finding peace in the storm
By erin lane
5 May 2008
Wheezing my way up Calle Comercio in La Paz's thin Andes air, I suddenly felt a rhythmic beat vibrate up my shins, entering my pounding chest. I turned to look down the cobblestone hill and I saw a gun power blast escape from a silver 6 shot revolver. I knew I was in trouble. A wall of La Paz youth, mixed with indigenous girls in bowler hats, urban young professionals and university student screamed and pumped their fists into the air.
Searching for safety, I quickly swung my head to the right, where I saw the iron gate entrance of a massive Catholic was open. Realizing that this church was my only escape off the increasing hostile street, I ran toward the saintly sanctuary. More guns were firing, each shot followed with the cheers and roars of the angry crowd. I cursed my blue eyes and white skin, as if my obvious foreign status was like a neon target on my quivering back. I noticed another lost soul, a young woman, with strong brown eyes and jet-black hair who was desperately clutching her baby son, wrapped in a brightly woven alpaca blanket. We both sliced through the chaos toward the church, catching each other's fearfully hopeful eyes.
I reached the church first. Just as my foot cross the precipice into safety, the Church's priest yelled at me "girl! You must leave!" pushing me back into the wild. I pleaded, "No, you can't! They have guns... please just until it is over!" The baby now stirred in his alpaca blanket, the young mother yelled, "the police will be here soon!" as if to suggest, that once the police arrived we'd all be done for. The priest wouldn't look either of us in the eyes. He simply closed the iron door, shoving me back into the unknown, my fears sealed with the clanging of the metal gate.
My only other companions, the young mother and crying baby, slowly melted back into the riot, which was now downing me, like a bitter cocktail of gunpowder and anger. Students were screaming for economic reform, while indigenous groups set off makeshift rockets and chanted for equal rights. Both groups hatefully denounced the imperialistic United States. I wanted to melt into the limestone wall I pressing myself against, hoping to blend in with the lightly colored rock. All I could imagine was being hit by a stray bullet, or being caught in a violent police crack down---in any case it wasn't good.
I slinked along the cool rock wall, moving slowly with the crowd. I thought that my slow pace was working to disguise me until a university student, from across the cobblestone way caught my blue eyes and pointed at my unusual presence, shouting something inaudible, but obviously vicious. He pulled out the wad of coca leaves tucked in his lower lip, throwing the brown mass onto the street. Pulling on the shoulder of a screaming friend, the rioter directed his friend's gaze at me. Both boys, dressed in green cargo pants and black tee shirts, made a direct advance toward me. In response, I aborted my sideways sliding motion against the stone wall and broke into a full sprint. Thankfully, as I was already out of breath in the thin Bolivian atmosphere, I saw a break in the limestone about 30 yards ahead. It was the intersection of Calle Comercio and Avenida Montes. I sprinted toward this cross section of city street, as I got closer I made out an intimidating line of green uniforms barricading my entrance into Avenida Montes. The police had arrived.
Now unsure whether to continue toward the police, or take my chances with the encroaching rioters, a police sergeant spotted my frantic sprint immediately recognizing me as a foreigner and made the decision for me. He grabbed the strap of my leather messenger bag and pulled me past his lined up men, while swearing at my "arrogant American stupidity". While placing me in the doorway of an abandoned paper shop, Sergeant Murillo called to his men to fire warning shots above the crowd, who began to disintegrate as the police barricaders cocked their rifles and blasted blanks just above the clenched fists of the rioters.
I waited out the final phases of the riot behind the relative safety of the green police line, listening as sergeant Murillo lectured me on the Bolivian government, denouncing the rioters violent outburst. I secretly clicked the shutter on my Nikon camera, stealing a few precious shots of my own, as I began to feel an overwhelming sense of apprehension and understanding. The youthful "rioters" were desperately pleading with their government for economic and civil equality. While some protestors utilized violent extremes to call attention to their cause, many did not. These peaceful protestors were just as lost in the riot as I had been, shouting above the gunfire and rocket blasts to sound their grievances. Though I don't regret being tossed behind police lines and riding out the final moments of the riot in the icy doorway of a paper shop, I will be prepared the next time I am sucked into a wild politically charged wind to find, through my Nikon viewfinder, those pure souls pounding the
