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Tarija is good entry point for visiting Bolivia if you’ve spent an extended period in Chile and Argentina beforehand. It’s unassuming, unknown, devoid of tourists, not too high, not too hot, not too big and not too different. Many Argentinians we spoke to about visiting Bolivia recounted with horror how they were forced to eat Chicken DAILY whilst there. However in Tarija they have cows, and furthermore “The Andalusia of Bolivia” is also the wine producing capital of the country, so we didn’t have to go cold turkey at all.
Tarjia has more of a “white” population than that of the more popularly visited mountainous regions. It is one of the wealthiest regions of Bolivia mainly because it is sitting on large deposits of oil. We spent a month there living out of a charming family run hotel, taking daily Spanish lessons with a local high school teacher. It was nice to be stationary and become familiar with a Bolivia I hadn’t previously known. Days spent browsing the Mercado, the restaurants, feeding the pigeons in the town square and hanging out at the pool. Though, after a while, talking to people, reading newspapers and watching TV, we discovered that despite
all its understated charms; something is rotten in Tarija.
In 2005 Bolivians elected Evo Morales as President. He is indigenous (Aymara) - the countries first ever - achieving the kind of electoral support never before seen here (i.e an actual majority). The elite (see ‘white’, by their own admission) land owners in Santa Cruz province, traditionally wield the most power and influence in Bolivia. In the past, if a president wasn´t to their liking, they´d see to it he was axed, or the country would revert to military rule - as was the case in Argentina and Chile in the 70´s.
Nowadays, however, military governments aren´t fashionable (they embarrass their backers in Washington) so Bolivia’s unelected elite are opting for a new tactic; autonomy. This is particularly curious because when the elites of Santa Cruz had the power to force autonomy over the last 50 years; they didn´t want it because they controlled the entire country; politically, economically and militarily. Now their political and military influence is waning.
Santa Cruz and Tarija currently wish to gain economic autonomy from Bolivia so that they can keep all their “own” wealth and not have to share
it with the central government (see: Indigenous highlanders). This is particularly tasteless because historically the wealth from highland Potosi´s silver and La Paz´ tin was used in part to develop Santa Cruz and virtually the entire economy of colonial Spain (it’s said with the amount of silver that was pulled from the mines in Potosi a bridge could be built from there to Spain)
This Evo fear amongst the non-indigenous population of Bolivia is actively inflamed by a private media who portray him as a cross between Castro and Mugabe who plans to take back white owned land by force and expel or intern them (very much ‘savage natives’ against the ‘innocent ruling class’). The ruling classes are angry and bitter, and as a result the middle classes are being petrified into action.
We were waved off at the airport by our new family; opting to fly from Tarija to Sucre, and thus avoided an 18hr bus journey. Arriving fresh, we were able to spend a few days searching around Sucre for a suitable home for our month long stay in Bolivia’s judicial capital. We snared a charming little apartment overlooking a charming little pedestrian street,
we later discovered was quiet enough that every man and his dog would relieve themselves there when the need took them.
It was a little harder to become as intimate with Sucre as we had with Tarija (despite the intimacy of dog poop alley) due to the larger size, population and tourist traffic. Though we were able to nurture certain relationships with our Spanish teacher Isaac, and numerous shop and market stall owners, helped as always by the little blonde guy we're now hauling around with us.
From the moment we arrived, the city of Sucre was in a state of preparatory flux. Buildings being cleaned, the town square gentrified and remodeled, people marching up and down the streets banging drums every waking hour; all gearing up to host celebrations commemorating Bolivia’s 200 year of independence from Spain.
Unfortunately it was rumored President Evo Morales wouldn’t be attending, and although we were given many perfectly reasonable explanations we were given the most shocking by our Spanish teacher Isaac who told us in no uncertain terms that something is rotten in Sucre.
Almost a year to the date before the 200 year independence
celebrations were scheduled to take place indigenous peasants had come to Sucre to see ‘their’ visiting president Evo Morales. However when all the fanfare, dignitaries, army and police units had all been and gone, many of the indigenous peasants who had come to see the President were left face-to-face with armed anti-Morales civilians. Many indigenous men, women and children were beaten. Over two dozen indigenous peasants were captured, robbed and marched for three miles before being forced to kneel in front of Sucre’s House of Liberty, on Sucre’s main square. A large crowd had now gathered, and under threat of violence, they ordered the captured campesinos to strip down their waist, their clothes publicly burned in front of them, the captives then forced to apologize for the offense of coming to the city to receive President Morales. "Llamas, ask forgiveness," the mob ordered. The rainbow flag of the Indigenous Andeans was publicly burned to wild chants of “Kill Evo!” Hundreds of onlookers stood by, gawping, taking pictures, doing nothing to stop it, as grown men knelt half-naked, terrified and humiliated, before them.
I wouldn’t have believed the whole story myself but for catching tidbits of the sordid affair
on YouTube:
Sucre Racismo Apparently a French documentary film maker living in Sucre at the time recorded some of the footage and attempted to have it shown nationally. The privately owned media channels all rejected it, hushed it up, and the traitorous French dude was hounded out of town.
The most poignant thing about the whole affair is that the majority of perpetrators and ‘innocent’ onlookers appear to be every bit as indigenous in appearance as the “stinking Indians” they are abusing. Proof if any were needed that race is a cultural construct. Perhaps it is the reality of being Indian oneself, a lifetime’s discrimination at the hands of a ‘white’ elite that leaves one ashamed of one’s ethnic heritage, and that by throwing on a baseball cap and adopting a Spanish name and abusing these uncivilized indigenous campesinos I’m proving to the world - and myself - that I am better than that. Could it be a case of ‘with us or against us’? The fear that it could just as easily be me on my knees, publicly humiliated, if it weren’t me wielding the plank of wood? Yet deep down I really want them to change too,
if only they could see the sense and assimilate like I have, we could rid ourselves and our society of this embarrassment, we could all be white, civilized, modern, and there would be no more racism.
In Bolivia race can be defined by one´s clothes and occupation, regardless of the colour of one´s skin.
Despite much anger at his decision, a year later at the 200th anniversary of Bolivia's independence in Sucre, Evo Morales said he wouldn’t be coming. Perhaps he doesn’t get along too well with the Spaniard descendant governor of Sucre who happens to own 90% of the land in the province?
After all the preparations, the big day came; school kids, marching bands, nurses, teachers, marching bands, armed soldiers, marching bands, baton twirlers and marching bands all marched through the streets to Sucre’s main square where they were met by eager crowds, waiting dignitaries and a non-marching band.
Meanwhile, for days beforehand there was a rumor that a rival march was going to be taking place; a march of indigenous campesinos in protest at what had materialized in that very same square a year previously.
Information was sketchy, the police
shook their heads at our inquiries, Cholas looked upon us with skepticism. Then just after midday we heard booing, hissing and whistling. I rushed from the brunch that had just arrived at my table and there they came, from the opposite street to where the main procession entered the square; another march; thousands of colorfully dressed indigenous people marched through Sucre Square and past the waiting dignitaries in full view of the national media, who were broadcasting the event live to the nation.
The official procession had been halted to accommodate this new march. The energy was palpable, and regardless if one could read the signs or new the history; a message was being sent; this is our city and our independence and we're gate-crashing this party. The worm could well be turning in Bolivia.
A day after, a couple hundred kilometers away in a small provincial town Evo Morales arrived by helicopter to appear before his people. The reason he hadn’t attended the 'official' celebrations in Sucre, was that the inhabitants were a bunch of racists for what they had done a year previously, he said, for standing mute whilst it happened, and for attempting to
hush the whole thing up. And besides which, independence is an ongoing process; Bolivia was once under the Spanish crown and is now still under the descendants of the Spanish. There is a lot more fighting to be done before independence is achieved.
We stopped in Potosi, the highest city in the world on our way to Salar de Uyuni. Millions died in the mines providing much of the wealth of Spain and Sucre was built on. I broke my iPod attempting to fix it with a plastic knife and Barcelona dismantled Manchester United in the Champions League final.
Next stop Uyuni. Probably my least favourite town in all South America, but pizza good enough to keep one marginally happy for 24 hours. Jennifer did the Salar thing for a day, whist I remained in a very chilly hotel room with the young lad watching TV (I ‘did’ it in 2001). We left by night train, further reducing the time spent in town, and froze our asses off.
Cochabamba was good for a week, warmer and more of an actual city than Sucre. We had a bit of an ordeal trying to buy Jennifer
some new glasses. $100 is pretty darn cheap for a pair with frames and those fancy plasticy polycarbonate lenses (I don't wear glasses). IF the optician gets the prescription right; Jennifer wore the glasses bravely for around 12 hours, not seeing much, claiming that it oftentimes takes time to adjust to new glasses. We went back to the eye doctor who said the problem was the lenses were crap and the material wasn’t what it was claimed. We went back to the shop, the manager offered to jump up and down on the lenses to prove HIS claim. After much finger pointing, shouting and slurring we came to the conclusion the eye doctor had reversed the stigmatism on the glasses (or something?).
So back to the eye doctor we went, he was going home in 5 minutes, we had a bus to catch in an hour. He had a room full of students in white coats to impress and quickly wrote us a note to give to his mate who owned an optician down the way. They obviously couldn’t rustle us up a pair of replacement glasses in half an hour so we said we’d call when we’d found
a hostel in La Paz, and they could deliver, for free - and too bloody right!
In La Paz it was festival time, the biggest of the year: El Gran Poder. After which we plunged down the mountain into the clouds (NOT on the world’s most dangerous road ) to Coroico. We planned to spend a couple weeks here, found a lovely house for rent 5 mins from town. We took some Spanish lessons with a Chilean ex-pat, Claudia. After a week and a half of her talking at me about every facet of her life at-a-hundred-miles-an-hour I came to the conclusion my Spanish wasn’t progressing as I’d like, so I cancelled the remainder of the week, after all, if I were her shrink, perhaps it were me who should be getting paid!
This meant more time for me and Kiva to explore our massive garden, where we’d spend mornings picking oranges and avocados. We also stripped a few trees of their ripe red coffee beans, left them out to dry for a couple days, shelled em dried em some more. After five days, I used some knowledge picked up in
Ethiopia to roast em, ground em, and make two very fresh, very weak cups of coffee… we take so much for granted! I also spent some time taking pictures of Claudia’s place and the surrounding area, so with the help of Jennifer, resident Irish professional writer guest Peter and I, she could set up a website to draw in more students. Meanwhile Jennifer soldiered on with the lessons.
However, come the morning of our departure and payday; Claudia expected us to pay for all the lessons I hadn’t subsequently taken i.e to the end of the week and apparently, beyond! When we queried the rationale behind such an off the idea she completely lost it; Screaming-Shouting-Hysteria -Door slamming, abuse and tears (it was easily as messy as this sentence!).Jennifer couldn’t console her; the insanity that I had sat across from for 10 days had finally come to roost! Unfortunately, something is rotten in Claudia’s head. In hindsight I truly believe she couldn’t bear to see us leave - I know, we are THAT special!
Meanwhile, when I’d first entered Bolivia all those months ago I’d attempted to apply for my Canadian Study Permit. However, The Canadian
Embassy in La Paz doesn't issue visas, so I’d had to apply to Lima, Peru, via mail. I got all my ducks in a row and sent them on. With three months left on my visa (even though I of course now didn’t have my passport) I had plenty of time.
Two months later I inquired about my application, and discovered it hadn´t even been addressed yet. Since I only had 3 weeks remaining on my visa I was slightly frazzled, particularly when after cajoling the ambassador in La Paz daily for three days he told me Lima wanted me to have a medical exam, as all Bolivians and “Bolivian residents” are required to take them.
So after a catalogue of tests, in which I discovered I didn´t have Syphilis, HIV 1 + 2, TB or countless other nasties, I popped the results in an envelope and had them couriered at my own expense to Trinidad and Tobago (The Canadian health HQ for Latin America). Fortunately a trip to the doctor in Bolivia is relatively cheap, so the whole process cost just a little over 300 bucks. In fairness the Canadian government is simply insuring anyone
contagiously rotten isn't admitted, I suppose. However, it's interesting to note that if I'd applied in England I would have been deemed 'clean', and thus wouldn't have been required to take any medical exams.
Two weeks later I received an email that my permit was ready and that I should make arrangements (at my own expense) to have a private courier come pick up the passport in Lima and deliver it back to where I was in Bolivia. These arrangements couldn´t be made or paid for over the phone so we journeyed to La Paz to arrange it from there. Five days later, and three days before my visa was ready to expire I received my passport, minus the study permit. Though attached was a piece of paper with a number, stating that ¨appropriate documentation can be issued on arrival¨. Anyway, once I had my passport back I was able to leave Bolivia.
Fast forward to the Canadian border 6 weeks later and Jennifer and Kiva (who shrewdly used his blue USA, not his purple British passport) received their permits in a 5 minute drive-thru issuing ceremony. Now that's just ________! (I'd like to go with
something obscene, but befitting the mood of the blog I'll stick with bloody Rotten!)
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jim
non-member comment
gyms/hotel in tarija bolivia
is there a gym in tarjia?in what family-run hotel did you stay in tarjia? thanks, jim