Subject: Altitude Adjustment
Date: Fri, 2 Mar 2001 08:46:57 -0800 (PST)
From: Evelyn Dean <evdean@yahoo.com>


So I thought the expanded lung capacity and extra red
blood cells IÕd developed during a robust childhood in
Colorado (right, Dr. Monge?) would serve me well in
BoliviaÕs altiplano (literally the high plane).
Apparently not, I realized as I wheezed up and down
the streets of La Paz.  Picture San Francisco at
12,000 feet.  Now imagine those narrow, steep streets
with two rows of vendors on each side, busses and
taxis slithering past each other,  plus  throngs of
bodies and you«ve got La Paz, the highest capital city
(de facto if not official) in the world.   It is
basically a dirty and crowded metropolis like any
other, only with one helluva view.   From above, La
Paz looks as if it were simply poured into its valley,
filling every crevice.  I was taken aback at one point
when I looked up and saw the same city rise vertically
before my eyes.  Talk about efficient use of space,
these people live stacked on top of one another.
Every now and then I  caught a glimpse of the immense
white Illimani (mountain sacred to the Aymara people)
dwarfing the skyscrapers.   The Andes are much more
vertical, jagged and concentrated than our gradual
peaks of the Rockies

Our drive from El Alto to Copacabana, on Lake
Titicaca, was incredibly beautiful. The vast planes
and distant peaks reminded me of driving through South
Park in Colorado (no, not the cartoon town), except
with low adobe compounds.  And not the adobe I«m used
to seeing in New Mexico towns, covered by a top layer,
but rather the naked mud bricks like those of the old
pueblos.  Around them wandered livestock of every
kind, as well as men, women and children working their
fields.   The color everywhere was intense: pastures
glowing green and yellow with cloud shadows, ink blue
snow-capped mountains, and eventually, the sky colored
water of Titicaca reflecting it allÉ

We got off the bus at one point to cross some sort of
canal, escorted by officers of the Bolivian Navy
(motto: ÒOh yes, we will get our coastline back!Ó)
After that, the terrain became much more rugged as we
began our ascent to Copacabana.  The sharp green hills
are how I might imagine the British moors, only with
crooked rows of ridges that are the agricultural
terraces.

Copacabana is utterly charming and very popular for
tourists, which explains why almost everyone we met
looked like us.  Our hotel was right on the lake
front.  Soon after we arrived, we piled on a motor
boat and cruised on over to La Isla del Sol, enjoying
the sunshine from the roof of our craft.  Once there,
our guide showed us around the abode of Incan priests
and took us  tromping up the slope, through the
villagers« carefully cultivated potato terraces.  I
felt a little guilty, but we had to keep up with the
guy.  At the end of the trek, we descended an
enchanted stone staircase amidst tropical flowers and
rivulets of waters tumbling alongside.  After a quick
dip in the sacred waters (and I mean quick Ð it was
FREEZING!), we headed back to Copacabana under a
magnificent sunset.

Okay, time to fast forward: it is 4:00 a.m. and I am
sitting, half conscious, on a bus.  Why, you might
ask?  To make it in time for the beginning of EL
CARNAVAL in Oruro!   I don«t think I explained before,
but Carnaval is basically Bolivia«s Mardis Gras.
Oruru claims the biggest party in the country.  The
parades last all day and all night, and we were there
for it all.  There are about 7 or 8 different kinds of
dances, each with its unique music and costume,
including: Caporal, which I will dance with my family
tomorrow; Diablada, with magnificent beaded costumes
and huge grotesque masks; and Tabos, who represent the
Amazonian dances and somewhat resemble the dancers of
the plains tribes of North America.  The histories of
them all are fascinating, and much of the festival is
a mixture of ancient Andean and Spanish Catholic
traditions.  Most pleasant, of course, is the constant
crossfire of water balloons and shaving cream-esque
foam.   Thank you, Dad, for the poncho and water-proof
camera bag, they were the envy of all.

When I came home from clubbing at 3:30, ready to
crash, we were told there was one more event we simply
had to experience: ÒEl AlbaÓ (the dawn).  We sleepily
trudged up the street until we reached the church,
where we joined thousands of people for yet another
couple hours of singing and dancing and drinking, all
of which is neccessary, according to tradition, to
make the sun rise.  We must have done a good job
because rise it did, at which point we promptly went
to bed.  The parades began again  a couple hours
later.

While most of the country celebrated last weekend,
CochabambaÕs parade (El Corso de Corsos) is tomorrow.
My family is presently going insane trying to finish
our costumes in time, weÕve been embroidering non-stop
for the past week.  So think of me tomorrow, in my
high heels and short skirt and false braids that we
have to die to match my light hair, tromping down the
streets of Cochabamba, trying earnestly to look as
suave as my compa–eras even though my sisters have
given up trying to teach me correct Caporal style...

And send me all your energy, I«ll need it!

Hasta luego,

Evie