It’s been 10 months since El Alto introduced their Municipal Transport Guards (GMTs). It is the city’s response to the friendly zebras roaming the streets of La Paz, cartwheeling across the street teaching people about road safety. The GMTs in El Alto do neither of these things. They are stern, no-nonsense women known to locals as the Power Rangers.

Since last November, 20 cholitas have joined the GMTs and have been tasked with reducing congestion in El Alto and ensuring minibus routes are adhered to.

To track them down we spoke to Raúl Vásquez, Administrative Chief of the Municipal Guard. We were summoned to meet at 8 a.m. at the bridge in La Ceja (downtown El Alto). Unmistakable, with their grey and orange waistcoats, extra-high-crown cholita hat, pollera, and (of course) their massive earrings, they approach us with signs they have confiscated from the morning-shift drivers.

Liliana Cruz Quispe, one of these cholitas, explains how they work by shifts. ‘I start at six in the morning and have another shift at night. Now I must go to classes’. She is a Social Communications student at the local university.

With a firm ‘move forward!’ they usher along the drivers. To prove their worth they must succeed where others have failed. The cheerful zebras and amicable donkeys failed to gain the respect of Alteños, and so were confined in the gentler city of La Paz. El Alto has a well-earned reputation for being rebellious and indomitable.

This time the answer has from the from the pueblo. Despite the predictable sexist slurs they subject to, these women have a better chance of succeeding than their forebearers. As Mr Vásquez explains: ‘cholitas, women who wear the pollera are the essence of our people’.

Why getting up the hills is only part of the challenge.

La Paz is not a cyclist’s city. A child wobbling around the Plaza Avaroa, a group of lads on BMXs doing tricks, someone slowly plodding up the vicious hill to the Avenida Ecuador—there are fleeting glimpses of the existence of bikes in this city, but nothing more.

And yet, arriving at the Plaza del Obelisco early one Wednesday morning in January, amidst the chaos of voceadores soliciting minibus passengers, the street vendors with their sweets and barrows of pasankalla, and a traffic policeman attempting to establish some kind of order, you would find a rather unusual sight: fifty three cyclists, bikes and all. They’re preparing for the first race of the year, a gruelling 13km up to the tollbooths that mark the entrance to El Alto. Whilst some hang around in head-to-toe sponsored kit, hobbling along in cycle shoes and making expert last-minute adjustments to equipment, there are others with grubby, battered and clunky old bikes, riders sporting woolly jumpers and tracksuit bottoms, tucked into socks to avoid accidents with gears.

Everyone I speak to tells me that cycling in La Paz is hard. Not so much because of the altitude, or even the hills, but because there’s no support, no respect, no understanding. Crisitan Conitzer, head steward of this event and a key figure in the cycling world of La Paz, tells me about the nightmares of commuting by bike. With few companies offering anywhere to park, let alone shower and change, it’s a logistical nightmare, and that’s without mentioning the traffic, the vagaries of the weather and the less-than-ideal condition of the roads.

Cycling for sport can’t be much easier. I am told that drivers aren’t deliberately malicious towards cyclists, but I can’t help but notice that almost every car in La Paz has a bump or scrape. Cristian agrees: 'We’re bad drivers here. Every day there are lots of little accidents. And then every couple of months, a really bad one...' Woe betide the cyclist who gets tangled up in a moment of road rage or simple misjudgement. Another competitor, a keen triathlete and coach, chimes in: 'I’m not afraid for myself, but it’s hard for beginners. They get scared, or it’s too difficult, and so they try another sport, or give up altogether'.

The issue that keeps cropping up is one of awareness: people don’t cycle themselves, don’t feel comfortable with their children learning to ride a bike, and don’t know how to react when they see a cyclist on the road. And in some ways, a race like this doesn’t help: the police escort closes the road, traffic piles up, those waiting along the autopista up to El Alto getting increasingly frustrated by the non-appearance of the usually ubiquitous minibuses. The road is wide enough for cars and cyclists, and yet the space is never shared.
After the allotted half hour of road closure has passed and the winners have arrived, abandoned their bikes and gulped down plastic cups of orange squash and sachets of flavoured milk, a sudden surge of minibuses appears on the horizon, racing its way to the top. It is intimidating, for a spectator. For the novices still struggling their way up the hill, forced off the road by the sheer force of traffic, it must be terrifying.

Perhaps this is why there aren’t too many cyclists in La Paz. I’m told that ‘everyone’ who cycles knows how to fix their bike, has friends who can bring in the parts that can’t be found in Bolivia. But for those who aren’t in the club, don’t have someone who can mind their bike while they pop into the bank and don’t know where to look on El Alto market for that spare inner tube, cycling in La Paz must be pretty tough. Nearly as tough as getting up that hill.

Lake Titicaca’s boat owners in and around the tourist town of Lake Titicaca.

Despite being a landlocked nation there are plenty of opportunity to travel by boat in Bolivia. Bolivia is home to the highest navigable lake in the world, the infamous Lake Titicaca. Here, the best way to travel is of course by boat. Traditionally, boats hand crafted from Totora reeds were used to travel between the shores of the 8,372 km² lake and its islands. Today, however, it is possible to see all manner of aquatic transportation around the lake.

Sitting at the top of Cerro Calvario looking towards the horizon, one would be forgiven for assuming that the vast expanse of water before them was an ocean. During my time in Copacabana I had to keep reminding myself that this wasn't an ocean at all, but an enormous lake, spanning 8,372 km², and cutting through the highlands of Bolivia and Peru. The idea of travelling by boat in a landlocked country may seem improbable to some, yet there is no other way of cruising Lake Titicaca. These vessels offer a convenient and natural way of connecting the dozens of communities that live near its shores.

Walking along the beach it is impossible not to be stopped by boat owners trying to lure you into a 30 minute trip on a paddle boat, an excursion to the Isla de Sol, or a tour of the Islas Flotantes. The competition is fierce along the beach with so many different boats, prices and destinations. I’m bombarded from every angle by shouts of “Senorita, senorita! Media hora solo cuarenta bolivianos!” They needn’t worry, Copacabana seems to be the destination for backpackers and family excursions. Hoards of tourists pour from the ever-arriving buses onto the shores of the lake ready to take a ride.

The variety of people who own and run the lake's transportation are as diverse as the nationalities of those attracted to the holiday destination. Teenage boys, giggling Cholitas and stoney-faced men are among those prowling the shores in the search for customers.