¿Quiere un cerveza? I´m your man. |
The city itself is apocalyptic, as Beth so aptly pointed out upon arrival. A giant crater of people, endless homes, arid altiplano and no discernable differences seen from the outer rim. It appears aa a perfect melding between the death of man and the death of nature. The dusty red rock comprising the landscape blends and weaves itself perfectly into the equally dusty red architecture, or perhaps it's the other way around. The setting is eerily beautiful and unlike any other city of modernity, from the altitude to the sense of doom imparted to first time visitors it is thoroughly unique. (1)
Overlooking the apocalyptic city. |
Our first visit lasted 7 days. We did very little outside of the occassional walk, predominantly because I got my first compensated "job". Yes, I have finally been recognized for my talent of consuming beer, or something along those lines. The Brew Adventure, a hostal with its own brewery in the basement, hired me on for a week of tending bar. 30 hours of work, plus a night dealing Texas Hold'em netted me a week stay for free and 25 free beers (most were 10 ouncers, if I had to venture a guess, but I got the occassional pint as well.), which were not only allowed, but encouraged to be drank on-the-job. It was fun, it was cheap and sometimes it was a complete dissaster, but definitely worth it.
The bustling side steets of La Paz. The beautiful San Francisco cathedral is the epicenter of downtown. The steeple can be seen in the background, as well as the haze of smog plaguing the city. |
-Finishing the "World's hottest chicken vindaloo" challenge, thus receiving a free t-shirt for 30 minutes work.
-Eating four pancakes our first day of free all-you-can-eat breakfast, almost vomitting because pancakes are the world's dumbest breakfast, but being cheap enough to think it could stave off lunch if eaten at 10am.
- Watching the All-Star game.
- Making veggie chilli spaghetti.
- Getting free beers (before I started ¨working¨) by the cojoined efforts of Beth and myself to lug up a keg of beer five stories at just under 4000m of altitude. Not as easy as it sounds.
- Going into my first embassy. U.S.
- Using my work discount for a posh steakhouse, the first we have been in since Buenos Aires. I'd been craving some proper ribs, which I almost got. Big, fat and juicy, but without the dry rub or wet sauce tipifying American ribs. Different, but equally good (equal meaning rib-deprivation has lowered my standards).
-Walking the brilliant markets of La Paz. Every street, every day is like a professional flea market. We'd get lost wandering the streets finding anything from 90's Packer superbowl sweatshirts to llama fetuses to whole streets dedicated to selling just light bulbs/steering wheel covers/clocks/whatever-you-want (alright, no steering wheel covers, but wouldn't that be amazing). Instead of wanting to crawl in the center of those incredibly warm and comforting womb-like clothes racks and die of boredom (my normal response to shopping), every corner brought new intrigue and new hopes for a 1988 vintage, aka used, Dodgers World Series shirt. No luck, though.
- The Bollocks Quiz. A Sunday night quiz at my employers bar, which is completely full of shit. The senior barman and I make up questions, predominantly jokes we've heard or leading questions that require less-than-factual responses, he reads 10 per round to the audience, they answer, we then give points based upon the hilarity of their response. It's completely arbitrary, but led to some epically obscene responses, two of which I will duplicate here:
Note: both of these questions have correct answers, one of which I remember. Correct answer given first, quiz players' answers given second.
1. What is it illegal for Indian women to do while menstrating?
a. Enter the Taj Mahal.
b. Give out those little red bindy dots.
2. What makes 8 out of 10 boys happy?
a. I don't remember, something innane like Jesus or Snickers.
b. That they aren't the 2 out of 10 that have been raped.
Bonus: When asked what my 3 pet peaves were, one group stated: showers, work and Mexicans.
And so our night went, full of obscenities and political incorrectness.
Cheers Spain during the World Cup finals. Viva España, I guess, though I doubt the South Americans shared that same sentiment. |
After retiring from the bar industry, we headed towards greener pastures, Rurrenabaque and the jungle ("Rurre" is the next post), but with plans to backtrack through La Paz the next week. For the sake of brevity, we are combining La Paz I and II.
Our return to La Paz from Rurre was less exciting, less beer-filled (though not without), more cultural and fortunately for some of you, dominated by the all-consuming addictivity of shopping, for souvenirs.
We caught up on the blog (kind-of), bought loads of sovenirs at places with names like "the witches' market" and "the black market", drank a beer with the original Andean title of "El Inca Beer", which tasted a bit like hoped up Coca Cola, visited the outside of San Pedro Prison, made famous by the 2003 book Marching Powder (2), which we both found fascinating, and even fullfilled our cultural La Paz experiences by: a) witnessing the week of parades celebrating the bicentenial of the city, literally a parade a day, (3) and b) Visiting the pre-Incan ruins at Tiwuanaku (re: Tihuanacu, Puncan Puncu, et. Al.). I'd go into details of this visit but our "English speaking guide" sounded like one of those circular kids toys which have animals depictions and when you pull a string and the arrow points to an animal it makes the correct sound. Legitimately the only decipherable word he said in 2.5 hours was "Zebra" pronounced Zay-bruh, like a Brit. Apparently it means: represents, in Spanglish. So much for culture.
And thus was our La Pazian experiment.
The entrance to the sun temple at Tiwanaku. This is the most restored portion of the temple. |
(2) San Pedro Prison is located essentially in the center of the city. It encompasses approximately one square block, albeit a small one. The heroine (mild pun intended) of Marching Powder began introducing tourist into the prison for tours as a means to entertain himself and make a few bucks during his stay. One tourist, and future author of the the book, was so intrigued he transcribed Thomas Mcfaden's story. Briefly, it is an account of a drug smuggler landed in a Bolivian prison, but really it is a fascinating description of a unique, and sometimes horrifying (what prison isn't horrifying though?), economic model for administering a prison. There is no real regulation, prisoners are provided nothing and in fact have to PAY an entrance fee. As a result the prison has morphed into a small self-provisioning city with restaurants, housing districts (you must pay for you "cell" and often times must go through a real estate agent) of better or less repute, food stalls, cell phones and any other number of goods and services all owned and operated by prisoners. Obviously, as they are locked up, these goods must pass through the gates, which the guards allow after all the proper "tips" have been sure to pass hands. Even women and children reside in the halls of the prison, with their incarcerated patriarch (apparently generally as a result of a lack of ability to provide for the family but occassionaly as a means to keep the family unit together). Conversely, and ironically, some of the best cocaine in the world is supposed to filter out of these walls. Produced and distributed by a network of prisoners and their handlers. Outside of the tenuous and cliched romantic side-story, and the less-than-par prose, the book is well worth a read.
(3) I gorged on street food. Three chorizo sandwiches, all from different vendors. A taste of Coca Colla (sic), which is Bolivias new attempt at soft drink and taste like Snapple mint tea and doesn't get you high, in case you were curious. And lastly, a stick of chocolate covered strawberries, for dessert.
Beerometer: yes, a new meter, for a new man, a sometimes employed man. Staying a week in a microbrewery has its advantages, or at least its advantage, that being beer. Admittedly I followed the rules of free, mostly, but I was sure to take advantage of the 2 liter, 17 Boliviano beer discount provided me as a member of the staff. Lagers, Ambers, Negras and Stouts were all available. Most were unexceptional (though all were tasty enough), unless compared to the national beer, Pacena, which makes these seem interesting enough to be Belgian's best. The tastiest option, and one of the best beers I've had in South America, was the Amber. Delicious, not too sweet, interesting undertones and though listed at 6% something, the brewmaster claimed it was much nearer 8.5%, a claim I'm willing to vouch for as it has a definite Racer 5 effect. Outside of the freedom-limiting a job tends to entail, the brewery and its abundance of beers was about the best way to drink away a week in La Paz.
The brewmaster is a 40-something Nittany Lion fan from Texas who may or may not have a Bolivian baby on the way (one bollocks quiz question was: When doesn't [name expunged] buy condoms?) and has been banned from drinking at the bar by management, details of which were elusive to me. For some reason this seems important to know when considering the beer. Next up on his to-do list: experiment with home brewed cider. Biggest hold-up: No cheesecloth in Bolivia.
Beth cheesin´ because she is half a flight away from our second free beers of the trip. |