Escape from La Paz

Note: This post tells the story of our escape from the political problems that effectively shut down Bolivia for a period of several weeks, roughly 2 months ago now. The post contains scenes of Tyler and I in no small amount of danger, and as a result I would like to inform our mothers and grandmothers that the following account is entirely fictional, and didn't really happen. To everyone else, what follows is entirely true, and scary.

In order to give the reader a proper account of our escape from La Paz, it would be wise to first approach the story with a brief explanation of the problems from which we were fleeing. Many of you already know what happened there, but for those who don't, I'll attempt to draw a quick picture of the conflict and its cause:

Bolivia is a rich and varied country, with landscapes ranging from dense jungle and lowlands, to the Altiplano, the highest stretch of the Andes mountains where foolishly someone at some point decided to place La Paz, Potosi, the Salt Flats, and a number of other interesting and cool sites despite the fact that the region is located roughly between 11,000 and 20,000 feet. They were apparently unaware that the air is thinner up there, and no one has any business being at that altitude unless they are in fact sitting in an airplane seat.

The country is also quite varied culturally, consisting in the two largest distinctions of the descendants of Europeans (and mestizos), and the indigenous populations. In Bolivia, this indigenous population is the largest in South America, making up roughly 60% of the population. However, as is the story in most of Latin America, they haven't exactly been given what anyone would consider a fair share of either the political power or the wealth. As a result, Bolivia has a fairly well-established routine of campesino (indigenous farmers, mostly poor) protests. These protests usually take the form of road-blocks and giant demonstrations, the goal of which is to annoy rich gringos trying to take photos of their country to bore people at home with. They also effectively shut down the country, which makes the politicians somewhat obligated to pay at least the bare minimum of attention to their demands.

As we were trying to get to La Paz, as Tyler has already related in a previous post, the most recent situation was just beginning to seriously heat up. The conflict was in large part over the oil industry in Bolivia, and specifically about the fact that large foreign multinationals are taking most of said oil out of the country and making a fortune, while the people of Bolivia remain poor and undercompensated for their great natural wealth. I know, the more cynical of our readership will be saying, "What else is new?", as Latin America has been successively raped by just about every major world power, making those powers incredibly wealthy while leaving most of the continent in horrendous poverty. However, in this instance the campesino population decided that they had had enough of that sort of nonsense, and were protesting the exportation of what they consider to be their rightful wealth. In addition, the protests were also about the under-representation of the huge campesino population, but then again they've been pissed about that for quite some time.

So, into the middle of this giant firestorm, Ty and I casually strolled. Perhaps we thought it would be interesting to see firsthand, perhaps we were just stupid, but whatever the reason, we suddenly found ourselves in a La Paz that was increasingly troubled, and increasingly dangerous. At first, we weren't in any danger, the protests being quite large but largely peaceful. We explored La Paz, avoiding any trouble spots (although on one occasion we caught a dose of tear gas as a mischevious swirl of wind decided to take the eye-burning, nose-running cloud and whisk it away from the protest a few blocks over and use it to hunt gringos), and enjoyed the city for a few days.

The situation continued to get worse, however. The protesters began setting off dynamite in the streets, and we heard vague rumors of attacks on men in suits (luckily we had both forgotten to pack ours). We soon learned that the blockades were spreading, the whole country was shutting down, and that we couldn't leave the city by any road. Our freedom to move didn't seem quite so important until is was denied us, and suddenly we found ourselves questioning whether or not waiting the situation out was a good idea. From our vantage point within, we had no idea when the problems might end, or whether they might get substantially worse. The words "civil war" were on many lips, and while the impish nature of your travelling narrators were on some levels intrigued by the prospect of being in the middle of a war, their common sense prevailed and led them to the decision that getting out of the country was probably a better course.

We learned from the owner of the hostel at which we were staying that a taxi was being arranged to take some gringos past the blockades to the border with Peru, a small car being able to get by where buses and other transport couldn't. The price quoted to us was $20 US, which we felt was exorbitant, and which expenditure we debated between ourselves excessively. Finally, we decided that while it felt a bit extreme, it was in reality a fairly small price to pay to avoid being delayed in our travels much longer. So, along with two other gringos who were staying at the hostel and whose acquaintance we met only as the taxi pulled up to take us away, we signed up for what would be the most intense and frightening journey either of us had yet undertaken.

The other two with whom we would share this adventure introduced themselves as Simon, a 35-year-old Australian, and Monique, mid-twenties and from Holland. Simon worked in business for a number of years before giving that up to become a guide for trekking and rafting, which he's done for a number of years now. Monique was working in rehabilitation for troubled youth in Holland. They were friendly and talkative, and good people to share the coming ordeal with.

Our taxi drove through the city to another location, where it joined a large convoy of 7 others, all full of gringos, all run by the same company whose idea was to ferry a big shipment of gringos in one big run to the border, making a fortune off the $20 a head they were charging. In a good chunk of the other taxis was a group of seventeen 18 and 19 year old English kids, on an organized trip during their Gap year between high school and college. We'd met them all before, at the llama sacrifice in Potosi, and we were quite happy that we'd be making the quick 67 mile jaunt over to the border with them.

The convoy of taxis (all of which were mid-90s Totota Carolla sedans) thus loaded with their all-white cargo pulled out in a long line. The drivers were all friends and coworkers, and chattering constantly on their radios with each other passed and vied with each other in a constant, high-spirited game. The route they chose wound around the back side of the city, avoiding the major roads out of town. After we had climbed to the rim of the canyon in which La Paz is located, we came to the edge of El Alto, a hugely sprawling suburb of La Paz (and indeed a separate city) where the population was largely indigenous, poor, and at the moment the area of greatest protest activity. There, we encountered the first blockade, which for whatever reason allowed us to pass without much hassle. I believe a bribe was paid, but perhaps the blockaders there just weren't all that fired up politically. The sun was just beginning to set, and maybe they were more interested in finding something alcoholic to drink, as we were to learn was a major pastime of blockaders in the nights. Either way, the ease with which we passed boded quite well for the voyage.

The convoy, eager to avoid El Alto and the main roads as much as possible, took to the back roads; dusty, bumpy tracks through the outskirts of town, mud-bricked hovels on either side seeming abandoned. They were unfamiliar with the territory, and had to backtrack often, sometimes stopping to ask directions. We wound our way through these crude streets, the dusty tan of everything and the sense of danger giving me the eerie, unwelcome fantasy that the streets were not of Bolivia, but those of Iraq. The mood of our drivers changed, becoming more nervous, less playful.

After 4 hours of this slow, torturous wending voyage (at about 12:30 at night), we left behind the city and saw the lights of El Alto begin to fall behind. Our drivers, feeling that we'd left the bulk of the problems behind, decided to return to the main road.

Big mistake.

We hit pavement, and the string of taxis which to this point had been moving painfully slowly towards our destination, stretched their legs and ran, reaching speeds of 50mph for the first time all night, bringing with it a relaxing of tension and the feeling of progress. We made jokes and talked with the others about our travels and travails, seeing the way ahead clear and easy.

The feeling didn't last long, as up ahead we saw the first of the cars begin braking. Out of the dark field to our right I saw a man running towards the car, falling behind as we passed. The convoy stopped entirely, a blockade across the road ahead, and looking into the side mirror of the car I saw silhouetted against the lights of the city behind an incalculable number of shadows bobbing as they ran up behind the cars. They flooded around in a giant throng, dark shadows outside fogged up windows, pounding on hoods and shaking the cars on their shocks, yelling unintelligible things, angry things. Some of the shadows brandished clubs, and in an instant of horrible realization, I was certain, absolutely certain, that we were going to be dragged from the car and beaten.

Our driver rolled down his window a crack and in a voice shaky with fear told the mob that the jefe was in the first car, that they'd have to speak with him. Some of the crowd drifted off towards the front, and after a few moments to compose himself, our driver got out of the car to go join the others at the head of the train, instructing us before he left to keep the doors locked and not to leave. The thought of getting out of the car had in fact not even slightly crossed any of our minds, and was unlikely to do so as long as an angry mob waited outside.

After a number of tense minutes, during which we tersely discussed our options (limited), our driver came back and told us that the blockaders were going to let us pass in return for a small tax, or bribe as its known in most circles. I believe the sum was 5 Bolivianos per head, 20 per car, something like $3.50 each taxi. Slowly, the line of cars began to go forward, and as our car passed the blockade itself, I began to realize the enormity of the situation we were facing, as hundreds of campesinos gathered around fires in metal drums watching us pass, some shouting at us, most silently staring.

We breathed a collective sigh of relief, as the blockade faded behind, but the mood in the car had significantly changed. We understood now that the quick jaunt to the border was significantly more complicated, and significantly more dangerous. We plied the driver for information; how much longer, are there more roadblocks, are we going to make it? He responded with what to his credit were very optimistic responses assuring us that we'd get there, and soon. Something about the first portion of the night, however, made us begin to suspect that he didn't know, and was only telling us what we wanted to hear.

The next section of the road is a bit hazy in my memory. Did we pass more roadblocks in the hours between 1 and 2? We must have, but I can't really recall. The next event I'm sure of occurred as we pulled up to a very large blockade, located on a bridge.

We were perhaps the 6th car in line, pulling onto a bridge and stopping. Again, the dark shapes, many more this time, packed in around the cars. They peered in, seeming less angry than the previous mob, but still shouting and trying to open doors locked quickly in fear. They wanted to know who was inside, and we felt this time that showing them we were gringos was beneficial, so we wiped away the fog clouding our ability for each group to see the other, and shouted "Hola!" in an attempt to appear as friendly and non-threatening as possible. It's harder to hurt someone who's smiling and waving dumbly than someone hunched in fear. At least, that was the idea.

A large sub-section of the general throng was moving from the front car back along the line towards ours, peering in each, sometimes opening trunks to search for merchandise. They were primarily concerned with preventing any commerce from happening in the country, and so were looking for smugglers trying to slip goods by the blockades. They came to the car in front of us, another taxi that wasn't part of our group but had somehow slipped into our line at some point earlier, trying to gain protection from our numbers. The previously neutral shouting became angry, as they opened the rear of the car and saw heaps of baggage, seeming too much for the few passengers inside.

We had no idea at the time why they were suddenly angry; from our vantage point the mob simply turned violent, shaking the car as some members began shouting to burn it, and everyone inside. The driver of the cab fled, running off into the night, never to return. The cab rocked dangerously on it's shocks, and only after heated discussion and sifting of the bags in the back did they decide that it wasn't commercial goods after all, only baggage, and the mobs anger subsided somewhat, if only from a boil to a simmer, waiting somewhat hopefully for something to give it reason to rise again.

They came to our car next, and our driver opened the trunk for them. Our bags were back there, and our fear was that they might simply grab one of the smaller ones and leave with it, but all our gear was not worth our personal safety, so we stayed inside the car and hoped that everything was still there when we got through. After they had inspected all the cars, the group moved towards the front, where the drivers of all the cars and the campesinos were discussing the situation, and trying to find a suitable resolution.

In the car, we were all tense but tried to relax, occasionally telling jokes and stories to take our mind off the situation outside. A half hour passed and more before our driver came back to the car. It was cold outside, bitter cold, and it seemed he was only warming up before heading back out to continue the debate. He didn't tell us much, only that we would be going soon, not to worry. It began to get cold inside the car, very cold.

After another interminable period, he came back again, and again told us that we would be leaving soon, 20 minutes, no mas. He quickly belied the truth of his statement by falling asleep, snoring loudly.

Time passed, one hour, two. The time was now around 3:30, maybe 4. We tried to sleep, pulling my sleeping bag out of my large pack which had of necessity ridden on the laps of the three in the back, as the trunk had been too small to accomodate all of our gear together. It was very cold, and the three in the back huddled together under my bag while I pulled on as much clothing as I could in the passenger seat and tried to sleep.

During the night, another convoy of taxis pulled up onto the bridge. There were about 8 more of them, and they received much the same treatment as we had. I was woken by the commotion, but after the same search and questioning session, the situation calmed down again and everyone in both convoys settled down to wait.

Finally, the sun rose, slowly bringing with it a bit of warmth. The morning progressed, and the situation on the bridge became more relaxed, almost concert-like as the day became warm, and in the new feeling of safety everyone left the cars and walked around, talking to the others, some even sunbathing. We asked what we were waiting for, and were told that some important leaders of the various tribes that were conducting the blockades in the region were coming for a large meeting to decide what to do with us, and that we should just be patient.

The day passed slowly, coming up on noon and leaving it behind. There was no longer any danger it felt, and the campesinos who occasionally passed were friendly and curious. It seems that the nighttime is much more dangerous, most likely as a result of the alcohol and coca leaves that go around in large quantities as soon as the sun sets.

Finally, at about 1 in the afternoon, the leaders of the tribes arrived in the back of a pickup truck, with a huge flag on the back in the rainbow colors of the indigenous peoples of Bolivia and Peru. They made their way through the blockade as we all tried to smile and wave as politely as we could, to the rear of the cars where a large group of campesinos waited. They all gathered around into a large group, the leaders seated in a semi-circle at the front, and began their meeting. We soon discovered that meetings among the indigenous peoples of Bolivia at the least are not quick affairs, and the introductions alone can sometimes take hours.

An hour passed without anything of note coming out the meeting. Another passed as well, before finally one of the drivers came back and told us that they were going to let us through, they just had to work out the details. This took another large chunk of time, before finally all the drivers came back and told us to get in, hurry, we had to go. The blockaders moved the large boulders and rocks at the head of the bridge, and slowly, one car at a time, our now much larger convoy of something like 18 cars pulled through and continued on our voyage.

The deal that the drivers had struck to get us moving was not entirely clear, but was at least in part based on the idea that after the gringos were dropped at the border, the convoy would return by the same route and pick up the campesinos, to take them into La Paz for a large protest planned the next day. In return, we not only got to pass, but one of the leaders came with us as a guide to get us through the rest of the roadblocks. They told us there were only three more blocks, and that with his help we would get through them and to the border quickly. Everything seemed to be going great, and the way appeared clear and easy.

We soon approached another blockade, the drivers got out and went to the front, bargained, and after 15 minutes returned and we passed. The routine was now established: pull up, the drivers get out to talk to the campesinos, they either bribe them or they let us through out of goodwill, and we pass. This rythm lulled us into a sense of security, and we laughed and joked and became good friends with the others in the car.

At about 5:30, we approached yet another roadblock. This one was positioned at the far side of a small canyon formed where the builders of the road had cut straight through a small hill, leaving the sides steep and rocky. We entered the canyon and pulled up at the blockade, our car 4th from the front. We gave the blockade a quick glimpse as our driver left the car to join the others at the front before returning to our conversation, secure in the system that had been established.

Not even a minute passed before we heard loud, angry shouting and looked up to see the drivers running back towards the cars. Behind them came a large, angry mob, running towards the cars. I saw men at the front stoop, saw them pick up rocks, saw them begin to throw them at the cars. Tires squealed as the drivers tried to get the cars turned around in the box canyon as more rocks thudded into the sides of the cars. I looked up to see men on the ridgelines above, hurling larger boulders down on top of us, whamming into the roofs, breaking glass. We ducked and covered as I curled into a ball with my arms over my head, hoping I didn't get hit.

The drivers sped away down the road, but pulled up and stopped entirely too soon it felt. We poked our heads up, and saw that they had pulled perhaps 400m down the road, just over a rise in the road which shielded us from view of the mob, and entirely too close for our comfort. We were sure the angry mob would come flooding over the hill at any second.

The drivers all walked off together and huddled in conversation, so we immediately jumped into action, assessing the damage and any injuries. Luckily, no one had been hurt seriously. As we seemed to be the oldest of the gringos in the cars, we quickly organized the frightened English kids into squads, cleaning glass out of cars and trying to patch up windows with whatever we had against the coming cold of the night which began to fall around us. The first 3 cars had received the worst damage, having all their windows and windshields broken out. We stretched and duck-taped plastic and cardboard over the windows, carefully plucked glass out of the seats, and made the cars as serviceable as possible while the drivers turned and as a group headed back to talk to the campesinos (which took tremendous courage, I thought).

After the cars were as repared as we could make them, we waited in the dark for the drivers to return. For lack of anything to occupy ourselves, we organized a driver for each of the cars in case we had to flee, and made sure that everyone was prepared for that possibility. Then, we waited.

Time passed, how much I'm not sure, before our drivers came back and told us to get in, we were going, now. We weren't sure if that meant away from the block or through it, but we piled back in. The cars turned around and began to head back to the blockade, as we questioned our driver as to what was happening. He said they'd let us through and assured us we'd have no problems, but I thought I detected a bit of uncertainty in his voice which magnified my own unease.

We approached the blockade slowly, and the angry mob had thinned substantially, but there were still large numbers of men standing around fires, watching us. Everyone was tense, not sure if they would attack again or honor their word, as we crept by through a winding path through the boulders and dirt of the blockade. I was tense all over, and didn't relax until we'd left the blockade well behind. All the cars made it through, and we continued.

The rest of the night passed in a nightmare of blockades and angry campesinos, detours over bumpy roads, and a seemingly never-ending journey. We had slept little, perhaps an hour in the last 30, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. The line between reality and dream became blurred, and I slipped in and out of conciousness despite my best efforts to remain awake. Nigthmares of being attacked blended seamlessly into our real difficulties, and I wanted only to get to the border, to end the journey.

Finally, at around 3 in the morning, we saw lights ahead and the driver told us excitedly that it was the border. We'd travelled a little more than 67 miles from La Paz to the border with Peru at Desaquaderro. The journey took 35 hours in total. I've never experienced anything like it.
- posted by Micah @ 10:35 PM