Back home in Bolivia, after Potosi, Carnival and the Salt Flats

We’re now well-accustomed to life in Bolivia. Sliding into life here in Sucre has been very easy. It’s known as a small, rich city that is definitely not representative of Bolivia overall. So in choosing to live here, we’re consciously enjoying a more comfy and aesthetic life and remain intent on using our home as a base for trips to other parts of the country.

As for our apartment, we share the compound with our landlady’s brother, his wife, 5-year-old daughter and now, the 1-month old Rottweiler puppy named Luke (who recently lost his tail. . . pobrecita!) It’s very comfy, hard-wood floors throughout, arched windows and doorways, stark white with terra cotta roof tiles, nice furniture, a modest bathroom and more modest (but very functional) kitchen, and three bedrooms. We also have a nice outdoor patio which we share with a scruffy-looking, suspicious cat that I’m putting food out for whenever we’re here. Yes, I know, but I’m trying with all my pet-telepathy skills to communicate that he needs to maintain his other food sources, this is just a booster to help him get more healthy.

Sucre is a small city, the center is easily walkable, though we also use the minibuses a lot. A grid of UNESCO-protected, Spanish-colonial architecture, the biggest hazard of the streets is the ever-present dog doo-doo that is all over the sidewalks. I jog most mornings in the beautiful Parque Bolivar (worked up to it given the 2790m elevation). We buy most of our produce at the very bountiful Mercado Central (farmer’s market style in the maze of a big concrete building), and other staples at the SAS supermercado—pretty much like Safeway. We’ve found 4 vegetarian “set lunch” places that serve tasty and healthy fare—cheapest $1.40 each, most expensive $2.40. We’re taking two hours of Spanish week-days (and I’m happy to say that the Arabic hadn’t replaced all my Spanish), as well as drawing / painting classes twice a week.

Potosi – miner’s week-end
A few weeks ago, Neil and I spent the week-end in Potosi. At 4070m altitude, Potosi “enjoys” (about like Nigeria “enjoys” it’s oil) the presence of Cerra Rico, a mountain whose silver bankrolled the Spanish empire for centuries. Much of the wealth from Potosi helped to build Sucre (a city deemed more habitable by the colonialists due to its lower altitude). The cost in lives over time is estimated at 8 million—mostly indigenous or African slaves. Reportedly the slaves would be put in the mine 4 months at a time without emerging to sleep or eat. Many of the Africans died, unaccustomed to the altitude. Within the last few months, the miners have swelled from a normal 5,000 to 10,000 given the metal prices on the world market. Last year there were 20 deaths due to accidents in the mines, but the bigger casualty (usually after 15 years or so) is silicosis, lung cancer from the poor air quality in the mines. The work conditions are tough—reaching 50C (120+F) in the lower levels due to the earth’s core heat, and difficult to breath due to the dust. One would think this a ripe opportunity for automation, but the reality is that many miners work as they have for centuries, tap-tap-taping a chisel in to make a hole for dynamite. We met Don Miguel, a 38-year-old (same as Neil) miner who’s been working there for 14 years. He has daughters so no sons to help mine to support the family. Alone, he can make two holes per 9-hour day, then blast those and carry out best of the minerals he discovers. The youngest miner we met was 12, youngest of 4 brothers, and has been working there one month. He had a shy smile that reminded both Neil and I of As-uhl, the Laotian 16-year-old we got to be friends with. Most mining is done by cooperatives—groups of 10-50 miners who share the profits based on time worked. The minerals are sold to crude processing plants in town, which are generally owned by Bolivian or multi-national companies. While the prices are low and there’s understandable tension between the miners and the processing companies, most seem to feel that Evo Morales’ government has done a good job of ensuring that the benefits from the mines aren’t only enjoyed by the elite.

So . . . our mine tour started at 8:30am on a Saturday morning (a different kind of church, learning about our world) by suiting up in rubber boots, over-clothes, belt with battery pack, hard hat, head lamp and bandana to deal with the dust. Then a visit to the Miner’s Market where we were introduced to a colorful description of dynamite, ampho, fuses, alcohol, coca leaves (chewed by miners for the whole day to avoid hunger or discomfort), and soda—all suggested gifts for the miners whose day we’d slightly interrupt. Neil and I went for dynamite (useful, you know, for a miner!!) and gloves (seemed practical and we were told a very nice gift tho we saw no one using them in the mines). Then down into the mine, we walked as much as possible, got all the way down to level 4. Being a Saturday after the Thursday fiesta, many miners were still “buracho” (drunk) so we only encountered about 6 men working, who were cheerful, sweaty, happy to chat. There were air compression hoses along the passages, so someone is clearly set up to use jack hammers. And part of the time we walked along tracks that are used to carry the minerals out of the mine—by two guys pushing and two pulling. The air quality was much worse than I expected, my throat was hoarse and sore for the rest of the afternoon. And it was hotter than I thought. Above ground, you really wanted a light jacket, but in the mine we were dripping sweat. The altitude meant I had to stop just to BREATHE frequently. We visited the “Tio” of the mine—deity of the underground who is, therefore, in charge of all minerals and who must be kept appeased with lots of alcohol dousing (makes for potent air in such a space). Reportedly, Tio isn’t an old Inca god but was a manipulative creation of the Spaniards to intimidate the indigenous people who weren’t eager to continue mining. Tio must be appeased to prevent accidents, including that women aren’t to work as miners because Tio wouldn’t like it. He’s a seated, human-sized mud creature with horns and often marbles for eyes. Ours was dressed in ribbons due to the recent miner’s fiesta.

Our guide—a very competent, English-fluent, humorous ex-miner—wondered aloud whether the mountain would still be mined in 50-100 years, and I couldn’t help but think that the determining factor won’t be availability of minerals, but “next best gig” that any miner can get. The miner’s cooperatives mean the minders do “work for themselves”, of course better than outright slavery but still a pretty grim career with bloody lungs at the end. Above ground, the lucky non-miners (or those just coming to with a hangover) engaged in serious water-balloon or squirt gun fights in the month-long, increasingly dangerous and wet lead-up to Carnival. . . .

Carnival in Oruro
. . . which we decided to spend in Oruro. This tiny little (historically also mining) town has 250 years of practice in hosting the national festivities, and boy do they do it with flair. The main parade is Saturday, starting at 8am and lasting, literally, until 6-7am the next day. Then Sunday at 8am (yes, an hour later) they start again—this time without the large masks and with even more alcohol than the first day. Any given group takes about 4 hours to complete the parade route, 25 minutes to pass any specific spot on the route. Wow—what a show of effort!!! And the beauty and artistry of the costumes and dancing wasn’t sacrificed, despite the effort. The main dances seemed to be:

• Morenada – the dance representing the African slaves that came to work in the mines. These included black-smeared skin, handcuffs and chains, exaggerated lips and noses, afro hair, and sometimes a foreman with a whip. One slave character even laid down and crawled a length of street with his elbows (ouch). They also carry noise-makers (“canchas,” I think), which, when the handle is turned make a sound meant to emulate the sound of chains.
• La Diablada – the dance of the devils. These masks are amazing, including snakes, frogs, fire, fireworks, lights for after dark, etc. Often these devils are accompanied by one character with a gold, Spanish conquistador-come-angel helmet and big, feathery white wings. He represents Archangel Miguel (Michael) who singlehandedly defeats the hordes of diablos (devils).
• Caporales – this includes numerous dancers, typically the chicos look like lavishly-dressed Spanish cowboys with lots of bells on their boots which makes for a nice sound as they dance. And the chicas have higher-than-knee-high boots (the heel of which is about 5 inches off the ground) and short, full skirts that get twirled all the way down the parade route. Classic Bolivian beauties, with all the cleavage and leg one can imagine.
• Tinku – a very traditional dance from the Tinku people, sort of includes bending over and waving one’s behind in the air. The Tinku people engage in a fighting festival, where they must draw blood (or preferably take a life—apparently that’s rare these days) to appease Pancha Mama. A German friend-of-a-friend danced this one, after having practiced for nearly a year.
• Amazonian – dancers with sparse costumes that have lots of animal skins, animal parts, birds, etc., more like stereo-typical American-Indian garb than others. Bolivia’s geography is very diverse, these folks represent the Western part of the country that shares the Amazon with Brazil.

What impressed me about the pageantry of carnival, is how art can be used to deal with even very painful histories of a society. The web of identities that makes up Bolivia (indigenous, Spanish, African, etc.) are all included. I asked around if there was a sense of “I won’t dance that dance because my heritage is this” and it seems that’s minimal—or if so, it doesn’t create tension. The dancers end by removing their hats as they enter the main cathedral, and going to the front where they kneel and are warmly received by the priest.

And then . . . there was the other side of carnival. I have never in my life seen so many drunk people. Wow. The dancers, the spectators, the vendors. I wondered the first day why there was so much water running in the gutters—then realized it was pee. Yep—some men didn’t even bother to get down from the stands but just went right down thru the benches. The beer cans were collected into large 2x2x2 sq meter bags, we saw many of those. And when you count that probably 5,000 were in the parade alone and an estimated 300,000 attend, well, all that liquid had to go somewhere. Then of course the water balloon fights—full-fledged wars that waged in between the dancers of the parade. It’s “off-limits” to hit the dancers or police (still happens), and bad form to hit babies or old people, but everyone else is fair game. Neil even hit a nun, in habit, square-on. The water balloons are augmented by up to 4-liter, 8-chambered squirt (rather soak) guns, hoses, buckets, water bottles, anything that will hold liquid. Inevitably, those balloons that miss the target square-on hit the street and instead spray muddy, well, you can imagine what it sprays up on your clothes. And then there are the foam cans – usually aimed right at the face and often within 12-inches. Fortunately, the foam doesn’t sting the eyes. Luckily for us, foreigners are a particular target. :-) Anytime you leave your seats, you can expect to walk a gauntlet. Despite one’s REI raincoat and plastic poncho purchased for the occasion, well, you just gotta expect to get wet and foamy. While Neil loved this all, I must admit it was at times difficult to “do in Rome as the Romans”—I don’t have to like the culture wherever I am, right? There’s definitely a predatory and exploitive aspect (including bands of teen-age boys regularly targeting teen-age girls, the whiter or skimpier the t-shirt the better). No sympathy for the family with small children trying desperately to get to their seats, or the shivering skinny girls who happen to be cute, or the blonde German who swears when hit, or whatever. Just brings it on all the more.

We celebrated Carnival with our Spanish teacher and good friend, Yeshira, and another British student and new friend, Vicky—the four of us staying at the home of a friend-of-a-friend, for $6/person/night. Juan Pablo (who danced for the 13th time this year) and his family took brilliant care of us. Accommodations were basic, including the challenge of a non-functioning shower and then no running water. Buckets were lined up by the bathroom door and we did the best we could to stay clean. Juan Pablo’s mom served us hot drinks in the morning before we went on our way to face the partying.

Salt flats and the high desert
Tuesday, as Oruro took down the stands and mopped up the streets, we hopped the train to the town of Uyuni, an even-smaller frontier town at the edge of some of the most desolate areas of Bolivia—the Southwest circuit. Now we were backpacker-types in earnest. The chaos of getting train seats (“get there at 5am” (we didn’t), then stand in line until we rush the counter as it opens (we did), then stand in another line (effectively reversing the first line) to get a number, then hope the seats don’t sell out before your number is called) reminded us that queues here are sort of just suggestions. Anyway, we happily got our seats, and started colluding with other backpackers to form a compatible group of six to buy a tour together. The next morning, after selecting our agency, we were off in a 1996 Land Cruiser that’s seen better days, under the careful and responsible hand of our driver Serapio. Georgie, Tim and Hanna from the UK and Sanna from Sweden completed our group. So for the next 3 days we shared cookies, water bottles, TP rolls, coca leaves, and cameras. Highlights of what we saw included:

• Salar de Uyuni – a 12,000 sq km salt flats, visible from space. Yes, this is just salt, but it forms beautiful patterns—typically 1 meter wide irregular hexagons, with fluid-filled bubbles/blisters all across. A surreal, space-like place under a perfect blue sky. Of course it’s blindingly white. Occasional islands of rock and ancient cactus dot the salar.
• Salt hotel – was very cool. Our beds, nightstand, tables, chairs, all were formed of salt, with big salt blocks and salt mortar to constitute the walls. In the lobby were two pillars made of 24”-wide, 6”-high squares of salt, staggered as they rose, with two brown stripes in each one (a volcano? Some mud?). The floor was crunchy salt, too.
• Highest desert in the world – at 5,000m altitude one has to breathe deeply and move slowly. Truly desolate, no vegetation, would hate to be left behind there!
• Vicunas – the wild cousins of the llamas, with finer-and-more-expensive hair, frequently dotted the landscape of the slightly-more-habitable parts of the journey. What fun! We also saw a desert fox who was amazingly bold, apparently sometimes they receive handouts from the tourists.
• Lakes, volcanoes and flamingos – Some of the lakes have various minerals (borun, fine for the flamingos, or arsenic, not fine for the flamingos), making for various colors. Volcanoes are mostly dormant but impressive nonetheless. And oh, a large geothermally active area much like the mudpots of Yellowstone—despite that the distance for the earth’s core is oh-so-far at this altitude.

Arriving back in the frontier town of Uyuni, we were dust-worn, saddle-sore and Neil was getting sick. So we checked into a comfy/cushy hotel (private bath, hot showers 24x7, comfy bed), had a pizza dinner and took the 9-hour bus-ride back to Sucre, and to home-sweet home. Amazing how much more comfy it is to have your own space and food, especially when sick. He’s on the mend, I am fighting a cold, and all in all we’re in good shape, having seen a bit of Bolivia outside of our lovely little city of Sucre.