It is a happy coincidence that this city's political namesake should have shared his with the French word for sugar. Arid as the climate is, rippled as the air is with heat, in the shade of the palms and acacias of Sucre's Plaza De Mayo it is difficult not to feel that a curtain has been lifted on a sovereign's secret Paradise. The buildings, constructed using the profits of silver mines once the largest on earth, are grander than any I have seen since Lima, their garish white facades cleaned biannually by government edict. World class chocolate stores have fountains in the windows and the fountains in parks are actually filled with water.
Bolivia was signed into existence here. One of the signatories was Bolivar himself. By definition - but not in a practical sense - Sucre remains the nation's capital. And, though President Morales and his parliament sit in the larger, more prosaic La Paz, this place has an undeniable air of stateliness, superiority. Not twenty minutes ago, when our bus was still chugging through slums, interspersed here or there by a half-built mansion or military compound or creek with thousands of plastic bags snagged on its stony bottom, I would never have believed what could be awaiting us in the center. One of the recurring paradoxes of this continent, however, is that wealth begins with an almighty bang, an explosion of grandeur equal to or greater than those in the Western world - what edifice in Melbourne could boast of even half the splendour of the Palace De Gobierno? - but peters out in concentric circles to relative and then abject poverty with phenomenal speed. For example, central Lima could be mistaken for any European capital; cross the bridge into Rimac, fifteen minutes on foot, and the garbage-filled streets are wrecked and roamed by little children in the night. Colonial hubris built all those plazas hiding the destitution surrounding them, like great trees promising an orchard but instead standing in the middle of loveless pastures dried out or gone to seed. Is it symbolism before the people, then, or for them? What physical sacrifices is one prepared to make for a sense of achievement, pride? Because even those residents of Sucre who are not fortunate enough to live inside that magnificent blast radius can still claim to be part of The White City of The Americas.
The central market is three stories of tropical fruits and technicolour spices, fresh bread and wheels of spongy cheese. Cuy, Lamb, Llama carcasses often still have tufts of pelt attached, or tails. There are pig heads bleeding from the eyes in boxes of offal. Upstairs, an eating hall capable of accommodating two hundred people heaves under the strain of twice as many. They eat a savoury breakfast of Chicharron pastries, drinking porridge and Papa Rellena, the latter of which we sample. For me it is the beginning of a love affair. After buying all the food we need for three days and a bottle of rum, we are $15 poorer.
Later in the day I give a shoeshine boy five Canadian dollars and his marching orders. "Mucho Nuevo," he says, crunching the plastic bill down and snapping it out again. He was crying and grabbing my ankles and his polish containers were empty. Meantime a new mayor is sworn in behind us, replete with brass band playing military songs, youngish crowd roaring. His name is Ivan and his photograph cannot be escaped; as for his opponents, I see nothing at all pertaining to them. One of the onlookers is the manager of our hostel, a Swiss man of 6'4 who seems to be a sort of unofficial town mascot. Everybody knows him and acclaims his presence with loud shouts and embraces. And that deafening mania, of which we can only be drowned-out spectators, arrests my focus to the point of hypnosis.
Thoughts of home, like a sudden ring of the telephone after a period of total silence, storm into my mind. University, job, my family; all are incursions into this holiday peace we all pine for but can never really attain. Day by day those thoughts become more solid, and when at last they are bodies again, when I can smell the paper of library books and hear my mother's voice, I will be forced to bid her goodbye. I am thinking for the first time about the goodbye.
Soon we are accosted by a pack of shoeshine boys, led by the one to whom I gave the Canadian bill. Waiting peacefully for the sunset is impossible. Those dirt-spattered faces, eyes covered in pink swimming goggles, English 'please' repeated over and over in voices quavering on the edge of sobs, more hands around my ankles; we retreat to the hostel, buying some dark chocolate and a few churros on the way.
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