From Parque Monticulo your eyes easily capture a panorama of La
Paz. Huge eucalyptus trees adorned with
declarations of love frame the crenelated mountains on the horizon. A Sacre-Coeur of rock silhouetted against the
summer sky, the yellow teleferico whispering by in the middle distance.
Eyes drop down to the intensely packed houses clinging to
every bit of buildable land. Mondrian
colours decorate an apartment block injecting primary colours into a sea of
brick red. The spread of La Paz stops
only where building is impossible. The
valley has long since been filled, and El Alto, hundreds of metres higher on
the flat Altiplano above La Paz, is the spillover.
A classical fountain, currently dry, sits in the middle of the park, shaded by complex branches of evergreen trees. Birds flutter limb to limb singing their songs into the contemplative afternoon. Andean mountains push skywards, desire manifested in pink and beige and grey-green forests, the white snow on Illimani aristocratically towering above all that surrounds it.
I´ve spent 6 weeks in La Paz in the last two years, not very
much time really, and yet I feel at home here.
There´s a peace to the place that fits its name.
Street art springs into view everywhere – it is only a
matter of seeing it. Walking down from
Monticulo I glance at some graffiti on a hoarding by a construction site … “art
is everything and for everyone or for nobody” … and then I notice the tag
“Mujeres Creando”. Of course. Mujeres Creando – the fearless anarcha-feminists
who contribute so much vitality to the spirit of La Paz. And Madie, the always smiling, always
friendly fixture of Virgen de los Deseos, the downstairs café of their
wonderful casa in Sopocachi where I am once again staying. My little room, with its hard mattress and
shared bathroom, is a long way from those predictable hotels in the colonies of
consumption where I spent my business days and nights. It feels warm, loving, welcoming. What is true luxury if not this?
I walk into the café and see Maria Galindo, activist
extraordinaire, sitting at one of the tables, deep in conversation. Her eyes are aflame like Che Guevara´s in
Korda´s iconic photo, broadcasting clarity about a Latino future without macho
patriarchy, a future of freedom, electricity buzzing in the air around her.
Freedom. That´s the
word. It´s what I feel in La Paz. Even though it´s a city, freedom is right
there in my field of vision – the high mountains are no more than an hour
away. Wordsworth, writing in the English
Lake District not far from where I grew up, found freedom in the mountains and
the seas. For me too that´s been a
fairly clear thread through much of my adult life.
“Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!”
William Wordsworth
But what is true for one person is not necessarily true for
others. My friend Sylvia has a different
response to La Paz. She notices
pollution, overcrowding, litter, traffic – none of which is easy to dismiss. She feels an energy and atmosphere in the
city that makes her ill at ease.
Her truth and my truth are different, but equally valid (or
invalid). Like in Baudelaire´s The
Double Chamber, both beauty and horror are always present – our perception is
all we can go on. What each of us sees
is true for us. Our accumulated life
experience builds those doors of perception - Roland Barthes´ insight that we
each read our own novel regardless of the intent of the author is much more
than merely a piece of clever literary criticism. For thousands of years the high Andes have
been a place to cleanse one´s doors of perception … and duly cleansed what we
see remains relentlessly our personal version of truth. That being the case, isn´t the idea of
objective truth a conceit born of scientific reductionism, or the detritus of
a world view anchored in religious hierarchy?
It hardly matters which.
So today I will sit back and enjoy the subjective truth of
my perception of La Paz. I´ll add honey
to the camomile tea on the table in front of me, and give thanks for this delightful
afternoon, these beautiful people, this gentle city sanctuary, this wonderful
life.
“An infinitesimal odour of the most exquisite choice,
mingled with a floating humidity, swims in this atmosphere where the drowsing
spirit is lulled by the sensations one feels in a hothouse. The abundant muslin flows before the windows
and the couch, and spreads out in snowy cascades.
…
And this perfume of another world, whereof I intoxicated
myself with a so perfected sensitiveness; alas its place is taken by an odour
of stale tobacco smoke, mingled with I know not what nauseating mustiness. Now one breathes here the rankness of
desolation."
The Double Chamber, Baudelaire
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