Not only did she get our passports stamped, she also dragged our baggage through check-in. Meanwhile, I stayed collapsed on my bench, as helpful as a dehydrated cadaver.

Downtown La Paz

When Donna returned to retrieve me, she said, "It's the altitude. Remember, we're almost fourteen thousand feet above sea level."
"Uf-f-f," I replied.

Sharing a cab with another couple, we descended about one thousand four hundred (1,400) feet during the ride from the airport into the canyon cradling the city of La Paz (Bolivia). As soon as we got checked into Hotel Libertador I collapsed onto our bed, doing nothing more strenuous than inhaling and exhaling. After resting for an hour or two, and eating a sandwich, I felt fine.

Two days later I happened to read the instructions on my bottle of codeine: Take only with food. During the final stage of our flight from Miami to Bolivia I had popped two pills. After liquefying in my empty stomach, the opium derivative flowed into my bloodstream, obscuring my back pain. But the codeine, coupled with the altitude at the La Paz International Airport, brought acute nausea and dreamy light-headedness.

In La Paz, we visited native markets selling everything from shriveled dried fetuses to intricate handmade silver jewelry. We strolled on concrete sidewalks flanking paved streets, and we walked on cobblestone streets lacking sidewalks.

San Francisco church

We marveled at stout Native American women with bowler hats perched atop their thick black hair, and wearing five or six layers of gaily colored skirts reaching to their shoe-tops. We photographed the massive, almost intimidating, Iglesia de San Francisco (San Francisco church) founded by Fray Francisco de los Ángeles in 1548. The building collapsed under heavy snow about sixty years later, but was rebuilt during the years from 1744 to 1753.

Party Time
On our third day in La Paz we checked-in at the office of the U.S. Consulate General. As I slid our passports through a horizontal convex opening, the U.S. Marine attired in civilian clothing and standing behind a window made of at least four inches of clear bulletproof material noticed the Marine Corps emblem tattooed on my left hand.

"How long were you in the Corps, sir?" he inquired.
"In five, out five, in eight, for a total of thirteen," I answered.
"Are you a Vietnam vet?"
"Yes."
"Are you and your wife interested in coming to our embassy party the day-after-tomorrow night?"

Although we had intended leaving La Paz the next day, we accepted the invitation.

Inside the Marine's high-fenced and well-guarded compound, we ate and drank. Actually, we ate and I drank. And we were introduced to the U.S. assistant ambassador (the ambassador was out of country), the head honcho of the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) in Bolivia, all the embassy Marines not on duty, and various other party attendees. As I circulated, I noticed three guys at the end of the bar keeping to themselves. Wandering over, I said hello and introduced myself. They were, they informed me, U.S. Army paratroopers assigned special duty in Bolivia. The sheen of arrogance was evident. They jumped out of airplanes, something not one embassy Marine was qualified to do.

"Be nice," my hidden voice commanded.
"Oh sure," my ex-Marine pride answered.

Gently (at least I think it was gentle), I disclosed that several years earlier I had been one of a fourteen-member detachment of U.S. Marines that went through Army jump school at Fort Benning, Georgia. Later, I jumped out of jet aircraft, prop-driven planes, and helicopters. Some of which were Marine, some Navy, and some civilian.

We looked at each other. Eyeball to eyeball. Arrogance to arrogance. Then we ordered a round of drinks and commenced telling paratrooper tales. (Jump-qualified Marines are known as jumpers, not paratroopers.)

Questions?
If you want more information about this area you can email the author or check out our South America Insiders page.