my My Wandering

I recognized them easily: beyond their physical features, complexion, eyes or height, it was their almost whispering voices and their soft-spoken, warm and unpretentious Spanish that stood out down the busy avenue where dozens upon dozens of people talked loudly while rushing somewhere and nowhere after elusive fortune and time. Conversation naturally emerged between us, strangers waiting in line there, some to have a passport renewed, others to have a certificate issued and one to have a visa done, a big backpack on his shoulders. I had nearly got a shock when receiving an email imbibed in old world courtesy from a clerk at the place I now queued at, the Bolivian Consulate in Barcelona; what was this man after? Was he going to overcharge me for the visa or what other scheme did he have in mind, like the staff at the Gouter Refuge up the Mont Blanc, blocking all available places throughout the year so as to force mountaineers use local guides that performed a quick hocus-pocus and immediately got bookings, of course, provided one obliged and paid their daily fee? Instead, when my turn came, we had a family-like chat as he was preparing the visa:

‘¿Cuándo vas a Bolivia?’

‘Tengo el vuelo en 3 horas.’

‘Ah, sí, ahora lo recuerdo.’

While in transit at Bogotá Airport, with the air filled by a blend of arepas and salsa music, it felt as if I was heading back home. As if I had left Caracas, Asunción or Cuenca the day before and now, after completing my work shift, I was homebound, to a bowl of changua, a plateful of empanadas and alfajores, or, to put it correctly, alfajoritas, respectively a cuppa of horchata, as a vibrant tango tune reverberated throughout the neighbourhood. Taking in the the verdant highlands in the distance, Héctor Paúl Vanegas’ lyrics about his beloved Orinoquía naturally came to mind:

‘Es una ley del llanero

Darle la mano al que llega.

El que está adentro se atiende,

El que está afuera, se apea,

Y con gran algarabía

Se le abre la talanquera

Como si fuera un hermano

Que de otras tierras viniera.’

At the end of the day, save for a few isolated islands (most times ad literam), Europe had lost its vibe (in terms of lifestyle), its common sense (in terms of politics and citizenship) as well as, ultimately, its richness (in terms of values as opposed to valuables), and there was no wonder I felt this way. The recent European could easily go to bed a man and wake up a horse, chimp or euglena, if he so wished he needed not meet anyone for days, months, years, why not his whole life, with food, clothes, e- and smart-everything, respectively ideology being readily delivered to him. Human interaction in Europe had turned pointless, as it was costly, and the recent European was always after a bargain. The destination did not matter once one got a 11 PM message from a low cost carrier with an unmissable offer of EUR 10 flights. The recent European no longer had opinions and no longer favoured debate, as he lived on strawberry flavour pills, on fragrance and teaser-based drops, the perfect image of the ideology he hungrily and happily swallowed in the form of the typical less than a minute long Facebook and TikTok feeds.

Landing in La Paz in the dead of the night had its advantages: a relatively remote thunderstorm lit the sky in a marvelous way and one could take in the city extensively sprawling over hillsides, with its huge El Alto extension. Then, when crossing it, one had an tranquil image that could hardly come in a higher contrast with the one a few hours later, when all that captivating sound and colour filled every corner, lane, avenue and plaza around. Yet this nocturnal city tour also came with familiarities of another nature:

‘Lamentablemente, nuestros problemas parecen no tener fin: los elevados subsidios a la gasolina y a los alimentos básicos están matando al país, la inflación es muy alta y el desarrollo muy lento. Los socialistas sólo prometen reformas y cambios, pero no cumplen sus promesas.’

‘Los socialistas sólo producen ideología, imbecilización y el crimen resultante. Nada más. Nunca.’

Indeed, the La Paz I was to discover at daytime reflected very well the mostly ineffective governance of the last 50-60 years to say the least, with the lineup of military coups of the 1960s and 1970s, the following Communist regime of the early 1980s, Estenssoro’s and de Lozada’s reforms that had been welcome but came to an abrupt end in 1995, respectively with unrest and chaos followed by the grand Socialist scheme that still prevailed. Such a down-down-up-down-down pattern left behind a city where planned development did not prevail. Roads came to an abrupt end. The Plaza San Francisco that in other cities would have been one of the central pieces downtown was just a cement paved bath tub crisscrossed by flyovers and tunnels, covered with a thick layer of vehicle fumes. Grand heritage, period properties, whether colonial, republican or newer, had been added Brutalist wings or tall office buildings had been glued to them in an approach that defied not only the city these contemporary projects had been thrown in with an utter lack of common sense, but also any sort of logic. Bunches of wires crossed or lined up the narrow lanes, while an agglomeration of favela-like (seen from a distance) neighbourhoods covered the hillsides all around the city proper. Especially up the steep slopes, as the streets and lanes were heading straight up, the plethora of packed minibuses and all makes of lorries, buses and cars filled the thin 4000 m.a.s.l. air with their heavy fumes which might have encouraged many to consider climbing a 6000 m.a.s.l. peak just to escape the scene.

At the very same time and quite often from the same perspective, the city was utterly vibrant. Vibrant with those very flows of cars and aging freight vehicles or buses some of which made one recall those vividly painted, overloaded (to say the least) Pakistani trucks complete with all knick knacks in the world that made an unmissable noise as they hurried past. Vibrant with people that never seemed to cease going up and down the streets downtown. Vibrant with the myriad of scents, fragrances and – again – fumes that enchanted, surprised, choked, thrilled and subdued the visitor in a unique way. Vibrant with those colourful and often excellent graffitis that mirrored well the colourful contemporary paintings hosted by the historic building complete with those wonderful sandstone carvings. Vibrant with the settled or ad hoc markets dotting the city, with the colourful flowers and fruits, the big heaps and bunches of vegetables and herbs, the piles of chicken or small, round bread loafs out there. Vibrant with the flows of vehicles and pedestrians, with the endless line of people selling everything down the sidewalks plying the lively Avenida Mariscal Santa Cruz. Vibrant as seen from above, from the Teleférico, which revealed a valley packed with buildings that often seemed to cling one on top of another in a desperate surviving manner. And, more than anything else, La Paz was vibrant with its inhabitants’ old world courtesy, smiles, kindness and humanity, with their soft voices, common sense and solutions for nearly anything. With the cholitas and their colourful attire worn without ado or disrespect and granting the whole place a unique atmosphere. And then, yes, there were hardly any well preserved historic squares here like in Quito, Bogotá or Lima (the Plaza Murillo that would have been one such place had been dwarfed by the addition of a Socialist glory tower just behind the cathedral), while in terms of an old and new balance, it was far from Santiago or Caracas. But then, this former outpost on a trade route that later developed in the pace of the mining activity across the region had managed to have its say, and to have it in a highly personal way, with its inhabitants preserving their human, kind and open nature to a great extent. And its rather fluid history was excellently reflected by the fluid street and city life.

Heading out of La Paz, one crossed the 1,200,000 inhabitant, new (it had not existed less than half a century before) El Alto city, which had the advantage that, contrary to La Paz, it had developed in a flat 4000+ m.a.s.l. area, so that it had spread in all directions with brick and cement blocks and houses many of which were left unfinished on purpose (as one paid less taxes for an unfinished building). Every now and then, this repetitive scenery was dotted with the unmissable (through their absolute ugliness and dull concept to start with) cholets, i.e. Freddy Mamani’s glitz’n punk idea of building a villa or office / apartment building, covering it all up in glass or shiny stainless steel plates, then topping it all up with larger than life patterns about half the way between Inca symbolism mockery and James Bond 3024. The main 3-4 lane per way roads here seemed not enough to cope with the resulting traffic in this booming (ad literam) agglomeration, as vehicles flowed from everywhere just as one only rarely got the chance to see anything but buildings with the same unplastered brick facades. More than an hour after starting, this scenery gave in while distant hills and extensive pastures dotted with cattle enchanted the eye. Then, shortly after crossing the Estrecho de Tiquina and one rather steep up and down, I reached Copacabana, a tourist den that would have been highly annoying hadn’t there be the local market complete with the mouth watering fragrances coming from the big pots a few cholitas served meals from, respectively the enchanting without being impressive Moorish style cathedral in front of which a few friendly families had brought their new cars, had adorned them with plenty of flowers and were now spraying them with beer or wine in a car baptism ceremony that elsewhere would have been tacky, but here was purely natural.

An hour’s boat ride across the blue, crystal clean waters of Lake Titicaca delivered one to the Isla del Sol with its verdant slopes dotted with guesthouses of all shapes and volumes that could not have come in a starker contrast with the natural setting. However, after one crossed Yumani Village with its tourist infrastructure and artefact stalls, a fine crest was reached, with a scarce vegetation of grass, shrub and rare eucalyptus thickets, with great views all around, including to the South-West, where a dark sky crossed from time to time by lightnings balanced well the blue sky and tranquil atmosphere above. Yet, until the heavy rainfall reached the island, I had the time to walk to the Cerro Palla Khasa commanding a generous view of the island, and along the crest running Southwards, wondering how many people had been sacrificed up there by the Incas to their gods. A storm complete with a mind (and not only) blowing wind and heavy showers wiped out the question and lasted all night, a perfect environment for a log’s sleep with the three Inca commandments in mind: ‘Ama sua, ama llulla, ama khella’ (‘Thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not lie, thou shalt not be lazy’). Oddly enough (or not that oddly if one casts a glance at the world today, with pay-two-get-one-free and a-couple-of-clicks-away-from-anything hedonism up and strong), the last one was not among the Christian or Jewish commandments or the five pillars of Islam.

The change from the Isla del Sol to the Isla de la Luna was dramatic. In the case of the latter, the tourist this and tourist that in the air was almost gone (and so was electricity), the community was way smaller and the tranquility filling the air was enchanting. Other than that, the setting of the Tiwanaku founded Temple of the Virgins was wonderful, with several details that intrigued one while reminding of Central Asian and Anatolian architecture. Even though Copacabana with its bustling, colourful tourist avenue was a mere hour’s boat ride away, there was a sense of extraordinary remoteness up the Isla de la Luna that was extremely rewarding. Back to La Paz, I dived in a sea of drums, trumpets, masked dancers and cheering, yelling crowds, as people started celebrating the upcoming end of the year in a great party and carnival-like atmosphere. The whole Avenida Mariscal Santa Cruz brimmed with people flowing in and out of it, while everyone, from families with small children or groups and teenagers to elderly people dressed up for a special occasion, everyone seemed to have come and attend the event.

It heavily rained all night down in La Paz and Mount Chacaltaya welcomed the intruder with a dense mist and a layer of fresh, rather soft snow. The upper reaches of the mountain welcomed one with the price the country paid for its richness of minerals, as trails and wires crisscrossed the slopes, while miners’ quarters, equipment and decantation pools added a grim tag to the landscape. When the mist allowed it, the peak afforded fine views over the Huayna Potosí and the Charquini. Once down, I let myself wander freely across the districts of Santa Barbara and Miraflores, to a world of humitas and contrasting architecture. It had taken a while, but I had come to greatly enjoy the city for what was not obvious for someone careful while crossing the street, looking for some local highlight or while trying to find here the exotism in other South American cities. I had come to see the simple, but appealing facade of the Capilla Virgen del Carmen with its naive statues inside that did not impose on the visitor like great cathedrals and monumental churches do, but rather made him feel at ease. To stop in the Plaza Murillo with the endless traffic roar all around, while looking at the hundreds upon hundreds of pigeons there. To have an already regular break at the small joint down the Calle Indaburo, where two always smiling ladies served excellent pastel de queso and api mesclado to a heterogeneous crowd, from lawyers working in the many offices around, to elderly people that seemed to have go there for decades. To give without being asked and to be given without asking for anything. To be kicked by and to engage in a savorous discussion with the lady at a 4 square meter joint selling fruit salads about the dramatic turn in the telenovela running on an overhead TV screen. To smile at the many stray dogs around and to actually bear that smile endlessly not out of a theatrical impulse, but as it had grown out of the dance in my blood, as Rumi’s great verses read.

The Huayna Potosí would not reveal itself at once. Desolate boulder, stone or scree slopes and ridges went up from the wide valley in a rather bleak background. Farther up, a wide glacier cut across by a maze of crevasses smoothly led the way to a dark ridge on top of which one could figure a snow cap. While going up the mountain, I met Colin. An American litigation lawyer, he stood out with his feet, the strongest feet I had ever seen except for bodybuilding or steroid-infused wackos:

‘I go running for 20 km. every day. This is my life, one between Aspen and Los Angeles.’

Colin proved to be one of the most balanced persons I had met, equidistantly talking about various places and communities in the U.S.A. or in other countries he had traveled to. We started at the high camp at 1 AM, under a sky full of stars, coping with crevasses, steeper glaciar slopes and green ice stretches until we reached the foot of the peak trapeze with its steep rocky face we negotiated to the crest and eventually to the summit, where the wind and a freezing air refreshed us instantly. As the sun rose, the Illimani could be seen as if emerging from the red horizon, the dark Charquini drew one’s attention with its nearly vertical buttresses, while a sea of clouds hid the Yungas. These heavenly views needed their balance as well, so that upon walking down the street my hotel lay on in La Paz, I ran into a crowd of people that were to go on shouting, singing and fire cracker-throwing well into the night: across the street there was a building hosting the Department of Justice. A rather interesting coincidence, as the next day I was to learn that, following Russian interference with presidential elections in Romania, the Constitutional Court declared the said elections as null, to the outrage of them reds that had better read one Dostoevsky again and again so as to get a clear image of the Russian state’s (disregarding of regime) ‘good will’ and ‘blessings’, respectively its generosity of sharing them throughout the ages, generosity that not once left behind, among others (ideology, poverty, famine, oppression, mass manipulation), millions of deaths.

‘Lo siento, pero parece que no hay un minibús a Tiwanaku en este momentito. Puedes andar a el gran terminal de autobuses de El Alto’, told me one of the drivers in the line of minibuses parked down a lane across the avenue from the main entrance to the big cemetery in La Paz.

‘Muchas gracias señor, pero puedo esperar aquí’, I replied, got out a steamy empanada de queso, sat down on some stairs and started eating it.

‘Sí, voy a Tiwanaku, pero no ahorita. Puede ser a las 10:00 o más tarde, depende de los pasajeros’, replied the driver of a Tiwanaku-bound minibus showing up about an hour later.

‘Muy bien, puedo esperar’, I replied, crossed the avenue and had a walk in the cemetery, with its tranquility coming in a great contrast from the busy streets around and their humdrum. The great monuments and crypts of historic figures alternated in a fascinating manner with the many rows of ash cell blocks (sometimes there were 2-3 floor buildings resembling poor apartment buildings) often adorned with fresh flowers and messages from the deceased persons’ relatives.

Eventually we did start and, after once again crossing busy El Alto, we reached the entrance to the archaeological site at Tiwanaku. The remains of this still little known culture (and greatly overshaded by the famous one following it, the Inca) were captivating, from the fine details of their ceramics and highly sophisticated stone carvings to their intricate network of caravanning routes and great effort they undergone to bring great (up to 25 ton a piece) slabs of basalt or sandstone from quarries between 5 and 40 km. away.

The background changed after moving on Southwards across La Paz and El Alto. First, there was less and less traffic. Then, the more rugged terrain gave way to wide valleys and fields, with the eye taking in a broad view. And then, it got warmer. Some other things did not change, such as the lengthy truck and generally diesel engine vehicles queues at petrol stations, given the more than 50% subsidized fuel in a country with a frail budget. Once in Patacayama, one was struck by the number of vehicles without a registration plate. Stolen from neighbouring Chile and smuggled across the border so as to have their traces lost, they could be driven in areas where police checkpoints were not present, or could get cloned plates, which meant that someone took the time to look for similar brand, model and colour vehicles, write down the registration number and then proceed to get one faked out, a thing that worked out well with most police checks, as officers rarely had the time to actually check the chassis or engine serial number. And then, leaving all them contemporary affairs behind, it was straight towards the arid Sajama region, being welcome by a sea of dry grass, beige ground and distant volcanoes, a joy to the eye and soul. In this welcoming world, after going around the mighty Sajama Volcano with its dramatic walls, buttresses and snow cap, and after passing by a couple of estancias made of small picturesque adobe houses, one reached the small, half deserted (especially as December was already off season) and half lively (given the presence of a big religious group on a pilgrimage trip) Sajama Village that was duly appreciated as a perfectly placed oasis of tranquility in a great setting. Tranquility that could only – and righteously so – be balanced out by León Gieco’s ‘Sólo le pido a dios’.

The de rigueur midnight start delivered one at the foot of the Parinacota in due time to take in the sunrise over neighbouring Pomerape while heading up the wide, frozen snow slopes. It was not reaching the summit itself that was an accomplishment, but the moment when, while up there, one saw a few other mountaineers reach it, their faces changing instantly from the strain of the last stretch to the absolute, pure joy they shared while shaking hands, taking pictures and sharing snacks with strangers. Then, another midnight start had one go up the trailless and rarely trodden Pomerape, with its diverse scenery, from the typical volcano ash and turf-filled valleys to those dark red walls and cliffs, all the way to the unexpected (or rather unwanted) penitentes at the top, that turned what should have been a 20-30 minute trek to the summit into a 2 hour slug, stumbling and sinking in the deep snow at every other step. All that while the eye could see far and wide, taking in distant mountains and lakes, incoming clouds and that strong sunlight. And nonetheless with the few and apparently simple words of the old lady in Sajama Village I had gone to the poor adobe house of to ask for cheese and apologized for interrupting her from cooking:

‘Hay tiempo para todo, señor. Tómese la vida con calma. Con calma.’

After a relaxing dip in the aguas termales and a de rigueur ride to the Chilean border for gasoline, getting back to La Paz was returning home. I instantly realized I had missed the city. Not its comforts, convenience and hot water, but that slow paced, human and nonetheless open-hearted humdrum. So that the few hours to a night bus on were spent rejoining the city. Up those sloped lanes in the busy, multi-storey Mercado Lanza, with its countless joints serving meals, snacks, coffee, api and pasteles de queso or selling newspapers, books, flowers, toys and so many other things, all grouped according to their respective specific. Joining those hundreds of people in the Plaza San Francisco just sitting down or standing up and contemplating life. Having a fresh juice in one of the underground passages, with the old lady there obliging to refill the glass while also offering me a broad smile. Sharing empanadas with the beggars at busy street corners that did not even have strength enough to ask for anything. Taking in thin air, fumes, the scent of big pot meals and freshly cut flowers blending in, and the ultimate news that life is however slow paced disregarding of one’s first impression. When all was said and done, strange as it might look at the first sight, La Paz had the grace of making one feel melancholic.

‘Pero no, señor. Este es el coche de las 21:00 a Potosí. Una vez que nosotros salimos, hay el coche de las 21:00 a Santa Cruz y después el coche de las 21:30 a Potosí (it was almost 22:00).’

‘Cama’ night buses in Bolivia had the outlook of their counterparts in Chile or Uruguay, yet a few details made them different, with the fact that seats did not go entirely flat being the least significant. It was the human ado about them, where the apparent chaos of checking in one’s luggage (an affair that unnecessarily created delays, had the bus driver and his assistant bend under great loads) and the fact that purchased tickets sometimes needed be reissued on the spot, among others, that reminded one that this was not a mere means of transport, but a kicking, living experience, as was to be the sunburnt head popping out of a mound of woolen sweaters and ponchos, respectively from under a great woolen cap and addressing me the following morning, as the bus was crossing vast highlands:

‘¿No tiene frío con esa chaqueta tan fina, chico?’.

An hour’s walk uphill from the extensive bus terminal delivered one to old Potosí, with its narrow lanes and streets being clogged in fumes and de rigueur wires, with micros honking potential passengers and locals going up and down in a relaxed pace (that was to turn in a nearly shocking – for one coming from La Paz at least – mad race once dark clouds gathered overhead). Street food was way simpler and way less present, a provincial, otherwise enchanting air prevailed and people were a bit more distant for a place that in the 16th century saw a silver-generated boom that would have it rank among the greatest cities in the world with over 200,000 inhabitants. And the provincial air prevailed when locals complained about not having an international airport (even though development was visibly underway at the small local one), that all local money went to La Paz or Santa Cruz (as always, even if arguably true, to be taken with a grain of salt and in relative terms) and that it was not promoted to its real potential (which was a local affair as much as it was a national one).

That aside, the city hosted superb gems, starting and ending with the Santa Teresa Convent, complete with its wonderful pieces of art and fascinating second courtyard flanked by painted wood columns and bearing an overwhelming countryside atmosphere in the middle of an otherwise agitated town; a pure coincidence (or wasn’t it?) had me just about finishing reading García Márquez’s ‘Del amor y otros demonios’, which granted the visit to the Santa Teresa Convent mysterious resonances with the Santa Clara Monastery and its labyrinth. The stories of the nuns of old – when rich families were considered successful, fulfilled as long as they had one daughter sent to a convent (together with a significant dowry in money and / or valuables), another one marry so as to carry on the family thread, and a boy enrolled in the military – were as interestingly laid out by the very knowledgeable curator as intriguingly adjacent to that of Sierva María. And the fact that both the mestizo Baroque sculpture and religious painting were sublime, shining like jewels in Potosí added to the captivating big picture.

On the other hand, following Abrenuncio’s directions and leaving behind appealing mysticism, at the way more popular Casa de la Moneda, one was struck not necessarily by the outstanding, vast building or the great mechanisms on site, but by one particular painting, ‘la Virgen del Cerro’, where the source of local (and Spain’s, to be more precise) silver and therefore wealth, Cerro Rico, embodied Virgin Mary, taking the shape of the Pachamama triangular symbol. It was ultimately moving to see the extent to which religion, wealth and ancient symbolism merged in a place where an estimate of 8,000,000 African and indigenous people died in less than 3 centuries for a single goal: silver extraction, processing and transport. To that, the only sort of a balance was provided by local people, from the elderly lady selling cooked meals from her modest, tiny shack in the marketplace to another old lady, bent under a great load on a microbús, telling a poor young man in rags that had gone around begging, singing and dancing, about to get off, in a striking Biblical scene:

‘Que vayas con Dios, hijo.’

As it went along an otherwise scenic winding valley dotted with small villages, the otherwise short, 3 hour something bus ride seemed to never come to an end, but it eventually did with an abrupt brake screech in the middle of frantic traffic, where one was greeted however by some of the memorable lyrics of the late Gustavo Cerati:

‘Hay una grieta en mi corazón,

Un planeta con desilusión…’

Quite appropriate in a world a good share of which directly supported individuals like Putin, Jong-un, Netanyahu, Khamene’i, Trump, as well as their muppets such as Orbán, Maduro, Georgescu and Nehammer, or indirectly did so while opportunistically standing by so as to avoid upsetting the former and therefore be able to place a successful bid when the time came, never missing the chance to get a slice of the chocolate chip, egocentric cake.

A taxi ride out and then back in the same traffic and a stone fountain splashing water around in the middle of a patio, with the street humdrum as background welcomed one to Sucre. The town hosted wonderful architecture, preserved extensive period districts and, facing an obvious high influx of foreign tourists (some of which leaping around in beach shorts flip flops or baggy flower power trousers and crocs), still managed to keep its atmosphere at a decent level. The fact that a few old colonial houses had been converted into museums and some of the monasteries also opened their gates to visitors allowed one to peek into these fascinating places, often entirely unexpected from the outside. The Convento de la Recoleta was probably the most enchanting of them all, with its three courtyards one more captivating than the others, with its rustic feel and serene location above the old town. Close to it stood a makeshift, old world, countryside theme building hosting the Museo de Arte Indígena, which provided a fine insight in the world of local textiles and music, with the former being simply captivating in terms of variety, theme and patterns that went way beyond the usual floral and animal depictions; the frequently present Supay figure together with sometimes grotesque birds and mammals or with funeral processions, all those on a fabric meant for daily use was simply stunning. A heavy electrical storm kicked one in the central market which was large and labyrinth-like, with extensive food quarters, a fine, scenic, patio-centered quarter for fruit juice makers and many lanes for just as many different other specific merchants. As a matter of fact, it was not the amount of sights or the gold, silver and ametrine exhibited in the otherwise fine Museo del Tesoro that both impressed and incited the visitor here, but rather what lay behind the street-side, typically whitewashed, adobe walls or fences.

Three pasteles and a cup of tojorí in hand from an early, lonely old lady in the Plaza 25 de Mayo, a taxi ride followed by a microbús ride across steep hills, respectively under a constant downpour delivered one to the new airport where delays were less than expected (given the national airline’s records and the difficult terrain, not to mention weather of the country): one hour for the Cochabamba-bound flight and almost two hours for the Santa Cruz-bound one. Time enough to devour them delicacies taking in the fascinating lack of nervousness and impatience of the local people as opposed to the time obsession of highly developed societies that grandly and skillfully missed life by desperately and blindly running in the opposite direction.

From the sky, the city and its surroundings reminded one of Asunción with its pancake flat, green location dotted with patches of forests, green fields and agricultural plots. While approaching it over ground however, the new city with its warehouses and flashy malls or office buildings told a different story. Yet it sufficed to leave the round Avenida Cañoto and head towards the middle of the circle within, i.e. towards the old town. The traffic dwindled, streets got way more atmospheric, the street side column-flanked, often single storey houses with their clay tile roofs (another thing in common with Asunción, and there would be more to come) could have hardly been more picturesque, yet this was not all. People walked in a manner that could have been defined as somewhere nearer a standstill than moving: one step at a time with a gap in between two, even so, the step being a fraction of that of the typically busy gringo. The central Plaza 24 de Septiembre, oozed of people and there would be more to come after dark, with old men and ladies sitting and chatting while using just a few words and big gaps in between, with children running and playing around, with several popular chess playing groups, with the iconic coffee sellers moving back ad fro, with lovers holding hands and groups of teenagers indulging on sweets and soda from the plethora of sellers coming and going. Later on, a full scale concert where elegantly, old world-dressed ladies sang alone or joined by the typical dancers wearing outfits in vivid colours. There was no stage; a lane of the plaza had been blocked for traffic, a sound system had been set up and people simply created an oval around the performers. The music went from camba to tangos and romanzas. What stroke one however was the fact that considerably more than half the audience was made up by young people to a show that the European youth would have considered as obsolete, dated, dusty and boring, while in Santa Cruz one’s tradition, values, roots, history were definitely important matters in one’s life, this applying to both elderly and young people.

‘Mañana no habrá transporte a Samaipata, ya que el transporte público fuera de la ciudad está prohibido después de la medianoche debido a las elecciones jurídicas. En cuanto a hoy, el último trufi de esta noche comenzará aquí cuando esté lleno, probablemente en una hora más o menos. Si quieres, puedo esperarte, aquí está mi número, solo llámame lo antes posible si decides venir. Después, podemos regresar mañana a partir de la 4-5 de la tarde, para que tengas tiempo de visitar el sitio arqueológico de El Fuerte, y estoy seguro de que encontrarás alojamiento en Samaipata para esta noche’, said the mid-aged driver in front of the small garage where the Samaipata-bound trufis started. I however felt another priority had risen instead of running around to tick places on a map, as interesting and appealing as the pre-Inca civilization site definitely was. I needed carry on practicing that slow pace of the cruceños with its no counterpart even in European societies or communities (of which quite a few in my country) that prided themselves with their patience and calmness, first and foremost because pride was not part of the cruceño lifestyle, while it had grown into a de rigueur value in the said communities, and ’when pride cometh, then cometh shame: but with the lowly is wisdom.’ And that election, traffic free, intense sun day would provide an excellent time to practice slow living, one where encounters would be few, but memorable, one where communication would be straight-forward and, beyond all relativity in the world, absolute.

‘El que está adentro se atiende,

El que está afuera, se apea…’