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.
Wednesday 27 August 2008
Tuesday 26 August 2008
10.8.8 Election day
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.
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.
Saturday 23 August 2008
2.08.08 The party's over
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.
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.
Friday 22 August 2008
1.8.8 Climbing the greasy pole
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.
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.
Thursday 21 August 2008
31.07.08 Cock and bull story
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.
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.
Wednesday 20 August 2008
30.7.8 San Ignacio de Moxos
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.
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.
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