meish dot org: life, unfolding

A Hand, Outstretched
Once outside, through laboured breathing I tried to prevent the porter from loading my backpack into the boot of a waiting taxi, which he was in the process of doing. I had read my guidebooks, and self-righteously had a number of notions about not being just another gullible tourist, of never getting into a Latin American taxi without first negotiating or haggling the price.

But my protestations were lost in the wet Altiplano wind, and by the time I had caught the porter’s full attention, it was for a different reason. The driver had shut the boot, and the porter was standing, palm outstretched, in front of me. I gave him the crumpled dollar I had kept in my pocket for this time, knowing it was inevitable.

He nodded briefly, his eyes already drifting to the doorway in search of emerging passengers. Following them, he scurried off to find another load.

The customer is generally wrong
I was all too aware that my backpack was already loaded into the waiting vehicle, but I was not. I had a fleeting vision of the screech of tyres as the battered taxi pulled away from the kerb, and I was left waving goodbye to my socks.

Ducking my head, I clambered into the back seat to the cab, and asked the driver with as much authority and fluency as I could manage ‘How much to Calle Abdon Saavedra?’. I had no idea where the street was, but had been told by a family friend, normally resident in La Paz, but currently on holiday in England, that there was a private hostel there where I could stay while I found somewhere to live. The driver grunted a price without turning around.

I translated in my head. Thirty Bolivianos. That was over four pounds. Was that good or bad? Was I being ripped off? Or had my naive little ruse actually worked? Of course, I had no idea how much the journey should cost, so assumed I was being quoted an inflated price. Unused to haggling, I had no idea how to bring the price down, so asked in a questioning voice ‘Veinte-y-cinco?’ Twenty Five. He shook his head, and repeated his price. And I got the firm impression that that was that.

I felt cheated before I had even had a chance to haggle properly, and slumped back resentfully in my seat, vowing not to tip. He turned around in his seat, taking his eyes off the road, and indicated the sign screwed to the back of the passenger seat. It had a table of prices, and he pointed to the line which read in Spanish: ‘Airport to La Paz city centre, one passenger with luggage = 30 Bolivianos’. He rolled his eyes, and faced the road again.

I felt unobservant and mistrusting, and most of all, stupid.

Winding down
My head ached, and my throat was dry from the dehydrating effects of flying, and too much cold, thin air.

We sped along a busy dual carriageway, lined with thick bushes and rocky outcrops. But I could feel that we were descending slowly – after two solid days on aeroplanes, my inner ear was sensitive to the tilt of movement. I realised that we were making our way down into the canyon in which La Paz lies by the gentlest route possible – and as we wound down the side, I became more and more wound up – apprehensive and full of childish excitement, like going to visit grandparents, or birthday mornings.

I strained for the slightest glimpse of the approaching city through the foliage beside the road, and caught teasing momentary tableaux framed by the dusty branches – red roofs, steep canyon walls, houses clinging like ivy.

String
Rain spattered the windscreen, and I struggled to keep my eyes open. It had been a long journey, and I was looking forward to some rest.

I cursed at the irony of wanting to sleep only when things began to get interesting – and yet having stayed awake for entire flights, when the food was bland, the company rotten, the film puerile at best, offensive to intelligent life at worst. Which would have been the better time to rest, I silently chided myself.

But rounding the next smooth curve of the downward road, I caught my breath – for there was La Paz, stretched out across a wide deep canyon, packed with buildings, ranging from shining glass offices and hotels in the centre of the valley to corrugated iron shacks perched precariously on the lip and steep walls. Houses across the valley were built on roads so steep I was sure no vehicle could manage them, and yet still more were being built.

Men walked along the side of this busy road, with bundles of bricks, of pebbles, of packages unidentifiable, swathed in bright cloth carried on their backs, held there by string, or rags, which seemed to cut painfully into shoulders, chests, foreheads, bleeding fingers. Each man I saw looked dusty, despite the rain.

Eyes wide
By the time we had descended to the bottom of the canyon, my eyes were wide, trying to take in as much as I could, as I whirled in my seat. So much for my earlier show of cool disinterest and authority.

I saw market stalls full of produce, dusty papaya skins speckled by rain. There were advertising hoardings for products I had never heard of, but with strangely familiar advertising – ‘Omo – Limpia y Brilla Toda Ropa!‘ ‘Cruzcampo – Simplemente, Mejor‘ – the oversized ejeculatory lettering accompanied by outdated fading photographs of happy families, smiling children.

I guessed the people featured weren’t Bolivian – their flawless features seemed strangely misplaced next to those of the people who went about their lives beneath their glassy eyes. Their skin was lighter, their teeth more even, the children looked carefree and well-fed. Even the family dog looked cared for.

And yet as we waited for a red traffic light to change, at the foot of the hoarding, a bundle of rags proffered a withered hand and chanted a familiar begging litany, which needed no translation – the sound more important than the words themselves.

Cover story
The contrast was stark, and I was shocked: not because of poverty – I had seen that before, in other countries, as well as my own, and besides, it was only to be expected in this, the poorest country in South America – but by the contrasts coming so readily, so effortlessly.

I had expected that, like any good journalist, anthropologist, I would have to force the symbolism, by placing one against the other, making the rare and unexpected juxtaposition symbolic in itself. This is a common habit of anthropology, anthropologists – in order to drive the point home harder, force the symbolism, carry the situations to their extremes, until the audience has no choice but to acquiesce, agreeing finally that, yes, they see the symbolism, and yes, the situation is clear.

And I was as guilty as the rest. I had arrived in Bolivia with baggage, whisked off by a porter through customs, but also with intellectual first world baggage. I had arrived ready to drop in ‘New Internationalist’ and ‘National Geographic’ magazine banner titles to every scene, ready to impose my structure of meaning onto each symbolism and act. But I was shocked, because there, without my even trying, the point had been made.

And everywhere I looked, the points were made again and again and again: A huge red mural across the side of a building extolled ‘Siempre Coca-Cola’, while black scrawled grafitti covered the exlamation mark, proclaiming ‘Yanqui go hom!’. Yet the umbrellas in front of every roadside cafe carried the same familiar red and white logo.

Opening the box
Like many travellers before me, I was surprised to discover that symbolic contrasts were being made without my help, and more than that, that ‘anthropology’ was happening outside the academic discipline, without analysis and without my knowledge.

Everywhere I looked, people lived out their lives, in their own context. And I was the foreigner, the reason for stares and comments. For weeks afterwards, this fact returned to me, in each encounter, each act, each face.

I was reminded that I was different, that it was I who disrupted normality, with my probing questions and constantly scribbling hand.

Bag ladies
Leaving the main street, known as the Prado and the only horizontal street in the town, we climbed a steep road to the right. The engine whined and the driver changed gears.

The rain was still spitting down, though not heavy enough to make people stop their activities. As we slowed further still, to climb the hill, I noticed women walking on the thin pavements either side of the street. They looked so familiar – the faces from a thousand travel guides and postcards – with their hair in two long black neat braids, falling down their backs. They wore colourful skirts, aprons and shawls, and on their backs, in slings of cloth, they carried shopping, babies, produce.

But on their heads, they wore upturned plastic bags, emblazoned with the names of a supermarket, an airline. They wore these bags, neatly tucked, and with the point of one corner sticking upwards, to protect their bowler hats from the rain, which could, I guessed, damage the felt.

Colours were everywhere – bright, artificial neons and acid-bright hues in signs, clothes, blankets, decorations…and yet, each of these unnatural shades was placed against an all-encompassing background of earthy browns, rusty reds, dusty yellows and the pure blue-grey of the clearing thin sky.

Breathless
Soon we were pulling up in front of a high brick wall, which ran the length of a cobbled street. At irregular intervals, metal doors and gates gave access to whatever was behind the wall.

I climbed out of the cab, feeling disoriented, and paid the driver after he had removed my backpack from the boot. He drove off without saying goodbye, and I was left with my belongings at the side of a deserted road near the cliffs of La Paz canyon.

The sky cleared, revealing a wide view of the city beneath me. I stood and looked out over the dusty rooftops, breathless.