Today was spent entirely in La Paz. I first went to the Museum of Art, which is housed in a former residence just off the Plaza Murillo. The architecture of the building is one of its main drawing points: three stories enclosing a courtyard. From the lower stories, the rest of the building blocks out much of La Paz's uninspiring skyline, leaving only the cupolas of the largest churches surrounding Murillo against a drop of azure and white. I was once reminded that I could not take photographs, but they relented when I showed them that I was actually taking pictures of the building, not the paintings.
The collection only includes pieces by Bolivian artists and is arranged chronologically. I could not help but use the development of art in Bolivia as a metaphor for the development of Bolivia. The early works are poor imitations of the European Baroque and Neoclassical masters intended as propaganda to reinforce to power of the Spanish Crown and Catholic Church. Moving to the early 20th century, however, the paintings by Arturo Borda, particularly his later pieces were excellent, as was the sculpture of Nunez. The modern and abstract art, especially the triptych Persistencia, which depicted Aymara women and children huddled on the Altiplano, was also quite good.
I received an email letting me know that my temporary passport was ready. I returned to the embassy to pick it up and ran into KK again. Passports in hand, we rushed to tourist police to file a report for the stolen passports (that’s right, without identification, you can’t get a report that says, you know, you had your identification stolen). See, losing your passport is only part of the problem. When you lose your passport, you also lose everything in your passport, including your visa and entry stamp. A passport will get you back into the United States, but it isn’t enough to get you out of wherever you are stranded.
This was a fiasco/cruel joke. To file the report, we needed copies of the new passports. We rushed from the tourist police to a copy place. Of course, their copier was broken. So, off to another place for copies. With copies, we returned to file the report. Now, the police have a computer, but the form isn’t something simple like an excel spreadsheet or word document. No, the report is printed on paper that contains spaces for responses. These were obviously created in the days of typewriters and Bolivia has decided to put them to use. Thus, the officer needs to type her answers at specific points on a blank word document to ensure they are printed in the appropriate spots on the form. Ridiculous.
Fine, whatever. This takes unnecessary time and is annoying, but we get it done. At least done enough so we will be able to go to Bolivian immigration and get new visas. Or not. Because these forms need to be signed by el jefe, who walks in while we are waiting, proceeds upstairs and then closes the door of his office. Time ticks away. A…W…A…Y……… a……w……a…………y. 45 minutes later, he finishes having sex with his secretary and finally signs our forms.
We have 30 minutes before immigration closes. We jump in a cab, slide in the door, shuttle from line to line. Fill out paperwork. Pay some money. And are told that we can pick our passports up on Monday with a new visa. Well, that is what I experience. KK does not have the original of her green entry form which has the date and location of entry. These are presented at entry and must be returned at exit in addition to having a valid visa. Her green form was in her passport. She entered by bus via Argentina and can’t remember her exact date of entry. No date of entry, no visa. We beg. We plead. She cries. Nothing works. She feels overwhelmed and just retreats to her hostel before I am halfway through the procedure. Poor kid.
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