Stibbs goes to Bolivia

Chaucito and see you on the other side

2009-12-04T07:46:00.000-08:00

Stibbs has now gone from Bolivia to Bogota, so this blog is now really rather defunct. Excitingly, StibbsgoestoColombia is vibrant, fresh and valid.

Thanks to you all for reading, your comments (especially the anonymous cantankerous ones), and particularly to Jovahi for being my one "follower".

Forgive me Jovahi, I don't really know what that means to either of us but even my own mother hasn't become done it. On the assumption that you're not my mother, thanks to you.

So please swing over to my new blog for more of the same ramblings.

Chaucito, jon

First impressions of beautiful Bogota

2009-11-20T14:04:00.000-08:00

Colombia may have a reputation as a dangerous cocktail of drug barons, paramilitaries and guerrillas but I knew things had changed. I’d seen the adverts: who could fail to be convinced by this man’s voice? Less gruffly, Susi had told me that Bogota was now safe (relatively speaking) and awash with glamorous people dripping in Louis Vuitton.

So I was expecting something pretty spectacular. When we left the airport, with trolleys bearing the bodyweight of an elephant, it was chaotic and dark. Few places look good in the dark and this was no exception.

Our private bus left as it began to rain, the surrounding buildings had the appearance of a long-neglected building site. It was comforting to see the occasional person knocking about it, until I realized there were a lot of unseasonably dressed women around. We’d found the red light district.

Even the people outside an alternative rock club looked menacing, no mean feat in de-rigeur silly hair and tight jeans. All blokes, they stared at the ridiculous vehicle we had had to commandeer—the only vehicle large enough for our unfeasible quantity of stuff.

Past the prostitutes, we slowed and stopped in the middle of nowhere. To our right, a homeless man was shouting for help as two policemen were trying to beat him into submission so they could handcuff him. To the reluctance of our disappointed driver, who was enjoying the scuffle, I insisted we left.

A little later, we pulled up again outside a rather uninspiring block of flats. The doorman stared quizzically through the dirty window at the strangers and their extraordinarily large luggage. Little did he know he’d be helping us lug it up four flights of stairs.

Home.

(I ought to point out that things have improved immeasurably since then.)

Hooked on Titicaca’s trout or Trout and Titicaca’s cars

2009-11-20T07:48:00.000-08:00

This is a story that was original put up on http://www.foodtripper.com/. A jolly good website, I heartily recommend to anyone who like food and travel. They have pix and no mention of feaces.

In La Paz, fresh fish is a luxury—the coast is a country away and, while there is a river, the Choqueyapu is now so filthy that even the microbes that live on faeces cannot survive in it.

And yet, it is true that Amazonian river fish can be brought up from the lowlands and seafood is flown in from Peru or Chile (restaurant owners tip the wink to favoured customers when a flight is due).

There are even ceviche stalls serving the Peruvian marinated delicacy, which ought to be elbowing some of the world’s ubiquitous sushi bars aside. Sold from an electricity-free stand hours from the sea, however, it’s more Russian roulette than lunch.

A safer solution is to make a trip to the vast turquoise expanse of Lago Titicaca. Any suspicion Titicaca was named by a committee of helplessly sniggering schoolboys is confirmed on discovering its water then feeds into Lake Poopó.

Lago Titicaca, the largest lake in South America, is a welcome break from La Paz, as well as the unwitting home to trout. The trout were imported and are now farmed. While there are wild fish in the lake, they tend to be unappetizing and illusive.

Fishing can be a fruitless exercise anywhere; a frustrated guide here once lost patience with my endless incompetence. Unable to bear my failure any longer, we puttered over the nearest fish farm where he suggested dropping a line into the seething water. Whether he would have followed this up by proffering a barrel of fish and a shotgun, I don’t know.

“The lake” is only a three hour drive from the capital through the aptly if unimaginatively named Altiplano (high plain). We (my wife and two Swedish friends) were spending the night at Copacabana, a tourist town on a pretty peninsular.

Tiny boats provide the only access to the peninsula from La Paz; ours was manned by two boys, as well as a man. The other side of the strait, seemed to have been taken over almost entirely by children.

The road snakes along the peninsula’s backbone looking down to the lake on both sides and passing burning scrubland. Children were begging from the passing traffic, shepherding their animals, walking unaccompanied along the road—some carrying firewood—or sheltering from the sun.

Copacabana is famous, mention it in relation to food and Bolivians will automatically think of Pollos Copacabana—a sub-KFC chain that pollutes the air around its outlets. Strangely, while their malodorous presence is felt widely elsewhere, they have no franchise here. Instead, the “beach” is lined with stands selling trout and kingfish.

A queue of freshly washed cars were lined up outside the town’s Moorish Catholic cathedral. Once Sunday’s Mass was over, three young priests began blessing their automotive flock, while a lady shaman trailed behind attempting to flog her more earthly services.

Some of the cars were festooned with garlands of flowers and laden with petals. Bonnets were open to reveal crucifixes, icons, and good luck charms such as frogs.

Once the priest—my favourite sporting baseball cap, jeans, socks and sandals under his vestments—had flicked holy water with a plastic flower onto the car (in and out, as well as under the bonnet), the proud new padrino (godfather) and the owners; the party could begin. Firecrackers exploded onto the road and beer was sprayed all over the newly blessed vehicles.

Besides the trout at the stalls, food options in Copacabana include the legs of the world’s largest aquatic frog (they’re also liquidized as a “natural” Viagra). Tempting, clearly, but we were off to the restaurants at the lakeside village of Huatahajata.

Competition for customers is stiff in Huatahata. Passing cars run the gauntlet of men, women and children (even a gringo!), almost throwing themselves into the road to attract the attention of passers by. From the street, the restaurants in the strip are indistinguishable; closer up, it’s still difficult to tell them apart—they are all on stilts over the sparkling water and offer a seemingly identical menu of trout-based treats.

Purely by luck, we found ourselves in Sol de Los Andes (Sun of the Andes). Commendably, it’s run by the Voces Libres foundation for orphans and children working in Bolivia’s colonial-era mines or living on the streets of La Paz.

Inside, under the ceiling swathed in blue material, the tables were packed with Bolivian families. Outside, the lake spread across to Peru, while in-between ducks, boats and the occasional catamaran bobbed about.

We were greeted with a plate of what appeared to be grey stones. Further investigation revealed them to be a relation of the broad bean, to be peeled and vitalized with a dash of spicy llajua sauce.

I picked the trout a la Diabla. Like all the other dishes, the fried fish came with chips, rice and vegetables. Mine was covered in a “picante” onion-tomato sauce, so mild it left me in no fear of a chilli cook-off at Beelzebub’s.

The fish was fabulously fresh, succulent and perfectly filleted, the chips perfect and the vegetables cold (but we weren’t there for the broccoli anyway).

The trip back to La Paz through the Mars-like Altiplano was spectacular, as always. Even from our height of nearly 4,000 metres, the snowy Cordillera Real Mountains towered ahead.

To our right, sand storms spun, lightning flashed and dark clouds emptied rain. In places, the sun pierced through the darkness, while behind us wispy clouds floated in the dazzling blue.

There's not much out there...

2009-10-04T10:55:00.000-07:00

But it's worth seeing
(Whack up the sound)

We thank you.

2009-10-02T12:59:00.000-07:00

I suppose this blog should be renamed thestibbesgotobolivia.blogspot.com and then shortly thestibbsesgofromboliviatobogota.blogspot.com. Pretty pithy, no?

Anyway, thanks for making the honeymoon possible...

Susi wrecking crew

2009-10-02T12:43:00.000-07:00

Honeymoon snaps

2009-10-02T12:10:00.000-07:00

Llamas and their farmers

2009-08-05T11:41:00.000-07:00

This is a story I wrote for http://www.foodtripper.com/

Bolivia-resident Jon Stibbs goes off the traditional epicurious track in search of the “Prince of the Andes”

For a large country, Bolivia has very few roads. Mine led out of the noisy chaos of market-day El Alto—La Paz’s adobe-and-breeze-block satellite city—and on to the Altiplano.
The Altiplano or high plane is a dry, flat expanse flanked by the snow-topped Andean Cordillera mountain ranges. Ultimately, the road passes Tiahuanaco’s Inca ruins and the lake of Titicaca before hitting Desaguadero. This border town is a smugglers’ favourite, where gas canisters are shuttled across the Peruvian border by tricycle.
In search of llamas, I had no need to leave the Bolivian side of this high-altitude desert. Not much appreciates this desiccated environment, 4,000 metres above sea level. But the stately llama is no ordinary animal—the “Prince of the Andes” thrives in this insalubrious environment.
My destination was the town of Laja. The occasional tourists do stop here—the seat of the original La Paz and home to a colonial church—but generally their coaches chug on.
Towns on the Altiplano are not known for their architectural riches and Laja is no exception. While not about to trouble UNESCO, it is relatively pretty. Brightly painted adobe buildings surround a plaza where potentially rabid dogs bask by the giant cacti.
Laja has a claim to fame for foodies: its flat bread—made without fat or yeast—is celebrated. As I bought some, schoolchildren coyly giggled as they passed. Self-consciously, I wondered if my M&S chinos were really that amusing.
A walk through the outskirts of the dusty village took me to the arid farm of Celia Aruquipa. Here, her family, llamas, chickens, ducks, pigs and sheep, eke out an existence. The wind swept off the Andean peaks, threatening to take my cricket hat with it. It was cold, and this was in the midday sun.
Protecting the skin and eyes is essential here. It’s a chilli consumé of a sun—thin, watery rays leave only a painful burn but none of the life-enhancing warmth of lower altitudes.
It had snowed earlier in the week. Celia said she had been freezing as she fed the llamas: Julio, Blanco, Maria and her daughter Susi.
The mutual affection between them and their Aymara owner was evident. While Julio nuzzled her, he was rather skittish with me. But then I was probably the first gringo he had ever seen.
Despite their friendship, these are not pets; they are an essential source of protein and income. Killing them is not easy for the family and Celia’s two young children are kept away from the process.
Saturday, 1st August, was the challa—the day Aymaras make a sacrifice to Pachamama, the earth goddess. A shaman will have led a ceremony, involving Ceibo (a brand of “drinking” alcohol), coca leaves and petals. Blanco will have had his throat cut, blood drained and heart removed. If it was still beating when it hit the floor, the Aruquipas will have 12 months of good luck.
The meat will be dried in the sun and salted. Then it will be consumed in rice or chuño soup. Chuño is potato that been blackened and preserved in a days’ long process involving freezing outside at night and trampling out the moisture under foot during the day.
In this way, it remains edible throughout the freezing winter months. It could euphemistically be described as an “acquired taste”. Some chuño—known as tunta—is left in pools of water before being dried again and is rather more challenging.
Having bade farewell to Julio and Celia, I returned to La Paz. I paid my 2.5BS (20 pence) to the conductor—splendidly robed in a knitted purple tank top and orange shirt—and we were away. Twenty-one of us (no livestock), shared the 1.5 malodorous hours back in a suffering mobilidad (minibus). My thoughts were disrupted by the cholita—indigenous lady—sitting in front. As she sleepily fidgeted, her bowler hat kept falling off and landing in my lap.
As I handed it back yet again, I considered life up here on the Altiplano. Usually, it is bone dry under a dangerously strong sun with a cruel, biting wind. Occasionally, it is grey, freezing and wet with a cruel, biting wind. Either way, the weather is unremitting.
Back in the bowl that insulates La Paz, life is a little easier; even, occasionally, salubrious. Tonight, I was to dine at Luna Llena. This is no ordinary restaurant: owner, Juan Pablo Villalobos is an artist who trained as a chef in Spain. He returned to Bolivia to make Mediterranean-inspired food with local produce.
Sat next to a Bolivian Mona Lisa painted by Juan, his brother Jaime explained the family’s ethos to combine an art foundation, bar and restaurant in their ancestral home.
Having ordered the llama, we—my fiancée Susi and I—were given warm rolls and llajwa (pronounced yack-wah). It’s the spicy, tomatoey, ruby in the dust of Bolivia’s often-bland food. We were then delivered an amuse bouche of fried quinoa mini patties with a warm mango dip.
My griddled llama medallions arrived in a thick but delicate pineapple sauce, with a red quinoa risotto. The Andean supergrain makes a lighter risotto than conventional Arborio yet retains the rich creaminess.
So how was the llama? The meat is heavier in texture but lighter in colour than beef. It’s also incredibly lean and, I’m told, low in cholesterol.
Chef on the day, Tomas Alcon Nachos explained: “Llama is more exquisite than steak. To release its flavour, it must be hot and medium or well done; never a la inglesa.”
By some historical quirk, which I like to think sends French steak eaters here apoplectic, “a la inglesa” means rare.
Initially, the combination of pineapple and llama struck me as unlikely and rather unBolivian. However, the rich, red meat balanced the fruit well. Then I remembered how this week I had gone to see the snow on the lip of La Paz’s bowl and the surrounding mountains. On the way home, I had picked up a fresh tropical lowlands’ pineapple. So really, it was the perfect Bolivian combination.

New life in the cemetery district

2009-07-29T15:58:00.000-07:00

A trip to the cemetery district can be as uninviting as it sounds. The first time Susi and I went, for our own safety, our fellow travellers begged us not to get off the bus until the sun rose. Outside there was plenty of drunkenness and the odd fight but it didn’t really warrant these villagers’ terror.

This time we arrived in a car and our driver was a trained bodyguard—more to protect Patricio’s camera than us. Our destination was a club with doormen in full riot gear.

We were here for El Alto’s first-ever transvestite cholita—bowler-hatted indigenous ladies—competition. It was held in La Paz, not El Alto, because the organizers couldn’t find a venue to take them in their hometown.

Official kick off was 7pm, but we’d been given the wink not to arrive until 8pm. Smugly, we found great seats. A mere three hours later, the pageant began and Calypso was packed.

The event was to celebrate the 200 anniversary of Bolivia’s first cry for independence from the Spanish. This event may not have been what the original anti-colonialists were expecting.

Pretty boys ostentatiously held hands and snogged on the dance floor, something unimaginable outside the protection of the paramilitary bouncers. Same-sex couples danced together, which isn’t allowed in the mixed clubs gay El Alteños have to frequent on the Altiplano.

The friendly wooping crowd applauded the performers. A lesbian and transvestite pair did a role-reversed version of a traditional dance. Bolivia’s number one transsexual put on a very indiscrete show, with an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction à la Janet Jackson. Mr Gay of El Alto karaokeed in a Mexican-style.

The cholitas themselves wore extravagant outfits and spun like heavy-set, heavily made-up whirling dervishes. Under the disco lights, it was a dramatic spectacle and refreshing to see such a variety of sexualities.

This was the most inclusive crowd we had seen since arriving in Bolivia but one group was noticeable by their absence: female cholitas.

Pinching policemen, prisons and partying with drug lords

2009-07-14T19:40:00.000-07:00

In the morning, I like to buy my fruit at Sopocachi market; now I have some confidence in my language skills, it’s incredibly well stocked, friendly and cheap, rather than merely terrifying, as it used to be. On my way there this week, I saw a uniformed Policia Municipal walk up to one of the stalls and then pinch a cheap, lattice shopping bag.

He then stood a few yards away, looking ridiculous carrying the empty, bright swagged bag until the stall holder pleaded for it back. The thieving swine returned it, before he and his two female colleagues strolled off without even the decency to look sheepish. It made me feel very angry to see, if the police are no better than the shabbiest thieves then what hope justice?

The prison system is in the process of being cleaned up. The infamous San Pedro prison, once open to the paying public for tours, “the best cocaine in South America”, cheap restaurants and beds for the night is being closed. And so ends one of La Paz’s most infamous tourist attraction.

For the public, at least. The inmates, however, are going nowhere, but their wives, children and traditional sources of income will be gone. Unless the new regime becomes as corrupted as the last one and the old ways slip back in.

The Bolivian prison system has seen a new inmate this week. The former “Minister for Cocaine” has been extradited from the States. Not so fresh from 30 years in a US jail, Luis Arce Gomez will be finishing his days in El Alto’s insalubrious Chonchocoro prison. He once employed the Nazi Klaus Barbie as an advisor and seemed to take his advice to heart—he had been key to one of Bolivia’s most unpleasant dictatorships.

Back in Luis’ 1980s pomp, the Bolivian economy relied heavily on cocaine. A well-connected friend went to party hidden near the Brazilian border for the 15th birthday of a senior drug lord’s daughter. The private airstrip was busy with private jets landing unloading guests keen to enjoy the fabulous hospitality of the drug baron.

Among the luxuries in the house, a fountain spouted champagne. The glory days were not to last however as the Americans were after him. To avoid extradition, he offered to pay Bolivia’s entire national debt but it wasn’t enough and he’s staying at President Obama’s pleasure. It would seem that sometimes no amount of money can save you.

Pirates and coca over knitwear

2009-07-06T09:13:00.000-07:00

Having segued effortlessly from jet lag to upset stomach to cold since arriving back, life has been fairly uneventful and home-based. Yesterday, however, we made a brave outing to refresh our DVD collection.

The walk to the DVD street took Susi, Mikael and me through La Paz’s most tourist area: a succession of shops selling ethno tat leading to a succession of stalls selling llama fetuses.

As we walked a normal-looking man stopped and swore at Mikael. Why he would swear at random foreigners was unexplained and why he would pick the largest man within a mile radius seemed suicidal. Anyway, Mikael and I swapped pleasantries with the man before we hit second-hand clothes street.

Hawking “pre-loved” clothes is illegal in Bolivia, so occasionally these stalls are clamped down on. The theory is tailors should be protected; people should only buy new Bolivian-made clothes, which seems rather tough on the poor. The rag trade is in bad shape since the US ended trade preferences with Bolivia, jeopardizing 25,000 jobs.

Morales chose to defend the booming coca industry (his electorate and fellow unionistas) against the (albeit bonkers) War on Drugs and so sacrifice hope of an improved relationship with the US. Even Chavez gets on better with the US than Morales now, and that’s about as bad as relationships get.

Much more legal than the shifty business of selling clothes is flogging illegal DVDs. An entire road is dedicated to knocked-off movies in shops and stalls. From the latest blockbusters to Boobs and Butts 3, it’s all here.

For £10, we bought the second and third series of Battlestar Gallactica and the second series The Sopranos. Bargain! I tried to buy the new Star Trek film but the salesman told me his wasn’t a good-quality version and advised waiting; they’re even honest(ish).

All the way from the San Francisco church to Plaza Estudiantes, the Prado was packed. Excited Bolivar football fans waved flags out of hooting cars. Under the huge, full moon, hundreds of fans accumulated at the plaza, singing and chanting.

Being outside is certainly more interesting than watching Lord of the Rings. Again.

In the bright mid-winter

2009-06-24T09:28:00.000-07:00

Culturally, the Bolivian ex-pat lifestyle can be a little confused. On Saturday, we attended a Swedish mid-summer party held by Alina, a Canadian-Pole. It had been mid-summer the day before in the northern hemisphere, so we were only one day and two seasons out.
Given that winter here means dazzling blue skies, it’s not so dissimilar to summer in the UK, except it’s dark by 7pm and there are dazzling blue skies.
Anyway, feeling a little odd because of jet lag and altitude adjustment, a party where our Swedish friends said they would be dancing around an enormous penis was not to be missed.
The party was held in a garden with magnificent views of Illimani, if you stood in the right place. It was good to see Alejandro again—one of the few ice-hockey playing Mexicans in La Paz—we had been to his leaving party the night before.
And there in the pride of place was a tall, decorated cross; which would once have been a fertility-symbol phallus before Christianity ruined the fun.
After delicious Indian samosas and flavoured vodka, it was time to dance. Wearing crowns of flowers, we held hands around the “symbol”. A bottle of lemon vodka was passed around, the girl next to me turned it down pointing out she was pregnant, and the dancing began.
There was a song in Swedish about being a frog with hand-actions for ears and tails, for some reason this ended in falling over. I tripped and panicked about landing on the pregnant lady, while next to me a tall Bolivian lady was toppling too. Don’t land on me, I thought. Then, Oh no. Don’t land on her. Land on me. Land on me.
Happily, she managed to miss us both.

The 10 things we missed about Bolivia

2009-06-19T17:27:00.000-07:00

It’s still inexcusably self-indulgent, and I won’t do it again.

The cloudless deep blue skies
The dazzling star-filled night sky
The amazing fruit (and I didn’t think I liked fruit)
Everything being remarkably cheap
Dogs decked out in anoraks, cardies and hoodies
Sonia—our maid
Illimani—our neighborhood 15,000 feet mountain
The view from the lip of El Alto into the La Paz bowl
Indigenous people in their gear
Susi and friends (not that most of them are Bolivian)

Susi's most missed:

Illi Mani—our cats
Illimani—the wopping mountain
The city’s lights at night
Having lots of money
Having a maid
Cholitas
Being taller than everyone else
Lake Titicaca or The Lake as it is known
Speaking Spanish
Having a fuck-off big flat

The 10 things I miss most about England.

2009-05-10T09:50:00.000-07:00

This is inexcusably self-indulgent, I know.

1 Pubs (especially having an alfresco wee under the stars on Chorleywood Common during the walk home from The Black Horse).
2 Friends and family.
3 Multiculturalism, especially the glorious and varied food.
4 The river (I know there’s more than one but I mean The River).
5 Parks.
6 Listening to Radio 4 in bed.
7 Girls going to the corner shop in their jimjams.
8 Laws.
9 The sea.
10 Very, very long Sunday lunches.

One more: being somewhere simultaneously utterly modern and ancient.

Here are Susi’s (no mention of girls in their jimjams).
1 Mum and dad.
2 The green countryside.
3 Radio 4.
4 BBC TV.
5 Walking up Shotover Hill.
6 Sandwiches.
7 Not having to disinfect fruit and vegetables.
8 Being able to drink tap water.
9 The Guardian
10 Nice buses. (That’s what she said, honest.)

Lakeside llama and blessed cars

2009-05-09T14:06:00.000-07:00

The next morning we took another boat trip, this time to a small island, Isla Pariti. Home to donkeys, birds and few people; plonked in the deep blue lake and in view of the Andes, it seemed idyllic. In reality, the lack of shops, drinking water and electricity would get trying pretty fast.

Our departure from Puerto Pérez was held up by a passing rally. The Gumball 3000 has nothing to worry about: pouting blokes in Daihtsu Charades with stickers on strained along, with their bored girlfriends in the passenger seat.

Once the rally passed, it was an interesting drive. Sunday must be a popular day for blessing cars at the Copacabana. It’s a strange business: shamans and Catholic priests perform a ceremony to ensure the safety of vehicles. The cars are lightly doused with alcohol and decorated before being sent on their way.

It was an interesting drive past the former home of Victor Hugo Cardenas. The Aymara politician had been Vice President (1993-97) and was now a critic of the government. This is a dangerous position to take in the Altiplano—last month, while he was away, his neighbours broke in, beat up his wife and children, and took over his house. It’s still covered in graffiti and the family has moved.

Having randomly picked one of Huatajata seemingly identical lake-side restaurants, we bumped into a mate. She’d had an interesting morning having been chased by a frying-pan wielding mother defending her children from my friend’s morally corrupting influence.

After compulsory—and delicious trout—we went next door to the museum of the Altiplano, where I held a baby llama and a vicuna nibbled my trouser area.

We were sailing, they were sinking

2009-05-02T16:00:00.000-07:00

We made a trip to Puerto Perez to stay in the Swiss-chalet style there and spend some time on Lake Titicaca. In the first afternoon, a little wooden sailing boat took the seven of us on an outing. It was beautiful, and really relaxing despite being a little squashed.
As we returned to land, an endless stream of dressed-up Bolivians piled into a sister boat. I asked our captain what was the maximum possible aboard. 15, he said. When I pointed out there seemed to be more than that, he said there are 25, I think.
They set off, the boat perilously low in the water, happily singing along to an on-board guitarist, somewhere lost in the crowd. It was fortunate it did not sink because few Bolivians can swim and the water is unforgivingly cold.
Bruce and I watched the sunset from the end of the pier. As the cold wind blew over the lake, the snow-capped mountains turned a delicious shade of coconut-ice pink. At every side, the view was wonderful.

Back on the saltenas

2009-04-14T16:09:00.000-07:00

President Evo Morales has just announced he is ending his hunger strike. After five days of ploughing through the coca leaves to suppress his appetite, he must be delighted to be eating again. A compromise was reached with Congress and the election reform has passed.
I wonder whether the same compromise would have been found without the strike. It sets a dangerous precedent: from now on will the president always refuse to eat unless he immediately gets his way? Perhaps in future for quicker results, he could try holding his breath and stamping his feet or putting a gun to his head threatening to pull the trigger.
Except that hunger strikes are not treated with the same seriousness here as in the UK. No one expected the president to actually starve to death, and the move was treated with derision by many Bolivians.
For the most powerful man in the country to use such a desperate measure signals a failure of his democratic leadership, it shows a complete lack of belief in parliamentary process. Ironically, it was used to pass worthwhile reform of the same institution he was arm twisting.
Alternatively, perhaps the president just knew this common fallback tactic would be highly popular with his core support and that the opposition were only playing silly buggers. He certainly had the good sense to avoid a simultaneous dirty protest of the presidential palace.

Football gods humbled

2009-04-01T16:48:00.000-07:00

I went to the Bolivia vs Argentina football match today. Billed as a one-sided affair, this was a chance for Bolivian football fans to watch some real world stars in action. It was certainly a one-sided affair.
Despite the double-normal international-ticket prices, the stadium was packed. The Bolivian bloke in front of me was wearing an “Autonomia” t’shirt calling for autonomy for the prefecture of Santa Cruz. It seemed a strange choice of clothing when supporting your national side.
Stranger was his mate, who was wearing an Argentina shirt and tall, felt hat. At Wembley, Neanderthal fans mean the teams have to be segregated, so it was good see understanding and support for an opposition side. It was peculiar to see that understanding and support shown by one man for both sides, as his allegiance to Bolivia developed as the game progressed.
Argentina coach Maradona stood still on the touchline showing more movement than his team. He had been a prominent supporter of Bolivia’s right to play in La Paz, where the altitude strongly favours the home side. He even played a game with Evo Morales for the benefit for the media to prove to Fifa that anyone can do it.
It would appear his team couldn’t. Leaden-footed and disinterested, the Argentinians succeeded in making the Bolivian team look very good indeed. They lost 6-1 in front of a joyous, incredulous crowd. I would have loved to hear the goalkeeper blame his hopelessness on the altitude, as he hardly exerted himself beyond repeatedly getting the ball out of the net. The only Argentinian goal was as a result of a bobble in the pitch rather than skill.
It was a real privilege to see a game that will go down in Bolivian football history. Afterwards, there was no lap of honour, dancing in the street or pubs to throng; just an excited crowd making its way home.
Meanwhile in London: riots.

Dia del Mar: Cloaking failure in glory

2009-03-28T08:08:00.000-07:00

Monday (23rd March) was the Dia del Mar (Day of the Sea) or the Dia del Bar as my Spanish teacher called it. Now an annual military procession drawing on all the pomp and circumstance that Bolivia can muster, it commemorates the start of the War of the Pacific in 1879.
A seemingly endless army of uniformed teens in unseemly short skirts twirled batons. Troops wore the glorious uniforms from the day, complete with pink or baby-blue motifs. Magnificent horses were decked out in sparkly wrestling-style masks to match their regiments.
Huge crowds lined the streets around the Plaza Avaroa to congratulate the troops and enjoy the bouncy tunes of the military brass bands. They were regaled over the tannoy by triumphalist announcements of the honour and bravery of the fighting men.
Except that these men’s military forefathers had been ignominiously defeated and the sea had been lost. The consequences for Bolivia as a trading nation were catastrophic, leaving it simultaneously centrally located and yet isolated.
It is difficult to see the reasoning behind this camp and embarrassing event, except to remind Bolivians that they once had access to a coastline. The blame is laid at the door of the Chileans for having the temerity to beat Bolivia and the British for backing them (foreign support is still more likely to go to Chile).
Such grandiose recognition of failure will not win Bolivians anything back but only engender a feeling they were somehow cheated. The largely impotent navy is retained, working Lake Titicaca’s border with Peru and longing for choppier waters.
The Chileans have been leading them up the garden path ever since and continue to do so with fanciful negotiations about possible routes to the sea.
It may be that Bolivia’s more militarized neighbour is intimidated by the thought of being invaded by an army of baton-waving teenagers but I doubt it.
Perhaps the British army should hold similar events to celebrate its loss of India, the US and northern France.

16,000 feet high and rising

2009-03-24T14:40:00.000-07:00

Despite being at an oxygen-deficient altitude up the Andes, we don’t really get snow and even less skiing. The world’s highest ski run on Chacaltaya’s glacier has been successfully stuffed by global warming leaving a defunct Alpine-themed lodge with great 1980s photos of Bolivian skiers on the walls.
Club Andino Boliviano can still sort out winter sports here but only just. We packed into a minibus (there’s ALWAYS room for one more) and headed up into El Alto, where we stopped. Those with faith in coca’s ability to halt altitude sickness stocked up at a little shop and we waited. And waited. After a while it became apparent they had forgotten some of the kit.
The boots eventually arrived and we were off again, this time into the mountains. Our minibus headed where tanks would fear to tread: over rocks, and through streams and herds of llama, we crunched, splashed and occasionally got out and walked. It was a magnificent trip until the driver let slip that we were going the wrong way and turned round.
After some time, we arrived at our destination. Not the bottom of a virgin piste but an hour and half’s walk from one. As the guides set off into the distance, we panted behind lugging our gear.
By now we were more than 5,000 metres up and the pace was being set by a petite, coca-less, French girl. She had just arrived in the country and was tactfully not smoking so as not to shame we Paceñas any further.
At the end of the walk, we were eager to get stuck in but came unstuck when it was clear that the equipment was older and in worse condition than many of our party.
When I finally skied again, for the first time in 12 years, it was all worth it. The snow was crisp and for those precious moments I was the highest skier in the world. Later, I snowboarded down and all the nonsense and incompetence was forgotten. A gentle slope, there was no danger, which was just as well because when even if I did have insurance to pay for it, helicopters can’t fly at this altitude. It would have a very painful journey back to the minibus and then the bouncy track to La Paz’s dubious hospitals.
A day of firsts: skiing and boarding in the same day, acquiring reverse sunburn panda marks, and then an evening of karaoke. Also a day of very mixed successes. Karaoke!

Carnival fever hits La Paz. All my friends leave.

2009-03-02T16:13:00.000-08:00

Bolivia has just finished celebrating carnival. In so many, many ways, La Paz is not Rio. Rather than thousands of scantily clad beauties prancing about in the sun, we had been warned to expect drunken youth gangs armed with water balloons on every corner and looming out of every window. This was trailed as The Worst Time To Be In Bolivia.

In fact, it was quite fun, at least as a spectator. There were excited small children (and the odd pet) in fancy dress: fairies, spidermen, devils even a belly dancer. It seemed to be a great time for the Bolivian equivalent of the dull bloke from accounts: in the supermarkets, sensibly moustachioed men stocked on packets of crisps the size of pillows, foam and firecackers.

In the market, stalls offered everything needed for a good festival: dried flowers, confetti, bangers, streamers, face paint, wigs and Ceibo—the 96% proof drinking alcohol.

Once it had kicked off, the Prado—La Paz’s Oxford Street—was filled with happy schoolboys soaking schoolgirls with water pistols the size of bazookers. Bands bounced along, with dancers dressed as “pepino”, a little devilish chap, who shares his name with the word for cucumber (to my mind, the devil’s genitalia). Men wearing dresses ran about spraying foam and others played along clad in plastic macs.

As the water was thrown around, it looked like a lot of fun. From the safety of the five-star hotel Plaza’s bar overlooking the Prado, it looked great. Clearly, I didn’t want to be any nearer.

As well as the water and dancing, there was also the ch’alla. This is a blessing of homes, cars and offices. I watched a smart office worker spraying lager all over her car at lunchtime. Door-to-door shaman went between offices offering their services like salesmen flogging brushes or insurance. The blessing process is a boozy business and stretched well into the next week.

2009-02-27T19:58:00.000-08:00

Hats and Hershey's kisses, briefcases and black men

2009-02-19T12:35:00.000-08:00

The sun is so strong here and the air so thin that cancer is a serious concern. Wisely, the indigenous farmers all wear broad-brimmed hats as protection. The mass of sophisticated urban Bolivians would rather jab their eyes out than be associated with them. Instead, they wear baseball caps or use another means of protect themselves. Newspapers, hands, folders, semi-furled umbrellas, bags: it seems Paceñas (La Paz residents) will put anything over their heads to avoid anything so foolish as a hat. Today, I saw an otherwise elegant lady dashing her sophisticated aura into the dirt by carrying a lipstick-pink child’s briefcase on her head.

In the supermarket checkout next to the other mass-market chocolate is a brand called Beso de Negro. I don’t think a Black Man’s Kiss would be really considered acceptable in the UK. However, these are no dark-chocolate, local version of Hershey’s kisses. Instead, they are knobbly, phallic-shaped and filled with cream. Added to this, “beso de negro” is another name for what greasy-palmed tabloid journalists like to call an “unnatural sex act”. Have I let political correctness get the better of me or is this simply wrong?

Exercise, altitude and a virus: not a great cocktail

2009-02-09T15:24:00.000-08:00

About a ten days ago I developed a cold. Nothing too serious about that and after a few days, I thought I felt well enough to swim and have my first rugby training since I left school. It was hard work and my lungs burnt savagely. The next morning, I was coughing up blood. Clearly, all was not well.

On Saturday, a thirsty chap, I finished the 20 litres of water, which had been delivered on Monday. For one bloke on his own, without tea and coffee, I was sloshing back 3.5 litres a day. And I was still parched.

Still, I had my second rugby training. My lungs seemed stronger and I hung on until cramp claimed me a few minutes from the end of the session. I took this as a painful moral victory.

On Sunday, I played tennis (Evo was playing football on the pitch below us, the bands were rather distracting) and then I really started to feel dreadful. After a very early night, I passed out, woke up, passed out again, until after 3pm the next afternoon. More than seventeen hours after crashing, I dragged myself out of bed. For an insomnia sufferer, this is a lot of sleep. I’ve started taking it a little easier.

Urmiri, worth the wait

2009-01-28T12:30:00.000-08:00

After several failed attempts, we were off to Urmiri—the spa hotel in the hills. We (Richard, Sally, Mikael, Karin, Susi and I) piled into a minibus minibus, ploughed through the flat, concrete roads of the Altiplano and then swung a left on to a dusty trail winding into the dry hills.
This is the dry season but there was precious little sign of anything green in the desolate surroundings. Little girls, tending small flocks of sheep, stood at the roadside proferring their wide-brimmed hats hoping for change from the few passing vehicles.
We passed into a hillier section, down under the cactus line and through a series of hairpin turns to reach Urmiri. It's a little oasis; bright, terraced gardens cascade into a pool of water fed by a waterfall. It’s hot and gorgeous, and hardly stinks of sulphur at all. We sploshed about as a hummingbird flew overhead.
Our room was on the ground floor. To my amusement, the huge mirrored windows meant I could jump about as nature intended while watching the passers-by. To my horror, the see-through windows in the bathroom meant the same thing would get me arrested.
Apart from the lack of privacy, our bathroom had a huge Turkish bath, looked upon by a beautiful mosaic hummingbird. After dinner, there was plenty of room for Mikael, Karin, Susi and I to all get in with a bottle of fizz before dashing outside to the waterfall’s plunge pool.
The drive home the next day was punctuated by many more pitiful child beggars, standing alone in the parched earth by the dusty road.

Small things, shaman, God and a whole new constitution

2009-01-25T15:43:00.000-08:00

It’s been an interesting weekend here in La Paz. On Saturday was the start of the Fiesta of Small Things. People buy models of whatever they want—cars, houses, money, minibuses, babies—and then have them blessed by a shaman in expectation of therefore receiving them. I suspect some maybe disappointed.

Members of an equal-opportunities profession, the shamans sat in front of crucibles of burning incense and bottles of the 96% “drinking” alcohol, Ciebo. While the rest of Bolivia suffers under a booze ban, a special exception has been made for the shamans’ blessing ceremonies.

Sunday was the referendum on the new constitution. Billed as the decolonization of Bolivia and the empowering of the marginalized majority, I would find it difficult to vote no. However, it’s imperfect—vastly overlong, ambiguous and contradictory—providing ample ammunition for those who instinctively disagree with anything produced by Evo and the MAS government, or those firmly against socialism and secularization.

Both sides have behaved badly: government supporters unforgivably attacked a local no vote march and the opposition preposterously argued a yes vote is to kick God out of the country.

Voting is an obligation rather than a right here, and there’s a ban of traffic on election day to prevent people feeling obligated to place their tick in more than one location. The roads were by turn eerie and humanized: kids rode their bikes, fathers taught their children to ride, football games were played in busy thoroughfares and people walked their puppies (fully grown dogs are dumped as strays), elsewhere empty roads echoed the far-off celebratory explosions of dynamite fuses.

Even in the afternoon, hours before any result, Plaza Murillo—the parliament square—was already full. I’ve not seen so many crusty travellers in one place since Goa in 1995. A chant of Evo! Evo! went up but it failed to catch, but it was early days. There was clearly going to be some celebrating here when the inevitable yes-vote success came through.

Outside the MAS office, they were already hugging and kissing—even without a result, they knew this is a historic day.

Feet like clown shoes

2009-01-22T18:10:00.000-08:00

My sunburn was developing magnificently. By now it felt as if I was wearing scalding-hot socks, and my bright-red feet and ankles had swollen impressively. I wondered when I would see my ankles again, not that I missed them particularly but it was strange not to see them there any longer.

Given that my main reason for coming here was to surf, my preposterous new feet were a disaster. Instead, we took a taxi to the top of the El Morro headland, which overlooks the town, and looked down at the town—surrounded entirely by desert and sea.

It was here, in the 1929 War of the Pacific, that Bolivia lost its link to the ocean, something that it has been going on about endlessly ever since. Chile has won pretty much ever battle and argument between the two countries before and since; its people are better organised and better educated, while its governments have consistently been less governed by self-interest. As a rule, however, the Bolivians tend to prefer to blame the Brits for their crucial lost sea connection.

Any sort of lower body movement severely limited, we went to the Maracuya restaurant, which is hoisted on stilts over the sea, and had a drink. The setting is wonderful but they are determined to cover their lovely fish in showy, gloopy sauces. We discovered you can actually taste the glorious fresh fish if you order from the simpler express menu.

As we sat over the surf, red-headed vultures wheeled around outside threatening to fly in through the glassless windows and join us.

I really don’t like beaches

2009-01-16T18:11:00.000-08:00

As we were by the sea, I felt the weight of the expectation to go to the beach. I’m not a fan: beaches are uncomfortable, uncomfortably hot and there’s nothing to do—unless it’s a surf beach. It wasn’t.

Fortunately, I am not uncomfortable looking like a stereotypical Englishman. While Susi, under the vast parasol, read something mildly improving while wearing a sun hat, huge sunnies and a cardie; I moped about in a cricket hat, getting fried and wishing I was in the bar.

Looking for something to do, I took my pasty body and sunburnt feet for a run down the beach. Like Southend, there’s a decrepit pier here. Gangs of kids in wet suit and flippers were throwing themselves and their bodyboards off into the surf below. They looked like the reprobate younger brothers of Dogtown and Z-Boys.

For a while I was chased by an aggressive sausage dog, which in turn was chased by its embarrassed teenage owner. I feared for my ankles and her bikini. A little further up another dog was being operated on by apparently normal beach goers. Perhaps this is how they deal with unruly dogs here.

There was a further element of danger to running here. All along the beach brown-and-white striped diaphanous jellyfish had been washed up. I was keen to avoid a sunburnt foot-full.

There are lots of things about Chile I like, for instance, they were holding a beach 7s rugby tournament. Also, things work: a lack of sparks from a plug means it functions properly rather than the reverse, as in Bolivia.

However, cocktails makers here are as cack-handed as Bolivia. It takes a special ineptness not to be able to make a Cuba Libre. I forced it down and thought of Chilean vineyards.

Arica—we found it eventually

2009-01-07T11:25:00.000-08:00

My first trip outside of Bolivia for some time started at the handsome bus station on the outskirts of La Paz. As the bus drew out we passed a small grass patch where scores of women and small children were camped out. Every year, they make the trip down from north Potosi to beg in the run up to Christmas.

It must be cold, dangerous and extremely unpleasant for the women and small children sleeping in a small grass patch by a main road. How desperate must their normal lives be to warrant this annual trip from home to a makeshift refugee camp?

Our Chilean bus bounced us through El Alto into Sajama National Park. It’s a vast desolate area punctuated by the Platonic ideal of a towering volcano. Sadly, it was cloudy and I was asleep but I am told it looks great.

Past Bolivian customs, we entered a tract of no-man’s land. To the surprise of everyone, the government has actually implemented a law preventing the import of vehicles more than five years’ old. As a result, there are hundreds of used cars waiting in limbo loaded on trucks. The truck drivers have been stuck in this cold, wet, desolate place for three weeks waiting for the government to relent.

After a three hours wait, we were through the shambolic Chilean border control. For drama, the setting could not be beaten: customs is set by a lake, where flamingoes flash past, across the lake a powerful electrical storm cloaked and lit up a mountain, while the range behind was perfectly snow-topped. It was also cold, windy and soul-sappingly tedious.

Eventually, we crossed into Chile’s Parque Nacional Luaca. It was a lovely drive past full of endless vicuna, the llama’s cute but shy little cousin. Past the rivers and lakes of the park, we descended from the altiplano and into the desert.

Northern Chile is a scene of utter desiccation. There are places around here that have never recorded any rainfall. Ever. It’s amazing that even the cacti can survive.

After what felt like a short lifetime we arrived at Arica. Plonked between the desert and the sea, it has all the immediate charm of a cross between Watford and Miami. On the positive side, it was deliciously warm, on the coast and it was not a bus.

There are doubtless lots of fresh and exciting sides to Arica (the fish, for example), however, the locals’ taste in music is not one of them. I can’t remember the last time I heard Right Said Fred twice in one day. 1992, probably.

We arrived on Saturday night to find the town was quiet. Its citizens, in their often unflatteringly tight-fitting clothing, were smiley, friendly and relaxed. Even the taxi drivers seemed honest.

After La Paz, it was confusing to find the traffic stopping for us, even Chilean chavs would patiently wait if we innocently stood anywhere near a zebra crossing. What nice people.

Chulumani and mercifully back again

2009-01-03T11:02:00.000-08:00

This is an part of an intro I wrote in November for a test piece for a guidebook:
After a bus trip of such awe-inspiring beauty and buttock-clenching danger it would leave Richard Dawkins reaching for Catholicism’s embrace, you arrive at Chulumani. While, the town’s architectural delights may not trouble UNESCO unduly, it is not without its charm.

HISTORY
The Spaniards founded the town in 1748, 33 years later it was the scene of battles between rebels and the Spanish army. Around this time, African slaves started to arrive, purchased by local landowners from the silver mines of Potosi. These Afro-Bolivian communities still exist in the area.
German Jews found refuge here from persecution in the 1930s and early ’40s. To mutual astonishment and disgust, notable German Nazis and chemists started arriving here in the mid 1940s escaping from international justice.
Boom time for the cocaleros hit the town in the 1980s with cocaine being openly sold in the Plaza Libertad as Colombian “businessmen” in helicopters flew overhead. Today, cocaleros are again in the pink with the price at record highs.

I didn’t get the job but it was an interesting trip. The owner of my hotel regaled me with stories of his past (New York gang fights, Woodstock, conversions to apocalyptic cults) and tales of the town (Nazi coke and gold, and naked drunken Nazis dancing in the street). Great stuff.
The drive back was terrifying. I had the last seat on the past-retirement-age bus, next to the driver and inches from the window screen. He started the journey with the sign of the cross and we were away down the dusty track. This was the first black bus driver I had seen since leaving London and as we careered through the hills it reminded me of the end of The Italian Job. If he had started playing the The Self-Preservation Society, I would have lost what little composure I had left.
As we flew around blind bends—he drinking orangeade, lighting fags, picking his nose, beeping the horn and making the sign of the cross—I would have flashes of the silver ravine scores of metres below my right foot.
This was the only context when seeing a bus rushing at me I hoped we would hit it rather than attempt to get out of the way. As the driver slammed on the brakes while making the cross, I wondered why he didn’t put more faith in having both hands on the wheel and the merits of not having to skid to avoid potentially killing us all.
After a few tense hours, we were out of the semi-tropical hills and into freezing fog more than 4,000 metres up. Bolivians share an instinctive mistrust of headlights and true to form the driver reluctantly put on the ropey sidelights only once overtaking had become suicidal.
As the decrepit machine hurtled through the mist, the driver took a t’shirt out of plastic bag. Squinting as we flew into the nothingness, he wiped the thick condensation from the window and then popped the plastic bag in his mouth. I’d never seen anyone eat a plastic bag before or since, I can reveal it requires an awful lot of chewing without any discernable sign of pleasure. He did, however, polish it off before a post-meal fag.

25.10.08 Change is forced through

2008-10-25T11:26:00.000-07:00

It’s been a momentous week in La Paz. 100,000 campesinos, miners and unionists marched here (paid by the government) and massed at the Plaza Murillo, home to the Senate. This show of force was to pressurise the opposition into passing the draft constitution so it would come to a referendum.
Previous debates over the constitution have been marked by opposition MPs being denied entrance to the Senate by demonstrators. The partner organisation of a friend was responsible for the blocking and jostling. As she said at the time, “We may need to go over our democracy capacity-building training.”
This time, the debate was held in the plaza—an unreasonably intimidating atmosphere for the opposition. The campesinos were angry, drinking and chewing coca. If the draft constitution’s passage was stopped there would be trouble—there were rumours that San Pedro prison would be stormed to the demise of Fernandez.
Even the date, 20 October, was loaded with historical significance. This day in 1548, the city was founded by Spanish conquistadors; 460 years later, the Bolivians were claiming it back.
After considerable backroom compromises and unbecoming horse-trading, the draft constitution was passed to a referendum. The immediate implications were there would be peace in the city. In the long term, it means Bolivia will be refounded to the benefit of its majority indigenous population rather than their marginalisation and subjugation. Surely a good thing, but fundamental change is painful with winners and losers, and there’s plenty of trouble still to come.

16.10.08 San Pedro prison and the Village People

2008-10-16T15:06:00.000-07:00

Spanish classes are interesting at the moment as my teacher lives close to San Pedro. This area is home to the infamous prison, which incarcerates Governor Leopoldo Fernandez. He has been held here since September when he was arrested over the killing of 30 people in his state, Pando. The prison operates semi-autonomously of the guards and day releases can be bought (like everything else in there).

A round-the-clock vigil by Poncho Rojos is taking place to stop him leaving. The Poncho Rojos (red ponchos) are the militarised defenders and guardians of the Aymaran people or self-important drunks, according to who you speak to. Either way, Fernandez is still there and they are making a lot noise. Their custom is to set off dynamite fuses to scare evil spirits, in this case Fernandez, which interrupts my classes.

It would very healthy for Bolivia if Fernandez receives a fair trail, however, the signs are not good. He has been charged with genocide—while the Pando deaths may well be a massacre; genocide, they are not. What words would the prosecutors use to describe Rwanda? I fear the independence of the judiciary will not stand up to a great deal of scrutiny.

In other news, I’ve had to start using another pool. It’s just too much effort to swim around the snoggers and show-offs at the really local and cheap one. Also the sauna is no more relaxing. The last time I was there, the man next to me alternated between twisting the sweat from his sodden headband and running a comb through his thinning hair before returning it to the back of his Speedos. They do have music in there too—surely, a sauna is not the best environment for Village People’s complete works.

So, I’ve left this behind for the swank of the spa at the Hotel Europa. It’s social here too but at least the pool is left for swimming. In the sauna, it’s very chatty with handshakes for new arrivals and man hugs for friends. I’d never seen man hugs exchanged in such sweaty surrounds before and have decided not to make any friends.

28.9.8 Eating flamingo and "drinking alcohol"

2008-10-02T14:26:00.000-07:00

Early in the morning, we sailed/rowed to Patiti, an island that was once home to an Inca civilization. All that was left of them was some old pieces of ceramic, which are now housed in a very impressive museum. Whether the local inhabitants would have preferred a reliable water supply or a museum is debatable, but what’s without doubt is that the sponsoring Finns’ cash went to the pots.

The journey back with the wind was swift and peaceful among the birds. Being surrounded by all these animals must be tempting for people looking to supplement their diet. I asked our guide if they hunted the birds. He replied that they didn’t because the birds were protected before adding that flamingo is delicious.

Driving back to La Paz through the dusty Altiplano, we went past a whirlwind. Red sand spiralled up into the clouds, sending up whatever it sucked up into the heavens. As we ploughed along, Susi’s eagle eyes saved us losing our luggage when she spotted a sleeping bag flying off the roof of the car and bouncing down the road.

A little further on we stopped at a check point and got out to buy drinks from a roadside stall. As well as the usual "refrescos", there was beer and every drivers’ favourite, Ceibo. Enticingly described as “drinking alcohol”, it’s 96% booze and comes in a utilitarian plastic container. Very good for the health, the charming cholita told me with a smile.

27.9.8 Sailing, singing and dancing

2008-09-30T08:55:00.000-07:00

A weekend jolly away. We bounced along tiny dirt roads on the Altiplano in our 4x4. Eventually, we arrived at a small town (a sign read the water supply was funded by the UK), to find the town’s entire occupants were half-cut and standing around in the road. It was a blockade! Bolivia is beset by blockades—people stop work in order to stop other people from working. A lose-lose situation that is amazingly popular here. Anyway, this was my first.

The country has been covered by politically motivated blockades in recent weeks (sometimes opposing sides blockading the same roads) but this one had a simpler motive. We were on a smugglers’ route to Peru and the locals tax the contrabanders to drive their tankers through the town. Not having any gas or petrol, they hit us for some soft drinks. Clearly, standing around in the sun getting sloshed all day is thirsty work. Mikael mollified them with a few words of Ayamara and we were cheerily sent on our way with waves and £3 lighter. Mugging with a smile. We later learnt that 12 trucks loaded with diesel had passed through the day before.

We were here for a bucolic weekend and were staying in the most thatched place I have ever seen. The roof, floors and walls of our adobe cottage were all covered with dried reed. Outside, donkeys brayed in the sparse farmland under the biting sun and wind. Susi loves donkeys and rode one down to the lake. This was all going very well.

As we were punted out to a small island, endless birds flew overhead and sang. It was an even lovelier scene returning to the land under our bright sails as flamingos flew in front of the Andes.

The evening was equally unforgettable. After an impressively bland meal, we were given an introduction into local music. In came a man, one trouser legged rolled up, a llama-patterned hat on his head with a large Bolivian flag stuck in it, wearing a dead bird around his neck. This was a talented ladies man, who simultaneously sang, played the drum, pan pipes and maracas, and danced.

I left the room and returned to hear the recorder being played staggeringly badly. It was hard to believe a musical instrument could make such a terrible noise. My friends' shoulders were shaking with subdued laughter, Karin was compulsively eating to distract her giggling and everyone studiously avoided each others’ eyes to try to hold it together. Eventually, it finished and we were given an in depth analysis of the tablecloth.

Sadly, I had stomach cramps so left the others learning a new song with its own dance. The lyrics seemed apt: “Why? Oh-why? Oh-why-er?” Indeed. The dance began by snaking around the room in a line and developed into Hokey Cokey-style bumps.

7.9.8 The highest Englishman on earth

2008-09-22T08:13:00.000-07:00

This brought new meaning to the phrase ‘early start’. Woken at 1am, we faffed around for an age with porridge, crampons, head torches and Toblerone, until it was time to set out into the darkness. The start was a steady, steep walk in the trail of points of light from earlier groups as they ascended into the stars. To our left was the pretty patchwork of El Alto—during the day, one of the world’s ugliest cities.

As I searched for my water, I quickly developed ethno-tat envy for Nicky’s tourist issue woven bottle holder. Viviana’s knees decided climbing was not for them and she went back down, leaving Nicky, Ola and I with the remaining guide.

The first test was The Wall: a thin ice bridge, over a crevice, leading to a wall of ice. Quite nerve wracking in the dark, but at least we had had some practice of ice climbing unlike other groups that just head straight out there. And so we plodded on until watching the sunrise—a glorious and exhilarating experience.

After further hours of trudging, reaching the peak was a great relief. At that moment I was probably the highest Englishman on earth. I would have loved to lie back, muse on this and have a sleep, but we had to walk back down again. For me, the joyful rush of being at a summit more than 6,000 metres up was rather tempered.

As Nicky pointed out being in Bolivia has ruined our standards of beauty. The gently rolling rolls of the Cotswolds can never compare to the mountains, lakes and planes of the Alti Plano.

Some 12 hours after we had set out we returned to the base camp. My legs were shaking, I was more automated walking machine than man. It was going to be great to return to decent food, beds and loos.

6.9.8 Top buzz

2008-09-16T08:10:00.000-07:00

After a couple of hours sleep on a mattress on the floor, (at least it was my own mattress, even if I shared the room) and a carbohydrate-heavy breakfast, we moved on to the high camp. A further 730 metres up, we were now at 5,130 and the view was charming. Unlike the loo. Made up of a three stonewalls and a hole, it looked on to—not the endless, empty mountains but the door of our chalet. It had not been frequented by people with good aim.

I reminded myself that if all I wanted was quality loos I would still be loitering around The Savoy. It was better think about the excited ahead—behind the chalet, Huayna Potosi loomed. We would be there soon.

The news from the real world intruded even here—airports had been seized by the opposition and anti-government protests were speading.

5.9.8 Huayna base camp

2008-09-13T10:03:00.000-07:00

This promised to be an interesting weekend, I was going to climb Huayna Potosi with friends. A mountain of more than 6,000m, this was beyond anything I had done before. We excitedly packed into a mini van, hacked through El Alto and into the desolate Alti Plano.

As we climbed along the dirt road, we passed a man in the middle of nowhere bent double carrying an enormous speaker. Where he was between it was impossible to say but somewhere was going to have a good Friday night.

We had left behind news of rising tensions in the east of the country. In Santa Cruz, both pro- and anti-Morales activists were blockading the same roads. They are living out a Bolivian version of mutually assured destruction.

There were frequent stops for passing llamas or group photographs, in which we all took the same photograph as a group. Eventually, we arrived at the base camp—4,400 metres up—the remaining 1,600 metres would be on foot.

Today, we were due to practice ice climbing. Strapped into all our gear and crampons, and carrying our ice picks, we got stuck into the nearest glacier. I loved it—as the guide was busy helping Viviana, I set off up a vertical ice wall. It felt good, solid, comfortable. Here was the sport for me. Then I heard a slightly nervous Bolivian voice: “Be careful, that is dangerous,” said our previously sanguine guide. All of a sudden it felt neither good, solid or comfortable. I slid, the ice pick held and I tried to look relaxed.

30.8.8 Risin' high

2008-09-02T16:51:00.000-07:00

As demanding as climbing 5,000m+ peaks could be, Chacaltire must rank among the most embarrassingly simple. It’s a couple of hours’ drive from La Paz and then a steepish walk up the last few hundred yards. The problem is not the ascent so much as the challenge of getting enough oxygen in the bloodstream to power the limbs and brain. Fortunately, as we had all been living at more than 3,600 metres for some months now, we were relatively acclimatised and suffered no more than our retirement-age guide.

At the bottom of the walk is a wooden house perched on and over the mountain edge, it’s across the car park from the Alpine-inspired lodge. This used to be the base of the world’s highest ski run and the chalet’s bar walls are covered with natty old pics of Bolivians in 1980s ski wear.

The old drag lift is still there but global warming has put pay to the snow. The sad remnants of the glacier remain but it is going the way of all the glaciers around La Paz. Within 20 years, it is predicted they will all be gone. As the main supplier of water to the city, the effect of losing them will be catastrophic.

This was a dry run for next week’s expedition up Huayna Potosi. A proper Toblerone bar of a mountain; it’s only a further 600 meters up but without even dodgy road access, it will be real exercise to get there.

16.8.8 Fiesta!

2008-08-27T09:20:00.000-07:00

I was spending the weekend with friends on the outskirts of Coroico, a sleepy tourist town down in the Yungas jungle. In the morning, Viviana and I were looking for a coffee and found the plaza was packed with people who had come in from outside town for a chat on market day. We were approached by a tout trying to flog us his trip to the annual fiesta of a community of the descendants of African slaves.

They are a famous community because there are very few black people in Bolivia. The Spaniards had brought slaves from Africa to work in the mines but they could not adapt to the conditions so they were moved to work in the Yungas plantations. The community remains here retaining some of its culture and independence. There are so few back people that until very recently it was considered good luck to see one in La Paz.

After a very bouncy trip across to the next hill, we arrived at Tocana to find dozens of people (tourists mostly) outside the church. There were also black cholitas with tiny braids. When the congregation came out, prayers were said for the party and its organisers: immaculately made up black women in dangerous heels, pointy shoes and low cut tops, and a white guy in a suit. It was an incongruous scene on the dusty road outside the tiny church.

Eventually the procession set out from the church. An icon of Mary was carried at the front, followed by black priests in white vestments. Behind them a band in white sequined jump suits pounded on drums accompanied by a man with a scratch board. Next came a group of women dancers in beautiful white dresses, who led us all away. In all, we were approximately 50 black Bolivians and the same number of visitors—largely Argentine hippies.

Our Pied Pipers took us past a mountain of beer and down to the USAID-funded basketball court/football pitch cut into the jungle-covered hill. At either side of the court, piles of speakers pounded out “Hotel California” and then the stalkers’ anthem “Every Step You Take”. Somewhere here was the descendant of an African king but I didn’t get to meet him.

10.8.8 Election day

2008-08-26T15:00:00.000-07:00

Election day is perfect for a drive because all cars are banned from the streets. It’s less than perfect if you’re heading to a meet friends in a bar because groups are not allowed to congregate and alcohol sales are prohibited. Patricio and I were out with an official licence to monitor the recall referendum of President Evo Morales and the nine prefects (county heads).

We drove up to the hill from La Paz to the Alti Plano as the sun was burning off the cloud in the city valley. Unlike my experiences in the UK, the benches outside our first polling station were not for informal polling by reps of the local parties chummily sharing bum space, but for snack sellers. There would be no opposition representatives here, not without there being problems at least. MAS (the government party) were going to win anyway.

On the door to the schoolyard, which was playing polling station for the day, were MAS posters of the voting card with big ticks representing where to place your support. The cards are in Spanish, which was difficult for those older indigenous people who don’t speak the language or can’t read anyway. Patricio saw one old lady confirming with the voting administrator where she should place her ticks. Yes, Evo. No, Prefect.

Voting is required by law here, but the threat of sanctions did not seem necessary. The low sun cast long shadows in the dusty schoolyard as the people queued patiently waiting for voting to start. Bolivia has only been a democracy for 20 years and people take their enfranchisement seriously. Here they are MAS supporters and wanted to back their man.

On the desk at the front was a pot of indelible ink so the illiterate could use thumbprints to vote and everyone stained a fingertip to prevent them from voting again elsewhere. The actual placing of ticks is a serious act and the classrooms where it took place were guarded by stony-faced cholitas to ensure absolute secrecy.

Outside the social side opened up with food market stalls offering a range of delights knocked up on the spot, not all of it deep fried. Between polling stations, the roads were full of people making their way to vote. With no cars allowed it was a choice between walking and cycling. We went past one old chap hobbling painfully to fulfil his democratic duty and support Evo.

2.08.08 The party's over

2008-08-23T15:00:00.000-07:00

In the morning, the laden pole top in the bullring was empty. The bull tethered to its base to prevent theft looked redundant and terribly bored.

Today was the closing finale procession, so all the groups paraded around the pretty square and into the church. Everyone seemed a little jaded and I wondered if the religious aspect was coming to the fore now that the bacchanalian adventures had run their course. After all, this was not merely a week-long piss up, instead, it was a religious event in honour of the founder of the Jesuits, the Catholic order who originally set up the town. What they would have made of the custom of putting Jesus in a frilly peach skirt is difficult to say.

In the afternoon, the family I was staying with all went for a swim in the lake as the sun set. A fantastic setting but it was best not to think about the alligators that share it. The heavens filled with colour, which was reflect in the lake, and then darkness fell. Lying on the decking we watched the busy evening above, as the stars and moon were jostled by the satellites, planes and shooting stars.

1.8.8 Climbing the greasy pole

2008-08-22T06:23:00.000-07:00

To add a little extra spice to the drunken shenanigans, a huge pole was being erected in the bullring. While one man smoothed it down with a machete, another greased it up. The plan was for the guys to try and climb the pole to win prizes (top prize was a bike) at the same time as everyone else tried to knock them off by throwing plastic bottles. I was surprised to see that they weren’t using vouchers but the actual prizes were being attached. This raised the possibility of being knocked from the top by a bottle to the bonce, falling 20 metres to the ground, being gored by the bull and then a saucepan landing on your head just as you were coming round.

Much less hungover today, I went back to the indigenous people’s hall. They’re very kind but I turned down their offer of wheat-based booze. Patricio described it as instant diarrhea, perhaps unfairly. The room filled with dancers in their huge feather headdresses and a band. It was already bright, the far wall covered ribbons, icons and three statues of Jesus dressed in peach chollita skirts—as is the local custom.

Outside, I met one of the drunkest men I have ever had the pleasure of encountering. Swaying back and forth in his firework hat, wooden mask and piss-stained trousers, he giggled and rambled happily. By now, the days of drinking were taking their toll and party detritus was everywhere. Men were passed it out on the floor, in the middle of the road, in the stands of the bull ring…

Near the town is a large lake in the jungle. As the sun set, we sat on the short wooden pier drinking cold beer and jet skiing. This was exactly as much fun as it sounds.

It was not the best night’s sleep: church bells and drums of a night parade woke me up and then the screams of a cat being killed by dogs outside my window stopped me going back to sleep.

31.07.08 Cock and bull story

2008-08-21T09:16:00.000-07:00

The next morning I felt a little jaded after a long night drinking whisky. There was nearly a nasty incident when I visited the indigenous dancers in the cultural centre. It was sticky - the hottest part of the day - drums were pounding and I nearly passed out on the bone-strewn floor among the other casualties from last night and the cows. Instead, I stumbled back and had a siesta.

Feeling only relatively refreshed, we went out to the bull fighting. A richety wooden stadium had been constructed. It was packed and to find a seat we wobbled up a makeshift ladder to the seventh tier. Given the likelihood of slipping and falling or the entire construction collapsing, it seemed much safer to be in with the bull than sat in the stands.

Behind me (the seats were just planks), bands thumped and five groups of costumed dancers assembled. A black head loomed between my thighs and a woman appeared. Looking for balance she reached and grabbed the least stable handful she could find. Once she had let go and found her footing in her four-inch heels, she complained my shoes had made her white leisure suit dirty.

There was none of the operatic grandeur that I had seen at bullfights before. This was rather more bucolic: dozens of impressively drunk cowboys with their shirts off tried to annoy the bull into running at them. The spectacle was enlivened when the machismo overflowed into fights or when one of the cowboys rode the bull.

Of everyone there, only the bull was in absolutely no danger. However, despite the casual attitude of many of the drunks taking part (one took a nap on the stadium floor), there was real potential for catastrophe. One man was flung in the air by the bull, he landed badly and died two days later of a brain injury leaving a 15-year-old wife.

Once we had had our fill of the bulls, Patricio and I went to the cockfighting. It was held under a thatched roof, where tiers of men drinking whisky stared intensely into a pit. Their shouts of encouragement and bargaining over bets accompanied the band as the two cocks with sharpened spurs fought in the intense humidity. As they pecked, kicked and jabbed trying to kill each other, men outside lovingly stroked their birds in anticipation of their turn to fight.

30.7.8 San Ignacio de Moxos

2008-08-20T15:31:00.000-07:00

I was off to a fiesta in the jungle. Although I would have felt safer in a large jet, at least in a 23-seater plane there are no arguments about who gets an aisle seat. The captain gave a turbulence warning and we felt every bump as we climbed over the mountains and beyond the clouds. Then we dropped out on to endless scrubland, this was Trinidad.

It had recently rained hard and was extremely humid, so I congratulated myself for taking off my long johns in La Paz. In truth, my jumper was also unnecessary. Past the chickens outside the airport, I took a motorbike taxi to where my bus left for San Ignacio de Moxos (my destination). Incongruously, the driver was sporting a dress shirt that may have seen better days but at least showed he was making an effort.

Killing time, I sat outside a bar with a cold beer and watched the swarms of motorbikes. Men, women, babies and televisions went past, and that was on one bike. Girls comfortably sat on the back often ridding side-saddle, some wearing pro-autonomy T’shirts.

Trinidad is not a wealthy town, the buildings are squat and their paint is peeling in the heat. As I waited for my bus, I saw a filthy toddler drinking from a puddle and wondered what the passing squad of riot police were policing.

The bus turned out to be an open-top truck with padded planks for seats. It was a dramatic if uncomfortably journey. As the sun set, white birds became pink as they flew overhead and the weather deteriorated. An otherwise dark night was illuminated by electrical storms, fireflies and countless stars.

Some hours later and having crossed three rivers by tiny boat, we arrived at San Ignacio. I was greeted at the town square by a menacing parade of blokes in wooden old man masks and wide heavy hats approaching a crowd with huge feather headdresses carrying wooden machetes. One of the masked men danced around me pointing at my cricket hat in a dismissive manner. So this was it.

Things were really picked up after I met my friends. One of them, Gourdy, had a firework competition with another man in the plaza. This was great, except they kept falling over and flying into the crowd. Then the bands kicked off, led by heavy drums they pounded ceaselessly. While the marchers in headdresses and machetes danced, fireworks were thrown around by the crowd—sparks hit me in the head and hand—and the masked men wheeled through the crowd, their hats spraying out pyrotechnics and clouds of toxic smoke.

20.7.8 Amboro and back again

2008-07-29T18:12:00.000-07:00

In the morning, the mist had settled in the areas where the vast expanse forest had been cleared, beyond that mountains fringed the earth below the pink sky.

After a taxi and then a bouncy jeep trip through forest and river, we reached our jungle eco resort in Amboro National Park. I didn’t know what “eco” actually means, my fear was it meant little more than there would be no hot water. In fact, its owner appears to be responsible for clearing rain forest as well as collecting puma cubs. And there was no hot water. Aside from the eco-credentials, it was a great place to stay.

While our time in the primary rain forest was beset by sand flies, we also saw tarantulas, snakes and frogs. Not a great tally admittedly but a large hairy spider also attached itself to the underside of the brim of my hat. Branches were moved by monkeys, bubbles perhaps from alligators appeared in a lagoon and a crashing on a night walk eminated from we-don’t-know-what.

Each trek featured a magnificent waterfall or lake to swim in, which was truly delicious in the heat. After a few days, we returned to Santa Cruz. On our way into town, we passed some policemen who had pulled over two boy racer cars and were questioning the drivers. We were impressed to see the disrespected Bolivian bobbies doing their jobs. As we passed it was clear that they were merely closing off the road so it could used as a drag strip.

Continuing the Santa Cruz theme of employing girls, young ladies, some of them old enough to vote, handed out pro-autonomy leaflets in the plaza.

Even the worse taxis here are a little smarter than back in La Paz, of course, there’s still no seat belts. Returning to Santa Cruz there was little room for our luggage in the boot given the huge bass bin. In the front, the CD player pumping out reggaeton had a screen showing videos. I can only assume that reggaeton (South American R&B) is an acquired taste.

16.7.8 Buena Vista, and indeed it has

2008-07-25T08:25:00.000-07:00

Susi picked up somewhere to stay as a stop-gap before we hit the jungle. On the basis of this I can highly recommend coffee plantations as a place to lay your head. All sat at the top of the slightly rickety wooden viewing platform, there were endless views over the jungle—perfect for watching the sunset with a Cuba Libre.

A clean, friendly, well-organised place in a beautiful location—we were all amazed. On the down side, the promised monkeys failed to materialise. This was the first in a series of simian no shows. And strangely, they weren’t great at making coffee.

16.7.8 The charms of Santa Cruz

2008-07-24T05:46:00.000-07:00

We’ve made it down to Santa Cruz, the home of the drive for autonomy. The city has a very different feel to La Paz, its western rival. The drive into town from the airport follows a long, flat strip of stores and restaurants. Curiously without potholes, it’s about as different in terms of topography and culture from El Alto as is possible to imagine.

Our grotty hotel was just off a glorious plaza, with an impressive cathedral, where the citizens were strolling between the palm trees in short sleeves enjoying the warm evening. As residents of La Paz, we are pre-programmed to dislike Santa Cruz, so this was all a little disarming.

In the morning, we returned to the plaza, which is emblazoned with the green-and-white flags of Santa Cruz. One of a group of friendly girls in the city’s colours gave me a pro-autonomy leaflet belonging to a right-wing political party that called itself “socialist”. Not great connotations in an area with a flourishing fascist youth movement. There’s no doubt the genetic makeup is different here—there are very few chollitas, and the people are noticeable whiter and taller.

We belted out of the city in a taxi, heading to Buena Vista in the countryside at breakneck speed. At a garage, our old cab was filled with petrol by a pretty girl in tight trousers and a low-cut top. Looking round it was clear to see this was the employment policy. I reminded myself that I disapproved—there’s a level of machismo here that I am not used to.

14.7.8 So good they named it comically twice

2008-07-14T13:32:00.000-07:00

I can now categorically state that Lake Titicaca does exist (this is probably only news to me), not only that, but it’s vast, cold and beautifully blue. We’re back from a weekend there. Our first night was at Copacabana, which was curiously short on showgirls called Lola or anything else. A tourist Mecca, every conceivable form of Andean ethno tat is on offer as you step out of the bus into the bustling town square.

In the morning we took the ferry out to Isla del Sol. The walk from north to south started with some ropey old Inca ruins and follows the ridge along the island’s backbone. Even from the highest point, the lake disappears, shimmering into the horizon. It is huge.

The route is littered by locals charging to walk on their section of path and their children flogging rocks and sweets or posing for photos with llamas. At our destination I went to bed for a while and watched the sun set out of the window on to the lake and mountains. Stunning.

9.7.8 Death roaders, let’s go!

2008-07-09T13:14:00.000-07:00

This was not something anyone had ever said to me before and, frankly, it’s a bit silly. Anyway, off Robin and I went, down “the most dangerous road in the world” (™UN 2004). It’s a 40km ride down 3,100m from rock and ice to sultry jungle. In fact, now there’s no traffic on it, it’s considerably safer than Hyde Park Corner—as long as you avoid the precipice perpetually to your left. The days of 100s of deaths each year are over. However, we were overtaken by another group, at the back was a man old enough to be indifferent to another birthday. Trying to keep up, he screamed past us; dangerously out of control, he dragged his right climbing boot as he tried to pull himself around the bend and away from the sheer drop—nothing but air for hundreds of feet.

Exercise here is a confusing business—there’s very little of it, apart from the ubiquitous football. The swimming pool is a place for standing around, flirting and showing off. My attempts to swim lengths involve slaloming around teenagers chatting, catching their breaths after two or three furious strokes of front crawl or recovering from landing on their backs after an ill-conceived dive.

There’s very little running, with the exception of the busy main road from La Paz to El Alto. Even in the dark, the slender hard shoulder of this steep climb, which rises 550m, is lined by people in tracksuits pounding the long dangerous route. The air is thin of oxygen but thick of carbon monoxide, so these guys’ lungs would be a wonder to scientists.

Bar the very odd, very solitary, lycra-wearing nutcase, only the police cycle in La Paz. On cheap bikes donated by the Chinese, they puff along (often on the pavements). Bicycle policemen are an utter farce here, a brisk walk up any hill would be enough to let any robber escape with his swag.

1.7.8 All the essentials

2008-07-01T17:22:00.000-07:00

We are lucky enough to have guests to visit, which requires the provision of luxuries like somewhere to sleep. In La Paz’s number one department store, there may be a dearth of tasteful John Lewis-style goodies but they do offer a fine line in luxury, quilted washing machine covers. I bought two.

In the black market, we bought alpacha wool blankets and the only bed cover we could find — soft-focus tigers on one side and cuddly pandas on the other. Book your flights now.

Having visitors means we have to take them out. After a rather unfortunate day, we took Emma to the Radisson. This is as swanky as La Paz gets, and from the 14th floor bar the night-time cityscape beneath the stars was spectacular. My eye was caught by a new light as the moon rose from behind the mountains. Fabulous.

30.06.08 Caught by the fuzz

2008-06-30T15:05:00.000-07:00

On Saturday night, we went to a Sex in the City party. It was an interesting evening for three reason, firstly, we were spared the film, which I can only imagine is eye-gougingly awful; secondly and refreshingly, there were openly gay people there—the first we’ve seen since leaving London; and thirdly, we were stopped by the police on the drive home. Back in Blighty, this would have been serious: the car was overloaded, had only one headlight and was being driven by someone who, while not drunk, would not pass a breath test. Here, there were anxious moments, some uncomfortable grovelling, the passing of a 20 boliviano note and we were on our way. The most depressing part of this was how pathetically cheap it is to corrupt the police: 20 bolies is about £1.50.

15.6.8 Brazil, it ain't.

2008-06-18T07:09:00.000-07:00

I doubt the chant: “It’s like watching Brazil” has ever been applied to the Bolivian national team. But a game against arch rivals Chile in a last ditch attempt to stay in the qualification race for the World Cup should at least have had some spice to it. We arrived at the concrete monolith in time to hear both team’s fans politely respecting each other's anthem—it turned out the Bolivian’s were saving their whistling for the Chilean keeper.

Fans unfurled flags the size of Liechenstein, bounced up and down, set off bangers and fireworks, and the Chileans chanted along to a huge drum. Promising stuff! I wanted flares and the equivalent of burning Lambrettas (llamas?) being thrown off the upper tiers. Sadly, once the game kicked off, the home fans were disappointingly quiet—and I’ve watched Arsenal vs Watford at the Emirates.

Still, the first goal was a beauty, the ball hammered off the cross bar, was headered back into the box and bicycled kicked from the penalty spot into the goal. Blimey! The Chileans celebrated as if they had won the World Cup.

The Bolivians may not chant but they must have an impressive reputation for throwing: riot police protected Chilean corner takers with their shields, and escorted the ref and linesmen off the field in a Roman testudo-like formation.

9.5.8 There's a riot going on - during the footie!

2008-06-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

Innocently watching Euro2008 in an open fronted café, I was distracted by a noisy demonstration. Hundreds of cholitas in bowler hats and men in baseball caps streamed past carrying banners, chanting and firing dynamite fuses into the air. The official advice is stay away these “manifestacions” but that doesn’t take into account viewing live sport. Instead, I watched as they concertinaed to a stop outside, a man stared at me and began a chant of “Death to the Yankees!”

I smiled sweetly, packed my laptop in my bag and observed the café’s security guard take out his truncheon. They moved on again and it all calmed down. 0-0 at half time. Twenty minutes into the second half (still 0-0), a crowd of cholitas ran past, the noise picked up and suddenly the road was packed. A roar went up, missiles were thrown, shops boarded up as glass smashed, something hit me on the leg–not a dynamite fuse, thank God.

The excitement passed, and I returned to the game (no excitement here: 0-0). Another distraction when tear gas was let off, as someone in the first flush of a highly productive cold, this could have been spectacularly unpleasant. Fortunately, I suffered no exacerbation to my existing symptoms.

At the final whistle it had been a soul-sappingly tedious 90 minutes of football for everyone who wasn’t Romanian or sitting next to a minor riot.

The demonstration was instigated by a story that the US was giving amnesty to former Defense Minister Carlos Sanchez Berzain. An iron-fisted fellow, he’s held responsible for the killing of 60 residents of El Alto when the country went into meltdown in 2003. The marchers had descended from the Altipano and were en route for the fortress-like US embassy, where fireworks and tear gas were exchanged.

26.05.08 Precious little peace in the cemetery district

2008-06-09T08:57:00.000-07:00

The trip to Qutapampa had taken five hours, while the return trip lasted seven (with a 30-second piss stop after a child was sick). It was 2am when we arrived at the La Paz cemetery district late but alive. I was keen to stretch my legs, when a couple of ladies urged me not to go. Curiously, neither she nor anyone else was making any effort to leave the stinking vehicle.

Fearfully, she said that the area was dangerous and full of thieves, so we should stay on the bus. Absolutely everyone else was doing exactly that—waiting until the sun rose. It did look quite rough outside; there were lots of drunk people shouting, relieving themselves, snogging and fighting.

It reminded me of Watford. However, here it’s not safe for westerners to pick up taxis, there have been too many recent hostage takings. Instead, we sat with the others and waited for our radio taxi to turn up. We pitied the long frightened night these poor country folk had ahead.

25.05.08 The trail ends (in a shambles)

2008-06-03T08:50:00.000-07:00

I was up with the sun and admired how the corrals and thatched houses, built from the rock, seemed to complement the mountain they made of. The village was noisy with the sounds of birds waking, llamas sneezing, pigs rooting, kids shouting and gnarled herders rousing their stock and clearing their passages.

Before my breakfast, I watched the admirable llamas chewing: top lip resolutely unmoving, bottom lip dropping and sweeping to the right exposing a line of fine gnashers, before centring and mirroring the process.

As the clouds cleared to reveal distant mountains, the herds were ushered to their grazing across the village football pitch (a community of 10 would have a full-sized pitch in Bolivia). As fuel, llama and alpaca waste is a precious resource, which they thoughtfully deposit in the same spot. Hundreds of them passed, performing their morning abolutions on the centre spot and rolling in the dust where the corner flag would be.

Our gang of five (Susi, guide, small girl herder, donkey and I) followed a river valley towards our final destination. Throughout the morning our surroundings became progressively greener and readily liveable. As the air warmed in the sun, the fertile land was increasingly agricultural, made up of fields and terraces. Chicken, goats and cows replacing the alpachas, who find don't find the warmth and low altitude (3,300 metres) to their liking.

A band was playing in the pretty town square where our bus was to leave from. We left the women dancing, while the men were drinking and had lunch. It sounded like children had been given bells to accompany the band. Drunk children.

After some days without washing, our trip to the hot springs was keenly anticipated. Condors wheeled overhead as we wallowed in the hot green water trying to ignore the drowned flies.

We returned to the square to find a hotbed of comedy drunkeness: they were now speaking the universal pissed language of pirate noises, while guffawing, hugging each other for support and singing tuneless, wordless songs. I should not find this quite so amusing.

24.05.08 Picadilly Circus

2008-05-30T07:51:00.000-07:00

Today our donkeywork was done by a donkey, he was accompanied by a friendly old boy with a huge wad of coca in his cheek. With our guide, we walked down the Valley of the Condors to some romantically overgrown 1,000-year-old ruins at the meeting point of three valleys. They’ve been untroubled by archaeologists and anthropologists, and are still used for ceremonies.

In January, the three local communities meet here to celebrate the new year and pray for good luck. A ceremony like the one we had seen the evening before is performed but on a much larger scale in which a llama is sacrificed and buried. This has been taking place in the same spot for generations and bones strewn in the area bear witness to its grisly purpose.

Today’s destination felt much more like a successful, functioning community. At the end of their working day we watched as llamas, alpacas, donkeys, sheep, dogs and herders of both genders and all possible ages filed past and made arrangements for the night. The story of mothers and their separated young being reunited was played out by the different species. Clouds settled over distant mountains at the end of a long valley forming a white plane and the sun set.

23.05.08 More tea please, shaman

2008-05-29T16:25:00.000-07:00

After a cold night even under five blankets we gingerly made our way to the rudimentary bathroom (there was no bath for one thing). I had no idea that water could be so cold and yet not in cubes.

There were high hopes of some warming tea, and a thermos arrived accompanied by four tired coca leaves, some elderly camomile, a few sprigs of parsley and some anonymous old weeds. Pretty uninspiring; however, after I had slung some greenery, sugar and a generous jolt of Jamaican rum into my mug, the world began to feel like a much better place.

After our brekkie, we were introduced to a herd of corralled alpacas. We were late and they were waiting to be taken on to the hills to feed. I can now reveal that a hungry alpaca makes a noise not dissimilar to a very small Formula 1 car.

This was our first day trekking, and our crew was made up of a llama to carry our gear, accompanied by his—only the males are used as porters—seven llama chums; our guide; an elderly lady herder, and an 8-year-old trainee girl herder (not a trainee herder of girls, obviously). It was wonderful to watch the llamas—the princes of the Andes—they have a camel-like gait, precise movements, intelligent eyes and a proud demeanor—they hate to be touched.

After a truly glorious walk, Susi and I arrived at our tiny hamlet destination in time for lunch—our residence was a stonewalled cottage with a thatched roof. While we were now thirsty, hungry and exhausted, the old woman and young girl immediately began the entirely uphill journey home. Suitably emasculated, I collapsed into a chair, which in turn collapsed under me.

We were now a couple of hundred metres lower, a few hardy things can grow here, and Susi even claims she saw a tree. But community life seemed rather sad and hard; emigration is only going one way. An astonishingly beautiful view is not enough.

We had arranged for a ceremony in the evening, so the shaman arrived with his helper, laid out his effects and tucked into his coca leaves. Initially, our good luck ceremony involved whirls of alpaca wool under alpaca fat, petals, red wine, 95% proof alcohol, more coca and lots of words I did not understand. Later, we wished good luck to people and an alpaca fetus was wrapped in gold foil and flowers. I had to hold it to my heart, then it was put in an incense-infused fire as a sacrifice to Pachamama (Earth Mother).

Not what I am used to.

22.05.08 What a lot of llamas (and alpacas)

2008-05-27T06:52:00.000-07:00

There are more auspicious ways to start a long journey than your bus driver arriving very late and drunk, and then being decanted on to another vehicle with Titannic emblazoned on the side. After seven uncomfortable, stinky hours (luxuriously, some of it on tarmac), Susi and I fell out of the bus at 4,400m in the arid air of a tiny community of alpaca herders.

We were greeted by a friendly indigenous lady, who ushered us past a massive satellite dish and inside. In a basic room sat four redundant computers (there’s no electricity) and through this our dorm room. I was too tired to speak as our guide took us for a walk in the mountains, each step crunching on the desiccated soil. At one point I took an alfresco wee and the earth rejected this unexpected bounty like oil hitting water.

Very little can survive up here, hundreds of metres over the tree line. The survival of the locals is dependant upon their alpacas. All food is traded is for their meat and their dried faeces is the only fuel. It is stockpiled in a special room in advance of the rainy season. The alpacas can only survive by living off the lichen on the rocks.

After we had been fed at 6.30, the sun set and we were alone. The walk to the loo in the cold air under a clear sky was rather too invigorating. However, with the moon not yet risen and the only light from candles, the stars were spectacular.

18.05.08 Party time!

2008-05-18T17:38:00.000-07:00

This weekend was La Paz’s biggest street festival—the Gran Poder. 56 troupes of dancers perform, some with 200 members each. It’s a huge event and a car crash of bright colours. There was a great atmosphere in the city among the huge crowds. The route was lined with makeshift grandstand seating and the space between spectators and performers was a pedlar’s paradise of flogging food, cold soft drinks, hooters, rattles, biscuits, tissues (I’ve no idea why) and beer. There were hundreds of girls out selling beer, some of them even old enough to legally drink it. Apparently, this year the authorities tried to end the boozing, with a spectacular lack of success—they may consider taking a brewer as primary sponsor was their first mistake.

This event takes a months of planning and the outfits are truly extraordinary, devils, angels, slaves, slave masters and countless others we could not recognise, everything has a symbolic meaning, which was almost entirely lost on us. However, there were things I recognised: some costumes are heavy (80kgs) and their panting wearers are only sustained by gifts of beer; some of the prettier participants wear bright tutus, very good; they also wear boots Ginger Spice would have killed for in her 1990s heyday, very Barbarella; some of the men wear dresses, shoulder pads and hats that most resemble layered wedding cakes, I would love to know why.

It was undeniably a great spectacle and one I didn’t fully understand. On the way out we met a lady selling pork, in front of her was a tower of crackling, she loved the event and told us this was “paradiso”. Who knows, maybe she was right.

9.05.08 Would you like to dance, grandmother?

2008-05-13T06:31:00.000-07:00

On our last day I was keen to get some seaside action beyond swimming, so I took a bus to Holetown, a town that is supposed to have surfing, diving and snorkelling. The bus took us inland on its route north, so I saw a little more of the island. Unlike the hilly, green beauty of Jamaica, Barbados is flat scrubland or built up. The majority of the people live in shacks and bungalows, which would have once been a rainbow of bright colours. Now, however, all but the newest have been bleached in the sun.

For a country with hurricanes, the wooden buildings do not look like they would stand up to anything approaching extreme weather conditions. Wood, however, has the advantage that it bows and bends—some of the homes remain upright at angles that architecture students would not believe.

There was no surfing, instead I went snorkelling with sea turtles off a tourist boat, which was a wonderful experience. Back on land, I was approached by a garrulous fellow in a Ronaldo replica shirt who wanted to sell me coke – in all my 34 years, no one had ever introduced himself to me as Mr Cool before. I admired his chutzpah.

In the evening we went to the Oistin Fish Fry, a massive outdoor party with plenty of music, drinks and fish. Strangely, I met someone else called Mr Cool, a nightclub owner—so perhaps it’s a bit like being called James and Bajan (Barbadan) classrooms are full of kids called Mr and Miss Cool. Barbados is refreshingly safe after Jamaica, so it was a pleasure to be there and see some Caribbean dancing, which is really just simulated sex and must be awkward to do with elderly relatives at weddings.

7.05.08 Trading places

2008-05-13T06:28:00.000-07:00

There are stereotypes are the inhabitants of the different Caribbean islands, for instance, Jamaicans are laid back but don’t make jokes, because they are too quick to take offence; everything is a joke to Trinidadians and an excuse for a drink and a lime (an impromptu party); and Barbados is the most “British”, the people are professional but rather cold and unfriendly. My suspicion is that these commonly held generalisations are nonsense, but compared to Jamaica and certainly Bolivia it is a pleasure to be somewhere there is little poverty, the infrastructure works and it feels safe.

6.05.08 Sweet dreams

2008-05-13T06:26:00.000-07:00

There are times when flying that I think the human brain is not able to comprehend how staggeringly beautiful the view is. A self-protection mechanism must shut off the receptors like a stopcock to prevent out heads from exploding on to the branded headrest covers. Other times I just pass out. Gosh, I slept well and then I was in Barbados.

4.05.08 Riding with the law

2008-05-13T06:24:00.000-07:00

Our last day and we went to Lime Cay, an island (or cay) off Port Royal. Our driver, Taylor, drove us out there and en route let slip that he had another job “working for the government, with the law” as he coyly put it. Clearly, being a policeman is not something you shout about here.

The cay is a gorgeous little spot where Kingstonites come to relax at the weekend. A sandy beach, turquoise sea, trees for shade, bar for beer: perfect.

Jamaica, and Kingston in particular, has a fearsome reputation for violence and it was not until our last day we saw anything problematic; being on a miniscule island while bottles are smashed and rocks are thrown is not very relaxing, especially when your boat driver is in the middle of it. When Taylor informed the saucer-eyed protagonist of his other job, he was steadfastly unimpressed. I wasn’t.

3.05.08 Fool on the hill

2008-05-13T06:02:00.000-07:00

Here in Kingston, it’s easy to forget how beautiful the rest of the island is. Today we drove to the centre of the island along impossible windy roads up into the lush mountains. There at the peak of Strawberry Hill, we had a long salubrious lunch at the eponymous hotel. It’s one of those places that feels it has to reiterate how “groovy” it is by mounting pictures of its famous guests. This is always a bit naff and must guarantee the celebs don’t come back. Anyway there’s no need to prove anything, it is lovely; from its spot on the mountain peak, the view is wonderful and the atmosphere is effortlessly cool.

2.05.08 The tree where Nelson relieved himself

2008-05-04T07:45:00.000-07:00

Next week, we’re off to Barbados where there’s surfing. In preparation for having to spend time under water, I plough back and forth in the hotel pool, while not breaking any of their rules: I haven’t any serious contagious diseases, indulged in horseplay of any kind or emitted bodily fluids into the water. Not even once. Honestly.

What with the earthquakes and hurricanes, buildings don’t last long in Kingston; Port Royal, however, is an exception. This fort once housed Nelson and has stood the test of time, while the land raised around it and sea retreated in the earthquakes of 1907 and 1692. As the sole white face on the tour of the museum and a Brit too, I felt uncomfortable as the tales of swashbuckling, colonialisation and slavery were dramatically unfurled, however, there was never a suggestion of anything other than shared history (and I met an African nurse from Hackney and felt more at ease).

On the way back my driver, Taylor, needed to find some time so we cut through a ghetto. Houses and shops on each side of the road were boarded up or burnt out, to the left were us were PNP (People’s National Party) supporters and opposite were their JLP (Jamaica Labour Party) neighbours. Relations are not good and shoot outs across the road are commonplace. This should be the road to town from the airport but it is too dangerous and the solution the government came to was to build another road.

1.05.08 Easy skankin’

2008-05-04T06:20:00.000-07:00

After a light breakfast of boiled yam, boiled callaloo (spinach), fried bananas, boiled dumplings and fried dumplings, I was set for a walk. After yesterday’s experience, I’ve opted for a purposeful gait, no eye contact, trousers and shoes rather than shorts and flip flops, and more deodorant.

Today’s destination was the Hope Botanical Gardens: I set off through uptown Kingston, this is not a beautiful place, large uninteresting buildings line the wide busy thoroughfares. It did not improve as I walked out of the main business district, the buildings are smaller and scruffier, the people just scruffier, and the traffic flows on unaltered. On route, I stopped at the Bob Marley Museum for a refreshment—once a rather elegant, understated place, Bob’s old house is now a gaudy honey trap for tourists (happily, I only saw one misguided white visitor with braided hair).

The botanical gardens are lovely, a respite from the hassle and demands of the street; quiet, peaceful and surrounded by rolling hills, it was a pleasure to be there as the sun set.

30.04.08 Happy rambling

2008-05-03T06:49:00.000-07:00

As Susi went on a field trip, I walked to handsome Devon House, a nearby mansion with gardens, restaurants and shops. The stroll was interesting, on the journey a school girl called to me and swung her hips, a lady asked to taste my ice cream and a woman shouted something unintelligible about her cat at me, except she didn’t say cat; also, I was offered drugs twice, once by a small boy and once by an old man; beggars begged; fruit sellers failed to sell me fruit and loons looned. It would appear that in Jamaica to dawdle about in a fresh off the boat, tourist uniform is to ask for trouble or at least a lot of attention.

29.04.08 No, she went of her own accord

2008-04-30T16:53:00.000-07:00

A trip to the Caribbean is not to be passed up, so after a day being bureaucratically processed through winged metal sausages like butchers' scrapings, we emerged in the heavy air of Jamaica. Driving to our hotel with the window open, the humidity was potent and the salty scent of the ocean filled our nostrils. The other immediate difference to La Paz is I am now in a country where I speak the language, at least theoretically. The reality is rather more hit and miss. In Bolivia I can learn Spanish, but here if I attempted a Jamaican patois, I risk more than confused and condescending looks.

25.04.08: 24 bizarre Bolivian hours

2008-04-26T08:35:00.000-07:00

It may appear a peculiar notion for some Swedes to remake The Karate Kid, transferring the action to table football and Bolivia, and, indeed, it didn’t make any more sense as one of the actors. However, I found myself as the arch villain Senor Costas (the real name of a Santa Cruz politician), and my accent swinging wildly between received pronunciation, war-time German and dojo-master Japanese. Great fun to do but I fear it would be utterly excruciating to see again.

Leaving the Swedes, I went on to the ambassador’s residence. Rather than a jolly, this was a coming together of all the Brits in the city in advance of next week’s referendum. In preparation for evacuation being required, we had been split into geographical groups, each co-ordinated by a character from Dad’s Army. The pill was sweetened by the usual trays of alcoholic and foodie delights, and the mood was light, but there is real danger here. My Spanish teacher thinks that if the vote goes Evo Morales’ way, he will be assassinated. As a thrusting, ambitious journalist, I will be safely ensconced in Jamaica as the events are played out (this will turn out to be either very wise or very foolish).

And so on again, this time to “the most colonial road in La Paz” for a pena—a night’s traditional entertainment. We started with an Andean band, complete with five-foot long panpipes; next were dancers who performed racy and masked routines from the Gran Poder carnival, and a very odd simulated fight; the last act was a fabulous Bolivian/Las Vegas style act, a virtuoso on the charango (12-string ukulele) who effortlessly sang songs, told jokes and chatted with the audience.

In the morning I received a call from the Daily Telegraph correspondent in Los Angeles. The “Road of Death” had claimed more victims: eight Bolivians had died when their vehicle plunged off the side, after it had ploughed into three British cyclists, killing one. She wanted me to speak to the consul and, crucially, interview the survivors. The story was on the radio as I took a cab to the hospital, the list of the dead slowly read out (one was a six-day-old baby). At the door of the cyclists’ room I met Tom Austin’s (the dead man’s) girlfriend, she was understandably distraught but she and other two agreed to talk. While, the two survivors were remarkably composed, no one was ready to discuss their dead friend. It was difficult not to feel like a crass intruder.

21.04.08 Cholitas with chopsticks

2008-04-25T19:40:00.000-07:00

Here, cooking gas comes in large metal canisters, rather than being piped into the homes. Not only have we run out of gas but we have no idea how to get any more; as a result, we are having to eat out. Today we went to Wagamama’s (not the franchise necessarily but noodles none the less). The sight of ladies in traditional costume has long since stopped raising an eyebrow for us, but somehow seeing cholitas eating noodles with chopsticks seemed so completely incongruous that it brought back the old fascination.

20.04.08 Virtual navy

2008-04-25T19:37:00.000-07:00

On Sunday morning, I was out getting the breakfast when the sound of a military band drew me to Plaza Azaroa. The navy were putting on an expo; for a country with no seaport, this armed force is a very big deal. There is no sign of the Bolivians ever forgiving or forgetting that the Chileans took their coastline. As negotiations continue to trade access to gas for access to salty water, what is there for new recruits to do? Sail on Lake Titicaca, perhaps. The band claimed me with their version of “In the Navy”, I decided I would sign up for a life dreaming of the ocean wave if they followed it up with “YMCA” but they let me down.

19.04.08 Line dancing with the vice minister for culture

2008-04-20T19:12:00.000-07:00

In honesty, all of the above is a lie: he was the acting vice minister, it was synchronised dancing in lines rather than “line dancing” and I, of course, was not doing it with him. I know there is a time and a place for my freeform air maracas, and this was not it. We were at a practice for the Gran Poder, a religious, dancing festival. Our relatively small group of 60 is one of 56 teams taking part. It’s a huge event and our lot are regular award-winners for best dancers and best costumes. They were extremely welcoming and friendly, especially in their ill-advised efforts to get me dancing. I hope to follow them until the big day of the Poder itself—a celebration of Christ’s great power merged with the old pagan faith in Pacha Mama.

17.04.08 Farty towels

2008-04-17T16:10:00.001-07:00

Bolivia is a topsy-turvy place: the president (Morales) is leader of a federation of coca farmers, although the UN classifies coca as equivalent to heroin or crack; here, coca is sold in the supermarket as a relaxing tea rather than a refined illegal stimulant; it democratically elected a man as president (Banzer), although he had proved himself to be a murderous dictator in a previous go at the job; it’s filthy rich in raw materials yet the poorest country on the continent; you can’t build a five-star hotel without a llama fetus under the foundations; it has a navy yet has been landlocked for 125 years; it has several peaks more than 6,000 metres high, yet can not claim one single piste; the most downtrodden members of society wear bowler hats; is it any wonder the loos don’t behave as you expect? No matter how decorously you sit down, the inflatable seats give off a long, slow release of air, and our small loo even makes a noise that can only be described as fart-like when it is flushed.

12.04.08 And where is Michael Crawford?

2008-04-17T15:52:00.000-07:00

If not quite an oasis, Altai Oasis is certainly a very pleasant place to stay, especially if you like macaws, geese, cats, llamas and dogs without rabies. It’s a focal point for serious hikers, so we took the shortest trek available—5 or so hours to a cave and back. This was what I had left England for: a fabulous walk in the sun, some funny foreign business in the middle and then a huge steak at the end washed down by a pint or two of red wine. The walk was breathtaking along a dusty road through the hills. At the end was the cave, having paid our entrance fee, a 10-year-old boy seemed to apparate before us like an very underage Harry Potter and announced he was our guide. He confidently led us inside, wisely reciting information that turned out to be nonsense, and down to the lake, where for an extra fee our plastic pedalo awaited. The water reputedly continues its subterranean journey to Peru, we, however, turned round at the cave’s end and pedalled back like something out of slightly farcical Phantom of the Opera. Back outside, we opted for a drink and climbed the steep steps to the small bar, where our bar man was waiting: magically, the same small boy.

11.04.08 A weekend away

2008-04-16T14:19:00.000-07:00

This weekend we went on a trip to Sorata to stay at somewhere promisingly describing itself as an oasis. Not having a choice we opted for public transport. Rather less promisingly, our bus left from the cemetery district, where we piled on to the rickerty old machine with an old man who had a real live chicken in a bag. You know you´ve left London, when you share public transport with people transporting poultry. Our seats were on the back row, I was between Susi and a very small, jibbering, old lady. Hungry for a snack, she tucked into warm chicken skin out of a plastic bag, and didn´t share! Space was tight, a stranger´s young son sat tight between her legs on the floor, between his legs sat his baby brother. The old lady was so short that even in her bowler hat she barely made it up to my shoulder, and this was sitting down. She may not have been the perfect travel companion but at least she didn´t obscure the window. The view was fantastic: we went through the Alto Plano, past Lake Titicaca (so maybe it does exist) and into the hills, where snow was struggling to settle. Things then became increasingly verdant, as we descended curling through the valleys. Our Bolivian companions crossed themselves anxiously as the tarmac disappeared to reveal the dark clay carved into the mountainside. A little while later, fields of maize lined the road and we were in a hot, fertile, tropical valley. Had we really just seen snow?

10.04.08 Power to the people

2008-04-11T06:11:00.000-07:00

I nursed something of a hangover today after an evening at Her Majesty’s pleasure, well at her representative’s anyway. As you would imagine, the ambassador’s residence is a fabulous place filled with fabulous people, who were there for our friends', Jennie and Tom, leaving party. Chaps with impeccable manners and white gloves circulated trays of delicious drinks and canapés – from Scotch eggs to ceviche (raw fish marinated in vinegar and lemon juice, much better than it sounds). Most remarkable were the power sockets, while Bolivia chances its devices and health to unpredictable, two-pronged receivers that sizzle, sparkle and spit flames of blue light, the ambassador uses our traditional, safe, sturdy, triumvirate—a power source that an empire was built on.

9.04.08 Having a mosie about

2008-04-11T06:09:00.000-07:00

It’s fun being somewhere so different that other people’s mundane existence can seem so novel and interesting. Walking the streets is a great way of discovering new sights – on the pavements in the middle of town you find banks of fellows sat at tiny desks furiously bashing away on old-fashioned typewriters; everywhere are large ladies in larger skirts squat on the floor selling fruit and vegetables of varying degrees of exoticness; opposite the supermarket are money-changing cholas (city-dwelling indigenous women) cutting sharp deals; sellers of pirated DVDs are so common as to be a hazard to pedestrians (as well as the film industry); yesterday, I passed a man peddling a world of cheese graters and a knife sharpener shooting sparks off his Heath Robinson bicycle-wheel device.

7.04.08 La Paz to reject the peace?

2008-04-08T08:21:00.000-07:00

Our time here has been incredibly peaceful, the only problems we’ve had have been with an excitable French hotel owner (at least my profanities are fluent in one language other than English) and an arsey Argentine crusty. With us, all the Bolivians we have come across have been friendly, patient (necessarily so, given my Spanish) and relaxed. However, we may be about to see a different national characteristic.

An autonomy referendum has been called for 5 May in four states in the east of Bolivia; clearly, the government will not readily see the country split and has called in everyone imaginable to mediate. If this fails, as expected, there could well be serious trouble. One of Susi’s colleagues has spoken about her fears of a repetition of previous disturbances and Susi is considering stocking up on essentials like water. We are certainly in for an interesting time.

6.04.08 All your Harold Bishop news

2008-04-07T09:39:00.000-07:00

To uncover the latest South American Catholic stories I have set up news alerts for certain key words. In among the sex scandals, I am becoming something of an expert about Charlotte Church, Maxi and Judas Priest (unrelated, as I understand it) and Harold Bishop. So if the conventional media is letting you down on any of these topics, drop me a line… Also, if you’re between jobs or looking for a career change, the Vatican is training up thousands of exorcists to confront the devil “head on”.

2.04.08 Panting!

2008-04-03T13:13:00.000-07:00

Played tennis with Tom again, this time at The Strongest, a splendidly named sports club tagged on to one of Bolivia’s biggest football teams. Seven games into the second set and I had to give up. Not because I was losing the set, that was merely a coincidence, but playing at this altitude is truly exhausting. I was panting like a dog and found I had lost any will to win/play in favour of sitting down.

1.04.08 Hey, teacher! Leave 'em kids alone.

2008-04-03T13:10:00.000-07:00

I felt a little low in the morning, so after lunch I took my vocab book and sat in the garden. What with this, the sun, music and a beer or two, the day took on a much rosier complexion. I might even have learnt something, beyond the valuable lesson that I like the sun, music and beer.

The day then took a peculiar turn when I was offered a job at my Spanish school—they have three students who want to be taught English and presumably they couldn’t find anyone with the vocation, training or inclination. It’s very badly paid but I would get to do it in the evenings and weekends. Oh, woopee.

31.03.08 Starting ’em too young

2008-04-02T12:46:00.000-07:00

Given that our new flat is semi-furnished, we need to fill it with the boring detritus that it’s difficult to live without. So I was in the supermarket today stocking up on necessities like bathroom bins, as well as the ingredients for dinner. At the checkout, a very young girl helped empty my basket. She was so small that even on tip-toe she could not see inside it and had to blindly dip in. To be honest, I could have probably managed on my own. Surely, she have been at school anyway?

30.03.08 Going down yet up in the world

2008-04-02T12:45:00.000-07:00

We took a guided walk from the new and impoverished city of El Alto up on the Alti Plano and down through La Paz to the Zona Sud (the posh bit). In the two cities, the extremes of wealth don’t sit teeth by jowl, instead the money seems to have flowed clean off the lip of the Alti Plano, cascaded through La Paz, accumulating and gathering momentum before settling, glittering, in the Zona Sud.

In El Alto, we were warned of the dogs that languidly potter wild—rabies is the same regardless of how cute and innocuous the dog may appear. Up here, communities have to look after themselves and in a return to the Aymaran people’s pre-Conquistador days, stuffed Guy Fawkes figures hang limp from electricity cables to warn thieves of their fate. These same people are incredibly friendly, not to offer a greeting to passers-by is considered the height of rudeness. And the stunning descent admiring the mountains and valleys was punctuated with countless words of “Buen dia”, “Hola” and reciprocated nods.

Down in the handsome equivalent of Parliament Square in La Paz, we were shown bullet holes in the walls following a shoot out between the police and the army in 2003. Given the turbulent news reports, it seems extraordinary that Bolivia could be going through a period of relative calm. However, in the most unstable country in South America, to keep the same government for two years is long time.

Ecology seems to be difficult state, while new parks have been built by the mayor and give welcome respite from the city, through La Paz’s centre flows a scummy river so dead that nothing can survive in it.

29.03.08 Rug addiction

2008-04-02T12:44:00.002-07:00

We’ve moved into our new flat, it’s huge and has opened up a new side to Susi. She is a rug addict and seems set on covering every lovely inch of our polished wooden floors with them, ideally bright ones with llama motifs.

We saw our Bolivian friend Gus perform this evening. It was about as far from panpipes, ponchos and The Flight of the Condor as you an imagine, he’s in the Sociedad Coral Boliviana and was accompanying the National Symphony Orchestra putting on Beethoven’s 9th. For a Philistine like me happily waiting for the sections I recognised, their arrival in full magnificent force sent shivers down my spine.

28.03.08 Unrequited love

2008-04-02T12:44:00.001-07:00

It is definitely time for us to leave our apartment-hotel, Susi is receiving unwanted night time attention from tiny, bed-bug beasties. Although we do share the bed (top to tail, obviously), we do not share the fleas—they have no interest in me whatsoever.

25.03.08 Dangerous fun poking

2008-03-26T12:08:00.000-07:00

My visa is running out, so I went down to the Oficina de Migration. It was a simple process; two minutes later, I was out with a stamp to stay for another 60 days. How different it would be if I was from the USA. Citizens of the Land of the Free have to jump over a lengthy series of bureaucratic hurdles and pay an administration fee; in short, they are put through the same nonsense that visitors to the USA have to go through (even the fee is the same amount).

This completely unreasonably warmed my heart, I suspect most Yanks (I can’t just call them Americans, as that’s everyone on the continent) here are as pro-Bush as Ken Livingston.

Morales needs to be careful not to antagonise the USA too much, as much fun and warranted as it undoubtably is. He has valuable gas reserves and his credentials as a democratically elected leader would not save him. In 2002, they backed a failed coup to overthrow oil-rich Venezuala’s elected leader Chavez.

The history of the continent shows the USA will always back a compliant, murderous dictator (ideally, one they trained themselves) over a troublesome, democratically elected pinko. And when there’s energy involved as well…

23.03.08 Ruined

2008-03-26T12:05:00.000-07:00

We had planned to go to Lake Titicaca but, of course, the place we wanted to stay was fully booked. I suspect a global conspiracy; it does not really exists. How can it? Lake Titty Caca, indeed. Instead, we took a tour to ancient Tiahuanaco. On route, we stopped for a photo break at nearly 4,000 metres, where our guide pointed out the lake in the distance. I was not falling for it, that smudge could have been anything.

The site of Tiahuanaco is on the plateau; as it was a clear day, the view was amazing, if the ruins were largely underwhelming. Our guide was a walking fountain, who spouted streams of facts and figures, which we were required to pay attention to. Feeling increasingly sheep-like and slack-jawed, I sloped off to explore on my own.

My strongest memory was sitting on the Akapana pyramid and being awe-struck by the majesty of the sky, streaks of whitest cloud accentuating the deep azure. I drifted into reverie, until a siren went off and a loud hailer bellowed—I was sitting in a protected area and had to move.

22.03.08 Boli Belly

2008-03-23T17:41:00.001-07:00

Susi has developed Boli Belly, so I left her at home and took myself out for dinner. The Bolivians will claim any excuse for a march and today was the anniversary of losing their coast to Chile—a peculiar event to turn into a show. I sat myself on the balcony of the Irish bar overlooking the route and prepared for the jollity. Despite the booze ban, the Irish bar was joyously true to stereotype and happily served me beers, although I was in clear view of the cameras giving live TV coverage of the procession.

We started with a very jaunty marching band; there was no singing but I like to think the lyrics were “Bolivians never, ever, ever shall be crapped on by seagulls”. Next were some soldiers mounted on beautiful horses (certainly not seahorses), metrosexually clad in pink, yellow and green.

The baton twirling was superb, behind the twirler and band were representations of each of the armed forces. The air force had inflatable planes attached to the ends of their rifles, the army carried paper lanterns in the national colours and the navy sported little paper boats with candles in. The whole procession was refreshingly light on armaments but as a display of military might or even commemoration, it all seemed rather wussy and lacking in gravitas.

21.03.08 Tip top tennis

2008-03-23T17:37:00.000-07:00

Today, Susi and I found out that there was some method to the traffic madness. The out-of-work actors and students in zebra suits mincing about at the traffic lights are there to stop the cars driving on to the zebra crossings. Some logic, at last.

I played my first game of tennis at altitude this afternoon. The process of dragging myself from impending ignominy to a simple defeat was absolutely exhausting. I’d not played in months and never on clay before. And Tom was better than me. Swine. The view from the court at the German club, however, was stunning; if only I could raise my game to meet the sublime setting. The post-match drinks were much more of a success.

20.03.08 The message of Easter

2008-03-23T17:35:00.000-07:00

After lunch, I visit a café with WiFi to research stories and keep up my correspondence. However, I am being stalked from place to place by James Blunt. He appears in the most unlikely venues (surely, I would be safe from his MOR intrusions in somewhere called Beiruit?). I’m not sure what makes me more uncomfortable, whether it’s the proclamations of my beauty or the laments over our ill-fated love. Pull yourself together man.

To try and sweeten the pill, I tried to buy a beer. Again I was thwarted, this time by the law. It would appear that, in addition to its religious significance, Easter in Bolivia means a four-day festival of drink driving. Four thousand extra police hit the streets to try to stem the exponential growth in road accidents over recent years and, crucially, the sale of alcohol has been prohibited. But I don’t even have a car! This would never stand in Dalston.

18.03.08 Does he take azucar (sugar)?

2008-03-20T12:02:00.000-07:00

Susi meets me in the park and then we go for lunch. The waitresses clearly prefer to deal with Susi’s perfect Spanish than my garbled, mispronounced nonsense. I am doing my best though, damn them, which makes it so depressing when Susi is asked to translate what I have said or questions about my lunch are referred to her.

It can become even worse when I am on my own. This afternoon, I ordered a Huari (a brand of beer). 4.30, I was told in reply (it was my first of the day, honest). Being able to order a beer must be the lowest rung of the language ladder, which means I am reduced to looking thirstily on.

17.03.08 Parklife

2008-03-20T12:01:00.000-07:00

After Spanish, I sit in the park under my splendid hat and try to learn the new streams of vocabulary. The weather is ideal, we’re enjoying a golden patch between summer (the rainy season) and winter (the dry season) taking in the best of each.

Plaza Avoroa is beautifully maintained, teams of gardeners sow tiny plants in perfect patterns around the tropical trees. The centrepiece is a huge statue of Eduardo Avoroa caught for perpetuity seemingly fallen over drunk while mid rant. Who knows, perhaps it’s how he wanted to be remembered.

As a gringo novelty, I have more than my fair share of approaches from the militant shoe shiners. A very friendly bunch, the relationship is tainted with a sinister edge because, although they offer something ostensibly positive, they would happily run off with every Boliviano I have. I imagine being surrounded by Scientologists would feel much the same.

16.03.08 The illusive lake

2008-03-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

Today was our second attempt to visit Lake Titicaca, after we had to abort last week's due to illness. We left in Fiona’s car and hit the traffic, made it out of the city in fits and starts, and up to El Alto. Here things slowed both further and markedly, the area around the vast black market was chaotic, past there it barely improved. A mash up of old cars, 4x4s, trucks and buses rolled along beeping their horns and changing lanes on the deeply pockmarked four lane dust track; people constantly wandered through the traffic and policemen waved us through red lights,

Eventually, we gave up the road in favour of an as yet undiscovered short cut through the flat endless expanse of low, shabby, brick houses. On a desolate wasteland, we went past a herd of llamas sporting coloured ribbons. Llamas, hooray! We ended up in a short queue for our turn to cross through a fast flowing river in our 4x4 and escape on to what we hoped would be open road. Instead, some policemen waved a 1950s Chevvy bus past the audience and into our path, we gave way, and it promptly got stuck in the middle of the river. So that was the end of our second attempt to visit Lake Titicaca.

And so we went elsewhere: another smaller lake. On the route, we went past a man in a manicured garden rocking out playing air guitar and then headed down into the valley. It was a beautiful place marred by the crassest tourism, still at least we had a go in a pedalo. Lake Titicaca will have a wait another week. We headed back into town as the sun set; at twilight, this really is the most stunning city.

15.03.08 The fifth best bar in La Paz, they claim

2008-03-19T14:08:00.000-07:00

After some research, I had found somewhere showing the final games of the six nations rugby. Understandably, Oliver’s Travels is not a typical Bolivian bar but claims Lonely Planet’s view that it’s “the worst cultural point in La Paz” as an honorific. Over a Bolivianised full English breakfast and a beer in the “100% fake English pub”, I watched the games with Gustavo and his English friend Tom. Very good. There was one Bolivian in there and, of course, was behind the bar.

After a kip to sleep off the breakfast into lunchtime and then afternoon beers, we spent the evening at Fiona’s for Peru's national drink—Pisco Sours—made by a proper Peruvian. Delish and the raw white didn't cause any complications. I have the recipe, if anyone is interested.

14.03.08 Everything is going to be alright

2008-03-17T07:32:00.000-07:00

My Spanish lesson was disrupted by bangs, it sounded like a busy day in Baghdad. These bangs are common in La Paz, it’s not guns (well nearly always, I’m told) but marchers setting off firecrackers. Today, it was the miners turn to demonstrate and they were going to town with fuses and gunpowder. At one point, the noise was incredible and prolonged, and even Julio thought it was too much—they must be very angry. For former demonstrator Evo Morales it must be echoes of his past coming back to haunt him. How long until he cracks down?

In the computer room after class, I introduced myself to a fellow gringo who was crying. The poor girl was ill after eating street food. It would appear that a lunch of cow’s heart dowsed in kerosene and then lit may have repercussions beyond indigestion. I was sympathetic but hardly surprised. Fool that I am, part of me really admired her balls for even attempting such a thing.

Walking down from our future landlady’s, I went past an angry crowd. In the middle was a tall, light-skinned man bleeding freely from a cut left eye. All I caught in the shouting was the word “ninas” or children. I wondered if the kids I had seen yesterday were responsible in some random meaningless attack.

I submitted my first commissioned piece today to The Tablet. It’s not the world’s longest but I had found, researched and written the story from scratch, and it means that, if anyone bothers to ask, I can say that I am a foreign correspondent. After a beer or two, I went home and attempted to learn some Spanish. Instead, I was distracted by the bright-blue sky, cotton clouds and view of the rocks. As the sun set, the sky turned a darker blue and the rocks’ colours were accentuated, I listened to Lemonjelly and thought everything is going to turn out fine.

13.03.08 Underclass

2008-03-17T07:31:00.000-07:00

Social groups are very easy to spot here because they fall along strict, simple racial lines. Today I came across something different: a street gang. Scruffy, filthy, of indeterminate sex and race, they were a breed apart. One gesticulated with a pair of grotesque, twisted, bulbous fingers, then picked up a bin bag and threw it absentmindedly at a passing car. They laughed, pushed each other around and took over the pavement. They clearly could not give a fuck about anything or anyone. As hideous as they were, at least they were not going to play anyone else’s game.

Paying for Spanish lessons is a revelation; today, I was set homework but I didn’t think it was worthwhile, so I said so. And that was that—it was cancelled. If only I could have dared dream, perhaps this would have worked at school.

12.03.08 Wear sunscreen

2008-03-14T14:02:00.000-07:00

While it is not hot here, the sun is dangerously powerful. Even the short walk to my Spanish class is long enough to catch the sun; afterwards, I feel tiny pinpricks of sun burn across my cheek bones and nose. And this is wearing protection (yes, suntan lotion). I look forward to wowing the La Paz crowd with my cricket hat, once it is out of the dry cleaners.

After class I go for lunch and read over what I am supposed to have learnt. Every café, bar and restaurant has a security man. They vary enormously from those who look like a shambling, hungover Deputy Dawg, to others who may have arrived via helicopter, parachute and the window. What links them all is that they don’t have a single thing to do. They are little more than frustrated doormen.

11.03.08 My first Bolivian hangover

2008-03-14T13:58:00.000-07:00

Over the years I would say I’ve run the gamut of hangovers: the sucker punch that you thought you’d got away with; the guilt-laden, teary, soul-sapper; the nauseating, painful, sickener; the dreamy, floaty giggler; the detached, untouchable, isolator; the ratty, grumpy bastard… but nothing like this. Everything was in super-sharp relief, colours and sounds were acute, extraordinarily acute. And the area in and above my left eye, pain. Oh lord, pain!

10.03.08 A humbling experience

2008-03-11T14:02:00.000-07:00

Susi’s birthday and I was a hopeless boyfriend: no card, no presents. Pathetic. She was wonderfully sympathetic, which was a relief. While I knew what I wanted to buy, I’ve been hamstrung by illness, not knowing where to get them, or what they’re called. Infuriating. In the end, I managed to acquire a card (technically, a postcard), some flowers (a huge, beautiful array) and a plastic jug to put them in. Not a complete success, but I did take her out for dinner as well. While this was not all I had planned, it still felt like an achievement and she was a happy lady. I am a very lucky chap.

I went to interview Juan Mauricio Choque Apaza. It was very different experience to last week: he was now in his 14th day of hunger strike and weak, his room was stripped of all its anti-Morales posters and bright flags, and he was completely on his own. A few days earlier, there had been five hunger strikers, when government officials arrived with the police. They knew to expect trouble and ran, leaving their visitors to take everything they could steal. Juan Mauricio Choque Apaza was told they were going to kill him, but he escaped. Despite the intimidation, he has vowed to carry on for another couple of days. Lying there now he looks incredibly vulnerable, he’s utterly defenceless. His bravery is in the name of democracy and it struck me how we in the UK treat our liberties with such disregard.

9.03.08 If it’s good enough for the Queen…

2008-03-11T13:58:00.000-07:00

What a strange night: I woke when it was still very dark with my stomach making peculiar noises. It reminded me of being a small boy waking scared in my aunt’s ancient house in Herefordshire. In my Superman jimjams in the darkness (as a boy, not now), I was captivated by the unexplained sounds of creaking, banging, stuttering and gurgling. Now my own body was reproducing the unsettling noises and effect of the timber and pipes at The Old Forge. Something is definitely not right.

The local cure for my ailment is coca, in fact, it seems to be the local cure for everything. It might work, so we have bought coca tea bags from the local supermarket. I could not resist the Windsor brand—I like to think of the royal family tucking in for a revitalising cup illegally imported in the diplomatic bag. Cheers, maam.

Feeling stronger in the morning, Susi and I went out to look for somewhere to live for the rest of our time in Bolivia. On our way home a police bike went past, riding pillion was a man dressed in a police-dog outfit waving to children. What with this and the zebra, it is easy to see why drivers treat the rules of the road with such disrespect.