A Move Up

Bolivia in 1994 was engaged in institutional, social and economic reforms designed to strengthen the country’s move towards sustainable growth through a partnership between the public and the private sectors, both national and international, together with stronger regulation of those sectors; further monetary and fiscal discipline; a solid and more transparent financial system; environmental protection; and greater equity through support for health, education and local participation, particularly through direct transfers to small rural communities and senior citizens, in this last case with the dividends from the newly capitalized companies.  Those measures were being supported by the international financial community and I saw the job as Representative of the Inter-American Development Bank in Bolivia as an opportunity to be involved in that effort.

By 1994 I had already spent nearly three decades in the Bank, and had come to appreciate that the virtue of an international institution, a good one of course, is that it can bring to the task the best of practices and principles from its individual members, and temper ideology with the lessons learned from different experiences across the political and cultural spectrum. It was in that spirit that the IDB, along with the World Bank, the IMF and a number of donor countries, was supporting these reforms, which at the time were recognized throughout the region as a model for development, particularly since they were being applied in one of the poorest countries of Latin America. 

The adoption of those reforms were to make the country eligible for debt alleviation through the program for Highly Indebted Poor Countries (HIPC). Under this program, donor countries agreed to make contributions to international financial institutions that covered the payments Bolivia was obligated to make for the interest and amortization of its debt. The country was thus relieved of those obligations, on the condition that the government commit itself to contribute substantial net increases to public investment for health, education and social development aimed at attaining measurable improvements in the quality of life of the country’s citizens on the basis of the Poverty Reduction Strategy.

So I anticipated that a move to La Paz would give me the chance to participate in a unique experiment.

I was not disappointed.

The Ride down the Yungas Road: a Footnote

As I shared with Jonny the story of our trip to the Beni in December of 1994 ("Christmas on the Beni Boat: Blind Faith"), I was reminded of how relaxed all three children were on that drive down the Yungas Road. The mood in the car was set by the music of Madonna, whom he adored (and still does), and her latest release, "Like a Prayer." Recalling the day, Jonny said, "We felt as if we were on a Disney ride."

Christmas on the Beni Boat: Blind Faith

Christmas day, 1994: Swimming among pink porpoises in Amazon waters after a three day trip that began in La Paz in our new Range Rover and was completed with a flight from San Borja to Trinidad, our family of five stuffed into the cockpit of a single prop plane manned by a pilot whose appearance was only slightly less worn than that of his aircraft. 

We had begun with a drive of some 60 kilometers along the single lane Yungas Road, dropping from an altitude of over 4,600 meters in the chill of the pass out of La Paz to the rain forest in Coroico at 1,200 meters. I followed the rule of the road, keeping to the left so that I could see how close my tires were to the 600 meter vertical drop, a view never impeded by any sort of guard rail. Meanwhile Andrea, then fourteen, served as copilot, calling out how far we had to go from one narrow easement to the next - small bulges built onto the road every several hundred meters that stuck out over the chasm and gave me a straight line view from my open window to the boulders of the Unduavi River below. It was these little spaces that let us edge over to allow heavily laden trucks and busses to continue their grind up the mountain, squeezing their way between us and the rock walls on the other side. We knew they would not stop, for fear of losing momentum up the steep grade. And it was clear who would lose any confrontation.

That night gave us a welcome return to the tropics we had known before. The rich smell of vegetation and the heavy beat of the rain on the tin roof of our hotel brought back the feel of Bahia, of Ubatuba, of the Bay Islands of Honduras, of Rio and Rangoon many years earlier. But anyone more knowledgeable of the roads of the region would not have slept that comfortably. After an hour or so on the road to Caranavi the next morning, we noticed up ahead a waterfall, a slight spitting of dirty water spilling onto our path from the cliffs on our left. I passed through, brushing off those elements as insignificant against the protective shell of our mighty Rover, and was not 100 meters ahead when we were shaken by a roar. That meagre stream had turned into a landslide of dirt, rocks and boulders that completely sealed the road. There was no returning to Coroico, even if we had wanted to. We proceeded on, feeling much less invulnerable.

The weather was compounded by human stubbornness, including perhaps my own. Further up the road, now in heavy jungle, we encountered a long line of cars and trucks impeded by a rig deep in the mud of the stream we needed to ford, weighted down by its load of citrus fruit, bananas and coffee. Several hours of our digging, pulling and pushing freed that truck, followed by cheers - and then groans, as another immediately proceeded to attempt a run and sank even deeper into the mire. It was getting late, we were not going to try to free another vehicle. So one brave soul took aim at a possible way around, a narrow passage between the left side of the truck and a steep drop into the forest below, carefully edging his wheels from one slippery rock to the next - and made it. I asked the rest of the family to get out and walk to the other side, followed suit, and we were on our way.

The rest of the trip that day was fairly uneventful, until we reached San Borja. The heavy rains of the night before had made the Maniqui River impassable. The raft that was to have taken us across was simply not up to the job. So we spent the night there and the next day completed the remaining 230 kilometers to Trinidad by air. A taxi rushed us to the boat and we boarded just as it was about to cast off.

Thus began our adventures with the McFarrens.