Bolivia

For a brief period at the end of January, Bolivia broke the usual silence accorded it by the international press. A sudden decision by the right-wing military government to double the price of basic foodstuffs touched off an uprising by the peasants, who had found it difficult enough to make ends meet under the former price system. They gathered in the main transportation arteries of the country, erected barricades, and threw stones at intervening government troops. Soon their cause was joined by the tin miners, the nation's largest industrial group, who called a two-day wildcat strike to protest the announced rise in prices. Within a week--after almost 100 had been killed, according to the Commission for Justice and Peace, a Catholic organization--the army had quelled all signs of protest, and the peasants and miners reluctantly returned to their farms and factories. And so, to an indifferent outside world, the world of the United States and Europe, Bolivia has resumed her apparently tranquil sleep, perhaps not to be heard from again until racked by some more sensational injustice.

I

One's first view of La Paz, Bolivia's capital and largest city, approached from the west, is perhaps one of the most spectacular moments in world travel. From the border with Peru the bus jaunts along a stumbly dirt road for three hours through the barren spaces of the altiplano, the 14,000-foot-high plateau that covers the western third of Bolivia. Above the tree line, this gaping wasteland is broken only by the occasional adobe huts and the surrounding protective adobe walls of the Aymara Indians, who have scratched out a living here for countless centuries. Soon the huts become more numerous, and further on there is a hint of the nearing metropolis in the frantic crowds of women and children who descend upon the bus at every stop trying to sell meager greasy pastries and bottles of sugary soda. The road continues on through the stark plateau.

Within 20 minutes the road suddenly veers to the left, and the earth seems to fall away abruptly into a bottomless chasm. Black craggy walls slope sharply down into the bowels of this deep crater, where shiny steel skyscrapers beckon mystically in the clear sunny air. Spread out below and beyond, extending almost to the snow-capped Andean peaks in the distance, sparkles La Paz, a booming city seemingly dropped from space into a lunar landscape.

The ride down from the crater's lip to the center of the city is not only an unusual topographical experience, but a striking sociological one as well. In fact, the layout of La Paz can be viewed as a metaphor for the stark contrasts between wealth and poverty that pervade all Latin American societies. Dug into the stony walls near the top of the canyon are the most wretched hovels, those of the peasants most recently arrived from the altiplano. The weather in this part of the city, which is 12,500 feet above sea level, is pleasant on a clear day; at night, however, the cold is brutal. The air is very thin, and breathing becomes difficult after any strenuous activity. As the bus descends along the zig-zag road that hugs the rocky slope, the hovels give way to slightly more sturdy but still miserable houses, crowded together on filthy unpaved alleys. Eucalyptus trees begin to appear. Then the bus descends further into the more solidly-built portion of the city, with quaint two- and three-story pensions and humble eating places crowding the paved streets, along with small shops selling clothes, stationery and cheap appliances. Large churches open up on concrete plazas. Here the streets are less steep, and the air is noticeably warmer than it was at the top. The narrow streets then give way to broad tree-lined avenues wrapped in the shadows of the towering hotels, banks, and office buildings built by the money of foreign companies and wealthy local businessmen. Further on still, this district merges into the posh suburbs, where, it is said, one can sit under a palm tree in winter while it snows a thousand feet above on the small huts that from below look like a child's building blocks.

II

At some point halfway up the slope of the La Paz canyon, rural and urban Bolivia meet. The Indian Quarter of the city is situated just where the western wall of the crater begins to rise sharply. The narrow sidestreets here are lined with the old, deteriorating shops and grocery stores owned by the mestizos (people of mixed white and Indian blood). Most of the real activity, however, takes place not in these dusty little buildings, but in the streets themselves. Everyday the Indian peasants, who live higher up in the poorer sections of the city, make the long, strenuous climb down into this commercial sector, where they spread their small supply of goods or produce out in front of them on the uneven stones of the streets. As the dark early morning sky begins to lighten, the quarter is slowly transformed from sleepy urban streets into a carnival-like marketplace of relentless color and activity.

The migration from the country to the city has accelerated at a frantic pace in recent years. In 1966 La Paz had a population of 325,000; today, it is estimated to be close to 600,000. The annual per capita income in Bolivia is an astoundingly meager $200, the lowest in South America. The bulk of this poverty is concentrated in the wind-swept altiplano that surrounds La Paz. For centuries the Aymara lived here in isolation, speaking their own Indian tongue and showing a hostile back to any intruders. However, with each passing year, improved transportation and communication led to increased contact with the city, and the peasants became less and less willing to live, as their ancestors did, on a bare subsistence diet of corn and dried potatoes. Whole communities picked up and moved to La Paz, where they managed to construct a roof over their heads, but, for a long time, little more. Life in the Indian district of the city is a resurrection of the ancient customs of the small villages of the altiplano. Without this sprawling marketplace to serve as both an economic and social center, the migrating peasants would be even more completely lost in the labyrinth of urban life.

The hotel in which I was staying towered above the humble buildings of the Indian Quarters. Early one afternoon, I began walking through the narrow streets of the marketplace. Each block had its own special goods on sale. The first street I entered was the grain district. Along both sides plump, dark-faced women, wearing hats that looked like British bowlers, were sitting behind open sacks filled with flours and cereals of all different colors and textures. I wandered through the crowds that moved in a relentless parade up and down the streets. A fat peasant woman, her small son sketching in a layer of flour beside her, looked up from her knitting and, as I passed, called out in the guttural Spanish that many of the assimilated Aymara speak, "Harina barata, muy barata"--Flour, very cheap. I looked at her and smiled. Sensing a potential customer with mucho dinero, she put down her knitting and tried to entrap me: "Solamente tres pesos por kilo. No puede encontrar mejor"--Only three pesos, you can't find better. I mumbled in my broken Spanish that I was only looking, and turned away before I would see her disappointed look.

At the end of the street I turned right. Here hardware of all shapes and sizes was spread out in metallic tapestries--pipes, nails, hammers, funnels, axles, wire, hinges--all irregular and worn, many rusted and cracked. Again, mostly women were sitting behind the wares. The women sell, the men haul. Seated behind a small collection of knives made of rough-hewn steel and handles whittled from eucalyptus branches, a woman chatted away with a friend who carried a bag, on her way to buy some rice or vegetables for lunch. As she talked the seated woman smoothed out the shiny folds of her yellow skirt, long and puffy in the traditional manner of the Aymara. In contrast to the men, very few of the women have changed to modern dress.

At the next corner, where the street intersected the chief thoroughfare of the quarter, three old men sat in a doorstoop. One wore a huge blue overcoat whose holes would lead one to believe that it dated back to his service in the Chaco War that Bolivia fought with Paraguay in the 1930s. His nose was of the typical Aymaran variety--long and hooked--which lent a slight touch of brutality to his appearance. As he saw me pass and glance at him and his friends, the ex-soldier grabbed a bottle the man next to him was raising to his lips, and, holding it out, beckoned to me to come and drink. I walked over and took the bottle. The man in the center laughed mischievously, showing broken yellow teeth that seemed out of place in his face, which appeared so innocent because of the childish woolen cap he wore. Many of the men and boys wear this traditional protection against the cold. It looks something like the flight cap of a World War I flying ace, with flaps pulled down over the ears. "Que es?" --What is it? I asked gamely enough, as I looked at the bottle that said "Coca-Cola" through the dust that covered it. The men continued to laugh. They must not speak Spanish, I thought. I hesitated a moment, but as I caught the eye of the one on the left looking at me expectantly, I quickly took a gulp. The expression on my face must have amused them further, but I can only speculate, because tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision, and fire burned in my esophagus. Before I had recovered my good common sense, I resolved to show that I was no weak-kneed norteamericano, and I took another, deeper swig. I was gasping for air as I handed the bottle back and could only sputter out, "Que fuerte, que fuerte!"--How strong! They wanted me, their amigo, to take more, but I had heard stories of men going blind in World War II from drinking wood alcohol. I politely declined. I stood awkwardly for a moment, trying to think of how I could communicate my thanks to them. Then the one on the right, whose grin set off a symphony of deeply-worn money. So this was their game. No, I said, not me, I'm only a poor student. I gave them a last smile and then hurried off.

I turned left and walked quickly through the crowds who were shopping for clothes among the row of stalls draped with cheap blouses, chino pants, and button-down sweaters. I looked behind me apprehensively, but in a mob such as this, I reasoned, there was no way they could have followed me. Still I was taking no chances, and I weaved in and out among the sack-carrying men, chicken-dragging women, and soccer-playing children, taking care at the same time not to step into the garbage that had collected in the middle of the street. A small alley that went off to the right seemed quiet enough, so I turned into it and was finally able to relax.

Here was where people came to buy their coca. Two-foot high transparent bags appeared green with the small leaves that the Bolivian Indians chew as part of a tradition dating back millenia. On the altiplano, where the nights are wintry and food scarce, the coca leaves, when chewed hour after hour, help to drive out the cold and to kill one's appetite. These Aymara no longer live on the altiplano, but it is still cold at night and food is far from plentiful. Shipped in hugh quantities from the jungle, the coca sells for incredibly cheap prices; a peso (five U.S. cents) will buy you a six-ounce bag. The women sit implacably behind pyramid-like piles of the leaves, and, if one looks closely enough, it is possible to see them move the coca wads from one side of the mouth to the other. As I walked by, one woman, just setting up her small portable stove to cook lunch, spit some of the spittly green juice from the leaves into a dirty bag next to her. She took a small handful of the leaves from another bag and put them into her mouth. Her jaws went to work.

As I neared the end of the block, I saw my three drunken friends no more than ten yards from me. I smiled at them, but as they came up to me, the man who was closest, the one with the pilot's cap on his head, reached out and quickly goosed me. I was so outraged that by the time I could get my Spanish straight enough to curse him, the three were several yards past me, laughing uproariously as the flying ace was congratulated by the other two, as if he had just shot down the Red Baron.

III

That evening, after the sun had set and the center of the city shone in the expansive electric light that almost explodes in the rarefied night air, I left my hotel and the flickering outdoor food kiosks of the Indian Quarter to eat dinner with some Westerners I'd met in a cafe earlier that day. The main streets of the downtown area were quiet now, in contrast to the bustle of the tourists, businessmen, cocaine-pushers (La Paz is the cocaine capital of the world). I walked past the neon signs of the restaurants and clubs that dotted the fashionable blocks of the Prado, La Paz's most fashionable street.

Finally, opposite the Hotel Sucre, the tallest in the city, I found the restaurant where I was to meet my acquaintances. As soon as I stepped inside I was almost overcome by the cigarette smoke that filled the room. A chintzy instrumental version of "Eleanor Rigby" played in the background. I moved aside as a young couple, the boy dressed in tight dungarees and wearing sunglasses, the girl in hot pants and a blouse with puffed sleeves, left their table and walked to the door, waving to their friends. After my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I saw my friends sitting at a table near the back corner. I was late, and, having decided not to wait for me, they were already on their dessert. I sat down next to the Englishmen, who was halfway through his banana split. Opposite him was a German who looked up as I sat down, smiled at me, and then went back to concentrate on his hot fudge sundae. And, across from me, was a fellow American, who was smoking cheap Bolivian cigarettes in between sips of his coffee.

I took up the plastic menu and immediately felt my wallet burning in my pants pocket. An assortment of hamburgers and grilled meats stared back at me with their 20- and 25-peso prices. That's only about a dollar, but in Bolivia one needn't ever pay over 15 pesos for a full-course meal. I chose the cheapest item on the list, a perro caliente (Spanish for "hot dog"), which went for seven pesos. Up in the Indian Quarter seven pesos would have bought me soup, a piece of chicken, rice, and chuna, a type of dried potato. In a few minutes the waitress, dressed in a tight yellow uniform, placed a five-inch long, grease-bathed hot dog in front of me. I didn't even get a roll.

The American and I began to talk. He was from Ann Arbor, Mich., and after graduating from the university there had gone to serve in the Peace Corps. He had originally worked in southern Bolivia, in the same area Che had operated in, but after a left-wing military coup in 1971 he had been forced out of the country with the rest of the corps. He was in La Paz on vacation from Nicaragua, where he was working. He told me of his experiences while in Bolivia, and how he'd been shot at during the time of the coup. We talked about Che and why he had failed. The Englishman, looking at his watch, decided to order another banana split.

"Are you heading back to the States soon?" I asked the American.

He leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through his moderately long brown hair. He took a puff on his cigarette. "Probably," he answered finally. "I think I'll return to school and study education. But Christ, they really don't know how to teach up there."

After a while the German opened his mouth to say he was tired. We got our checks and went up to the cash register, the cashier took the check, totaled it up, and gave us our change without once looking at us. It felt good to get out into the crisp night air.

It was nine o'clock. The three of them left me to go to their hotel room. I started back alone on the walk to the Indian Quarter. Soon the streets began to rise sharply. In the distance I saw the lights of the adobe huts of the peasants flickering helplessly up the rocky walls of the canyon and blending in with the icy stars of the night.

This is the first of a series of articles on Bolivia. The second will appear Monday. Michael Massing spent the summer of 1973 working in a rehabilitory home for crippled children in Cochabamba.