Bolivia Chile Home: Day 2 - Toronto to Potosi: Part II

As I boarded my flight to Miami, I was very exhausted and knew that the seven hour flight would mostly consist of me sleeping. Slowly waking up with knots in my neck some six hours later, we were close approaching La Paz, Bolivia, my original stop for this leg of the trip. As the pilot came on the intercom and announced to the passengers that one of the breaks on the plane was not working, everyone stopped preparing their belongings. Passengers gasped and murmured amongst each other while the pilot informed us that we could not arrive safely in the high altitude city of La Paz without both break and we were therefore being re-directed to a city even closer to my destination, Santa Cruz, Bolivia. Knowing that I had just saved some time and money on this dangerous error on the part of American Airlines, I smiled in amazement and slowly went back to sleep. To be honest, in the past I was always sickened by the thought of spending any time in very wealthy city of Santa Cruz because of the chronic racism that has bleached the city's psyche. Harnessed by the long standing exploitation of their natural resources, such as natural gas, their long lineage of western European colonial rule is palpable the minute you step off the plane. To experience this in a country where 80% of the citizens are indigenous Bolivians, was to me, a brand of culture shock I assumed never existed. This unexpected stop had me quickly buying a direct plane ticket to Sucre, the last stop before my final destination. With another four hour layover, I needed to eat. After an expensive breakfast and SKYPE conversation with the love of my life, I was incredibly surprised at how WIFI has progressed in Bolivia since my trip last year. Disgusted by the sort of, "I'm rich you're not" attitude I've seen in large Latin American cities, I cringed and became saddened by every stuck up "white lady" who clearly had indigenous Bolivian blood in her, which I assumed was ashamed to acknowledge. It was confirmed further more by how some of these "white ladies" treated the indigenous Bolivian wait staff that worked at the airport restaurant. The last time I felt that level of contempt and racism in the air, was when I got gas at a Love's truck stop in rural Kentucky, 8 years ago. This attitude continued till just after my arrival in the 2200 meter above sea level city of Sucre. Still tired, I arrived sleepy eyed in Sucre. As we got off the plane and onto the tarmac, on our walk towards the airport terminal, I noticed an enormous amount of people waiting on the roof of a large building adjacent to the airport. In the hot Bolivian sun I also spotted dozens of military police in full armour and fatigues, dressed to kill. I was immediately intimidated and decided to leave the scene in a cab to the Sucre bus terminal. As I approached the front entrance of the airport, I was swarmed by a school of taxi drivers asking me if I wanted a ride. I rejected all of them and walked towards the only taxi driver who didn't pester me. I asked how much to the bus terminal and he said 30 bolivianos. I knew it was too high but I wasn't in any state of mind to negotiate. He seemed pleasant and we spoke along the way. As we approached the bus terminal I asked about all the security at the airport. He causally told me that the crowd and the police were waiting for a man who killed 56 people and was being taken into custody. I asked for more questions and Alvaro began to tell that the man had been a contract killer for the rich and escaped from prison almost a year ago. Having just been captured in a small town about 100km away from Sucre, he was being taken back to prison. Currently, it was only 12:30pm, with plenty of time to catch the killers walk and make a three hour bus ride to Potosi before nightfall. I immediately asked Alvaro to go back to the airport. With my thirst for this story and Alvaro's foot on the gas leading the chase to get us back to the airport on time to catch this murder, I ultimately didn't really know why I was doing this. For some strange reason, it felt right. When we arrived, the rumour which was circulating around this very small airport was that the prisoner was on his way to a high security prison in La Paz or Santa Cruz and will be arriving in 15 minutes. Alvaro agreed to wait for me and once I got to experience the arrival of this killer, we would be on our way to the Sucre bus terminal. One hour, two, three hours had passed and no killer. I realized that in Bolivia, no matter what is occurring; civil war, protests, bringing a mass murder into custody, Bolivians always stopped what they were doing and had lunch. On the internet, with yet again another impressive Bolivian WIFI experience, I heard screaming and running. By the sudden stampede of people going to the closest window they could find, I knew the killers plane had arrived. Positioning myself by the window of the only airport restaurant, I stood there with all the press photographers I befriended during the three hour wait. As they escorted him out of the plane we all just started shooting, taking pictures in rapid successions, with no idea of what would happen next. When the killer was out of sight, dozens of people, myself included, dangerously raced and screamed in fear and excitement down the stairs to the front door for a better look. With all the media gathered in one spot at the front door, begging for them to open it for a better picture, a government representative came to the glass and told us that only the press would be invited in to take pictures and footage of the prisoner. A rush of adrenaline poured through my body. I was surrounded by my new photographer friends and because of the gear I was carrying, I pretended to be part of the press core, making my way back inside luggage claim. All I could think of as we entered the close proximity of this serial killer was a phrase my uncle, who had married a Bolivian woman, always uttered, "anything is possible in Bolivia.