a tough girl. Cholita wrestling, therefore, is tough girls fighting it out.

Although a very low key set-up with plastic seating and wooden benches, there was very clearly a created sense of them and us; tourists versus locals: tourists got ringside seats, locals seated further back. No integration. A little strange.

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Local crowds watch the action

I had been warned about the dangers of this event. Want to go to the toilet? You’ll need to be accompanied by a chaperone, a guard. The seating segregation? Necessary. Watch your back. Don’t make eye contact. Whatever you do, don’t throw anything at the audience or at the wrestlers; people might flip out and attack you. I had gone with all these potential scenarios in my head, curious as to what exactly I was getting myself into. And still not sure why I was going.

In reality, much of the warnings were hyperbolic, maybe for the benefit of letting us backpackers feel brave, as though we’ve done something a little daring and exciting during our time in La Paz. El Alto is, after all, known as being the roughest part of La Paz, home to the poorest population of the city and a place where life expectancy is just 62 years of age. Backpackers, meanwhile, are rich enough to have travelled to this far-flung part of the world. What a difference.

So my experience? Not being a fan of the likes of WWE, I found the wrestling a little strange. Why people get excited about acted fighting is a little beyond me. I tried to understand it but the closest I got was appreciating some of the skills used to slam down an opponent without breaking their back.

It started off with two guys, the warm up. They paraded the audience, warmed us up.

Then on came the first woman, a thick-set lady with a mean stare and traditional dress. I watched a man beat the crap out of her. All for entertainment. Of course she wasn’t hurt, this was a performance, but spectator gasps indicated the controversial nature of the act. During one move, front seaters excitedly insisted that they saw some scrotum escaping from her pants. Maybe it wasn’t just the fighting that was fake but gender was also being simulated? Who knows. I was further confused. This was all turning out to be a bit of a pantomime.

During the break, I ventured out a little into El Alto with Casey and Kate, two fellow female travellers. A Sunday church group were singing and dancing, ladies swishing their layered skirts and smiling away, men partnering them with a little more sternness, music accompanying the whole affair. A young boy bounced about, weaving in and out of the group, getting up close to our faces and grinning a slightly unhinged grin.

Sunday dancing and smiles

Further along were various stalls and a cluster of table football tables. Casey challenged a local to a game. ‘Money’, they insisted, clearly a little amused by this woman interrupting their Sunday afternoon play. It was a case of put your money where your mouth is, I guess. She lost. Grandly. They gained 20Bs.

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Casey challenges the local men to a game… and loses gracefully

Back inside the makeshift stadium and the fighting continued, culminating in the pairing of two agile women. This time, there was little doubt about their gender. Shorter frames and toned legs covered in a bustle of skirt material, these girls were fit and ready to take each other on.

With each flip, bounce on the ropes, slam on to the floor and chase around the ring, the crowd cheered. These women worked it. Not in any great professional sense, but they were the best of the bunch. Little kids went wild, geed on by their overly excited dads. The performing women each tried to gain support from the crowd. Sides were taken.

Some tourists started to throw popcorn at the two competitors, who in turn decided to attack the audience with water bottles, squirting liquid all over the place. The empty bottles were then used to bash their opponent; headlock and then bish, bash, bosh.

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Cholitas break loose before turning on the crowds and eachother

Another tourist flung a chair towards the ring. He was flung out of the door by security. Plonker. We’d had a pep talk about that kind of behaviour on the bus ride up. Testing the water, I guess. Maybe it just added to the fun and my inability to recognise the comedy value means I’ve become dull? Hmph.

And then I got a bit bored of the whole thing.

Watching the cholita wrestling had been a strange, new experience for me and watching the crowds was only marginally more interesting. Whilst I’m glad that I went, I wouldn’t go back. Been there, done that, got the goody bag.

Will I keep my mini cholita figurine? Yeah, maybe.

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Lining up at Route 36

The Guardian calls it ‘the world’s first cocaine bar’ and others have dubbed it ‘one of the greatest travel experiences in South America‘. Route 36, a late night lounge bar in La Paz aimed solely at a tourist clientele, has established itself firmly as a must-stop-off on the gringo trail by offering a relaxed club environment where you can buy cocaine and chop up lines in relative comfort.

Labelled ‘cocaine tourism’, other bars in La Paz are now starting to copy Route 36’s lead and tap into travellers’ spending power and intrigue. But how are these places actually able to exist?

The legality of such a place is of course at the forefront of conversations surrounding Route 36’s existence, an existence that sees the bar switching location every month or two in order to beat the authorities and avoid pissing off too many neighbours as a regular trickle of tourists make their way in and out of the venue.

Who knows how long it will be before the Bolivian government start a proper clampdown on corruption associated with the cocaine trade, and in turn this trend for coke bars?

Bolivia is currently ‘the world’s third biggest cocaine producer‘ and it’s going to be a struggle convincing the world that it’s actively battling the drug trade whilst they’re still pushing for global acceptance of the traditional use of coca leaves. There are clearly some cultural considerations that the wider world needs to be aware of and the country is taking steps to raise awareness whilst also making some significant changes. A recent increase in cocaine production, for example, has resulted in Bolivia putting to bed a previous public disagreement with the US Drug Enforcement Administration and accepting offers of help from the US and Brazil to fight this ‘war’.

But in terms of Route 36, cocaine with its low cost and easy availability forms the crux of its attraction, and the place itself is undoubtedly designed to appeal to the sensation seeking tourist and provide them with a story for when they return home. You went where? A cocaine bar? Really? No way! Imagine if we had…! The police would… blah blah blah. You get the drift.

So the novelty factor, maybe, plays a role in attracting in the punters. Nowhere else have I heard of a public bar where you can happily sit down, order up a few lines and snort them openly. It’s essentially the normalisation of drug taking; a place where you can indulge and party away from any critical judgement of non-drug taking friends and family. ‘It’s a pretty regular bar’ said one of my friends who found himself there on a few early mornings when he wasn’t yet ready for bed. The only difference between a ‘regular’ club and Route 36? Ask about the coke on offer, spend out 150Bs. (£13.69 / US$21.55) and you’ll get yourself a gram in the latter. No questions asked. No problems.

Why avoid the place? Other than the obvious health and legality issues, for what you pay, there is a far purer product out there at a cheaper or similar price. Friends and cocaine connoisseurs tell me that the quality of Route 36’s offerings is pretty pitiful, suspected to be cut with amphetamines that keep you uncomfortably awake way beyond the end of the party in a way that purer powder won’t.

Overall though, I can’t comment with any real conviction. I’m no expert and for various reasons I didn’t get around to visiting the place. Missed opportunity? Maybe.

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Loki finally gets its wicked way with me in La Paz, Bolivia

I couldn’t quite believe it. A BA Anthropology dissertation on Pleasure and Danger on the Gringo Trail: an Ethnography of Bolivian Party Hostels. Clearly the South American party hostel scene has gained enough notoriety to warrant being researched and discussed at degree level.

Throughout my travels in Peru I managed to avoid party hostels, and most specifically Loki.

Why? What are Loki hostels about? Hellotravel.com suggest that Loki in Peru is one of 5 Best Party Hostels to Dance your Way Towards a Carefree Life stating that it ‘steals the show with its theme nights, open lounges, vivacious crowd from all the world’ (albeit a predominantly 18-25 year old crowd, 18-30 at a push). Whilst Cusco Loki is known for being full-on and a place where you’ll be lucky to get any sleep, Loki La Paz Hostel carries some of the same rep and is said to ‘reign supreme in La Paz’ as a tourist nightspot. It seems perfectly apt, then, that the hostels famed for encouraging mischievous behaviour in their guests are called Loki. Do a little research into Norse mythology. No coincidence, I’m sure.

So for eight months I’d managed to avoid these places that I expected to be devoid of local culture (how can they be truly local when everyone is a traveller wanting to get wasted whilst listening to a Westernised dance mix?). Yet now, in La Paz with four new friends whom I’d met on the Uyuni tour, I found myself part of group consensus. The boys wanted to cut loose. I wanted to get comfortable and healthy. And it turns out that Loki could go some way to meeting all our needs. What a surprise. (Although, again, maybe more complex and like the Norse god than expected).

So far, it doesn’t sound like a place for convalescence, right? Right. Totally right. But then La Paz itself  is hardly the ideal place to convalesce with its dense concentration of coughed out exhaust fumes and low oxygen levels from the high altitude. Just existing here healthily is tough, let alone trying to get better. I realistically, though, have nothing to complain about. Life expectancy in the El Alto district of La Paz, for example, is just 62 years old (compared to a rising life expectancy of 80 in the UK and 78 in the US) and where 50% of the population are estimated to be younger than 19 years of age. In amongst some lighter discussions, this is reality reminder. And to me, it’s shocking stuff.

Back to Loki and La Paz. Within five minutes of arriving we were propped up by the bar having free tea, coffee and bread rolls, making use of the good WiFi facilities (also free) and flaking out on comfortable sofas. It all seemed surprisingly relaxed with breakfast running until 13:00 to allow the hungover crew a chance of refuelling. And a few bleary eyed souls did stumble in wearing last night’s clothes. Some get straight back on the drink.

Although this isn’t how everybody here functions, as the days rolled on me and my travel buddies were oft amongst the bedraggled breakfasters. But lets’s be realistic: if you choose to stay at Loki you can’t really escape some of the party spirit; the full-on fun, the new friend group hugs, the overt mating dances, the after-party rooftop comedown. How far you indulge, however, is your call. Plenty of people show restraint, but its the ones that don’t, of course, who stand out and are remembered. They are, essentially, the faces of the party hostel scene.

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Party time in Loki La Paz (me on the left going wild with a water)

The luxuries that Loki offered me in terms of getting better were super comfortable and clean beds with the extravagance of two pillows, and clean and well-stocked bathrooms (and plenty of them) with hot power showers. The social contact was also great, actually. Not everyone is in a drugged up, drunk or hungover stupor. Plenty of fun times and good conversation to be had in amongst the hedonism. Late breakfasts and late checkout were additional bonuses. Nothing felt too rushed.

Sure, people don’t choose this place for the showers or the comfort factor but it meant the world to me. I was surrounded by good people and I slept well. I started to recover.  Rooms away from the bar bustle were perfectly doable with the addition of ear plugs and an eye mask (things worth bringing to any hostel set-up). Mostly, my roommates were only turning in as I started to wake up so their early morning stumbles didn’t really bother me, although I can see why some people might be a bit disgruntled and online searches quickly reveal a fair few pissed off rants.

Loki is definitely not for everyone. The over-30s crowd, for instance, are under-represented. If you’re one of the people who crave a quiet, local place to stay, who’d get frustrated by a staged social scene, just don’t go. Simple. Being with the right group of people absolutely affected my perspective of the place. I had a great time in Loki La Paz for that reason alone. Oh, and the beds. They added to my comfort and happiness, for sure.

A day before I left, a girl in my dorm proudly showed me her Loki t-shirt, something she had ‘won’ after visiting three of the Loki hostels in South America. ‘This one is just a fairly boring one’, she said, ‘but my friend got the Loki lies one. You know it?’ She rattled off the five lies of Loki:

  1. I’m not going out tonight.
  2. OK, I am going out but I’m not drinking.
  3. OK, I am drinking but I’ll be home early.
  4. OK, I am getting smashed but I’m leaving tomorrow.
  5. I love you!!?

http://www.travelblog.org/Photos/555824And I thought about it. Ah, that lie list was pretty damn true. My first night I’d insisted on not going out but was willingly swept along on a wave of peer pressure. But, I didn’t drink. I really didn’t (antibiotics were still battling a bad bout of e-coli). As a result I didn’t get smashed, but some unknown energy meant that I stayed out and of course I didn’t get home early or leave the next day. Loki, I realised, had the power to hook some people in. Working at the bar in exchange for accommodation, for example, ensured that skint party spirits were enticed and trapped for at least a few weeks.

On my last night there, all my new friends had already left so I sat around chatting with even newer ones, newer friends who should have the label ‘friends’ attached only very lightly. Apart from maybe one guy, I’d never see any of those people again, I knew it.

Midnight arrived so I said my goodbyes and jumped in a taxi headed for El Alto airport.

But wait! There is still more La Paz storytelling to be done! There’s music and the Witches’ Market and wrestling competitions coming up. So pause and rewind to my two weeks in the Bolivian capital and read on.

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Attempted murder on the dance floor

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Party people in La Paz (photo: Carl Maybry©)

It was gone 03:30am, I was totally sober and one of a few people in the Azul nightclub in La Paz not revved up on alcohol or cocaine. Tiredness was giving me that dazed, drunken effect but I felt pretty damn good that I was still holding up.

I became an artist, decorating friends’ faces with UV paint. In turn, my face was painted in yellows and pinks, covering some of the black stamps from another creative burst earlier in the evening. I chatted and laughed, I swigged water and I danced shamelessly to bad music on the teeny dance floor.

And then I saw it: pools of bright red blood covering the ground by my feet, fainter towards the bar where people had unknowingly stumbled through, streaking and smearing the place in the colour of danger. Splodges of UV paint shone out in between.

And the crowd continued to dance.

I’d somehow missed the disturbance on the dance floor. A stabbing, some local guy told me, two Bolivians. I couldn’t see how someone could have survived that much blood loss. But was it really blood? It was so bright.

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Starting to notice the blood

Bar staff eventually started to mop up and the revellers were encouraged to leave. And there again, trails of blood, coagulating on the stairs and on the pavement.

We waited for a taxi. A few of us were hushed in disbelief. People continued to spill out of the club. Some stood in the pools of blood, oblivious. I stopped a few. If they didn’t care about the stabbing, maybe they’d care about their shoes? And would the blood not need to remain as it was for police evidence?

A man came out of the Azul nightclub and started to pour a clear liquid over the blood on the pavement. He scrubbed away with a stiff brush, pushing a watery, bloody mix onto the road. Before long, little remained. No police showed up.

A few days later I discovered that the man had survived. This was the same time that some of the partiers who had been there that night finally realised that someone had actually been stabbed.

Three times, I told them, did you not see all the blood? Too off their heads. But for me, sober, I saw it and I felt it raw and it stuck like something from a movie still. And I wished it were just all a movie or a figment of my imagination but no, this was real life touching on the only certainty of death.

The papers didn’t report it, from what I managed to gather, and the police seemed to ignore it. I discovered that a tourist had also been involved in a minor way.  But that about the main guy? Despite the double stabbing, he got lucky and was recuperating in hospital. Life wasn’t done with him just yet.

People told me that La Paz, like many a city, has a dangerous, crazy side, but to see it up close on my first night? What a reality check.

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