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
Showing posts with label bolivia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bolivia. Show all posts
Friday, 4 December 2009
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Llamas and their farmers
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.
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.
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Lakeside llama and blessed cars
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.
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.
Saturday, 2 May 2009
We were sailing, they were sinking
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.
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.
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Back on the saltenas
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.
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.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Football gods humbled
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.
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.
Saturday, 28 March 2009
Dia del Mar: Cloaking failure in glory
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.
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.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
16,000 feet high and rising
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!
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!
Monday, 2 March 2009
Carnival fever hits La Paz. All my friends leave.
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.
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.
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Hats and Hershey's kisses, briefcases and black men
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?
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?
Monday, 9 February 2009
Exercise, altitude and a virus: not a great cocktail
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.
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.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Urmiri, worth the wait
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, 18 June 2008
15.6.8 Brazil, it ain't.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
