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reason other than his ability to exploit legal loopholes: a skill that would

be in great demand in the minefield of Mexico City business and politics.


I went to the counter and found out that there were seats remaining.
Due to the poor weather conditions, the plane would definitely not be
leaving on time. In fact, the 7:00 departure was now looking more like
an 11:00 takeoff according to the gate agent.
With ticket in hand, I joined Andy and Dirk in the second-floor
airport restaurant for a quick desayuno continental. This sit-down
breakfast gave us a good chance to make some tentative plans for the
coming weeks. Tops on the social agenda was meeting up with Dirk and
other friends in Buenos Aires for New Year’s Eve. Andy, meanwhile,
would be spending the holiday somewhere in Ecuador. After landing in
Lima, he would change planes for Guayaquil (border tensions between
the two nations ruled out a bus crossing) and travel toward Quito.
Back downstairs, we walked single-file to the gate area where we sat
down and met an interesting couple from Buenos Aires. They were also
flying to La Paz. Coincidentally, the couple, Ernesto and María, lived in
Palermo approximately five blocks from my adopted Argentine residence.
We talked until it was time for Andy and Dirk to board their flight
to Lima. After a round of good-byes, the gringo and the mexicano strolled
casually onto the Cusco tarmac in what was an unforgettable sight. Andy
walking next to Dirk the Daring, who was
decked out in his new full-length alpaca
poncho that turned several heads en route
to the boarding stairway. It was tough seeing
my two partners in Peruvian crime (Hey, it
was only a train ticket!) take leave of me.
But alas, all good things must come to an
end and Andy’s and my South American odyssey was no exception to
that old rule.
Still, as one chapter closed, another was about to begin entitled “My
Trip Home to Buenos Aires.” Fortunately, Ernesto and María were there
with good stories and familiar porteño accents to put me in a B.A. State
of Mind. I spoke at length with them about their experience abroad
after Ernesto’s exile from Argentina in 1976. During that year, General
Videla came to presidential power and Perón’s second wife, Isabel, was
deposed by the military on March 24. The military regime remained in

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power until 1983. It was a dark seven-year period during which thousands
of suspected subversives were kidnapped, tortured and executed by the
ruling militares. The notorious Dirty War remains a bitter chapter in the
complex history of Argentina. It is a tragedy that is unlikely to be repeated
thanks to growing political stability and awareness efforts by relatives of
the estimated ten to twenty thousand desaparecidos. After three long
years in France and another fifteen in Venezuela, Ernesto and his family
had returned home to Argentina in 1994. They still seemed unsettled by
the current state of affairs in their mother country. Today, however, they
explained that their concerns were more economic than political.
Time slipped up on us and before long, it was time to board AeroPeru
flight number 615 to La Paz. On board, the plane was
practically empty. By my count, only
fifteen of the 727’s one-hundred fifty seats
were occupied by paying passengers. In fact,
one of the stewardesses actually sat in the
row behind me during takeoff for a good
window view of Cusco below. The flight
lasted an hour, and I thoroughly enjoyed
another one of those gourmet AeroPeru in-flight meals. The vitamin-C
enriched cherry caramelo rivaled the lemon-flavored feast that we had
tasted flying north from Arequipa.
Once the 727 had cleared the eastern bank of Lake Titicaca, I knew
that we were getting close to La Paz.
Gray Skies Over La Paz
Our approach to El Alto International
Airport was cloudy and turbulent, and
touchdown came around 12:00 Bolivia
time. Upon disembarking, I just sort
of followed the flow of human traffic,
as travelers are apt to do when arriving
On Approach to El Alto in a strange airport. Moreover, I was
in a strange airport on the outskirts of an unfamiliar Andean metropolis
in the heart of a country that I had only read about in history books,
newspapers and magazines. I proceeded to the baggage claim
area, picked up my mochila, and walked outside, listening
for ride offers and hoping for a cheap seat to downtown La
Paz, some twenty kilometers away from El Alto.

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For no logical reason, other than not wanting to stand on the airport
curb looking like a lost six-foot puppy any longer, I ran toward a micro
that was preparing to leave. Unlike airport shuttles in the States that
have Hampton Inn or Dollar Rent-A-Car emblazoned on the side, the
only distinctive marking on this vessel was the word “Daihatsu.” In
reality, several of the letters had fallen off the wagon, so I was actually
flagging down a “Da ha.” Upon boarding, I asked “Vas al Centro?” and
the young kid in the passenger seat only said, “Sí, vamos.” He grabbed
my bag and threw it on top of the van. Once we were rolling, I realized
that the only thing keeping my mochila safely on the roof was a metal bar
that rose three inches off of the surface. While
bag storage had room for improvement, I $
could not complain about the price. A ride
to La Paz only cost three bolivianos.
I only had U.S. currency so I had to pay with
greenbacks. The kid gave me twenty-two bolivianos change for a five-
dollar bill, which seemed fair enough to me. Without handheld access
to bloomberg.com’s currency converter, I would just have to wing it. I
now had no map, no city guide and absolutely no idea where the Da ha
was going ( ¿Adónde va el Da ha? ), other than away from the airport.
The view on the ride into town was most impressive. As many
people had told me, the City of La Paz suddenly appears about ten
kilometers into the ride from the Airport. The brick and adobe structures
spread out over an enormous jagged, semicircular valley and hillside. The
architecture is diverse, ranging from slum dwellings high on the hillside
to modern hotels and skyscrapers in the downtown business district below.
When the van got into what appeared to be the heart of the city, I
asked the gentleman next to me if we were close to Avenida Sagárnaga.
It was one of the only names that I remembered seeing in the travel guide
the night before. (The guide was Andy’s and he had taken it with him
north to Ecuador. Furthermore, finding Bolivian travel guides in Bolivia
was a tall order.) The gentleman quickly leaned up and passed along my
question to the driver, who replied that we had just passed Sagárnaga. At
the next intersection, he pulled over and let me out of the Da ha. I
grabbed my mochila which, by some gravitational miracle, had remained
on top of the rollicking van and started walking. After getting situated
with my gear firmly on my back, I backtracked three blocks to Sagárnaga.

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A left turn on my avenue of choice presented a hike that I had not
anticipated: a three block stretch straight up a narrow cobblestone street.
With twenty pounds of outdoor stuff strapped to my back, I was able to
get a complete cardiovascular workout without even hitting the gym.
The street was lined with señoras selling beautiful handmade mantas,
chaquetas and other items which were even more colorful than the ones
that I had seen and purchased in Cusco. Some overdue holiday shopping
would be in order before departure.
Moments later, I was standing on the red shag carpet in the lobby of
the Sagárnaga and made my way to the front desk. The clerk was friendly
and told me that I could get a room with two twin beds for only fourteen
dollars. Anxious to shake my pack and get a good shower, I said “Bueno”
and grabbed the six-inch wooden totem pole key ring to room #117 on
the second floor. I was pleased with my room and, especially, the sweet
view that I had of Avenida Sagárnaga in front of the hotel. Fortunately
for me, the view would only improve after sunset.

La Paz: Life At 11,000 Feet

Hillside Dwellings Avenida Sagárnaga El Prado District


After unpacking a few things and getting situated, I was ready for a
shower. It was already mid-afternoon and there were only a few guests in
the hotel, so I did not have to wait for a vacancy in one of the two empty
closet showers located just outside my hotel door.
After a change of clothes, I was ready for a self-guided tour of La Paz.
While I wanted to take my time and enjoy my first visit to Bolivia, I had
to be realistic. If my checking account balance were a fuel gauge, I would
be flirting with the left side of the “E” hoping to wring a few more miles
out of the tanque. Funds were dangerously low, and I needed to get back
to Buenos Aires before New Year’s Eve and my flight home to the States
on New Year’s Day. Also, Dirk was going to be in town, and I had
already made plans for ringing in the New Year with the firm of Francisco,
Mária and Associates.

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In order to start the planning process for the leg home, I stepped into
Dinatur, a small travel agency adjacent to the hotel’s main lobby. Inside,
I was greeted by a sweet Bolivian girl named Monica. I explained to her
that I wanted to take a bus from La Paz back home to Buenos Aires.
Much to my delight, she said that such bus service was available along the
Pan American Highway. I have always enjoyed bus trips in South America,
and I figured that a long bus ride would be the best way to see southern
Bolivia and historic regions of Northern Argentina like Salta and Tucumán.
Monica said that there was only one company that made the international
road trip. She was not certain of the day or time of departure and asked
me to come back around closing time at 20:00. By then, she could give
me the full itinerary for the trip home.
Pleased that the travel wheels had been set in motion, the next item
on the agenda was laundry. Much to Monica’s displeasure, I had carried
a small bag of ripe trail garments with me into her travel agency. I walked
across the street to a small laundromat with a yellow and blue LAVERAP
sign in the window. The owner assured me that, despite the condition of
my trail duds, today’s high-tech cleaning technology would return my
clothes to their original scent and whiteness. As time was now a factor, I
asked if I could pick them up later in the day.
“No,” he replied, explaining that the clothes would not be washed at
that store, but rather at the LAVERAP Superstore a mile away. I explained
that I was leaving town and really needed the clothes the next morning,
and he wrote “pick-up before noon” on the ticket. He also gave me the
address of the LAVERAP next to the bus terminal that would be doing
the washing and drying.
With JVC in hand, I was ready to roam the streets of La Paz and get
some Bolivian film footage. I wandered through downtown and was
surprised by the number of modern high-rises in the bustling business
district. Side trips to the pharmacy for some Bazooka gum, the locutorio
for a long-distance phone call and un banco boliviano for a quick currency
exchange were all successful. And although
I was enjoying the novelty of traveling alone,
I really missed having a sounding board for
making plans and voicing random
observations. After all, the best part about
the journey up to this point had been the
Room With A View
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opportunity to share the adventure with friends. Kerouac had hit the
road with Dean Moriarty, and el Che’s biker buddy was Dr. Alberto.
Being alone in La Paz, I felt sort of “out of the loop.” I knew at that
moment my trail compañeros were hanging out together in Lima
International waiting for the next leg of their respective trips: Andy due
north to the U.S. and Dirk due south to Buenos Aires.
I decided to combat the early evening solitude with some light grub
in the Sagárnaga’s hotel coffee shop. The ruby red shag extended the
length of the lobby, behind a glass partition and into a small one-room
café with seven tables and a full bar. There were only two other patrons
in the entire restaurant, and the bartender was handling everything from
mixing drinks to taking orders to cooking and washing the dishes. Another
sandwich de pollo and a frosty cerveza set me back several bolivianos, but
when the bill came, I was too tired to calculate the exchange rate. For all
I knew, I could have just paid fifty bucks for a beer and a chicken sandwich.
Next door at Dinatur, things were winding down for the night and,
more importantly for the travel agency staff of two, el fin de semana.
When I walked in at 20:00, Monica smiled, asked me to take a seat and
handed me a small piece of paper. With
just a few phone calls, she was able to
find out everything that I needed to
know to get back home for the least
amount of money possible. The bus
service running from La Paz to Buenos
Aires was the Panamericano line with
daily afternoon departures at 16:00.
Now for the bad news: The trip would
last three days. Essentially, leave La Paz
Saturday afternoon and arrive Buenos Aires on Tuesday morning.
Previously, the longest bus trip that I had taken was only twenty hours
from Buenos Aires to San Carlos de Bariloche; this little sojourn home
was going to last three times longer. Still, given my dwindling resources
and inability to generate cash flow by legal means in La Paz, one hundred
twenty-five dollars was about the best that I was going to do for a cheap
ride home. I booked a seat with Monica, thanked her and walked back
into the lobby of the Sagárnaga. Briefly, I contemplated another trek
through the city streets, but the altitude was really starting to get to me.

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I had not seen a warning label from the Bolivian Surgeon General on the
beer bottles, but the Andean suds multiplied by 11,000 feet were definitely
having a synergistic effect that sent me staggering back to room #117.

La Paz...I’m still in La Paz.

spiders! spiders! patrick y yo bedside beer table


Instead of being able to relax, the surreal interior of my room merely
put me on edge. The bedspreads and curtains were a deep crimson that
was not soothing. Laying back on one of the twin beds, I had a final sip
of water and stared long and hard at the ceiling where the bamboo fixture
housing the lone sixty-watt bulb projected an eerie spiderweb shadow
across the ceiling and down the walls onto three Dali posters hung in
cheap gold frames. Was this the kind of loneliness that had pushed Captain
Willard over the brink in that dirty hotel room in Saigon? I could hear
his voice: Saigon, shit, I’m still only in Saigon. Fortunately, while Willard
had to head up the Nung, my travels would take me down the
Panamerican. Before falling asleep, I picked the camcorder up off the
floor and filmed my reflection in the full-length mirror at the foot of my
bed. Power On. Zoom In. Zoom Out. Focus. Curtains. Light fixture. Dali
prints. High altitude. Too much beer. Too much silence. Time to go home.

Y aquél fue un momento inequívoco de mi vida, el más


extraño momento de todos, en el que no sabía ni quién era
yo mismo: estaba lejos de casa, obsesionado, cansado por el
viaje, en la habitación de un hotel barato que nunca había visto
antes, oyendo los siseos del vapor afuera.
-Jack Kerouac, En El Camino

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