ya vuelvo

This is the third time I’ve arrived in La Paz, and each time has been an entirely different experience. In 2009, I arrived in the afternoon and was met at the airport by Cristina in her pollera and manta, with her child in tow. She held a sign with my name, and briskly grabbed my suitcase from me. Cristina, in her traditional clothing, seemed more suited to be herding llamas than ferrying me down the mountain in an aging Toyota. She placed her baby, still wrapped in the manta on the passenger seat next to her, and occasionally cooed or touched it lovingly. To me she was more coarse. “How is the altitude?” she asked me. I responded I felt fine, but she insisted on stopping to buy me a pill and bottle of water. “Have you changed your money yet?” I hadn’t so she offered me a good rate and took my dollars in exchange for Bolivianos. When we arrived at the Virgin de los Deseos, she grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and ushered me inside. She handed me a flyer in case I should require her services again, and held out her hand with a gruff “Setenta,” telling me what I owed her for the ride. After I paid her the standard rate, she wandered over to a group of women and began joking and laughing as I lugged my suitcase up the stairs. Julieta gave me a key and showed me my room and the bathroom, but gave me little other instruction. My room was cold. I was unsure who to pay and when. I was unsure if there was a curfew, or even how to get in after business hours. I was left feeling rather lonely and confused.

Last time, I arrived at 5 am and waited at the airport for R until 7:30. He arrived just in time for us to avoid the road block. He taxied with me to Ekko and we had coffee before he went off to work. I went back to Ekko to take a nap. Unfortunately I was surrounded by what I deemed to be annoying, coke-fed Irish men just returning from their night out on the town, and the sounds of dynamite on the street kept me awake. But as I wrote in my fieldnotes, it didn’t feel like it had been two years. I recognized this place. I remembered where things where. “Maybe things won’t fall into place the way I want, but I’m feeling good.” 

And last night, as the captain announced we would soon be landing, I looked outside at the lights. I tried to recognize the layout of El Alto, but couldn’t really really make out anything. We touched down. “Ya vuelvo” I said, barely audible. Despite my anxiety, visas and customs were fine. I collected by bag and walked out to the Alé playing a golf game on his phone while he waited for me. We walked out to his car and made the slow foggy drive down the autopista to Zona Sur. I took my stuff up to his room and it was quite warm. He woke me up when he was leaving for work, and the sunlight was streaming in on me. At 4am I had marveled at how familiar the empty streets looked, but this did not feel like La Paz. It is too comfortable and warm and sunny. And like the best of late September days.

Every time I’m here things seem easier, happier, more comfortable, warmer, less lonely. And things usually make more sense. And somehow that make it feel like I’m doing it wrong. Like I should be living in a shack in El Alto with no water and eating beans and rice. But instead I have Mr. Pizza, ice cream sandwiches, and Zona Sur.