One Way Home
Within a month of our arrival in La Paz, I found a job in the
Narcotics Affairs Section (NAS). Although the name sounds sexy, this department
did not promote doped-up trysts but rather the business of drug interdiction, a
somber and dangerous undertaking. My job entailed only office work, however; no
danger for me. The senior secretary in the office, Lisa Fowler, young enough to
be my daughter, and an innocent newlywed accompanying her husband on his first
overseas assignment, heaved a sigh of relief when I let her know I was not at
all jealous of her seniority. We got along great.
The
NAS office occupied the northwest corner of the third
floor of an old bank building leased by the embassy. A long wall of
windows faced the same direction as the embassy's entrance. One of those
windows still bore the scars of a recent demonstration -- cracks in a
star-shaped pattern from the impact of a medium-sized object, maybe a brick or
rock. As the newest member of the NAS staff, I sat at a desk in the corner of
the reception area. Everything about the office seemed decrepit. Heating pipes
exposed their peeling paint and electrical wires drooped in random loops
hanging here and there. The air smelled like ancient Incan relics from the
downtown black market.
In
spite of the rundown physical environment and the serious tone of the war on
drugs, my office mates were cheerful and upbeat – when they were there, that
is. Since most of the coca-growing and cocaine labs were in the jungle region,
the staff traveled often, leaving Lisa and me to run the office.
Demonstrations
flared up in front of the embassy about once a month. I was relieved to learn
that the demonstrators marched to protest Bolivian, not American, government
policies. However, our embassy was located right across the street from the
offices of the Bolivian Labor Department. Normally we had plenty of notice before a scheduled march
and our security office closed the embassy for a couple of hours and advised
everyone to draw the drapes and stay away from the windows. The demonstrators
would gather at the top of the street at noon and chant their way down a
dozen blocks to the Labor Office, exploding half-sticks of dynamite and
throwing bricks at windows along the way.
One
particular demonstration played out in a different
way, especially for me. This time we had only a few minutes' warning. And it
was late in the day, 4:30 PM, almost quitting time at the embassy, and I was
alone in the office. When Security announced that the embassy would be locked
down in ten minutes, I reacted without considering the consequences. I shut
down my computer, grabbed my purse and sweater, rushed down the stairs and out
the door. In the back of my mind I pictured flagging down a trufi (share-taxi)
on the next street west of the embassy and
arriving home in Achumani in thirty minutes,
long before the demonstration hit its peak. But when I reached the next street,
which was a major taxi route, there was not a single car as far as I could see
in both directions. I learned later that part of that day's protest included a
taxi drivers' strike, but having no idea in the moment, I hurried along in a
direction that I hoped would take me to another taxi route a safe distance from
the demonstration.
I
crossed street after street as empty as if a major evacuation had already
occurred. I began to perspire. I might have been walking fast enough to break a
sweat, but I also felt a sense of impending doom. Maybe I was in serious
trouble. Best-case scenario, I faced a ten-mile walk home in the dark. Located
so close to the equator, La Paz days and nights were of equal length year
round, so the fact that it was summer didn't help me, other than providing
survivable evening temperatures.
The
end-of-the-world appearance of the streets continued until I reached the Prado,
the city's downtown area. Traffic appeared to bustle as usual until I noticed
that the assortment of vehicles included neither taxis nor minibuses. I
reconciled myself to the prospect of a long hike in inadequate shoes because I
am neither brave enough nor foolhardy enough to hitchhike. Anywhere. Not in La
Paz, Bolivia, of all places. I turned toward home with determination and strode
forward, fantasizing about a miraculous rescue coming before holes appeared in
my shoe leather.
A
passing shot of color caught my eye. I watched the big yellow bus roll past and
discharge a passenger on the corner. I had seen these buses every day but never
gave serious consideration to riding one. Their routing system was a complete
mystery to me and I couldn't imagine being able to manage the embark/disembark
procedure. The Cholita buses, so called because of the preponderance of
bowler-clad Aymara lady passengers, moved along at about ten miles an hour
unless picking up or letting off, when they slowed to five miles an hour,
requiring the passengers to scurry alongside before getting on or after getting
off.
I
noticed the lengthening shadows and shivered at the cold strip of dampness
between my shoulder blades. I amped up my courage and made the leap onto the
next Cholita bus. I scrambled on board and paid my fare, the equivalent of ten
cents. I found a vacant seat near the back and prayed that this bus would take
me closer to home. From my vantage point I could watch the other passengers and
analyze their arrival/departure techniques.
Most of my companions that day were Aymara Indian women, dressed
in their ample layered skirts, carrying who-knows-what-all in their
multicolored hand-woven aguayo cloth wraps,
bowler hats perched on their heads at a rakish angle. I would have been happy
to eavesdrop on conversations, but no one spoke. I tried to relax and enjoy the
atmosphere, but whiffs of odd odors kept me on edge. I could detect food smells
and sweaty smells, but there was also a nostril-crimping undertone that reeked
of waste and rot. I squirmed a bit and estimated how long it would take to
travel ten miles at an average speed of 8 miles per hour.
I
lost the urge to gag as soon as I recognized the shops of Calacoto. Elizabeth's
store, where we shopped often for rugs and souvenirs, never looked as good to
me before. If the bus continued on this main street, I would be able to jump
off at the corner two blocks from our house. I wondered if Fred knew I was
unaccounted for. He might be locked in the embassy still, or he might be home
already. In those days without cell phones, we were accustomed to spending
considerable time out of communication with each other. I hoped he wasn't
worried about me.
As
the bus started up the hill toward Achumani, I prepared my exit strategy. Stand
up, proceed to the side exit and face the door. Wait for the bus to slow as it
approaches the corner by our local butcher shop, hold the pole in a firm grip,
and exit running.
When
I hit the road I stumbled, flailed to regain my balance and – success! I huffed
my sense of relief and crossed the main street at our corner.
Lights
glowed in our windows and warmed me with a welcome sense of home. I found Fred
in the bedroom changing out of his work clothes into his comfies. He had
arrived only minutes before, surprised that I wasn't home, but not worried yet.
I enjoyed telling him the tale of my journey. He made me promise that was my
only ride on a Cholita bus. When I told my friends, their reaction made me feel
as brave as nineteenth century explorer Isabella Bird. Lisa, my office mate,
gave me a miniature Cholita bus tree-ornament that reminds me every Christmas
of my potential for spunk. ###
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