27.9.8 Sailing, singing and dancing

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.