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"Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl..." Ahhhh! How I love Barry Manilow, writer of the songs that make the young girls sing! My sister and I used to sing this tune often, especially when we both were serving our time as waitresses in a Seattle based, Bolivian restaurant called none other than, "Copacabana". After delivering thousands of plates filled with "Pollo Saltado" and clarifying countless times that a Bolivian "empanada" is nothing at all like a Mexican, "enchilada" (I can still see the look of confusion on many a customer’s face after delivering the meat-filled pastry instead of the more familiar, tortilla wrapped treat... Sammi actually had a client or two who refused to pay for the unexpected surprise, even though their poor menu-reading skills were the reason for the mix up!) Anyhow, though I have a strange affection for the Manilow song-o-cheeze, after my time in the REAL Copacabana (not the restaurant or the nightclub), I am convinced that no showgirls are needed there- the locals have glitz and glamor down to an art, a silly showgirl would quickly be laughed out of town- feathered head dress and all!
Griff and I happened upon Copacabana during their "Festivál
de los Cruces". Which turned out to be a stroke of luck, as we were about to experience one of the biggest parties of our lives! We got into Copacabana after yet another bus ride- this one from La Paz Bolivia. We had spent a decent amount of time in La Paz, due to Griff coming down with a stomach bug, and me with a hurt back. To make a long story short, Griff eventually pulled himself out of bed for reasons besides hobbling to the bathroom, and though his stomach is not yet back to what it used to be, he is up and at 'em. My back issue was a little less expected and more serious; I ended up going to a hospital in Bolivia, to receive the best medical attention I have ever received in my life, and after X-rays and a CAT scan, discovered that I have two herniated discs (L4 and L5). Griff has been an absolute dear, and bless his heart, has been hauling both of our big packs around. We sent some of our camping gear home, to lighten the weight of both packs, and I am very slowly recovering.
After all the
health issues, Copacabana was a welcome sight! The small town, with its sleepy cobblestone streets, and its lake-side location was the perfect place for us to mend- both physically and mentally. Little sailboats floated over the waters of Lake Titicaca, tarp-covered restaurants lined the lake’s edge boasting delicious meals of fish and potatoes. Everything was just so quaint and alive! Our first night in Copa, we were pretty tired. Though we heard several brass bands playing in competition with the other in the far distance, we were able to ignore the noise and get some sleep. The next night, however, we were determined to join the festivities!
I must clarify before continuing, that Bolivians LOVE a good party. The woman get all dolled up in their many-layers of dazzling, shining, 100% feminine indigenous dress, flashing a few-toothed smile of confidence; they know they look good! The men, top their heads with hats decorated with sparkly ribbons, take out a trumpet, or similar brass instrument, and make their way to join the rest of the band. Several Bolivians told us that their love for celebration has lead their country to its poor economic situation, "...not like you Americans! You work all
Old Women
These woman were not dancing, but rather enjoying the festivities, while drinking beer, from the sidelines.the time!" (I wondered if I should truly take that as a compliment!) We were told that last year, the Bolivians celebrated about forty festivals, and from the sounds of their bands, I think that is probably the same number of "practice sessions" the instrumentalists had. They might not play on key, but they sure play with heart- and after several glasses of Paceña, who is really listening with a critical ear anyway?
During the Festival of the Crosses, which lasts for about three days, one can hear the noise of marching bands from dawn until dusk. The bands march up and down the town’s streets, until they reach their final destination, which is usually a celebration hall. They squeeze their way through the building’s doors, still blowing away on their trombones, and pounding on the drums, and once inside, they set down their instruments to pick up a bottle. There are many different bands, each belonging to their own community or work group, and with the bands, come the dancers. The dancers precede the band, and do simple sideways walks and spins announcing the arrival of their group. The men who dance, tend to sort of swagger from left
to right, while the woman definitely have more composure over their psychomotor skills. As I watched the ladies dancing, I couldn’t help but remember wearing dresses as a little girl, arriving at church on a Sunday morning, and twirling my lovely full skirt around for all my girlfriends to watch and wonder at. There is something magical about the feel of material swishing around your legs, and air hitting your knees, as you spin around with a feeling of complete freedom and femininity. I was jealous of these women carrying on in front of me, for even in their adulthood, they were provided with an opportunity to feel such childish extravagancies!
While photo-taking is usually a no-no, during these celebrations the dancers seem to want nothing more than a frozen memory of them dressed to the nines. They smile and pause for you to snap a shot, and wave to video cameras. The mood is festive and the participants, for the most part, are inebriated for a steady 72 hours. All guards are down, everyone is all smiles.
These parades fill the normally quiet city streets, and draw quite a crowd of both locals and tourist. While all this dancing
and playing is going on in the streets, in the town square another event is taking place- the blessing of the cars. This event is not limited to festivals, in fact, the benediction occurs every weekend. Automobile owners dress up their cars, trucks, and even huge busses in lays of flowers and tissue paper. Then, the designated “blesser” comes out and blesses the cars, praying over them and spraying them with cheap champagne. The atmosphere is that of a baby's baptism combined with a football tailgate party. Everyone is eating and drinking and chatting with each other, while caressing and cooing over their precious trucks and vans.
While Griff and I walked around town, taking in all of the festivities, we would pass by the city’s “party-neglected” streets to find people sleeping in the grass or snoozing at the side of the road. In back yards, we could see families preparing food and costumes for their upcoming turn at the parade walk. The business of it all was familiar -similar to the pre-Christmas hustle and bustle that we feel in the states.
Night eventually fell, and before eating dinner we decided to check out the events taking place at the
city center, for that was where all the noise was coming from at the moment. Women lined the center square selling choclo (corn), boiled cow intestines, pork rinds, and beer. We hunkered down on a wobbly bench in front of a woman selling spirits, and started up a conversation. In her arms, she held her infant son, who was only a month old. “What’s his name?” I asked. The woman told us that as of yet, the baby had no name, “ I think you two should name him!” She told us. As you might imagine, Griff and I were thrown off guard by this huge responsibility, and were able to mumble only a few names off of the top of our heads. Some names she couldn’t pronounce, while others she really seemed to take a liking to. The likelihood of us naming a newborn Bolivian is very high- perhaps we've left our mark in Copacabana in the form of a baby’s name?
It doesn’t take long for two extremely large gringos to attract some attention, and within fifteen minutes, we had several groupies gathered around, wanting to know all about us. A North American in Bolivia is not an
Selling Beer by the Church
Griff and I thought it was funny that the government had closed down all the bars in Copacabana (apparently a week or two earlier an unfortunate event had happened in a bar, and this was the government's way of warning the town's people to behave better)BUT you can buy beer by the side of the street without limitation! every-day occurrence. Throughout the day, and again, here in the square, I asked several people about the meaning behind the Festival of the Crosses, but no one seemed to really give me information that was very useful.
“So,” I would ask, “ what exactly is the festival for- I mean why are you celebrating?”
“It is to celebrate the crosses!” was the most common answer that I got.
“Yes, I picked that up from the name of the festival, but what crosses- the one Jesus died on? Is it like Semana Santa?” They would undoubtedly laugh at that.
“No! That is Easter! This is the Festival of the Crosses- it is totally different!”
I never pried beyond that point, and after having had a few conversations that were extremely similar in content, I gave up inquiries, and like them, just figured it another excuse for a party.
One gentleman, that we met that night on the wobbly bench, was a real talker. He was obviously a “high roller” in Bolivia, decked out in more western-style clothing, clean shaven, and he actually had a full set of teeth! He really enjoyed bragging to us about his uncle in the States who
was the President of Boeing in Chicago, the girlfriend he had met online (most Bolivians don’t even own a phone, much less know how to use the internet), and the BMW that he drove. “Wow, a BMW? That is really cool.” Griff and I faked enthusiasm, but sensed his need to be flattered. “Look!” he said as he pulled out his keychain that clearly read, “BMW” in big bulky letters. Again, we faked interest. Griff and I had a jolly time being the center of attention for a while, and would have stayed much longer, had there not been a terrible storm moving in. The freezing rain forced the festival into an earlier than expected close, but not before our new friend rolled up in his BMW to show off a bit. Griff and I gave him a thumbs-up as we both held in our bubbling laughter, after all, his car was not a BMW, but a Mitsubishi! He must have really thought he was impressing us, because he sat there behind us, in his car with the music booming, for about five or ten minutes before moving on down the road.
I can’t say that we came even close
Happy!
A Bolivian girl smiles, and shows off her new-tooth-stubs. to keeping up with the Bolivians during their festival, but it was a heck of a lot of fun to watch them in all their glory! After resting up a while in Copacabana, we had a short two day trip to Isla del Sol, where we took in a hike to some Incan ruins, and ate lots of trout- a specialty anywhere on Lake Titicaca.
Time was not on our side, as far as getting out of Bolivia and into Peru. We had already gotten an extension on our Bolivian visas, and realized that in order to do the things we had planned on doing in Peru, we really needed to make our exit. We packed up our things and bought bus tickets to the other side of the lake, for a city in Peru, called Puno. We had a few hours to kill before our bus departed, and decided to give Copacabana a last look-around.
As we were walking in the town center, we saw a rush of people running towards a corner of the square- something was up! We sussed-out the crowd, and then I asked a woman the reason behind all the fuss. “ Señorita! It is
Playing Dress- Up
These two little girls were playing in their yard (notice the pet pigs in the background). the older girl kept trying to get her sister in a skirt that was too big for her. They laughed forever and rolled around in the grass, giggling and pretending. the president- he is here.” “What? You mean Evo Morales is here today?!” I could hardly contain my excitement. “Si! Si!” she replied, trying to remain calm, but her hurrying voice, gave her away. Griff and I could hardly believe our luck! We had been following Evo and his new political philosophies for months. He was the biggest, newest addition to South American politics and his election into office was being watched world- wide. He is a no nonsense, no suit and tie guy (replicas of his signature, striped-sweater are the newest Bolivian fashion statement, sold in stores and street-side shacks alike), man of the people. He has no college education, was raised a coca-leaf farmer, and could quite possibly revolutionize South American politics- perhaps even world politics!
Griff and I raced all over town, following the hoards of Bolivians, and eventually caught up with the Presidential Icon outside of the local hospital, where he was to speak with a slew of other politicians from Bolivia and Cuba. We crammed into the guarded gates with the rest of the crowd, and were handed a miniature flag to wave. Upon further inspection of our miniature banners, we realized that on one
side was the Bolivian flag, and on the other, in all it’s blue and white glory, was the flag of Cuba. Griff and I began to crack up with the realization that we, the only North Americans present, were waving the Cuban flag with gusto! We awaited Evo’s arrival and upon seeing him, everything American in me wanted to holler out in excitement, but as I opened my mouth, I realized that instead of noise, the Bolivians use a hearty wave of the banner to greet their officials. I shut my mouth, and forced my energy into waving my flag as fiercely as I possibly could. (It’s just not the same though!) Unfortunately, we could not stay long enough to hear the president speak, as we were already running late for our bus, but seeing Evo was truly amazing. I understood how the Argentineans felt when they saw Evita, and perhaps even the wonder that some experienced while watching President Kennedy wave at the crowds. Regardless of your political views, seeing President Morales, is seeing history take place- an unforgettable experience!
We ran from the hospital down to the bus, and after only a short ride, we were at the
Mom and Daughters
Walking on the streets of Copacabana, these little girls caught my attention, as they interacted so much like my sister and I had as children. Bolivia- Peru border. As the official in customs stamped my passport to safely exit Bolivia, I actually felt my throat tightening, and sadness filling my heart. I felt sentimental about leaving. Bolivia had shown us such a good time, and more than that, it had taught us many lessons about humility and gratefulness. There is so much that I do not include in these blogs; so much that I want to write but can’t manage the time at a computer, or that I just can’t figure out of my head and onto a computer screen. But bypassing all that which I cannot put into words, I will say this, Bolivia has won a very intimate place in both Griff and my hearts.
"Music and passion were always in fashion at the Copa...."
-Barry Manilow
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Heather
non-member comment
Can you please bring the wee little alpaca home for Brooklyn? Oh, and she REALLY wants Angelina to call her? Hmmm...not too sure what we can do about that...maybe another email?