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Travel Story

La Paz, Bolivia's city on the crest of the Andes

By Jack Souther�

Even as a passenger I could tell we were coming in fast. The reverse thrusters popped out as soon as we touched down and burned right to the end of the runway before our jet finally rolled to a stop.

At an elevation of 4,108m (13,182 feet) above sea level, El Alto is the world's highest international airport and the thin air of the Altiplano is a challenge to both airplanes and passengers. The jets touch down at almost twice their landing speed at sea level, and most passengers find it an effort to walk at half their usual pace.

Some symptoms of altitude sickness are almost a given for those arriving directly from sea level, and for many the headache starts even before getting to a hotel room. Betty and I were either lucky or the old Andean cure, a strong brew of coca tea, actually worked. We settled into our room in La Paz, downed a few cups of the bitter brew, and set out, on slightly wobbly legs, to explore Bolivia's bustling de facto capital city.

Outside the Hotel Eldorado the broad boulevard is a chaotic mix of vehicles, pedestrians, and street vendors. Aymara women wearing traditional petticoated skirts and bowler hats carry everything from children to cabbages in brightly coloured blankets slung over their shoulders. Teenage street kids lean from the passenger windows of minivans and shout out their destination to prospective commuters, their rapid-fire monologue blending with the cries of street vendors. Push carts piled high with food and merchandise compete for road space with honking cars and impatient pedestrians. We settle in to a sidewalk cafe and order a beer and burrito, content to spend the rest of our first afternoon just watching life unfold on the busy streets of downtown La Paz.

On our drive in from the airport Geraldo, owner of the taxi, was determined to pick us up the next day for a tour of the city – "best price for sure." After much good-natured bargaining I never expected to see him again but next morning, there he was, cab all shined up and raring to go. He turned out to be a great guide with a wry sense of humour and some off-beat insights into the culture and politics of his country. He pulled into a viewpoint with a panoramic view of the city. The snow-capped peak of Huayna Potosi (6,088m) towers in the background.

Nearly 4 km above sea level, La Paz clings to the walls of a great amphitheatre, a steep-sided depression nearly 5 km across, that various locals assured us was: a "giant impact crater," "an ancient volcanic crater," or "a hole left by a great earthquake." I privately dismissed all of these origins, but as a geologist I took note of the loose, unstable material on which the city is built and shuddered to think what even a moderate earthquake would do to this place.

Perched precariously on the edge of the Altiplano, La Paz is home to more than a million Bolivians. It is the country's largest city and its centre of industry, commerce, and finance. But, unlike most great cities, where wealth and prestige migrate up-slope to the view properties, the economic stratification of La Paz is inverted. The downtown skyscrapers, hotels, government buildings and churches, are clustered near the base of the depression and the wealthier neighbourhoods, like Zona Sur (southern zone), are built far down in the canyons. The modern downtown core and prestigious suburbs are surrounded on three sides by makeshift neighbourhoods of cubical mud and adobe dwellings that climb up the steep slopes and spill over the canyon rim onto the surface of the Altiplano. There, almost 500m feet above the city centre, the outskirts of La Paz merge with the poverty-plagued sprawl of El Alto, a place where the reality of Bolivia, Latin America's third poorest country, is tragically obvious.

Geraldo pulls into a second viewpoint near the canyon rim. The snow-capped peak of Illimani (6,402m) is visible in the distance. Below us a group of kids are playing soccer. Miraculously their ball stays on the flat patch of ground carved into the steep slope. A single workman with a hoe hacks out the foundation for a house and packs the dirt into wooden molds – the beginning of sun-dried adobe bricks for a future home. Geraldo points with pride to the Estadio Hernando Siles, the great sports stadium where Bolivia's professional soccer teams, not surprisingly, almost always defeat their gasping lowland opponents.

We drop down into the canyon of the Rio Choqueyapu. This now-fetid river, choked with human and industrial waste, has been channelled into tunnels beneath the city. But back in the 16th century its valley was occupied by Aymara gold miners and it was the glitter of gold that led the Spanish to found the city of La Paz in its present canyon-bottom location. The gold has long ago been removed from the banks of Rio Choqueyapa but the wealth remains. Our cab cruises slowly through the winding suburban streets of Zona Sur, past ostentatious villas set back from the road on landscaped properties – the homes of Bolivia's wealthy elite.

Continuing south along the Rio Choqueyapa we come to the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon). Only 10 km from downtown La Paz this bizarre maze of hoodoos, and pinnacles is reminiscent of the badlands of Alberta. Except for a few cactus the desert-like landscape is barren of all vegetation. We pick our way along narrow ridges of slippery, unconsolidated silt – skirting fluted canyons many metres deep. An Aymara woman, perched at a strategic trail intersection, is weaving trinkets on a hand-loom and, in return for a small purchase, we are permitted to take a photo.

Geraldo drives back to the city, finds a parking spot for the cab, and we set out on foot. Like most Latin cities La Paz is amply endowed with open spaces. Small parks and plazas surround many of the beautifully preserved colonial buildings.

We pause in Plaza Murillo where a statue of President Gualberto Villarroel gazes stonily at the Cathedral and Presidential Palace. The statue is a mute reminder that, despite its name, La Paz (City of Our Lady of Peace) has seen its share of violence. In 1946 President Villarroel was dragged from the palace by the distraught widows of his many political enemies and hanged from a lamp post in the square – a detail surprisingly ignored by the heroic stance of his bronze likeness.

Beggars watch us hopefully as we climb the steps leading into the massive stone cathedral. The light under the immense vaulted ceiling is filtered through a profusion of stained glass windows. Those behind the glittering, gold-encrusted altar depict a group of angels showering their blessings on a gaggle of Bolivian generals and politicians. Somehow their heavenly admirers seem to have overlooked the desperate souls who spend their days perched on the steps outside seeking the blessing of mere survival.

We wander through a maze of cobblestone streets in the old colonial city – streets too narrow for cars to enter – past tiny churches, and windowless stone walls rising vertically from the curb. A low doorway leads into a cool, leafy courtyard, where we order a beer and tacos.

Geraldo tells us that almost half the population of La Paz is of Indian origin, mostly Aymara. And while the Christian church is indeed very strong in Bolivia it has not completely replaced the ancient spiritual beliefs of the native people.

He takes us next to the Witches’ Market. The sloping streets of "Mercado de Hechiceria" are lined with stalls offering an astonishing variety of folk remedies and charms. Bags of sacred coca leaves are assured to either cure what ails you or induce a stupor of resignation. But if your problem is with the supernatural you can ward off the spooks by purchasing a dried llama fetus and displaying it on a plate garnished with coloured herbs and seeds. For those harbouring human grudges a pig fetus can be used to call forth the appropriate spirit to heap revenge on your enemy.

Like so many of his countrymen, Geraldo is proud of the Indian blood in his mixed heritage. He is also proud to be a good Catholic. But, just to make sure all bases are covered, he admits to keeping his own plate of magic seeds and critter parts – his own offering to the multitude of spirits that still inhabit the supernatural world of the Aymara.