Journey to La Paz

My whole family woke around 2 am to leave for LAX by 3. They’re wonderful.

It’s sad that the best bonding happens hours before a punctuated moment, such as a departure. We laughed and got along perfectly as my dad drove the dark mountain roads. My dad laid on the horn as we drove through a tunnel near LAX to declare our presence in the big city, the whole car laughing wildly. My dad’s nipple was revealed through the opening of his lopsided shirt. My brothers chased each other next to baggage check, and my mom worried the skin off her hands. But I wasn’t bothered by the quirkiness of my family. I wanted to savor this bittersweet moment.

I had a lot of trouble holding back the tears as we group hugged by customs, but I did it. I didn’t say as much as I should. But I couldn’t, because tears would have taken the place of words. I should have walked backwards and watched them until I could see them no more, but I would have tripped or ran into someone. (Yes, that was a joke to lighten the mood).

Everywhere we go, I feel we make a statement, my family of six from the bubble of Big Bear Lake. My dad’s blue eyes are always brightened by all that he learns as he gains new experiences; it is from him that I inherit my lust for life and knowledge. My parents always tell me that they live vicariously through me and my travels, as I do things that they will never be able to experience. I would be nearly helpless without their support.

My travel buddy at my terminal at LAX.

The plane broke through the clouds that formed a landscape of their own. []I love clouds. I really do. Thank goodness I had a window seat, because the views were like a tour of Central and South America. I recognized the stretch of desert, it’s rocky hills and menacing contour, as the “Devil’s Highway” that many an immigrant have crossed from Mexico to America. [Great book, check it out]. We flew along the Western coast of Guatemala and San Salvador before landing, for once the ocean was not bordered by tall buildings and roads but rather green countryside and rolling hills. El Salvador was absolutely beautiful, 90 percent green and spotted by tin roofed houses, dirt roads, muddy ponds and streams snake through the countryside.

 

Clouds over barren Mexican territory.

How often do you see the way clouds cast shadows?

Mountains to the east, ocean to the west.

The airport in San Salvador was an experience. Birds sat on planes’ wings and cows grazed nearby. It was small and navegable (thank goodness) and smelled slightly moldy, which I attribute to the extremely tropical climate. The security was extensive, and a guard walked a german shepherd through the crowds sniffing them and their luggage.

I needed coffee. I had only gotten an hour of sleep the night before, and I had a long journey ahead of me. I spotted a cafe, and upon trying to reach it, I was stopped by a security guard. “Quiero comprar un cafecito?” A well-planned request.

He replied in Spanish too fast for me to understand, gesturing away from the cafe. “Oh, gracias.” Abort mission.

In a way, this is what a culture shock feels like. It’s refreshing (I’ll be using this word a lot) to be in a place that for once, doesn’t cater to me as an American girl. There are not always english translations on signs or following the hurried spanish announcements over the intercom. I was almost invisible, except for my oversized backpack that was hardly carry on size and giant yellow sweater. It’s refreshing to be invisible.

The journey was almost over. I was nearly delusional. I sat in the terminal waiting for the plane to La Paz to board. Having multiple layovers before arriving at your destination is interesting, as you see the travelers become less diverse as you get closer to the final destination. At the terminal in Peru, I saw a group of Cholitas with their brimmed hats, bundled up for La Paz’s arid cold.

I met a boy from Venezuela who was heading to La Paz as well. He makes films for Red Bull, and was flying first class to film a professional motorcyclist in one of the nine districts. He invited me to the event, which I wish I had gone to if it weren’t for my much needed sleeping in the next day. He told me he was planning a sort of “Diarios de Motocicleta” film with the motorcyclist, and would be filming his travels across Bolivia as a novel remake of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid. Marcos. Very cool guy.

After three different airports and three different flights on three different planes, we began our descent into La Paz.

I felt a funny sensation in my head as I struggled to stay awake, and I knew I was the highest in altitude I have ever been.

I responded to the high elevation better than I expected, however, and even now, I don’t feel any epoxia symptoms.

Maricielo, who had also been picked up at the airport with myself, is still sniffling and miserable due to the elevation.

The driver was extremely friendly, but only spoke spanish so I was forced to continue trying to communicate in my delusional  state. I was semi-successful, and as my first impression of Bolivians, the driver was understanding of my being a Gringa.

We drove through El Alto, the city that hangs over the edge of the La Paz Basin, in many places reduced to rubble and decorated by political graffiti.Stray dogs ran the streets at this hour, running dangerously close to taxis that drove all over the road until we turned the corner.

View from El Alto.

This is a city in which you can see the stars, and living near the city centre and it’s traffic does not keep you up all night. Despite some of its run down aspects, it’s incredibly beautiful. So simple, refreshing. As I’ll soon realize, much about this different environment is refreshing, so much so that I fell in love with South America immediately.

Keep reading, I’ll get into the interesting stuff pretty soon!

Ciao for now. xx

2 a.m. view from my street, Prolongacion Armaza in Sopocachi, La Paz.