📸 Photo

CHANGE OF PLANS

growing coca and against pressure by the US government to fumigate their crops. The delay was throwing out my timetable, but there was no way that I could tell the protestors they should let me pass because I was one of their best customers and had a plane to catch.

My driver didn’t think there would be much of a delay. He seemed prepared to wait for the police to clear the *cocaleros* off the road. However, as the protestors dispersed down the hill towards us, we noticed that they were carrying planks of wood. They began throwing rocks and the windscreen of the car next to us was smashed. My driver quickly started his engine and did a U-turn.

‘To the hotel,’ I instructed him.

I had decided to call the whole thing off. There had been too many bad omens: first, Tito not being able to help me; then the colonel changing the plan; and now the protest. Someone was trying to tell me not to get on that plane. However, the driver was determined to earn the full fare and must have known a different route.

‘*Sí, señor. Vamos al aeropuerto,*’ he said, turning up a side street.

The back streets that went up towards El Alto Airport were steep and unsealed. Several times the tyres skidded on rubbish as we sped our way up the hill. We passed through poor neighbourhood after poor neighbourhood where the houses had no windows and were made of mud bricks. Every now and then, I caught a glimpse of the highway that we should have been on. The route we were taking was a lot longer and I didn’t think we’d make it in time, but the driver pretended not to understand when I told him to turn back.

Finally, we arrived at the airport and he held out his hand for payment. As soon as I got out, a swarm of porters surrounded me. The driver dumped my three suitcases on the pavement and one of the porters loaded them onto his trolley without being asked. He started racing ahead to the check-in counter. It was too late now to back out.