25.10.08 Change is forced through

It’s been a momentous week in La Paz. 100,000 campesinos, miners and unionists marched here (paid by the government) and massed at the Plaza Murillo, home to the Senate. This show of force was to pressurise the opposition into passing the draft constitution so it would come to a referendum.
Previous debates over the constitution have been marked by opposition MPs being denied entrance to the Senate by demonstrators. The partner organisation of a friend was responsible for the blocking and jostling. As she said at the time, “We may need to go over our democracy capacity-building training.”
This time, the debate was held in the plaza—an unreasonably intimidating atmosphere for the opposition. The campesinos were angry, drinking and chewing coca. If the draft constitution’s passage was stopped there would be trouble—there were rumours that San Pedro prison would be stormed to the demise of Fernandez.
Even the date, 20 October, was loaded with historical significance. This day in 1548, the city was founded by Spanish conquistadors; 460 years later, the Bolivians were claiming it back.
After considerable backroom compromises and unbecoming horse-trading, the draft constitution was passed to a referendum. The immediate implications were there would be peace in the city. In the long term, it means Bolivia will be refounded to the benefit of its majority indigenous population rather than their marginalisation and subjugation. Surely a good thing, but fundamental change is painful with winners and losers, and there’s plenty of trouble still to come.

16.10.08 San Pedro prison and the Village People

Spanish classes are interesting at the moment as my teacher lives close to San Pedro. This area is home to the infamous prison, which incarcerates Governor Leopoldo Fernandez. He has been held here since September when he was arrested over the killing of 30 people in his state, Pando. The prison operates semi-autonomously of the guards and day releases can be bought (like everything else in there).

A round-the-clock vigil by Poncho Rojos is taking place to stop him leaving. The Poncho Rojos (red ponchos) are the militarised defenders and guardians of the Aymaran people or self-important drunks, according to who you speak to. Either way, Fernandez is still there and they are making a lot noise. Their custom is to set off dynamite fuses to scare evil spirits, in this case Fernandez, which interrupts my classes.

It would very healthy for Bolivia if Fernandez receives a fair trail, however, the signs are not good. He has been charged with genocide—while the Pando deaths may well be a massacre; genocide, they are not. What words would the prosecutors use to describe Rwanda? I fear the independence of the judiciary will not stand up to a great deal of scrutiny.

In other news, I’ve had to start using another pool. It’s just too much effort to swim around the snoggers and show-offs at the really local and cheap one. Also the sauna is no more relaxing. The last time I was there, the man next to me alternated between twisting the sweat from his sodden headband and running a comb through his thinning hair before returning it to the back of his Speedos. They do have music in there too—surely, a sauna is not the best environment for Village People’s complete works.

So, I’ve left this behind for the swank of the spa at the Hotel Europa. It’s social here too but at least the pool is left for swimming. In the sauna, it’s very chatty with handshakes for new arrivals and man hugs for friends. I’d never seen man hugs exchanged in such sweaty surrounds before and have decided not to make any friends.

28.9.8 Eating flamingo and "drinking alcohol"

Early in the morning, we sailed/rowed to Patiti, an island that was once home to an Inca civilization. All that was left of them was some old pieces of ceramic, which are now housed in a very impressive museum. Whether the local inhabitants would have preferred a reliable water supply or a museum is debatable, but what’s without doubt is that the sponsoring Finns’ cash went to the pots.

The journey back with the wind was swift and peaceful among the birds. Being surrounded by all these animals must be tempting for people looking to supplement their diet. I asked our guide if they hunted the birds. He replied that they didn’t because the birds were protected before adding that flamingo is delicious.

Driving back to La Paz through the dusty Altiplano, we went past a whirlwind. Red sand spiralled up into the clouds, sending up whatever it sucked up into the heavens. As we ploughed along, Susi’s eagle eyes saved us losing our luggage when she spotted a sleeping bag flying off the roof of the car and bouncing down the road.

A little further on we stopped at a check point and got out to buy drinks from a roadside stall. As well as the usual "refrescos", there was beer and every drivers’ favourite, Ceibo. Enticingly described as “drinking alcohol”, it’s 96% booze and comes in a utilitarian plastic container. Very good for the health, the charming cholita told me with a smile.

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.

7.9.8 The highest Englishman on earth

This brought new meaning to the phrase ‘early start’. Woken at 1am, we faffed around for an age with porridge, crampons, head torches and Toblerone, until it was time to set out into the darkness. The start was a steady, steep walk in the trail of points of light from earlier groups as they ascended into the stars. To our left was the pretty patchwork of El Alto—during the day, one of the world’s ugliest cities.

As I searched for my water, I quickly developed ethno-tat envy for Nicky’s tourist issue woven bottle holder. Viviana’s knees decided climbing was not for them and she went back down, leaving Nicky, Ola and I with the remaining guide.

The first test was The Wall: a thin ice bridge, over a crevice, leading to a wall of ice. Quite nerve wracking in the dark, but at least we had had some practice of ice climbing unlike other groups that just head straight out there. And so we plodded on until watching the sunrise—a glorious and exhilarating experience.

After further hours of trudging, reaching the peak was a great relief. At that moment I was probably the highest Englishman on earth. I would have loved to lie back, muse on this and have a sleep, but we had to walk back down again. For me, the joyful rush of being at a summit more than 6,000 metres up was rather tempered.

As Nicky pointed out being in Bolivia has ruined our standards of beauty. The gently rolling rolls of the Cotswolds can never compare to the mountains, lakes and planes of the Alti Plano.

Some 12 hours after we had set out we returned to the base camp. My legs were shaking, I was more automated walking machine than man. It was going to be great to return to decent food, beds and loos.

6.9.8 Top buzz

After a couple of hours sleep on a mattress on the floor, (at least it was my own mattress, even if I shared the room) and a carbohydrate-heavy breakfast, we moved on to the high camp. A further 730 metres up, we were now at 5,130 and the view was charming. Unlike the loo. Made up of a three stonewalls and a hole, it looked on to—not the endless, empty mountains but the door of our chalet. It had not been frequented by people with good aim.

I reminded myself that if all I wanted was quality loos I would still be loitering around The Savoy. It was better think about the excited ahead—behind the chalet, Huayna Potosi loomed. We would be there soon.

The news from the real world intruded even here—airports had been seized by the opposition and anti-government protests were speading.

5.9.8 Huayna base camp

This promised to be an interesting weekend, I was going to climb Huayna Potosi with friends. A mountain of more than 6,000m, this was beyond anything I had done before. We excitedly packed into a mini van, hacked through El Alto and into the desolate Alti Plano.

As we climbed along the dirt road, we passed a man in the middle of nowhere bent double carrying an enormous speaker. Where he was between it was impossible to say but somewhere was going to have a good Friday night.

We had left behind news of rising tensions in the east of the country. In Santa Cruz, both pro- and anti-Morales activists were blockading the same roads. They are living out a Bolivian version of mutually assured destruction.

There were frequent stops for passing llamas or group photographs, in which we all took the same photograph as a group. Eventually, we arrived at the base camp—4,400 metres up—the remaining 1,600 metres would be on foot.

Today, we were due to practice ice climbing. Strapped into all our gear and crampons, and carrying our ice picks, we got stuck into the nearest glacier. I loved it—as the guide was busy helping Viviana, I set off up a vertical ice wall. It felt good, solid, comfortable. Here was the sport for me. Then I heard a slightly nervous Bolivian voice: “Be careful, that is dangerous,” said our previously sanguine guide. All of a sudden it felt neither good, solid or comfortable. I slid, the ice pick held and I tried to look relaxed.