El Alto where can I buy cocaine

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El Alto where can I buy cocaine

So what is the Route 36 Bolivia? Route 36 Bar is a mysterious cocaine bar in La Paz, Bolivia. The only people who can take you to the Route 36 Bar in La Paz are cab drivers since the address changes every six months. In the midst of its cholitas, chaotic traffic and llama foetuses, La Paz , the capital of Bolivia, also hides a unique place: Route 36 Bar La ruta After eating a few tucumanas and drinking a few beers, I was determined to find my way to the temple of high that La Ruta 36 promises to be, so when night falls, I set out to find the one that will take me to my destination. The only way to get to Route 36 Bar is by cab. After several unsuccessful attempts, I came across Ernesto. He seemed sure of himself and I decided to follow him. We set out into the Bolivian night in a dilapidated Toyota whose speakers spit out the last piece of Daddy Yankee. After 15 minutes in the maze of the streets of La Paz, the cab stops. A few seconds later, an imposing Bolivian with a patibular air comes out to extract me from the vehicle and take me into the building. The stairwell is dark and dusty. I begin to wonder what I am doing there. I pay an entrance fee of 50 bolivianos about 5 euros and follow my guide with a nervous step. As we climb the stairs, I start to hear muffled electro music. I begin to be reassured about the future of the evening. Arriving on the third floor, the sound becomes more present and a door opens on what seems to have been one day an apartment. Opposite us is a space of about fifty square meters that looks more like a cheap brothel than a party place. The purple neon lights plunge the room into a creepy atmosphere that the faded decoration only accentuates. The windows are covered with large scotch tape, reinforcing the impression of having entered a clandestine squat. If you imagined that a cocaine bar would be glamorous, it is quite the opposite. The half-open sofas and the coffee tables covered with cigarette burns convince me that you have to be pretty stoned to find a little beauty within these walls. I am among the first customers to take a seat on a bench. The waitress, as fresh as the couch, walks towards me. The question is asked so naturally that my answer seems stupid. A minute later, the waitress comes back with a beer and a dose of cocaine, and a CD cover that is nowhere to be seen. Analyzing what looks more like bad speed than quality cocaine, I understand that this place must have a clientele purely composed of tourists looking for cheap high and thrills. The passing minutes prove me right. Little by little, the tourists enter and take a seat on the benches, receiving their CD cover and their dose. The dress code of the evening is clear: two out of three people wear a sweater made of fake llama wool and ethnic motifs emptied of their meaning. With the help of cocaine, the dance floor worthy of a village party fills up. The mass of sweaty bodies with tight jaws does not count a single Bolivian. Admittedly, here, the population is more inclined towards the bottle than towards psychotropic drugs, even though coca, the plant from which cocaine is extracted, is consumed on a daily basis. It can be drunk as an infusion, but it is more generally chewed. President Evo Morales, is himself a former cocalero coca producer. By doubling in the authorized area of cultivation, he has further strengthened its economic importance for many communities in the country. The Ruta 36 is thus a pure tourist attraction. A DisneyLand for adults where Mickey would have coke in his ears. I navigate between Americans, Israelis and Argentinians and let me gradually get caught by the collective euphoria. After all, I too am only an actor in this nightly masquerade. The unbearable heat pushes us one by one to take off our T-shirts, the atmosphere is as moist as the pupils are dilated. Everyone is talking to each other, setting up projects for the coming days that will disappear at dawn. In the inconsistency of travel encounters, the ones that take place in this place already stink of oblivion. Through this blog, I hope to share some of my adventures, good eats, and unique experiences with you. If you haven't booked your hotel yet, you can get the best deals on hotels here. Massimo Hernandes. Read More.

Route 36 Bolivia – The La Paz Cocaine Bar

El Alto where can I buy cocaine

Of the intrepid few who visit Bolivia, most begin by flying directly to La Paz, the cultural capital of the country. That is a big mistake because all flights land in nearby El Alto which is the highest large airport in the world at a bone chilling 13, feet. Since most people live at or near sea level, the result is that many tourists gasp, wheeze, and sometimes fall over dead. Those who survive the initial lack of oxygen develop throbbing headaches, debilitating weakness, brutal sunburn, and an inability to sleep while they slowly freeze. A week later, if all goes well, one can begin to have fun. Ann and the Weazel are not beginners, so we decided to avoid all that by starting our adventure in the lowland city of Santa Cruz, then work our way up from there. Unfortunately, American Airlines had discontinued its Bolivian routes, so we had no choice but to fly to the nearest other city served by the airline. Lima, Peru is only miles from Santa Cruz, but the two cities are separated by some of the tallest mountains on earth, so they might as well be on opposite sides of the moon. Those who use frequent flyer miles can expect to be tortured by the airline company. Penniless peasants such as ourselves are offered only the worst seats on the worst flights. So it was that in the time of Covid we were forced to connect in four different airports including Miami International which is a pesthole of disease. Though not quite so squalid as many tropical port cities, Lima is the ugliest place this side of the Middle East. Nothing on earth could be uglier than Kuwait! Though situated at sea level at the same tropical latitude as Aruba in the Caribbean, only in the southern hemisphere, Lima is perpetually cold and dank. Though the humidity hovers around 90 percent, it never ever rains. The result is that there is no natural vegetation whatsoever. Here is a view of nearby Mt. Ugly from our hotel room. The tree on the right was no doubt planted in a courtyard and nourished with sewage effluent. What is your favorite shade of beige? Elsewhere, other than in the colonial center, and the wealthy seafront community of Miraflores, the beige slums go on forever. Having been there and done that on previous trips we elected to stay in our room, venturing out only to gorge on ceviche, until it was time to catch our 1 am flight to Santa Cruz the following day. During our flight the moon was full, and we were treated to a sublime view of the snow covered peaks of the Andes and lake Titicaca glimmering far below in the moonlight. We arrived in Santa Cruz at am after many hours without sleep only to discover that we were denied entry into the country. Covid restrictions had made travel a nightmare. We were stuck until Ann remembered that I had forwarded the reservations to her, and she had a copy on her cell phone. Apparently a digital copy of a document is more real than reality itself. In response, the Bolivian government imposed the same fee for American visitors. Most other nationalities get a free visa. Worst of all, though the visa was good for ten years, we were only given a 30 day stay, a problem which greatly complicated our 45 day trip. The delay in acquiring visas caused the only other travelers at that hour, a group of fellow gringo tourists, to miss their connecting flight. The disappointed travelers had no choice but to return home from halfway around the world. The immigration agents apologized, but rules are rules. By that time we left the airport it was dawn and we were delirious from exhaustion. As you can see in the following image, Santa Cruz de la Sierra is in the middle of Bolivia, which is in the middle of South America. We grabbed a cab and headed into town only to discover that we were back in Miami. Santa Cruz looked nothing like the other Latin American cities to which we were long accustomed. Everything looked new and fairly clean. Sleek high rise buildings sprouted from leafy neighborhoods, while businessmen rushed to their offices in spiffy new SUVs. Even at that hour the roads were chaotic. Instead, it looked like a south Florida suburb with too many developers and bad planning. Even the palm trees were the same. If local lore is to be believed, it is all an economic miracle paid for by cocaine revenues. In the city was founded by Spanish conquistadors including my personal hero Mr. This was long after Mr. Cowhead spent eight years wandering naked across the entirety of the North American continent, the first person to have ever done so. Thereafter, what later became known as Santa Cruz slumbered in ignominy for some four hundred years, all the while fending off attacks by the disgruntled Indians, none of whom really wanted to be Catholic. Interested readers may wish to watch The Mission , an excellent movie starring Jeremy Irons and Robert DeNiro which concerns the colonial conquest of the area on behalf of Beelzebub. Coca , a small shrub technically known as Erythroxylum coca , has been cultivated by the indigenous peoples of the Andean pre-cordillera for over years. It was considered sacred. The dried leaves were traded with highland people who chewed them to combat fatigue and hunger. None of this ever caused any problems. Soon thereafter, Coca Cola started putting the buzz into their beverage, hence the name. By the use of cocaine had spread to the lower classes. As a result it was outlawed. Reefer madness and prohibition were soon to follow. Whatever the lower classes do for fun must be outlawed! There is some truth to that, for enough idiots in one place doing one thing can ruin anything! These developments coincided with overpopulation in the Andes due to advances in healthcare and social services. One can grow only so many potatoes in a given plot of frozen rocks and dirt, so the second sons and daughters, along with the 3rd through 13th sons and daughters per family, had to go somewhere else. There was no place to go, and nothing to do. Every square inch of arable land in the highlands was already in use. Mechanized farming of the flatlands was well underway, so no Indians with grub hoes need apply. The cattle ranchers had no desire to share their vast estates with grubby Indians; after all, they had already gone to too much trouble to eradicate the ones who originally lived there. A few of the dispossessed tried to hack out subsistence farms in the Amazonian rainforest, but the jungle, and especially disease, soon defeated them. That left only the most savage wilderness of all, the unpopulated slopes of the Andean pre-cordillera, a hellish nearly vertical landscape composed of impenetrable vegetation, a place where torrential rains cause whole mountains to collapse on a regular basis. It is almost impossible to build a road in such a place. The rivers become raging floods every time it rains, and it always rains. Only those who have been to montane rainforests can appreciate how difficult it is to even traverse, much less farm, such a place. How steep is it? This steep. Any poor pleasant who attempted to hack out a farm in the pre-cordillera soon learned that the only hope lay in planting a perennial shrub such a coca which would bind the soil, and be worth a great deal of money later. With money one can buy food rather than grow it! So began the onslaught, as landless peasants streamed into regions known as the Yungas and the Chapare. My Gawd how the money flowed in! Needless to say there were no taxes, except those paid to the thugs who extracted their pittance as the poor peasants attempted to bring their harvest to market. What to do with all that money? Pablo Escobar just piled his up in warehouses, but what good does that do? A fellow can buy only so many hippopotami and polyester leisure suits. Not even purchasing a fleet of airplanes and submarines put a dent in the profits. What was needed was a good money laundering scheme. Any creative accountant will tell you that the best way to transform an intangible like money into a tangible asset is through real estate development. Build a skyscraper with your ill gotten gains, and poof, there is the proof! Plus, you can charge rent! So it was that the modern city of Santa Cruz was born. Some may feel that such corruption is a terrible thing, but if there is there one thing I have learned in the course of my travels, it is that high level corruption is often tolerable on a personal level, but low level corruption is not. To put it another way, as you are walking through the darkened streets of a foreign city, who are you more worried about, Bernie Madoff, or the aforementioned cuchillero? Not even a drug lord wants to foul his own nest, nor does he want his daughter to be molested on her way to school, so any undesirable in the neighborhood either works directly for the boss, or gets rounded up by the cops, all of whom work for the Boss. Should any thug fail to get the message he simply disappears. It makes for a nice safe neighborhood. Throughout the world, whenever and wherever there is trouble, do-gooders yap about human rights, but the foremost human right is the right to be able to walk down the street unmolested by a petty criminal. I have no idea of who runs things behind the scenes in Santa Cruz, nor have I spent time in the squalid periphery, but I do know that I would prefer to walk through downtown Santa Cruz at midnight than to walk through the streets of Belize City at noon. Santa Cruz is not an international vagabond destination like Bangkok, so Hippie hostals are few and far between. It proved to be a most excellent choice. All around us was the hustle and bustle of the busy market. Great heaps of fresh fruits and vegetables spilled from bags and baskets onto the street. The air was redolent with the aromas of grilled meat, rotten fruit, exhaust fumes, and dog shit. Impatient taxis beeped at vendors as they laboriously pulled handcarts piled high with merchandise through the narrow streets. The meat market at the center was a veritable abattoir with piles of guts and grinning pig heads hanging on hooks. How much for the eyeballs? I have often found it odd that no matter how large the market, in Latin America all the tiny tiendas all sell the same things, bags of rice and beans, canned goods, fresh vegetables, kitchenware, and patent medicines. This was the real Bolivia. Unlike most other Latin American street markets which are usually only a few blocks long, this one was huge. It occupied a large neighborhood. The market featured not just goods, but also services, such as this shop which specialized in the refurbishment of baby Jeasuses Jeezi? In the midst of all the manly Mestizos and colorful Indians I was astonished to see a large number of dour identically dressed German giants who closely resembled the puritanical farmers depicted in the famous painting American Gothic. This was my first glimpse of the Mennonites. It turned out that everything east of the Hostal Grados was a specialized market dedicated to supplying the needs of the Mennonites. The road was the dividing line. The Mennonites have need of cowboy hats, saddles, hammocks, and wallets in which to stuff all their hard earned money. Such items are their only concessions to vanity and comfort. I later learned that there are two flavors of Mennonites. Fundamentalist fanatics speak only low German, not Spanish, and may be seen in the countryside riding around in horse drawn buggies with steel or wooden wheels. No rubber tires are allowed, because rubber is a new fangled invention. Read all the sordid details here. It was immediately evident that although the Bolivian people were generally polite and friendly, the same could not be said of the Mennonites. The men, though extremely grim, would at least nod and grunt when greeted, but the women were overtly hostile to anyone who so much as looked at them. What were they murmuring? Worse of all were the expressionless children. Below the age of three the kids would smile and giggle as kids do, but past that age silence was beaten into them. Surrounded by the chaos of the market, but above it all, stood the Hostal Grados, a clean modern five story building with all the conventional amenities. The price was quite reasonable. The rooftop terrace featured expansive views of the city. The best thing about the Grados was not the building or the rooms, but rather the excellent service provided by the owner Esteban and his uncle Raphael. Both men are brilliant, bilingual, well traveled, and veritable fonts of information about Bolivia. Their advice was well worth the price of admission. Their guests included ordinary Bolivians, Mennonites, and oddball travelers from every corner of the earth, some of whom appeared to be refugees on the lam. I felt right at home. To my extreme dismay, as soon as I reached the rooftop terrace I discovered that a howling cold dry wind was blowing in from the south. I knew that I had arrived at the onset of the austral winter, but I never expected a tropical location in the middle of South America to be so damnably cold! He explained that if we wished to extend our visas we had to return in exactly 30 days, not a day sooner or later. Then, and only then, would we be allowed into the inner sanctum. What must it be like for Bolivians who want to visit the United States? For them the bureaucracy is an almost insurmountable hurdle. Perhaps that explains the huddled masses along our southern border. Why must all modern government buildings feature brutalist architecture? Kafka well understood such things, it is to make certain that you are cowed into submission and hopelessness. At least we were not transformed into cockroaches. We continued downtown to the Plaza to find an ATM, and to have lunch with an old friend. The Plaza was quite lovely, but the doors to the old Cathedral were closed, for the Bolivians have lost much of their faith. The United States is graced with great natural beauty which we should celebrate, but do not; likewise, we treat our major cities not as exemplars of civilization, but rather as centers of commerce surrounded by the dregs of humanity. Why, other than in New York and San Francisco, do our cities not have grand parks and plazas? Even the humblest Latin American towns have plazas where people can see and be seen in the context of beautiful gardens. Many Americans are unaware that Central Park in New York City, the finest urban park in our nation, was once a teeming slum filled with the refuse of Europe. The Toboroche tree, Ceiba speciosa , a type of baobab, is the icon of Santa Cruz. Its bizarre swollen trunk and magnificent blossoms grace every park in the region. They bloom during the austral winter, as does the equally beautiful Pink Tabebuia, Handroanthus impetiginosus. They need to be places where women can safely stroll with their children to feed the pigeons. There may have been some controversy in regard to the eviction of the squatters in New York in , but it has long since been forgotten. If it were up to me we would do the same thing today, take the wreaking ball to our inner cities and create great parks in their place. The inevitable result of such thinking will be a squalid future devoid of culture, knowledge, beauty, nature, and the natural resources upon which we depend. But I digress, back to Bolivia. In Santa Cruz the women are brave and strong, as well they should be to live near the wild frontier of the Gran Chaco, especially when oil was discovered. Worst of all, the natives, who had done the work but had not been paid, became restless; so, the women marched to defend the city from the unwashed oil workers. The struggle continues. Nearby was an abandoned building covered with pro feminist graffiti that had once been an Avant-garde art gallery until closed by the patriarchy. As I write this on January 3rd, riots between the factions are raging in the streets of Santa Cruz. After stocking up on money, booze, dope, and food we returned to the Hostal Grados where Esteban asked us about our plans. I explained that we wanted to visit nearby Amboro National Park, but that we did not want to do so on a tour. It is prohibited to visit a National Park without a guide. Aside from that, all tours are ridiculously expensive. No way Jose! All we wanted was a place where we could be left alone deep in the jungle. It is called Villa Amboro. The problem is that it is almost impossible to access by public transportation. But then I paused to consider that our short taxi ride from where Ann left her car in Gainesville to the airport was almost that much. It was the best decision we could possible have made. Our adventure was about to begin! Join us for the next installment of our thrilling adventure as we visit a jungle paradise where the Weazel almost loses his life, or at least his testicles, to a rattlesnake! Bolivia sounds tempting, always bring more dinero that you thought you might need. Recently learned that on the Rosario islands of Columbia. Like Like. I am glad Ann and Bruce explored Bolivia. Although, come to think if it — I did drink myself to Bolivia on night. Great photos. I would love to see and touch a Toboroche. Skip to content Of the intrepid few who visit Bolivia, most begin by flying directly to La Paz, the cultural capital of the country. The Bolivian Yungas, image swiped from Wiki Any poor pleasant who attempted to hack out a farm in the pre-cordillera soon learned that the only hope lay in planting a perennial shrub such a coca which would bind the soil, and be worth a great deal of money later. For an extra fee, Sr. Lopez can even re-virginify the Virgin Mary In the midst of all the manly Mestizos and colorful Indians I was astonished to see a large number of dour identically dressed German giants who closely resembled the puritanical farmers depicted in the famous painting American Gothic. Are we having fun yet? Here they are in real life. Do you have anything in black? A disgrace! The rooftop terrace of the Hostal Grados The best thing about the Grados was not the building or the rooms, but rather the excellent service provided by the owner Esteban and his uncle Raphael. Welcome to Limbo Why must all modern government buildings feature brutalist architecture? Plaza Metropolitana 24 de Septiembre The United States is graced with great natural beauty which we should celebrate, but do not; likewise, we treat our major cities not as exemplars of civilization, but rather as centers of commerce surrounded by the dregs of humanity. My hero along with Mr. The blossoms of Pink Tabebuia in front, and the swollen trunk of a Toboroche behind. Here they were in real life. Share this: Twitter Facebook. Like Loading Recently learned that on the Rosario islands of Columbia Like Like. Fantastic writing. Sounds like a great trip. WV-Mike Like Like. I adore the stories of your amazing adventures!!!! Leave a comment Cancel reply. Previous Previous post: Bolivia, part 1: An introduction. Comment Reblog Subscribe Subscribed. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now.

El Alto where can I buy cocaine