This is the Alasitas Festival, the Festival of Abundance. Hordes of Bolivians crowd the streets, coming to buy their miniature desires and have them blessed in a curious mix of Christian and Pre-Colombian beliefs. Market stalls sell miniature cars, houses, shops, farms, university degrees, literally anything, and people buy them, hoping to acquire the real thing later in the year. It is a curious and chaotic time. My suitcase, I hope, will ensure I stay safe on my journey.
But today I am going to receive a lesson in irony. After my suitcase was blessed, we went into the cathedral on Plaza Murillo...the most crowded house of God I have ever entered. The pews had been removed, and a swarming mass of people were pushing and shoving in a most unholy fashion, trying to enter the radius of the Holy Water that priests were showering everywhere. I was sucked into this crowd, and felt like I was in a rock gig, not a church, as I was shoved towards the priest. The Holy Water splashed my tiny suitcase, and, feeling like the congregation might stampede at any moment, I battled my way out of the cathedral. By the main door, I turned to get a photo of the insanity. I reached in my back for my camera, but my bag was empty. No camera, no wallet.
Being well aware that thieves abound in South America, I had attached two carabinas to my bag, to stop any would-be pickpockets. I looked down...my bag was empty, but the carabinas were still secure. How the hell? I turned my bag upside down, and there it was...a four inch wide slash across the bottom of my bag. I turned a burning crimson colour. How could I not notice somebody hacking away at my bag? They had taken our camera, and my wallet, which luckily had no bank cards, and only 15 pounds worth of cash. Even luckier, my dear Natasha diligently uploads our photos onto facebook once or twice a week, so we only lost a few snaps. But I didn´t feel lucky. I felt angry, and foolish. At least, even as an atheist, I felt sure that whoever had just robbed me, in the middle of La Paz´s most sacred cathedral, was going straight to hell.
It turned out I was not the only victim. A Bolivian man ran up to Natasha and I when he saw us talking to a policeman. The inside pocket of his suit jacket had been slashed in the same manner as my bag. They may be wretched little thieves, but they are good at what they do.
So, what is the lesson? I guess, no matter how careful you are, if someone wants to steal from you, they will. Or maybe the lesson is always be wary, especially at church? Not particularly heartening lessons. What I think I have learnt from that day instead, is, forgive, but do not forget.
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