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.

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.