Carnaval de Oruro

They say a picture tells a thousand words. In our 2-day weekend at Carnaval de Oruro, Mhairi and I took over 600 pictures. 

Cars at the festival had been magnetised to attract as much tableware as possible...

It did not start well. Oruro may be trying to starve any vegetarian that comes within the city limits. Carnival comes from the Medieval Latin meaning 'farewell to the flesh' - placed typically before a Lenten period where feasting of all animals would take place and also with connotations of abandoning oneself to one's passions. Oruro is clearly very aware of this. It was definitely party time and meat was everywhere - even greasy chips came as salchipapas - smothered with sliced hot dog meat. So our late breakfast search became a tortured hunt for non-meat based snacks. The sound of carnival drums haunted our efforts, its pulsating rhythm backed up by the crash of cymbals. And then came in the brass with majestic pomp; the crowds cheered, and we soldiered on. We finally hit upon a lady selling grapes and peaches, before a lone seller of humitas cropped up. The doughy cornmeal and cheese snack nestled on a barbecue next to some lamb kebabs, but picking a specimen furthest from the flesh, we had some kind of a breakfast.

One skull staff. We needed some seats for these views...

Shouldering our way to a place in the crowd it became apparent - we needed seating tickets. The street was lined with tiered spectator galleries and while the cheap seats further from the main square were free you needed considerable Bolivian moxy to force a space, and even more drunken Spanish to survive the constant boisterous action. This was at 1pm on the first day of carnival.

So we shoved our way to some high-class seating, complete with padded seats and rain cover. The first benefit of a carnival free from over-commercialisation was immediately delivered: a couple needed to sell their seats. In front of an authorised ticket dealer the young Bolivian girl resold her seats to us: second row, better than any others on offer. And no problem. The ticket girl shrugged as we swapped wrist bands.

Finally, we took our places and let the carnival envelope us. The roar of the bands, background noise while we were sorting out tickets, became an ear-popping, brain-filling rhythm pushing on the procession. On the street, big white banners announced the province next in line, and would hide everything until costumed dancers exploded forth. Riots of colour, shrouded in the fog of fireworks, young dancers led the charge; ladies with short skirts twirling, big smiles and bright eyes; caballeros behind them, all fiery shoulderpads and flinging their sombreros, they leaped and spun down the street. Everywhere, they urged on the crowd for more energy and the crowd responded by singing the songs as loud as they could, and chanting 'Beso! Beso! Beso!' - everyone wanted a kiss from the whirling young Bolivians on the street: and a blown kiss would send up a mad, crazed cheer and the crowd was on its feet and standing on seats and dancing along. It was about 3pm on the first day of the carnival.



The second benefit of a carnival without heavy corporate intervention became very clear as soon as Mhairi and I got thirsty. Every minute or so, a cholita or young kid would come by offering soft drinks and beer for a quid. At one point, we had three beer sellers swamping us to be the first to sell us a can. Given the massive queuing in UK festivals, taking hours out of your enjoyment, the beer delivery service operated at Oruro was a revelation.




Meanwhile, the crazed whirligig ride of carnival was endlessly fascinating. Every province a different set of colours: some sporting more traditional wear, with complex textiles, others in brash pinks, blues, greens, purples and on and on. As the afternoon wore on we picked out more of the details: some carried trucks with octopuses on them; others had twirly armadillos; still more carried staffs with skulls heads, snake motifs. Silk frogs clambered over the back of some dancers while giant spiders haunted the costumes of others. And youth gave way to age: older dancers in heavier costumes like a cross between brightly coloured tanks and the Oz tin man spun down the street, their metallic bearded faces in frozen smiles; and older ladies too with long flowing skirts that spun around their gyrating figures as they waved silken kerchiefs in the air. No-one was excluded - the biggest cheer of the day reserved for the caballero dancing, smiling and clapping his way down the road in his wheelchair.

So far, so normal (well, almost - still don't understand those octopus laden miniature trucks...): and then the chant from further down the street, repetitive, insistent, almost manic: Orso! Orso! Orso! Orso!... Again, and again, it didn't stop, in fact it crescendoed as more people along the way saw what was coming: the carnival bears. Giant fur-clad dancers with a lumbering gait, the bear-people leapt in a jerky rhythmic bounce with waving arms that infected the crowd: soon we were all mirroring their claw-pumping movements. But it was their heads that kept you mesmerised: giant gaping maws with sharp fangs, with huge orbs for eyes, a myriad of clashing coloured spirals drawing you to their dark silvered pupils. To receive their gaze was to draw you in a find yourself jumping in the air and yelling along. 

The weird and wonderful started to appear in droves: Death stalked the streets, giant ravens circled the procession, while a lone Archangel Michael fronted hordes of ferocious demons with their chifa supay consorts. As one Bolivian next to me explained - it's how the world is, the bad way outnumber the good, you know?






And it didn't stop. The skies darkened as the sun set and rain threatened. But all that happened was that lights appeared flashing happily on the costumes of the dancers. A downpour of the type only monsoon climates can deliver ran rivers through the street, but the carnival continued unimpeded, unhindered - its incessant drum beat could not be stopped. By 9pm, after 8hours dancing, chanting and failing to learn the Spanish songs, Mhairi and I left the Bolivians to it. The assault on our senses had left us dazed; punch-drunk happy with the riot of colour and sound that we had been sunk into for the entire afternoon. For Bolivians the party was getting started; more beer, more rum and coke; more dancing; and participating in that collective that lets you lose yourself and feel like part of something deep, rich and important.

Sunday, 10am in our hotel room and the banging in our heads was not a hangover. The procession had started again. Last night's efforts had gone on till the small hours, but Bolivia's biggest party was not to be stopped. We had at least found a good dinner the night before - Nayjama put together a quinoa quiche for Mhairi and served me half a lamb. I'll repeat that: half a lamb. Complete with tail, the entire back of a lamb was succulently cooked for my plate - 'the entire back, you see, so you know the lamb wasn't more than 6months old'. Mhairi grimaced.

Sunday, 1pm: 'Why are you not drinking?!' - fired by the biggest carnival weekend in Bolivia, a local next to us had already cracked open his beers while his eyes showed the glassy need of recovery from yesterday's exertions. With mumbled excuses we promised to drink with him soon and let our heads plunge into the atmosphere again. It didn't take long for us to supply a passing Pacena-beer lady with some trade as the carnival feeling took hold of us too. The Sunday party seemed to start even earlier, the tempo was greater from the off - helped by the dancers themselves. In contrast to Saturday's lustrous parade, the procession took more time for itself on the Sunday. Bursts of energy were mixed with dancers coming to the crowd to take sips of beer and exchange greetings. The monstrous heads of the costumes were pulled back so you could see the smiling, sweating face beneath - taking the applause from the crowd for their efforts. More cheers, more beers - we got to know our neighbours more and more. All Bolivians, we had half-conversations in Spanglish, but always raised our beer cans to toast each other at the end. And we never forgot to thank Pachamama - the Earth mother goddess - by spilling the first sip from our cans onto the ground to quench her thirst.

The hours passed by as before in a whirl of colour, and the happiness on the faces of every Bolivian remained undiminshed: they gained superhuman stamina from the passing of the procession, screaming for their friends, taking kisses when they could get them and finally, in small numbers they clambered the barriers and danced alongside the carnival for a while. No big-shouldered bouncer threw them anywhere: instead after a few minutes a security guy would ask the reveller to go back to their seat. Because what we really understood about this carnival is that it is made by Bolivians for Bolivians. Indeed, we felt like the only 'spectators' around: it is the best of carnival when it ceases to be a show and is a partnership between the people, crowd and dancers, so that each enjoys their role. Mhairi and I were privileged to be swept along.

By the time Monday morning rolled around, Mhairi and I had again found ourselves exhausted by the activity of Sunday's efforts and we slept late. In the city, the after-party continued. While seating galleries were dismantled around them crowds still gathered to see irrepressible groups of dancers and small clusters of musicians back out on the street and giving everyone their final taste of the carnival.

For us, the carnival was over. We packed our bags and headed for the bus station, with the beat of the drums still throbbing through the air...

From sunny Sucre to mine tours in Potosi

Leaving La Paz required an injection of energy. We were starting to flag and had a hectic month ahead before leaving South America. After much deliberation regarding how much ground we could cover and whether it was realistic to try and include a bit of jungle terrain up at Rurrenebaque (not, we decided, ruefully), we opted to obey the fierce insistence of a dude in an internet cafe that we had, had, had to go to Carneval at Oruro. For this was the month the continent goes loco and the small city of Oruro, we were informed by any Bolivian with whom the issue came up, was second only to Rio. In fact, they would confide, it was really even better than Rio, which only really had the one dance whereas Oruro was the real thing. Ok, we thought, the accommodation mark-ups may be 5-6 times their usual rate and it may be less than a week away but we're here and it's on, so go we must. The strictures of Bolivian geography prevented us from heading to the Salar in the South-West first - our remaining 'must-see' - so we opted to head to Potosi via Sucre and then duck back up to Oruro before turning back down. Which would be tight. One of those slightly breathless travel segments where you worry you're covering too much ground to appreciate anything properly but there's not quite the space to manage it differently.

Still slightly shaking off the after-effects of our crazy post-rugby evening at 'Oliver's', fancy dress, table-dancing and all, we clambered aboard the night bus to Sucre. This white, Mediterranean-evocative city still regards itself as Bolivia's capital. The place where independence was declared, it is in some ways still the heart of the wild, rugged nation as well as it's judicial capital; originally named Charcas before being renamed for Marshal Sucre. And it is lovely. We'd heard before going that it was the loveliest city in Bolivia and it's bright, civilised streets, bathing in warm light, didn't disappoint. It is a magnet for young travellers pitching up for a while to learn Spanish at the equivalent of 6 pounds an hour in a good climate, just down and out of the altiplano, with good coffee, Dutch-run bars and a gorgeous central Plaza ringed with colonial buildings. We stayed at a friendly hostel, Gringo Rincon, run by a welcoming, enthusiastic German guy and full of long-term stayers engaged in language classes. 

We climbed the hill to get great panoramics of the surrounding hills but were rained off venturing out towards any of them the following day as planned. So our short time in Sucre was very pleasant (at least aside from the first onslaught of Bolivian youth hitting carneval season - waterbombs, guns and foam pelting anyone and everyone in sight). Some good wine, some good coffee (hitherto utterly lacking in most of South America) and in the chilled out European-style Cafe Florin, the fried breakfast T had been dreaming of for months. Yet as we came to move on after only 2 nights and a day, I was more than ready. I suspect while a month in Sucre would be wonderful, 3 days would somehow have been too much. 

And Potosi beckoned. The guide books are somewhat hyperbolic about the impact generated on the traveller of this small, tough mountain city, saturated with brutal, mercenary history and perched a heart-skipping, lung-challenging 4060 metres above sea level. But it is true that it's not quite like anywhere else, a feeling provoked even when arriving at 10pm into silent streets and breathlessly ascending the wide staircases at its vast, spanking new bus terminal - an odd bastion of modernism in a city otherwise under-invested in. In the 17th century, Potosi was the biggest and richest city in South America, the conquistadors having rapidly discovered the potential of it's heart and it's lifeblood - already known to the Incas and other regional powers - the Cerro Rico. This low-level mountain - which even on these wet overcast days of Bolivian rainy season shifts in red, umber and greys against the ominous Potosi skies - held unimaginable quantities of silver deposits. And for over four centuries Bolivians have toiled there, paying in their blood (some 8 million slaves are said to have died in Rico's bowels across those early years of servitude which, however over-estimated represents a horrific subterranean human sacrifice). The silver, unsurprisingly, is almost entirely depleted in any quantities but the Potosi mines still churn out large reserves of valuable minerals day after day. And the mines, now as then, are the main reason outsiders come. Except now it is to partake of a little hardship-tourism by way of the dozens of travel agencies running mine tours each day. 

I had been a bit doubtful. Not only for the voyeurism, the large potential for exploitation and the more general unease we felt about intruding into such a punishing work environment as 'tourism'. But also, more simply for the physical ordeal. Reviews are at pains to impress the dangerousness of the tours and the mystique that they are not for the 'faint-hearted'. It seemed fairly likely, as with all Tripadvisor-style shrillness, that this was overblown for tourists to revel in their own daring. Nonetheless, these are working mines in a country almost entirely free from meaningful regulation, mining accidents are not uncommon, the air of the mines remains thick with noxious gases and exposed piping and, more broadly, the idea of descending dozens of feet down into tiny enclosed passageways with unregulated tour guides is enough to bring out anyone's inner claustrophobe. But we had heard great things of the town's only miner-owned and run agency The Big Deal (formerly The Real Deal) and after getting the lowdown in Spanish from one of the young assistants in the office, we signed up for the following day.

The streets were full with Potosians gearing up for Carneval. Guerilla warfare was rife, foam and waterguns roaming the squares and brass bands pacing the chilly streets. And make no mistake, this is not playful for the most part - you tool up and move fast cos these kids don't mess about... The market is large, fascinating and business-like, the local Potosina lager one of our favourites in the region, and our hostel Koala Den a great-value, rambling building with the best hostel breakfast we had in Bolivia - simple breads, jams and eggs on the side served  fresh before the 8-9am mining tour starts.

But first for the other Potosi highlight: the excellent Casa de Moneda, formerly the Bolivian mint and now a fantastic, thoughtful museum exploring the history of the mint, the output of the mine and housing a broader collection of colonial art and artifacts. Foreign language tours are included in the price of the ticket and so we spent a few hours in the company of an eloquent and thoughtful guide. He showed us around the old forges where the ceilings remain black, flecked with white and silver from centuries of smelting, and the newer presses sent by the Spanish kings of the 17th century to distribute the most cutting edge technology to the outer-reaches of their bloody, lucrative empire. Galleries display rich colonial paintings, the fascinating evolution of South American currency and the thousands of minerals and precious stones mined from Rico's depths. 

The museum is overseen by a frightening, ambiguous guardian, whose half-smiling face stares down from the arches. This, our guide thought, summed up the building and its history. For if you look at the face, you see it smiles on one side but not on the other: as if for the paradox of Bolivia, who once forged the currencies of the Empire but now mints her own coins in Chile; who with all her resources and hidden riches is still now, as then, so poor. And he shrugged - a sadly philosophical smile with all the cynicism, grit and good humour of Potosi.

Mining tours all insist on the authentic credentials of their guides but it is clear that experiences - both their informativeness and their safety - vary wildly. The main selling point of Big Deal had thus been the fact that they are so far the only company in town actually owned and run by, rather than employing, former miners - and the reviews both online and scrawled all over the walls of their little office are unremittingly positive. So we felt in good hands as we were bundled aboard a bus, our yawns no match for the small-built, boisterous and high-energy guys waiting for our group of 10 or so tourists. Like sugar-loaded personal trainers but with the dark, weathered skin and quick-silver eyes of men aged before their time, they bounded around barking good-humoured energising instructions at us as we wheeled on out of town to the miners market on the fringes. Here we would buy gifts for the miners we would meet which our guide for the day - Efrain, one of the company's founders - advised should comprise a kit of 2 litre soda and a bag of coca leaves.

Standing outside the stall, he showed us how to de-stem and chew the leaves properly - in between flinging around sticks of dynamite used by miners to demonstrate how 'safe' they were - as it was also worth us cracking into the supplies to guard against breathlessness and claustrophobia. We'd taken coca leaves in tea before but this was our first crack at the real thing so we knuckled down to it, clumsily copying his lifelong tested technique. Coca chewing is no quirky custom for Bolivian miners, as if it is for any Andean peoples, but a daily necessity and way of life. While early colonials railed against the habit, it was in Potosi and after experiencing the mining industry that the Spanish laid off, realising there was no way to outlaw this practice if they were to continue mining the Rico. A true opium for the masses, perhaps, but a traditional one at least. It expands lung capacity and enables people to work longer, it fends off the vicissitudes of altitude and provides strength and sustenance. Miners tend to get through an entire bag of the leaves per day and it's the one thing - apart from the occasional swig of pure spirit taken in toast to their patron El Tio (the Devil, lord of the mines, known as 'Uncle') - they consume in the mines during a shift.

After stocking up we went to change into mucky overalls, heavy rubber boots and hard hats with flashlights after which, I must say, I looked every inch the Real Deal, no?! The tour itself began in the processing factory near the mouth to the Rosario mine, one of around 30 different sub-mines toiled in worker co-operatives in the now state-owned mine. Efrain and his colleagues pay their old co-workers a fee to bring 'their' tourists into the mine and run a tight ship as you scamper through the dank narrow tunnels to ensure no one gets in the way of the work going on around you. The factory itself was a crazy medieval shed of chemical processing, ramshackle stairways, deafening sound and exposed wiring. Stepping gingerly around the plant we wondered wryly if this was the Elf-and-Safety-free working idyll the Daily Mail mourns the death of... And as we met workers inside, Efrain would pause to chat, translating a bit about each person - their age, how long they had worked in the mines - and source a few handfuls of coca or a bottle of juice in thanks.

And Efrain loved to talk. As we entered Rosario,  which we would spend almost 2 hours walking through to a second mine and on the other side of the mountain, we learned more about his life and that of Potosi's mining community. During breaks in our march, as former colleagues approached, running heavy trolleys through, he would yell back for everyone to get out of the way, spreading ourselves flat against the tiny 4-6ft high passages. 'No time for gentle talk in the mines,' he boomed cheerfully in the dark, 'it's 'Hey, how you? Move, llama-fucker!!' and bounded on ahead, leaving us tittering breathlessly in the noxious closed air, scampering after him like pampered little sheep into the bowels of hell. He had followed his father and all the men of his family into the mines by the age of 12 or so and claims, quite matter-of-factly and without ingratiation, that tourists changed his life. As tours into the mines began, he would meet foreigners - many of who would ask his age and even express anger with his father for his being there. Like all miners, he found this quite bewildering and more than a little ridiculous, both their sentiment at his work there and the very fact of their presence at all; 'I think, what? Tourists want to be miners?!' But he was bright and began to learn different languages, picking up English vocab from the peculiar visitors and eventually being offered a guide job with an agent; his former boss, of whom there was much disparaging talk.

After several years of working for this agency (now their rival), he and other former miners set up shop on their own and Efrain's real passion, it seemed, was bringing in other young 'retirees' from Cerro Rico. Gradually learning English, they work in the office, shadow older colleagues and run the Spanish-speaking tours to cut their teeth. Efrain wants to get more young miners into evening classes and into the tourist industry as a way out. And here is the paradox. 

As we sat in Tio's cave for one of the pauses in our march through the airless warren, where miners drink 96% proof pure spirits each month and give offerings of booze and cigarettes to the party-loving patron, he veered passionately onto the topic of the 'Devil's Miner' movie which made Potosi mining famous. A shit movie according to all the miners, he insisted, for myriad reasons but most particularly for the image of the young boy in class ashamed to admit he is a miner. This would never happen, Efrain insisted violently, between rounds of pure spirits in which we were required to partake; 'You are proud to be miners; you go into town, into Potosi, into clinic or into bars - 'I am a miner, give me 2 beers' (always in twos: 'Miners are very superstitious - we have two lungs, two arms, two legs, two balls - always two beers, four beers, six beers!!'). He puffs up his chest to convey the pride of workers who can earn twice what those in his own industry or other office workers are bringing home. There is no shame - and in a town, in a country, where unemployment is rife, life tough, salaries low and options limited, the Potosi miner has a good lot, a strong community, a way of life.

And yet. Efrain himself got himself out and wants to get other young people out. He discusses the health risks openly and the large mining families which require ever-longer hours and sons to follow fathers into the hard trade, the truncated life expectancy. He himself has a much smaller family than his brothers and his time in the mine - straddling worlds - is now just a few hours a day rather than the 8-10 hour shifts his comrades still make. He insists upon the strength, pride, humour and fraternity of the community; yet it is simultaneously clear from his empassioned commentary on their lives that he saw its dangers clearly even at a young age and now looks to expand choices for other young men in the industry. This feels like a very Bolivian paradox to us. The air is close, the poisonous fumes tolerable for a few hours through the moreish barrier of the coca leaves masticating in our cheeks but unimaginable for the hours of the miner's shift. Even if these hours are now determined by himself and his cooperative cell - largely made up of family members and close friends and each working their own specified patch - where once their predecessors were worked to death in the bowels of the Rico by outsiders.

Of the many sights, tours and treks we have taken in the last seven months, if I could recommend any single company or experience unreservedly it would be this one. This is not to put The Big Deal on a pedestal: I assume they are subject to many of the same pressures as their competitors and there is plenty I don't know about how they work. But they are the genuine article. Having the privilege to spend a few hours within this workplace, with the eloquence and passion of a guide like Efrain - who literally cannot tell you enough about his people, his own life, his thoughts and recollections about his town, his industry and his community ('Tourist say five hours for a tour, what we are going to do for five hours - but it is not enough for everything I want to tell you') - is pretty unmatched.  Back in the half-light of the shrine, still breathless from the 3 floor-climb up rickety ladders in a space wide enough only for children, we pour a little spirit on the floor and shoot a tiny amount - two sips of course as required - to El Tio. And, as ever, to Pachamama. Tio remains impervious; Efrain rounds us up, his soft little band of 'llama fuckers', and we scuttle on through the remaining tunnels into the sunlight.

La Paz

We rumbled stop-start through the choking streets; crowds of people thronged the pavements either side of us, while cheap multi-storey red brick building loomed above. And in the shops, the flickering white-hot light of the soldering iron worked tirelessly, the constant construction of a city growing rapidly. This must be La Paz.

'This is El Alto - The Heights,' I overheard a long-time ex-pat ahead of us explaining. 'all the people from the countryside end up here, and it's now as big as La Paz itself'. She motioned out the far window to her friend - that is La Paz.

And there it was. From the heights we saw down into the mountain cauldron, a giant sea of red buildings swirled at its base; splashed up the valley sides and hung like precarious droplets to steep ledges. 2 million souls all jostling in the morass of busy streets and highways.

La Paz

La Paz has a bad reputation - from crime to a lack of culture, to just being plain unattractive. Many other travellers were missing it out altogether or spending one night in transit to get out to the 'real' Bolivia as soon as possible. But any capital betrays the ambitions and aspirations of its people: and amongst so many millions there are always good times and good places. So Mhairi and I had resolved to spend three days getting to know the city. Furthermore, La Paz seems to know its reputation for being dangerous and has decided to capitalise on it: its signature day trip is the WMD road - a 3000m downhill mountain bike notorious for the number of people who injure or kill themselves by going over the edge (? In the last year, free T-shirt if you survive). It has South America's longest and fastest zip line a day trip away. And of course as we sat down to our meal on the first night arriving at the Star of India, in true British-Indian style, it had South America's hottest curry and a challenge to finish it (again, free T-shirt). It is almost all about excitement and adventure with a hint of danger in La Paz. And that leads to a very young crowd. In Cusco we'd seen the tired, old Japanese and American tourists filling buses with withered arms holding cameras for that bucket-list photo of Macchu Picchu. Here it was all pubs and clubs with free shots, and the appeal of riotous fun wherever we went, everyone willing to swap stories of their latest crazy experience.

To avoid the worst excesses, we'd again hooked up with a quieter hostel - Residencial Latino - where we could again sleep well without the fear of noisy parties. We were to get direct experience of such a hostel on our second day in La Paz at the Wild Rover. Signed in as guests to watch the rugby, I watched breakfasting hostellers have cider or vodka-orange with their toast, all big believers in hair of the dog. And it was no surprise when we took the bus to the wrestling that the riotous, drunken guys at the back were all inmates of that hostel.

Courtyard of the beautiful Central Art Museum, La Paz

Our first day though was cultural, and the main thing that stood out - Angels, with guns. The central art museum of Bolivia in La Paz is relatively impoverished but 16th Century oil paintings of the angelic host brandishing an arquebus or two are not easily forgotten. The highlight for us was the modern art of the first floor where the beautiful flowing stone sculpture work of Maria Nunez del Prado was presented. A lot of the other twentieth-century art still vacillated between idyllic rural scenes and dystopic visions of the urban present. Bolivia still lives with a lot of the pain from how both its near neighbours and those further afield have despoiled its progress into the modern world.

San Francisco Church

Nowhere was this more clear than in the coca museum. It painstakingly outlined the use of coca leaves in traditional custom for hundreds of years where the leaf helped bind communities together. It showed the scientific evidence that coca is beneficial for the respiratory system and contains a high concentration of vital nutrients as well as providing a stimulative effect similar to caffeine - vital when most of the population worked thin, high-altitude land. It was America that first synthesised cocaine: Sigmund Freud was a massive user. It was a wonder drug for pain relief until it got out of control and was misused. At that point two things happened: pharmaceutical companies lobbied to have cocaine banned while they could sell their inferior synthetic substitutes (novocaine and others). Secondly, it was the coca leaf that was declared the root cause of the illegal narcotics problem, and the US (with UN backing) sent in its agents to destroy crops in Bolivia, aiming at eradication. Of course at this time Western governments still bought coca leaves from Bolivia to synthesise cocaine for research purposes, and Coca-cola still bought hundreds of tons a year to add flavour to its leading brand soft drink. But the implication was clear - Bolivia couldn't be trusted managing itself, and years went by where coca was destroyed to the impoverishment of local communities, economically and culturally. With the accession of Evo Morales to the Bolivian presidency, himself a former coca farmer, things have changed. Bolivians chew coca with a defiant air, they point out that cocaine is an American drug used predominantly by Americans (50%??), and Europeans. America still blames the source. The argument continues...




With a rugby fuelled Saturday at the Wild Rover as mentioned before, I can only say again: La Paz has a lot of tourist-friendly joints for drinks. Oliver's pub saw us finish our evening dancing with a mixed crowd to the best of world pop music, with the odd free vodka and grenadine shot passed across the bar to us. All that remained for us to do the next day was scrape ourselves together for the afternoon's Cholitas Wrestling. This low-rent show-wrestling came complete with its own cast of masked characters - the American Ninja, Doberman, Satanica: even Batman made an appearance. The perfect hangover cure for sluggish minds, the wrestlers sprayed foam at each other, bashed tin cans on each others' heads and generally misbehaved. True to form, after many setbacks, the good wrestler always beat the baddie, justice was always served.

Cholita takes a break

We'd enjoyed our time in La Paz, it was easy and accessible with the most English speaking joints we could ask for: aside from the drinks, all the restaurants were great food and great value. Perhaps its because tourism is a lit more ghetto-ised around Sagarnaga, or just the capital city effect, but every waiter had perfect English and they were exceptionally friendly. We'd also walked around a lot in our three days, and seen cholitas running every kind of street stall imaginable, their traditional clothes marking them out distinctly from the totally urbanised youth of the city in jeans and brand label tops. As Bolivia aspires to me more independent from foreign influence, and assert its national identity, these ladies are the engine room of small business and no Bolivian goes a day without buying their snacks, drinks, and common items. They were some of the most vocal crowd members at the Cholitas Wrestling; they were also behind every popcorn and souvenir stand. But they are not in any of the banks or museums or tour agencies: they seem to only fill the many gaps in Bolivia's infrastructure in the lowest paid positions. It feels like they deserve more. In fact, just like in the modern art museum, it feels like Bolivia needs to reconcile the idyllic rural life which still provided its coca leaf and workforce, with its ongoing struggle with modernity.

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Into Bolivia and Lake Titicaca

Just woken, we jumped off our comfortable night bus close to the Lake Titicaca border between Peru and Bolivia and, glancing up and down the semi-deserted road, swung the backpacks on from the luggage rack. 'De donde tomamos el bus?' we asked the conductor in our pidgin Spanish, who gestured at a cheerful matronly lady nearby, 'La senora'. Uh-huh, I thought dubiously as we followed her to a white minibus, or collectivo, with a young Spanish woman from our bus. And as we settled into our seats it emerged that yes indeed, if we wanted to go now to the border rather than wait around for an indeterminate amount of time for a bus which may or may not exist (this was left a little unclear), it would be 5 soles each. But surely not, Senora, we explained, for we have purchased tickets all the way from Cusco to Copacabana. Directo. In fact, the on the very same bus, we had originally been assured. Ah yes but this was a private vehicle, she explained regretfully in return, and therefore the driver needed payment. Mmm-hmmm, we agreed, quite the predicament - but see we have already paid the bus company for a direct ticket all the way to Copacabana, the closest town to the Bolivian side. Yes, she understood, but this was only 5 soles and it was a private vehicle after all, you see. Our Spanish associate took on the lion's share of the argument; her 'Not our problem' line of reasoning growing more exasperated and rapido by the second. 

Copacabana harbour

Eventually we succumbed, as one always does when tossed off a night bus before 8am in a far-flung corner of the world to find someone in a taxi requiring more money than expected to whisk you off to the nearest bastion of civilisation. And to be fair, the cost itself was nothing, and if the good lady was attempting to make anything out of the exchange she certainly wasn't charging a fraction of what she ought to have been. Annoyingly, I can't even remember the name of the bus company, who are predictably pulling a fast one on this score by mis-marketing as a direct route to Copacabana one that is actually simply a bus to La Paz which will dump you reasonably close to the Peruvian side of the border. Much like many others I'm sure and by no means the worst of travel predicaments in which one may find oneself. But suffice it to say, exercise caution with cross-border buses, kids, there is almost always a catch, be it delays, scams or appalling currency exchange rates...

Bolivian ladies rule the world

Lake Titicaca is one of those exotic destinations that tend to sound fictional. Like Timbuktu or Mombasa. As the world's highest altitude lake, I had somehow imagined a desolate, lunar Ladakhian place, one cold and windswept where the living is hard. While the latter is almost certainly true, if alleviated in some areas since the tourist trail caught on, the former characteristics couldn't be further from the truth. Over the border - a couple of semi-deserted police stations and passport stamping offices interspersed with exchange booths and small shops, much more your India-Nepal crossing (minus all the people) than your Argentina-Chile - we sat in a small collectivo waiting for our journey into town. Bit by bit, the bus filled up with wizened old Bolivian ladies in tall bowler hats and huge colourful bundles of groceries or goods for sale tied across their shoulders, as the driver sat outside with his friends finishing some breakfast until he had enough customers to make the 3 Bolviano pp journey worth it's gas. 

Copacabana cathedral

As we barrelled bumpily into town the lake started to sweep tantalisingly into and out of view. A bright, deep blue, with mountains still visible far into the distance, green and brown rolling hills surrounding: your only clue to its crazy 3800m altitude the cool, foreshortened feeling in your lungs that accompanies the traveller around the altiplano. Copacabana is an engaging little town, now very adapted to its tourist profile - which leans decidedly towards the backpacker due to its remote location but is nevertheless visible on every street. Andean knitwear abounds in quantities and affordability far exceeding those we'd seen in Peru, and rough and ready tourist restaurants (ever amusingly billed as serving 'typical food') dot several of the main thoroughfares in town and the lakeside. Yet it still feels quite small and sleepy, and it was easy to see why so many hippy travellers end up pitching up for a while, selling jewellery on street corners and stoning a few months away by its beautiful wooded lakeside.

Seafood stalls dot the shore and there are little peddle-boats for rent, along with the ubiquitous daily boat-trips out to the Isla del Sol just a few hours away. Copacabana would have an almost alpine flavour, with its gentle hills and the deep blue greens of the lake, if not for remaining so utterly and distinctly Bolivian. For just as we'd felt the click into Peru from Chile, the countries again shifted into place for us with the journey into Bolivia. I felt things slow down a little further, as clearly as the prices dropped a smidgen further. One of the poorest countries on the continent - and notable for its political instability even in the South American context - Bolivia has a very distinct cultural richness, sense of identity and pace. 

Lake Titicaca from the Inca clock

Rush hour at Vicky's carniceria

Almost literally with the border crossing, too, the hats appeared. Of course they are all over the place in Peru too, the Andean altiplano essentially being a shared cross-border culture, but not like this. On men and on children, but above all on the women, they are a glory to behold. Tall, tiny bowler hats perched atop waist-length jet black hair worn in two long plaits laced together at the bottom with woolen tassels  The women in general, in fact, may have been the most notable emblem of Bolivia for us: stout, matronly ladies as wide as they are tall, sat stately and authoritatively in shops, guesthouses and behind little butcher's counters surrounded by huge hanging carcasses, which they'd swing heavily down with no regard for lost fingers or basic hygiene to chop off cuts with huge metal cleavers. Even from a cursory stroll around Copacabana's marketplace or the souvenir stands fronting the huge, eerie cathedral (arrestingly medieval and bare both outside and in, where two small boys messed around in a dark wax-encrusted side chapel with nothing but a terrifying Virgin figurine at it head), it was clear that the Cholitas rule the roost.

Car in hat!

Dried llama, anyone?

We took the ferry out to the Isla del Sol, mythological birthplace of the Incas, for an overnight stay. You can buy tickets all over town for either of the two daily crossings and from the ubiquity of the tickets in our first few days I had expected the small island, hikeable top to toe within a long morning, to be rammed with tourists. Disembarking in tiny Cha'llapampa mid-afternoon, this appeared far from the case until we wandered through the small village - still virtually undeveloped, with small-scale extensions to family homes and kitchen-adjacent little 'shops' springing up to capitalise on all the strange grubby backpackers descending daily - to hit the beach on the other aide. For 10 Bolivianos you can pitch your tent here, we realised, smacking our foreheads for not bringing our own along and a tourist shanty-town of 30-40 tents was camped out on the sandy shoreline, ringed by bemused islanders who kept little shop tables nearby set up with water, wine, beer and biscuits with which to woo the foreigners. What-evs, we said sniffily, picking out a room in a little guestblock nearby. More money into the local economy, we congratulated ourselves airily, handing over eight times the sum to a chirpy septuagenarian who, fair to say, had seen much harder years here on the Island of the Sun.

Cha'llapampa on the Isla del Sol

It was a truly beautiful place, with deep turquoise waters giving way to deeper blues and distant islands which seem from a distance to float on the horizon. Well-cultivated gardens, quinoa fields and flower patches spill out over pretty, domesticated hills and ridges, with mules and goats tethered to tiny cottage fences. We hiked up to the Chincana ruins on the headpoint, wandering among the Incan sites, where it is all supposed to have begun. The modest charms, spectacular though the view, of the ruins compared with those on the Inca trail a week or so earlier couldn't help but raise the question of why the great kings wouldn't have lavished greater resources and attention up here at the site of their origin - and we thought of our guide Ramiro's ruminations that the creation myth was more a political sop to bring the eastern reaches of empire into line than a national history. Nonetheless, standing along the spine of the captivating little island towards sunset, it's not so difficult to see why the Sun God would have come into being here. 

Titicaca from the hilltops of Isla del Sol

A bottle of Bolivia's finest on the beach

Returning to the village, we bought crackers and a bottle of 28 Boliviano (less than 2.60) wine and cheese puffs and drank it on the beach before lying on our backs staring up at a crazy bright starscape while nattering amiable nonsense about the size of the universe, general feasibility of God and literary stylings of Christopher Hitchens. T had the Titicaca speciality of lake trout with mustard and I had the big veggie salad at one of the two tiny family restaurants before we headed to bed to get ready for an early start. The next morning we rose to pouring rain and overcast skies but hit the trail by 9 to hike across the spine of the island to the southernmost settlement of Yumani in time for the 1.30 ferry. The landscapes evoke a south-east European pre-war era, all small-holdings and bushy green-brown scrubbed hills above chilly green-blue seas. We'd past the worst of the rain by 11am but still had the trail almost completely to ourselves. Halfway across, we stopped for an ancient, hardy old man sheltering from the wind and rain by a small wall on the open ridge - there was a 15 Boliviano toll or ticket for the 'Sacred road'. Adding it to our ticket from the ruin complex we'd come from, necessary to access the trail, we reasoned that the community of Challa halfway along the Island had to toll for something; with boats coming into either end of the island and both port villages able to charge an 'entry/exit' fee, they must feel somewhat bypassed by the boomtimes. After a gorgeous 3-4 hour walk we descended into the metropolis of quiet little Yumani, the island's biggest settlement. A small boy of perhaps 7 or 8 stepped out, both authoritatively and uncertainly, to level the village entry charge as we approached. Peering up at us he assumed an expression of gravity beyond his years and a mildly belligerent posture in the middle of the narrow path; all too aware that most of his clientele would merely have to step straight past him, failing to recognise his authority in matters tolling. Were we getting the 1.30 ferry, he inquired? Ok, go, he assented gravely, waving us through and stepping aside.

Back in Copacabana we climbed the hill to the old Incan clock where a girl not much older materialised from nowhere to collect her entry fee to the ancient rocks, inspecting the notes carefully and professionally for fakes. Ah, child labour; for all the mildness of its expression here, truly back in force for the first time since India. The climb, like that on the Island, left us pausing for breath every 5 minutes and wondering why, after all our hiking and the challenges of the trail only a week before, did this crap not get any easier?? But the view rewarded amply, again taking us aback with its accessible prettiness, its gorgeous Mediterranean light and calm waters. We developed a taste for Pacena beer, T ate more trout and we watched sunset from the harbour. We found US sitcom repeats on a cable channel, wandered around the cathedral and people-watched from little coffee-shops where the service required ordering at least half an hour before hunger or thirst descended. And we developed a growing affection for this mysterious, land-locked, wild and be-hatted Andean land.

But now, we realised, we were staring down the barrel of our last month in South America, which provoked an odd combination of mild panic and travel fatigue, particularly as we were now down to the great Salar de Uyuni as the sole 'must-see' left on our list. Deep breaths, all will be well. 

Copacabana harbour at sunset

After 3 meandering days, we checked out of the pleasant little guesthouse it had taken us and the Spanish girl from the bus about 2 hours to find (despite parting ways almost immediately after checking in, we had somewhow all felt obligated to each other after the border crossing tribulations and proceded to tramp about town together dismissing guesthouses that were insifficiently cheap, clean or appropriately spaced for all three of us) and pointed ourselves towards the the big smoke. Our 3 hour bus became a 6 hour bus due to a road strike just beyond the boat crossing at San Pedro de Titicaca (Buses carried across on tiny boats! A pretty wonderful sight I can assure you). This was a common problem, explained an older Englishwoman onboard who had been living in Bolivia for some years: workers with grievances to highlight to the authorities barricaded the road in person, allowing only small vehicles through but no tourist carriers. It was effective, she said, but it did make travel time-consuming. Never the strike-breakers, we settled down to wait on the hillside in the large crowd of held-up tourists, commuters and protesters. Eventually as evening approached, we left the cool, calm shores and slow living of Lake Titicaca behind us, winding through the crammed, precipitous outerburbs of El Alto and on down the valley to La Paz.