A Layover in Santa Cruz

It takes about 2 and 1/2 hours to get to Ascuncion in Paraguay from La Paz. However, due to the various flight schedules, it's impossible to get from one city to the other without having a long layover in either Santa Cruz or Cochabamba. Given that I have a friend in Santa Cruz, I decided to have my 7 hour wait there and take advantage of the opportunity to explore a new place.

My friend studies public participation in the budgeting process in local governments in Bolivia and Venezuela. He had a few meetings in the morning, but we made plans to and have lunch around 11am, which left me three hours in the early morning to walk around on my own.

I meandered around the city center for a bit, taking in the scenery. Santa Cruz is notably different from La Paz. Flatter, hotter, more humid. I began shedding layers from my La Paz standard outfit. First losing the zip-up hoodie and scarf. Then the long-sleeved t-shirt. Finally, I rolled up the bottoms of my jeans. It was the kind of humidity that reminded me of summers in New Jersey - the pressure cooker heat that will eventually give way to a merciful downpour.

Overheated and sweaty, I stopped to take a breather in the Plaza de 24 Septiembre with the many Bolivians who were resting on benches, chatting with friends, or playing chess against new and old opponents. As I sat, I saw a group of people congregate. It started with a few but quickly grew larger. Maybe to about a hundred bodies. A hundred bodies holding signs and chanting. They walked around the border of the Plaza but soon turned down the street 24 de Septiembre toward what I would later find out was the Mayor's office. I didn't think much of it at first. In fact, I got up and popped into a call center to confirm my plans with my friend.

When I walked out of the call center, I immediately saw the uniformed men. All with higlighter yellow vests over their black clothes, helmets on their heads with clear visors attached to protect their faces. They held their guns closely to their bodies and jogged in unison in the direction that the protestors had marched just 10 minutes before.

No one in the plaza seemed to notice when the first shots were fired. Their dispositions were so calm - their routines so unchanged - I doubted that I had heard them myself. Maybe it was a car backfiring. Or firecrackers for some Bolivian holiday that I had no knowledge of.

But then the cars on 24 de Septiembre started reversing. Cars backtracking one or two blocks so as to turn off this main street. The shouts got louder. The sound of shots got rounder and more hollow. And all of a sudden the sky opened up, and it began to rain.

I retreated, with many of the other Plaza dwellers, to an awning nearby a church. The rain muted the voices and blinded me from the nearby protest. The air took on this earthy smell, like the familar scent of my hometown in June. Except this clearly wasn't home. And I really didn't know what was going on or what I was supposed to do.
So I stood there. And waited. Waited for my friend as if we could still simply just have lunch.