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.
Wednesday 28 January 2009
Sunday 25 January 2009
Small things, shaman, God and a whole new constitution
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.
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.
Thursday 22 January 2009
Feet like clown shoes
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.
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.
Friday 16 January 2009
I really don’t like beaches
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.
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.
Wednesday 7 January 2009
Arica—we found it eventually
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.
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.
Saturday 3 January 2009
Chulumani and mercifully back again
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
