A pirated version of Windows 7 in Spanish (Bs.7), a live baby snake (Bs.150), a snake carcass (Bs.75), a 42-inch plasma screen (Bs.10,000), Mao t-shirts (Bs.3-15), a neon Jesus statue (Bs.25), Indonesian-looking mannequins (display only), waving Chinese lucky cats (Bs.10), absinthe (Bs.80), a stethoscope (Bs.280), and pasankalla cookers that look like time-travel machines (Bs.1200).

These are but some of the items to be found in the magnanimous Feria de El Alto, also known as “la Dieciseis”. Covering over 5 square kilometres, this flea market takes over the Ciudad de el Alto on Thursdays and Sundays, from as early as 4:30 a.m. The market is certainly one of the biggest in Latin America and by most locals’ accounts said to be one of the largest in the world. Standing before any one of its innumerable stalls feels like being deep within an anthill. It is here that this city fully comes alive in all of its chaotic glory.

The Bolivian Express split into teams of four and set off to the Feria on two different occasions, leaving at the relatively late hour of eight in the morning. There are several ways of getting there. Some of us took a minibus to La Ceja (downtown El Alto) and got off at La Pasarela (an overpass and landmark in its own right). The rest of us took a growling green bus from the tunnel near the Plaza de los Heroes and headed for the Plaza Ballivian. Take heed: these buses from the 1940s were not made with gringos in mind. Stand taller than 170 cm and you’ll find your neck bent at 90 degrees. Try and sit down and you’ll find your knees bent up against your chest. Of the many locals who laughed at the sight of us on this sturdy vehicle, one man, Marcelino, started talking to one of our reporters. “Nuestra vida así nomas es, de la Feria nomas vivimos” (“it’s how our life just is, we live off the Fair alone”) he lamented cheerfully, before telling us to get off at a small roundabout in the centre of which a cholita statue stood proud and fierce.

El Alto lives and breathes the Feria, on which it depends for its daily needs. In the Dieciseis one can buy nearly anything, from rusty car-parts to Charquecan. Stores are arranged loosely into sections: musical instruments, motorbikes, embroidery goods and stolen goods (to mention a few). The Feria even incorporates a thriving (though painfully cramped) live-animals section, and extends into stores located in bare-brick multi-storey buildings. While most of the stores and adjoining stands close during non-market days, a señorita selling freshly squeezed orange juice (Bs. 1,50) informs us there is a scaled-down version of the market during down-time, especially on Saturdays.

The market is also a snapshot of current social problems faced by the state. Numerous child labourers pepper its arteries, an unsurprising finding given the 21% of Bolivian children between five and twelve estimated to have to work. Pickpocketing is also rife and several techniques (too many to enumerate) are used to isolate victims and rob them of their possessions. One of our journalists was covered with sawdust and surrounded by four men who unsuccessfully tugged at his bag; another one was subject to the ‘shoelace trick’ (no one was able to tell us how it worked but we thought it had a cool name). Nothing was lost as our dinero was stored in moneybelts and cameras were carried in zipped pockets. We advise you to do the same and maintain ‘calm alertness’ at all times, as you would in any crowded and unfamiliar place.

Don’t be discouraged: vendors will look out for you, as will the Robocop-lookalike market guards (look out for black-clad urban troopers wearing plastic sunglasses). As one of the few gringos walking around these streets, it would be surprising not to attract this kind of attention. Take it with a spoonful of llajwa and hold on tight to your possessions. A Bolivian friend of ours who has lived in La Paz since his childhood gave us an account of going up to El Alto at 4am in the morning to re-buy his TV after it was burgled from his house the previous evening.

Amid our disconcerted navigation through the seemingly arbitrary layout of the shops, we discovered the jungle was ordered as neatly as a Japanese bedroom, and regulated as tightly as the cells in a honeycomb. A pair of bailiff-like men (who said they belonged to the “Asociación Central Managua”) visited each stand in turn ticking merchants’ names off a long list, collecting a few coins at a time. The Feria is organised by the “Sindicato de Comerciantes Minoristas”, a union representing merchants big and small. All stand holders pay a contribution to the union (a “patente”) of Bs.15 per year. The price of a stand, which can either be bought or rented, varies greatly depending on its location. A woman selling fruit told us that one can expect to pay upwards of 3000 US Dollars for a good spot. Premiums are paid for spots located on a corner, near one of the many market entrances, and even for those located on cement instead of the dusty ground. Several vendors told us they had inherited the stand from their parents, who had been part of the Feria as long as they can remember.

Despite the vibrancy, cheer, and the millions of Bolivianos switching hands every day, completion is intense and margins are elusive unless one stays on top of the game. A woman selling pirated CDs who’d only been there for three months told us she made Bs.20 on her worst day and Bs.150 on her best.

In 2008, President Evo Morales raised the minimum wage by 55%. When one walks around this market it becomes apparent why this policy scarcely affects those working here: six out of ten people in Bolivia work in the informal sector. This figure is even higher in the Altiplano, where the proportion was estimated at 74% and where the informal economy is said to have grown by 126% in the last decade alone. The livelihood of these entrepreneurs relies on their inventiveness and hard work as their income is determined by the capricious laws of oferta, demanda, rebaja and yapa.

“¿Rendirme yo? ¡Que se rinda su abuela, carajo!” According to the story, these were the dying words of Eduardo Avaroa Hidalgo at the battle of Topater on the 23rd of March 1879. On this day, Bolivia lost the Departmento of Antofagasta to Chile and along with it, free access to the Pacific Ocean. The Guerra del Pacifico (1879-1884) is like a locoto, it burns Bolivian consciousness 131 years on.

Bolivia still yearns for what she has lost. The Bolivians among you will surely be familiar with the following lines from the song “Recuperemos Nuestro Mar” by Orlando Rojas : “Aún a costa de la vida, recuperemos el mar cautivo, la juventud está presente, Bolivia en alto reclama el Mar”. It is one of the marches of the Fuerza Naval de Bolivia. Naval Force, you ask? Yes, Bolivia is prepared for the day she will recover her sea, and is equipped with a 5000-man navy. They carry out a defense mission of Bolivia’s Maritime Interests in Lake Titicaca and on the 9000 kilometres of navigable river. 

The attempts at repossessing the coastline have been many, under the initiative of various presidents; none of them have ever been successful. So far, Peru has given Bolivia access to Puerto de Ilo which is used for tourism. Imports and exports largely go through Chile, to whom Bolivia pays taxes and duties for use of its ports.

Yet what Bolivia wants - what her citizens really yearn for- is to regain sovereignty over the lost provinces. In this month of July, talks between Chile and Bolivia are taking place in La Paz. The theme guiding these discussions is “cultures of dialogue and peace”, and aims to solve diplomatic issues between both countries.

To discover the significance of the loss of the sea for Bolivia and its people, one would usually start at the Museo del Litoral. Unfortunately, due to its current renovation, the museum is closed and looks like a bombed-out trench. I thus decided to interview the person responsible for the museum. After searching through the streets of La Paz, I finally found her hiding behind a face-mask and surgical gloves (no, she doesn’t moonlight as a surgeon - she was only developing photos).

Veronica Rodriguez begins by giving me a description of the lost territory. I am told that the desert of Atacama is a land rich in different types of important resources (copper, lithium, guano) giving the land great economic value. Indeed the war was sparked by Bolivia’s decision to eject Chilean companies exploiting these resources but refusing to pay taxes. In response to this, Chile invaded the port of Antofagasta in March 1879. The Museo del Litoral takes it upon itself to keep alive the memory of this war in Bolivian consciousness. Veronica passionately recounts the March events: “During the whole month we raise the flag to full-mast. We invite schools and the army to the commemorative acts”.

March 23 marks the Dia del Mar, dedicated to promoting awareness about the unfair war that led to Bolivia’s amputation. One woman I speak to in the Plaza Avaroa (a monument to the hero) tells me “The 23rd of March is a real celebration!” Not all Bolivians agree this day should be a fiesta or even exist. Hernando, from Santa Cruz, says “I don’t think such a loss should be celebrated. It’s history and I don’t believe in nostalgia”. However, the Dia del Mar returns each year like a melancholy Christmas. It reminds all Bolivians of their loss and their ongoing battle to reclaim the sea. There is no hope for Dia del Mar Grinches. Veronica Rodriguez feels that this day, this month, is insufficient. “We are not very nationalistic, we exclaim ¡GLORIA! and then the moment passes”. She strongly believes that more should be done in educational terms to keep the feeling of civic pride alive all year long. In addition, various individuals tell me that they feel the desire to recover the sea is actually a factor of unity among Bolivians. In this sense the loss of the sea can be seen as a myth which underscores the Plurination’s dliuted sense of shared identity, not unlike the feeling football creates amongst fans who briefly entertain they are all engaged in the same battle. The sovereign right to the sea is not only advocated in speeches and parades, it is also present in Articles 267 and 268 of the new Constitution. It proclaims that sovereignty over the lost territory is an “imprescriptible and inalienable right”. A saleswoman on the street told me “It is our right as Bolivians to have free access to the sea; it’s normal that it should be present in the Constitution”. The vast majority of those I spoke to were very willing to tell me how strongly they felt about their right to the sea.

Aside from the sovereign ideal of an imprescriptible right to the sea (and all the symbolism that accompanies it), there is a more pragmatic issue driving this ambition: Bolivia’s economic development. One of the questions I asked Bolivians was: “do you think the desire to recover the sea stems solely from pride and nostalgia or also from necessity?” People gave me a broad range of answers, roughly divided half and half into idealists and pragmatists.
Veronica Rodriguez (and most Paceños I spoke to) felt that there was little room for development without free access to the sea, and the possibility of engaging in international trade without needing to pay for the privilege. Others (including a couple from Santa Cruz), told me that there would be no difference if Bolivia had sovereign access to the sea. “The problem isn’t access or no access, the problem is Bolivian mentality and irresponsibility. Until that changes the situation will remain the same” says Maria, Hernando’s wife.

The story of Bolivia and the loss of its sea to Chile unfolds like a grim fairytale: the stolen princess, the lover’s quest to get her back, and the covetous dragon guarding the castle. The current diplomatic impasse between both countries suggests Bolivians will have to wait for the elusive “happily ever after…”

“We are tall, white, and speak English,” were the infamous words of Gabriela Oviedo (the then Miss Bolivia) in 2004 when trying to dispel a purported stereotype about Bolivian people. The number of white people in La Paz city? Discounting dazed tourists and superior expats, hardly any. The number of white people on billboards and shop windows? Too many, far too many.

Behind a glass pane, an oversized picture depicts a little white girl stuffing herself with brightly coloured ice cream while on the street in front of her Cholitas beg for spare bolivianos. This overwhelming distance between the people in advertisements and the consumers is not a common sight in England, where commercials usually show people only slightly more attractive and happy than you: an approach which gives the impression that this lifestyle is within reach, if only you would buy the product. But in Bolivia this European technique, that places the object of temptation within the periphery of your reach, is moribund. Here, where models of foreign race and distant culture brandish the goods, a different method is being implemented. To speculate on why this is being done would lead too treacherously into psychological and postcolonial conjecture. Equally interesting is the effect that these alien creatures have on the people and culture of La Paz.

We chose two billboards in La Paz and set out to measure people’s reaction to them. Billboard one: a huge white lady looking smugly over her shoulder. Billboard two: three intimidatingly attractive women, wearing ´you will never find any girls as hot as us´ faces, advertising Gillette. Our interviewees response: They wouldn’t care whether the women were Bolivian, black or blue (let’s hope James Cameron didn’t hear that). For Paceños, if the advert was good, skin tone was irrelevant. However, everyone agreed that the models were attractive, and all the women wanted to look like them. While this is not a surprising response (who, after all, could call them ugly?), the discrepancy between the natural Bolivian look and these pristinely made-up, photoshopped Barbies surely affects levels of self esteem and love among Bolivian women. Significantly, we can place these observations alongside the flyers and posters that pepper the city, advertising improvements such as nose surgery and skin bleaching. The gaudy and lascivious images on the posters are perhaps not as distant as we imagined: a spot of surgery, the flyers would have you believe, and all on the posters is within your reach. You too can be a Barbie. Plastic surgery is a global phenomenon, but here in Bolivia it is far more acceptable and popular than its equivalent in Europe, where it is shamefully confined to the fringes of society.

The quantity of adverts in La Paz, and the fact that nearly everyone we asked knew someone who had had their nose reconstructed leaves no doubt that this practice penetrates a great and central social sphere. Once again, we would not want to speculate. Doubtless there are myriad reasons why this occurs, and theorising would again lead us too treacherously into psychological and postcolonial conjecture. But, as I strain my neck to gaze up at these larger than life, whiter than white, aesthetically perfect figures, glancing haughtily down on the city like gods from a cloud, I find it hard to believe that these idols do not play a significant role.