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Whoever named La Paz (Spanish for "The Peace") was taking the absolute piss, as
a more noisy and busy city you'd struggle to find. Three quarters of a million
people are crammed into a small "bowl" - and the city was so large it was
effectively split into two (see
Part 36 - El Alto). If anything, the traffic and
driving was even more terrifying than Peru - notions such as giving way to other
motorists and exercising restraint when using the horn - are given short shrift
here. Yet despite the dirt and pollution, a more friendly bunch of people you
could never hope to meet - both locals who were outstandingly helpful and kind,
and the various travellers you meet along the way (such as Daffyd, a mandolin
player who was touring with his folk/punk band).
My hotel was in Sagaranaga (still not sure how to pronounce it), a very
pleasant albeit very touristic area of La Paz. My room had lovely views to the
east over Mount Illimani. I also took a taxi to the Mirador Killi Killi (can't
pronounce that properly either) where you can see miles in every direction.
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Mount Illimani in the background
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It barely rained while I was here, rendering these umbrellas somewhat
useless
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The local "Stab Inn" which actually served really nice food
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Who needs the World Cup when your hotel boasts 8 (EIGHT) TV channels showing live
traffic footage
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My abiding memory of La Paz was that everyone was selling something. There
were markets in every direction, often grouped together (why have one shop
selling laminate flooring when you can have ten to choose from in a
row). Some of the pitches were nothing more than a blanket selling whatever odds and ends the person had in their possession. It's no surprise that many people in Bolivia survive on less than $1 per day.
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A roundabout / impromptu marketplace
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More traffic and markets
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I wish I'd taken a photo of the stall where a lady sold me some shower gel.
She was literally surrounded by her merchandise in every direction. I can only
imagine she had to sell her way out her toiletry prison.
As a kid, I was no stranger of getting dragged round graveyards by my father,
in search of long-lost ancestors. I decided to continue this tradition with
visit to el Cemeterio General in La Paz (although admittedly, the likelihood
of finding some long lost Hewitts was somewhat slim).
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The dead centre of town. My Dad told me that joke about 40 years ago.
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As space is at a premium in La Paz, they need to stack 'em high . Some of
the graves resembled a block of flats.
There is a somwhat bizarre tradition of placing the favourite drink of your
loved one in the grave. By my unscientific reckoning, Coca-Cola was by far
the top choice of mourners, followed by the local beer (Paceña), with
Johnnie Walker Red Label whisky earning a respectable third place.
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Other mourners opted to leave just a suspect looking plastic cup of
something
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Sadly, as with life, it was entirely possible to get chucked out of your
grave for non-payment. Eviction notices had been served on quite a few of
the graves, and many others had be unceremoniously ripped out.
On my way back from the graveyard, I witnessed some sort of crazy display.
I've no idea what it was commemorating, but it seemed like a good
opportunity for performers and spectators to get a large Sunday morning
helping of Paceña.
And finally, I had the good fortune to meet Alina while I was there. Her English was better than my Spanish, although to be honest, that probably applies to half of South America!
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