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Unmoulding the cheese
Cheesemaker in Challapata removes woven moulds and cheesecloth from her fresh, salty cheesesOruru took a bit of getting used to after the freedom and emptiness of the Altiplano roads: the narrow streets choked with vehicles and pedestrians; and footpaths that petered to nothing, or taken up by vendors with a blanket or table spread with goods for sale, forcing pedestrians to walk into the road to pass. Given how atrociously Bolivians drive, this is risky business! Many of the streets don't have names displayed, which makes for a good joke to play on strangers trying to find their way around. It is a mining city, and not a tourist destination, and we appreciated being able to join the rat-race of locals making a living that didn't involve hawking for our business.
With the reality dawning on us that our year is quickly running out, we decided to leave our bikes in Oruro and visit the Central Highlands cities of Potosí and Sucre by bus. As the bus zigzagged through the beautiful mountains of rose and green on an unexpectedly paved road, we were quite sorry we weren't on the bikes where we could take in the beauty at a more appreciative pace. However, it did mean we could cover 300km in one
Sweet and fizzy
Every Boliviano loves a soft drink. This stock is outside a shop in Atocha (because there is no more room inside), but could be anywhere in the places we have travelled here. day, and we didn't have to worry about finding potable water!
Sucre is one of Bolivia's two capital cities, the seat of the judiciary. It is also a university town and has a youthful zest and sophistication that we enjoyed. The inner city is characterised by renovated colonial buildings that are whitewashed (or painted white) and sport lovely terracotta tile roofs. This gives the place a European feel, which dissipates as soon as you leave the old city and venture into the newer suburbs.
In Sucre we visited one of the best museums either of us has been to, the Museo Textil Etnográfico, run by
Antropólogos de Surandino (ASUR). Not only is the museum well laid out and the weavings discussed in informative detail, it also has a community-development program of working with Indigenous communities so they can reacquaint themselves with aspects of their weaving tradition that were lost, and to develop new responses to contemporary concerns and interests. It was fascinating to see the development of skills and techniques in the last hundred years, and to see the emergence of new motifs and styles. Although the various communities that live around Sucre are indigenous Quechua or Aymará, many of them
Waiting for customers
Tiny shops, chock-a-block like this one, in Tupiza, are found everywhere in Bolivia identify rather with a much more local community of interest. Different communities have distinctly different styles and subject matter. For example, the Jalq’a people weave, in red and black, motifs that help them explain the chaos and world of darkness that is part of life. In contrast, the women of the Tarabuco communities focus on the organised life in the sun, and their motifs are of day-to-day life, such as work associated with growing crops and tending animals, according to the appropriate seasons, rituals such as religious festivals, funerals and marriages. This work is much more colourful and is organised symmetrically. You can learn more
here. Like several other galleries in Sucre, ASUR practices fair trade, with about 60%!o(MISSING)f the price of an item going to the artist.
While in Sucre, we went to the village of Tarabuco to visit its famous Sunday market, when textile workers from the region congregate to offer their wares for sale. We were very disappointed. As the market has grown as a tourist attraction, so has the amount of tourist tat. As well, many locals, some of whom look tragically poor, go on an endless Sunday round of hard sell. Bolivians seem
generally to be shy, and usually when we have said "No gracias" to an item proferred for sale, the seller moves on. Not here. In Tarabuco on a Sunday the vendors are as persistent as Cambodian and Vietnamese hawkers, who don't take a single "no", or even several, for an answer. We found respite in the local market, away from the touristy area; as well as being free of touts, it was much more interesting.
Potosí is a beautiful city with a terrible story at its heart. At its colonial greatest, we are told, its population and power rivalled that of London and Paris, then the greatest cities in Europe. This greatness did not come cheaply. So much silver was taken from Cerro Rico (Rich Hill), the hill that is the backdrop of the city, that it is said a bridge 12 metres wide and four fingers thick could have been built from the city to Spain. And that another bridge, of similar proportions, could have been built from the bones of those who died mining the silver. Our guide at the wonderful Potosí mint museum (the
Casa Real de la Moneda) told us that 8 million people died
in the "making" of PotosÃ. Some were Spanish, she said. And most were Indigenous people who were forced to work for nothing under a system of near slavery known as
mita, to mine silver for the Spanish, as well as African slaves, who replaced the Indians when their numbers had dwindled. Uruguayan journalist Eduardo Galeano, in his passionate and stirring book on the colonisation of Latin America and its long-term effects,
Open veins of Latin America, describes in awful clarity life as a miner and silver processor during colonial times. Most people did not live past 5 years once they went to the mines. These days, the mines of Cerro Rico are owned and run by collectives of miners. The conditions remain appalling, and most die of silicosis or mining injuries within 15 years of going down the mines.
There is a lot of mining in many parts of Bolivia. We came across numerous tiny, collectively owned mines all over the south-west, and saw many more from in the central highlands around Sucre and PotosÃ. There is far more hope in them than money, and many miners live a hard, impoverished existence.
One of the highlights of the
The rooftops of old Sucre
From the roof of Iglesia de la Merced eclectic collections in the beautifully renovated mint museum in Potosí is a history of minting in the colony. A dint in the floorboards brought home to us how hard the work of minting was. The dint was made by the foot of the worker whose job it was to hammer faces onto coin blanks, his foot taking the impact of the blow, which had to be strong enough to imprint the coin in one strike. This accidental mark was able to help us feel the humanness of the mint's stories in a way that no old equipment or contemporary displays could manage.
Among the few colonial coins minted in Potosà that is on display at the museum is one that comes from a treasure recovered in the 1980s off the coast of Florida (USA). It is among more than 40 tons of silver and gold, including more than 100,000 Spanish silver and gold coins, silver and gold artifacts, and 1,000 or more silver bars, as well as Columbian emeralds that were aboard the Spanish galleon Nuestra Señora de Atocha, which sank in 1622 on its way to Spain. An American treasure hunter called Mel Fisher discovered and recovered the
treasure, which is housed in a private museum in Florida. A single coin was magnanimously presented to the museum in Potosà where the coin was minted!
These days, Bolivia's notes are printed in France and its coins minted in Canada and, funnily enough, Spain.
On our return to Oruro, we spent 165 bolivianos ($25) each and most of a day renewing our permits to stay in the country. (As Australia allows Bolivians only a month in Australia, Bolivia returns the favour.) After we had trawled the streets with a pocketful of out-of-date or plain wrong addresses looking for the appropriate government office, we spent a couple of hours sitting on a bench waiting to be attended to. However, we finally had our passports back with a colourful sticker added in, and we now have official files in the Bolivian department of migration.
And this also freed us to leave Oruro, which we did the next day, heading north on our bikes on the paved highway to La Paz. We had been advised by another cyclist that this part of Bolivia was best travelled by bus, but as this was probably the last opportunity we would have to
Buying coca leaves
In Tarabuco, and a common site in markets everywhere we have been in Bolivia ride, we didn't heed it. It didn't take long before we wished we had. The road was paved, and the terrain largely flat, as we were still on the Altiplano, and we spent a lovely night camping under the bright stars and waking in a thick frost: these things were good. However, we were plagued by headwinds and by fast vehicles driven by people who seemed not to see us. We were hit upon in one town by a repugnant police officer who robbed us of 10 Bs for bottles of Coca Cola for him and his mate. The money was insignificant; it was his air of patriarchal familiarity that was the ugly thing about the transaction. Still, we thanked our lucky stars that this was the first time we had come face to face with rampant Bolivian bribery. In the town of Patacamaya, nearly every person we met was sullen and suspicious; the one exception was a cheery scammer who wanted money for showing us accommodation, as if we couldn't see
alojamiento (accommodation) written in huge letters across the street. From here we took the bus to La Paz, and were glad of it. In the last 100km to
Rollies
Hand-rolled, wrapped and boxed cigarettes for sale. Market, Tarabuco La Paz, the traffic and headwinds increased, and we were in a landscape of windstrewn rubbish, mostly plastic staked on bushes. It is a good illustration of why plastic shoud be banned until it is all made of biodegradable vegetable matter.
The hours in buses and in the saddle have given us plenty of opportunity to reflect on some of the recurring themes of Bolivian life that we have observed.
Litter. There is little municipal rubbish collection, and rubbish lies everywhere. It is such a problem because much of the litter is plastic, and doesn't degrade. We particularly notice it when cycling, as it lies on the road verges too. The most common items we have dodged are plastic bags and drink bottles, "disposable" nappies disposed of, toilet paper, and broken glass.
Pungent aromas. Our travels by bus have mostly been on ordinary local services (rather than tourist services), and there have been few, if any other, westerners on board. Locals like to travel with the windows shut. This has meant we have enjoyed the robust air of a bus full of bodies that have remained unsullied by that avarice of the wealthy west, the shower. To
Butcher Stall
Typical stand in food markets. This is the tongue of a cow (and other bits!) be fair, when travelling by bike, we live with the smell of our hard-working bodies that must often go for days without a wash. Not attractive, but we are thankful to be in the open air.
On one aromatic bus trip, we were glad of a rest break so we could get some fresh air. We leapt from the bus... to be assailed by another enduring aroma of Bolivia: that of urine. The smell of it was so strong here, at the counter of a kiosk, that our nostrils burned, and we changed our minds and gladly climbed back onto the bus, thinking somewhat differently about the cosy fug of unwashed bodies. Public toilets are rare here, and people are accustomed to not noticing when others turn their backs and relieve themselves — anywhere: outside restaurant doors, at the foot of stalls selling food (and anything else), against the walls of buildings in town streets, against church walls.
Another smell we won't miss is yet another signature of Bolivia: the smell of old fat, which wafts out the door of nearly evey eatery away from the cities. Much
comida tipica (typical dishes, which usually means peasant food) is
The vegetable market
The markets are always busy, even on a Sunday like this fried. Many Bolivians in the areas we have travelled in cannot often afford to renew frying fat, and we have reaped the benefits as a flavouring in our food. It is not a habit we will be adopting when we return home.
Of course, there will be other smells that will remain as a reminder of Bolivia, too: the pungent smell of coca leaves wafting across a market; the delicious aroma of wonderful Bolivian soups, and the equally mouth-watering smell of
salteñas (savoury pasties), which is matched by their flavour); the fresh smell of reaped grain; the warm sweetness of herd herbivores — llamas, sheep and cattle. When riding, we often smell the animals before we see them.
The lock-up. A common form of accommodation is the
hospedaje, usually a family home and business (for example, shop or restaurant) with bedrooms for rent. We quite often stay in them. The first thing Dave does once we have rented a room is to check for an alternative way out in case of an emergency. This is a scary enough exercise in itself, because there is usually no choice other than the wooden stairs. This is made even scarier when
hospedaje owners, mindful of their tenants' property, lock the doors to the street at night. This means that, if there ever was a fire, should we get down the stairs, we would find ourselves locked in anyway. Given the relaxed and creative electrical wiring jobs that we have seen, the risk of fires seems quite high, although we have heard of only one since we've been in South America. It is at moments of realising we are locked in again that we can see the value in the Australian characteristic of over-regulating everything.
Markets. The markets are lively and colourful, and always thronged. They are not just a centre of trade: there is plenty of social activity and exchange of news that goes on, too. There are markets everywhere, as they take the place of supermarkets. (We have come across two supermarkets, and one of them was only an oversized stall.) One buys groceries at shops about the size of two large cupboards that often stock only a handful of items (soft drink, crackers, beer, fizzy drinks in an assortment of lurid colours, canned fish); at open markets on streets or ranged around plazas; and at the mercado municipal,
often a shed-like building in which stall holders sell fresh fruit and vegetables, flowers, meat, or flour, pasta and grains, and drygoods. Here you can also buy llama foetuses, dead owls, and clay and paper tokens that are used to make offerings to Pachamama, the Earth Mother of Quechua belief. The mercados often have a restaurant area, where families run set lunches for a few hours in the middle of the day. They are a fantastic place to watch the ryhthyms of life here, as well as to shop and eat for ourselves.
Those old tyres. The common footwear of the rural people is sandals made from rubber tyres. The curious thing about them is that they seem to have much more tread on them than most of the tyres gracing vehicles.
Music. Bolivians love their music, and have a great folk tradition based on pan pipes, a small lute-like instrument called the charango, and drums. They also love an excuse to hold a fiesta or a parade, which always involve bands, whether impromptu or serious. This is great, but... Bolivians have also adopted as their own muzak versions of a Simon and Garfunkel standard
The Sounds of Silence and Abba's
Chiquita. These tunes are also on high rotation in restaurants, on radio stations, in buses and shops. If we never hear any version of these again, we will indeed be blessed. Equally popular is
El Condor Pasa, a Peruvian song that was made famous in the west by the same Simon and Garfunkel, who wrote new words to it that bear no relation to the original story.
Reo. Inspired by Bolivians' creative use of concrete reinforcing rod, when we get home we are hoping to become famous and wealthy by stealing their ideas and publishing
101 Decorative Ways With Reo for the DIY market. The most popular uses here are in park and garden borders and window and door security grilles. We have also seen it adapted for use as window frames, door knockers, seating, topiary frames, sculpture, and as frames for hand carts.
Aid. Bolivia is the poorest country in South America, and much of our cycling has been through the poorest part of the country. On the outskirts of most towns and villages we have come across signs advertising foreign aid donors, mostly the US, the European Union, Japan and Norway. Most of
Cogs
At the mint museum in Potosí: a two-floor network of cogs, driven by horses or donkeys, was used to flatten ingots of silver mixed with a little copper to make sheet metal from which the colonial coin blanks were cut. The whole cog mechanism was shipped from Spain and carried overland by donkey. the aid is to provide potable water, meals for school children, drinking water for schools, rural development, and improvement in llama husbandry. The signs are also handy because they give us the name of the town we are entering, a useful route-finding feature in a country where there is little road signage.
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Mark and Becky
non-member comment
Bolivia
Just on my way to work so only have time to jot a couple of lines. Bolivia? Surely that place only exists as a Martin Stevenson and the Daintees album name? What it's real? What wha'd'ya know! :)) I hear the beaches there are not up to very much. Aren't parts of it so elevated the very air itself begins to become scarce? Breathe!