Bolivia smells like Popcorn

Peru, right up to the border, smelled like shit. Not metaphorically. I rode the last few days along Titicaca from Puno to Juli to the frontera with the full aroma of the sewage they dump into Lago Titicaca in my nose. Fine. Not my lake.

Then I crossed into Copacabana and Bolivia smelled like popcorn.

I'm not exaggerating for the bit. Susana smelled it too. Popcorn, sesame oil, fresh bread, and under all of it this green smell from the plants, like somebody had watered the entire country that morning. I just crossed an arbitrary line, and the air changed.

The drivers changed too. In Peru the operating philosophy is: full speed, no brakes, no turn signals, full horn. The horn does everything. It says hello, it says move, it says I'm passing, it says I'm not passing, it says I exist, it says I’ll run your dog over. Early in Peru, I started to assume every vehicle was trying to kill me, and I think that philosophy kept me alive.

In Bolivia they slow down. They swing wide. They wait behind you on a blind curve instead of threading the needle. The honking dropped by, I'd estimate, ninety percent, and the ten percent that's left is a polite little toot-toot that means "ciclista, te veo, sigue."

Also, I say buenos días or buenas tardes to everybody. Market ladies, cops, kids, the guy working at the llantería (tire shop). It's a habit I picked up in Colombia. In Peru I'd get a nod, maybe a quiet "buenas." People were reserved, which is their right; nobody owes me enthusiasm. In Bolivia I get a full "buenos díaaaas" back, eye contact, smile, every single time, like they'd been waiting all morning for someone to ask. There were plenty of lovely people in Peru. But in Bolivia it's everyone. It is unreasonably good for morale.

Everyone warned me about the approach into La Paz. The climb through El Alto, the autopista, the minibuses, chaos, certain death, etc. I was braced for it. And it was… fine? Wide shoulders and colectivo drivers who checked a mirror before pulling over. I kept waiting for the chaos to start and, before it did, I was at the El Alto teleférico station.

My first ride was the blue line, down from El Alto into the city. That was the hook. The yellow line was the line and sinker. You leave Ciudad Satélite at 4,000 meters, the cabin clears the edge of the altiplano, and the floor just goes. The whole city of La Paz is suddenly underneath you, poured into a canyon, brick and glass and more brick, with Mt. Illimani sitting at the back of the room like it owns the place. Then you drop a few hundred meters into Sopocachi and the cabin doesn't so much as wobble. I rode it the first time with my mouth open. I've ridden it several times since and I’m still awestruck.

Some facts that nobody asked for. It is silent. Not quiet, silent. The loudest sound in the cabin is somebody's phone. There's wifi. There's a free first aid station in every station, staffed with an actual person in it. It costs three bobs, which is about 30 cents USD. I think it’s the largest urban cable car network in the world, and it was built by a country that most Americans could not find on a map.

For contrast: BART. BART, which sounds like it’s powered by the souls of a thousand demons. BART, where the only medical supplies on board are the used needles under your seat. BART, which SF oligarchs will neglect forever.

I don't use the teleférico as a tourist. I use it the way everyone here uses it: to get places. Bike shops, a friend's place across town, the seamstress, up to El Alto to explore. It’s a safe place for everyone: Cholitas with their bundles, kids in school uniforms, guys in suits, me in gringo shorts with Bagheera. It is public transit that happens to float, and the floating is just a bonus.

Here's the part where I get on my soapbox, because, well, that's what I do.

Bolivia is, by the usual numbers, one of the poorest countries in South America. That's the thing people say about it, usually in a tone that's supposed to explain everything that follows. And this poor country looked at a capital city built in a hole in the ground, with another working-class city of a million people sitting on the cliff above it, and said: we'll connect them with cable cars. Not a ride for tourists. A metro in the sky, with first aid and wifi, that an abuela selling oranges can afford to take to work every morning. Then they kept building lines and connecting everyone.

Meanwhile, I live in the richest country that has ever existed, and I take a train that screams, that breaks, that costs more than lunch here to cross the bay, and the public conversation about transit is still "can we afford it?" We can afford it. We already spent it. On another aircraft carrier. On military bases in countries most of us can't name either. On bombs that land on other people's abuelas. The money Bolivia used to build a gondola for its grandmothers, we use to make sure somebody else's grandmother doesn't have a grandchild anymore.

We vote in a few weeks. I'll be somewhere on the altiplano with no signal when it happens, which is maybe for the best. Every politician who says we can't afford nice things has never ridden the yellow line at sunset, and I think they should before they open their mouths again.

I spent eight days here, which for me, on this trip, is basically moving in. Most of it in an Airbnb with Marc-Antoine, Susana, Harper, Julien, and Marie-Liesse, and a rotating cast of others, all cyclists I'd met somewhere on the road over the last few months. A pass here, a hostel there, one of those "oh, you're going south too?" conversations that becomes a WhatsApp group that becomes a kitchen in La Paz with bikes in the hallway. We cooked. We ate too much. We talked about routes and sand and whether anyone was actually going to do the Lagunas route. We rode the teleférico to go to the bike shop like it was nothing, because here it is nothing.

I ride out tomorrow, toward Sajama. I could stay longer, but I’m also fine with leaving. Eight days is plenty, and the bike is getting restless. I've crossed a lot of borders on this trip, and most of them involve a grumpy border agent in a dimly lit building, a crooked stamp and a different color of currency. This one smelled like popcorn. And then, the highest capital city in the world handed me a seat in the sky for twenty-five cents and gave me an emphatic “Buenos días!”