This past Friday evening I had the wonderful (and kind of crazy) opportunity to play live tango music for the La Paz Tango Club. I’ve rehearsed a few times with a pianist that I met at the one and only Milonga (tango dance) that I went to during my first month here. Tango is very different from classical music, obviously, so although I had the music, it was quite different to have to “interpret” the music. We went down to Café Berlin in the Zona Sur – by 8:30pm the café had filled with 50 or so people, smoking and drinking, sitting around a nice wooden dance floor. We played two sets of 4 songs each for a surprised and very happy crowd of dancers (I think it has been a while since they had live music), including one improvisational “techno tango” song.
I’m so used to having easy access to group violining, like chamber music and orchestras in the United States, so it was so nice to be able to practice with another human being instead of locking myself in my living room and staring at music. We had only practiced 3 or so times, but after a 2 hour dress rehearsal in the cafe the music was so effortless and fulfilling. The actual playing went by very smoothly (yes, the music was a bit easy), and as I walked off of the dance floor I got a few very big applauses. We played an incredible song written by Astor Piazzola, as a memory for his dead grandfather, called “Adios Nonino” that apparently moved a few of the audience members to tears.
I suppose the highlight of the evening, and perhaps the scariest moment for me as well, was when the crowd asked for an encore – Stefan (the pianist) and I had briefly rehearsed the Czardas by Monti, which I haven’t touched for about 6 years. It’s not a very difficult piece…after you practice it for a while…but it has a series of very, very fast runs. The crowd was cheering and smiling, so I looked at Stefan, shrugged my shoulders, and began to play the music. At the beginning of the most memorable part, the whole place started clapping and stomping. My mind and fingers were basically on autopilot. I heard myself playing in to the microphone, thinking to myself “Wow, this is fast. Wow, this actually sounds pretty good.”
I still don’t have much of an idea how I managed to play the piece without practicing – I credit the success to adrenaline and relaxation. Usually when I play in front of crowds I get incredibly nervous and start shaking, but this time, because the focus of the evening was dancing, I didn’t really feel agitated or worried. I just let myself be.
Tonight is actually my last night here. I spent the day running around and doing errands, visiting the doctors at the hospital and buying a few last minute gifts (including coca tea, but don’t tell the US Government or I might get in trouble.) I have a bunch of pictures to post of Tihuanacu and Lake Titicaca, which will be coming en seguida, but I think now I am going to sit back and let the night flow…and reflect later.
lunes, 10 de septiembre de 2007
jueves, 6 de septiembre de 2007
The Parentals Have Arrived
As you can gather from the title, my parents have arrived in Bolivia for a more or less two week stay. As their unofficial tour guide, it’s been an interesting and ultimately awesome experience being able to show them the sights and sounds of “my” country. They don’t speak a shred of Spanish (my mother claims that she can sometimes understand what is being said, but I don’t believe her), so it’s been my job to make reservations, hail taxis, translate museum tours, and order food. They’ve been less shocked by the life here than I would have expected, but they credit that largely to the pictures that I’ve been showing them. They seem to find the markets and the animals running wild in the streets the most interesting, although the altitude has also made it’s mark when we walk up steep hills (and yet my pulse seems to be as high or higher than both of theirs, go figure.)
Their flight was delayed from Thursday night to Friday morning due to some plane difficulties in Washington DC (typical), so I arrived at the El Alto airport at 5:00am to pick them up. They had the chance to see the fantastic view of the city as the sun creeps over the canyon ridges, marveling as much at the crude brick houses as at the sputtering vehicles (and accompanying smoke-filled streets.) From practically the moment he stepped off the plane, my father has been obsessed with taking photos. Taxis have had to stop at viewpoints, and we’ve had to wait for him on the streets – all I can say is that the photos (it’s a brand new digitial SLR) better be worth it…
The stay in La Paz involved a visit to the cemetery, some time wandering the markets, and a visit to a peña – a Bolivian folkloric musical experience sometimes accompanied by music. Although we arrived at about 9:30, we didn’t end up getting our food until 11:00 (these South Americans eat late). We all ordered typical Bolivian food – my mother had her first experience with chuño, the freeze-dried potatoes, which she now refers to as “the sewer potatoes,” and my father had his first experience with Bolivian-style food poisoning (he had a meat dish, other than that we have no idea what made him sick.) After much deliberating over the decidedly meat-filled menu, I decided to order “charque,” strips of dried llama meat, the classic Bolivian version of beef jerky. Despite being a vegetarian, I’ve been looking for charque since I saw the strips of llama meat being dried on the adobe rooftop of a house on the way to Tarabuco. Suffice to say it was quite chewy and didn’t have much flavor, but I’m glad I ordered it nonetheless.
In Sucre and Potosí we went to a lot of the same sights that I had seen on my week and half adventure through the country. We flew to Sucre and took a cab to Potosí, so my parents didn’t get to experience the 10+ hour bus rides back and forth between cities (flying is definitely worth the money.) Our hotel in Sucre (Hostal de Su Merced) was stunning – described as being “in true Sucre style,” it was a beautiful white building with a central courtyard filled with flowers and stained glass. All of the rooms were furnished with antiques, and there was a rooftop terrace with a beautiful view of the city, where my mother and I enjoyed a nice afternoon coffee while my father slept off his bought with food poisoning.
Potosí was the same stunning colonial city that I remembered – for me, it gives off a serene air, and the feel of colonial times is almost tangible as you explore the 16th century churches and walk down the cobblestoned road. My parents had a bit of a time walking through the markets – my father was put off by the smell of Bolivian cheese (I think it brought back memories of being sick), and my mother had a hard time with the various animal parts hanging from the booths. I’m a bit surprised that as the resident vegetarian I was able to tolerate the sight of a cow head with the tongue hanging out, the top part skinned and showing the muscle and eye sockets. My dad, of course, was running around taking pictures of all of the stalls and the bloody tracheas.
In Potosí I also took my parents out for their first salteña (met with generally positive reviews). The owner started chatting with me, and after I gave him a particularly satisfactory answer of my opinions on Evo Morales, he took me to the back of the restaurant and showed me how they make salteñas. It was great, because I tried to make a vegetarian version about a week ago, and although they were tasty, the definitely didn’t look or taste anything much like the street-vendor version. And thanks to my father, we now have a picture of my awkwardly standing next to the 70-year old owner in the back of his kitchen (soon to come).
The most surreal part of the trip happened as we were leaving our hotel – I was carrying my bags out to the taxi driver, and a tall guy in the lobby stopped me and said “Natalie?” I was a bit confused, and said “No, Nadine, wait…how do I know you?” And then he introduced himself as the “Anti-Chris,” a Canadian guy who had read and commented on my blog. (I’ve also run into 4 other Uchicago students randomly in every city I have been to, small world.) I was stunned, and awkwardly asked him how he was enjoying his stay, if he had recognized me from the picture, etc. (If he reads this again I’m sure he can attest to how surreal of an experience it was.) As we conversed about the lack of tourist information about Bolivia (beyond the Lonely Planet Guide), I had the idea to write some mini-reviews of the restaurants, hotels, and sights that I have visited while I’ve been here…so I guess I’ll be working on that for the next few days.
But honestly, what a surreal, ridiculous experience!
Their flight was delayed from Thursday night to Friday morning due to some plane difficulties in Washington DC (typical), so I arrived at the El Alto airport at 5:00am to pick them up. They had the chance to see the fantastic view of the city as the sun creeps over the canyon ridges, marveling as much at the crude brick houses as at the sputtering vehicles (and accompanying smoke-filled streets.) From practically the moment he stepped off the plane, my father has been obsessed with taking photos. Taxis have had to stop at viewpoints, and we’ve had to wait for him on the streets – all I can say is that the photos (it’s a brand new digitial SLR) better be worth it…
The stay in La Paz involved a visit to the cemetery, some time wandering the markets, and a visit to a peña – a Bolivian folkloric musical experience sometimes accompanied by music. Although we arrived at about 9:30, we didn’t end up getting our food until 11:00 (these South Americans eat late). We all ordered typical Bolivian food – my mother had her first experience with chuño, the freeze-dried potatoes, which she now refers to as “the sewer potatoes,” and my father had his first experience with Bolivian-style food poisoning (he had a meat dish, other than that we have no idea what made him sick.) After much deliberating over the decidedly meat-filled menu, I decided to order “charque,” strips of dried llama meat, the classic Bolivian version of beef jerky. Despite being a vegetarian, I’ve been looking for charque since I saw the strips of llama meat being dried on the adobe rooftop of a house on the way to Tarabuco. Suffice to say it was quite chewy and didn’t have much flavor, but I’m glad I ordered it nonetheless.
In Sucre and Potosí we went to a lot of the same sights that I had seen on my week and half adventure through the country. We flew to Sucre and took a cab to Potosí, so my parents didn’t get to experience the 10+ hour bus rides back and forth between cities (flying is definitely worth the money.) Our hotel in Sucre (Hostal de Su Merced) was stunning – described as being “in true Sucre style,” it was a beautiful white building with a central courtyard filled with flowers and stained glass. All of the rooms were furnished with antiques, and there was a rooftop terrace with a beautiful view of the city, where my mother and I enjoyed a nice afternoon coffee while my father slept off his bought with food poisoning.
Potosí was the same stunning colonial city that I remembered – for me, it gives off a serene air, and the feel of colonial times is almost tangible as you explore the 16th century churches and walk down the cobblestoned road. My parents had a bit of a time walking through the markets – my father was put off by the smell of Bolivian cheese (I think it brought back memories of being sick), and my mother had a hard time with the various animal parts hanging from the booths. I’m a bit surprised that as the resident vegetarian I was able to tolerate the sight of a cow head with the tongue hanging out, the top part skinned and showing the muscle and eye sockets. My dad, of course, was running around taking pictures of all of the stalls and the bloody tracheas.
In Potosí I also took my parents out for their first salteña (met with generally positive reviews). The owner started chatting with me, and after I gave him a particularly satisfactory answer of my opinions on Evo Morales, he took me to the back of the restaurant and showed me how they make salteñas. It was great, because I tried to make a vegetarian version about a week ago, and although they were tasty, the definitely didn’t look or taste anything much like the street-vendor version. And thanks to my father, we now have a picture of my awkwardly standing next to the 70-year old owner in the back of his kitchen (soon to come).
The most surreal part of the trip happened as we were leaving our hotel – I was carrying my bags out to the taxi driver, and a tall guy in the lobby stopped me and said “Natalie?” I was a bit confused, and said “No, Nadine, wait…how do I know you?” And then he introduced himself as the “Anti-Chris,” a Canadian guy who had read and commented on my blog. (I’ve also run into 4 other Uchicago students randomly in every city I have been to, small world.) I was stunned, and awkwardly asked him how he was enjoying his stay, if he had recognized me from the picture, etc. (If he reads this again I’m sure he can attest to how surreal of an experience it was.) As we conversed about the lack of tourist information about Bolivia (beyond the Lonely Planet Guide), I had the idea to write some mini-reviews of the restaurants, hotels, and sights that I have visited while I’ve been here…so I guess I’ll be working on that for the next few days.
But honestly, what a surreal, ridiculous experience!
miércoles, 29 de agosto de 2007
Sucre, Capital Plena
(I was in Sucre from August 19th to August 21st.)
I arrived in Sucre from Potosí after a 3 hour taxi ride in which our driver used both lanes of traffic to round the corners at 120km/h in a speed zone of 40km/h. About halfway through the ride, as I was attempting to sleep in order to avoid constantly worrying for my life, a burning smell began wafting through the taxi. Our driver pulled over to check the brakes, which were obviously burning at this point, and then told us “Everything is fine, no worries.”
The next morning I headed off to Tarabuco, a small Quechua town about 3 hours outside of Sucre famous for its textiles. The bus ride there gave us beautiful views of the countryside, stark mountains and valleys with a few cacti here and there, an incredibly blue sky contrasted against the reds, oranges, and yellows of the terrain. The town itself was pretty ordinary, and while the textiles were certainly beautiful, I was a bit disappointed that I had seen most of the merchandise previously in La Paz. I got bored walking around, and a bit annoyed by the less-than-passive sales techniques of the vendors (“Mamaciiiiita, por favor…”) I wandered to the edges of the town, past the tourist-friendly parts, to see the mountains and the countryside. It was incredibly rural, with a bit of farmland, some animals sleeping peacefully. I saw few farmers dressed in traditional textiles herding a line of pigs, and I saw a few women taking a break in the shade of a large tree. It was such a relief to get away from the bustle of the inner markets.
Back in Sucre, I was a bit disappointed by how many museums and churches were closed, contrary to the indicated hours of operation. The city is filled with gorgeous white buildings, which gives it a very peaceful air (even if some of the buildings are a bit dirty.) I got a chance to see the Textile Museum, which had a beautiful array of weavings and explanations of the traditions, and also the convent La Recoleta perched on top of a hill, affording a gorgeous view of the city. While I was waiting to buy my entrance ticket into the convent, I saw a woman sitting in the office – it took me several minutes to realize that the skin hanging off of her face was not because she was old, but rather because she was so thin (and yet she was still carrying a heavy load on her back.) I could see the ribs protruding from her chest, and as I looked down at her legs I realized that her calves were thinner than her knees.
Later that day I sat down in the main plaza to take a break, and was immediately approached by an outgoing shoe-shine boy who wanted to polish my beat up converse. I politely declined the offer, but started chatting with him about his life…he was 12 years old, he claimed that he was in school, and his parents lived in the countryside. After about 5 minutes I found myself surrounded by a group of about 5 shoeshine boys, all trying to get me to buy them food or give them money. Unfortunately the original boy wandering away, and I was left to fend off the others, who weren’t nearly as charming. I kept telling them “No, it is not my responsibility to buy you food or give you money.” Part of my really wanted to indulge them, but I knew that it would just reinforce annoying behavior, and more than anything it would continue the wrong kind of relationship that locals have with tourists. Eventually I had to get up and leave because they would not leave my alone.
I think the most interesting part of Sucre for me was seeing the signs everywhere that were protesting about the capital. In contrast to the “La Sede No Se Mueve” signs in La Paz, everywhere in Sucre there were signs saying “Si, La Sede Se Mueve” or “Sucre Capital Plena.” The signs were even more visible there – in people’s windows and on cars – and there was even a car driving around the main plaza playing a propaganda song. There were also students who had tied themselves to the main building as part of a hunger strike. From my understanding, the controversy over the capital has economic and cultural components. I don't have a firm understanding of the controversy, so I can direct you to this article.
So now I am just milling around La Paz, waiting for my parents to arrive tomorrow evening. I’m eager to see their reception of Bolivia – at first it was such an alienating, foreign place to me, but now I feel so comfortable here. I’m also eager to practice my skills as family tour guide, because my parents don’t speak a bit of Spanish. Should be interesting…
I arrived in Sucre from Potosí after a 3 hour taxi ride in which our driver used both lanes of traffic to round the corners at 120km/h in a speed zone of 40km/h. About halfway through the ride, as I was attempting to sleep in order to avoid constantly worrying for my life, a burning smell began wafting through the taxi. Our driver pulled over to check the brakes, which were obviously burning at this point, and then told us “Everything is fine, no worries.”
The next morning I headed off to Tarabuco, a small Quechua town about 3 hours outside of Sucre famous for its textiles. The bus ride there gave us beautiful views of the countryside, stark mountains and valleys with a few cacti here and there, an incredibly blue sky contrasted against the reds, oranges, and yellows of the terrain. The town itself was pretty ordinary, and while the textiles were certainly beautiful, I was a bit disappointed that I had seen most of the merchandise previously in La Paz. I got bored walking around, and a bit annoyed by the less-than-passive sales techniques of the vendors (“Mamaciiiiita, por favor…”) I wandered to the edges of the town, past the tourist-friendly parts, to see the mountains and the countryside. It was incredibly rural, with a bit of farmland, some animals sleeping peacefully. I saw few farmers dressed in traditional textiles herding a line of pigs, and I saw a few women taking a break in the shade of a large tree. It was such a relief to get away from the bustle of the inner markets.
Back in Sucre, I was a bit disappointed by how many museums and churches were closed, contrary to the indicated hours of operation. The city is filled with gorgeous white buildings, which gives it a very peaceful air (even if some of the buildings are a bit dirty.) I got a chance to see the Textile Museum, which had a beautiful array of weavings and explanations of the traditions, and also the convent La Recoleta perched on top of a hill, affording a gorgeous view of the city. While I was waiting to buy my entrance ticket into the convent, I saw a woman sitting in the office – it took me several minutes to realize that the skin hanging off of her face was not because she was old, but rather because she was so thin (and yet she was still carrying a heavy load on her back.) I could see the ribs protruding from her chest, and as I looked down at her legs I realized that her calves were thinner than her knees.
Later that day I sat down in the main plaza to take a break, and was immediately approached by an outgoing shoe-shine boy who wanted to polish my beat up converse. I politely declined the offer, but started chatting with him about his life…he was 12 years old, he claimed that he was in school, and his parents lived in the countryside. After about 5 minutes I found myself surrounded by a group of about 5 shoeshine boys, all trying to get me to buy them food or give them money. Unfortunately the original boy wandering away, and I was left to fend off the others, who weren’t nearly as charming. I kept telling them “No, it is not my responsibility to buy you food or give you money.” Part of my really wanted to indulge them, but I knew that it would just reinforce annoying behavior, and more than anything it would continue the wrong kind of relationship that locals have with tourists. Eventually I had to get up and leave because they would not leave my alone.
I think the most interesting part of Sucre for me was seeing the signs everywhere that were protesting about the capital. In contrast to the “La Sede No Se Mueve” signs in La Paz, everywhere in Sucre there were signs saying “Si, La Sede Se Mueve” or “Sucre Capital Plena.” The signs were even more visible there – in people’s windows and on cars – and there was even a car driving around the main plaza playing a propaganda song. There were also students who had tied themselves to the main building as part of a hunger strike. From my understanding, the controversy over the capital has economic and cultural components. I don't have a firm understanding of the controversy, so I can direct you to this article.
So now I am just milling around La Paz, waiting for my parents to arrive tomorrow evening. I’m eager to see their reception of Bolivia – at first it was such an alienating, foreign place to me, but now I feel so comfortable here. I’m also eager to practice my skills as family tour guide, because my parents don’t speak a bit of Spanish. Should be interesting…
lunes, 27 de agosto de 2007
The Most Terrifying Experience of My Life
After visiting several churches, convents, and the Casa de la Moneda (the museum that details the refinement and use of the silver mined in Cerro Rico, the silver mine that fueled the wealth of the Spanish empire in the colonial era,) the next day I decided to go on a tour of one of the cooperative mines that still functions inside Cerro Rico. When I walked into the tour office the guides (all ex-miners) were chatting in Quechua, and it took me a while to realize that their second language is Spanish. Our first stop was to get our protective clothing, which consisted of bright orange rubber pants, a rubber jacket (held shut with well-used Velcro), rubber boots, a bandana for the face, and a hat with an attachment for a lamp. I was one of the four tourists who opted to take the tour in Spanish, because I figured that the guides would give more details in a language they were more comfortable with (and the rest of the people were annoying British and Irish tourists, so I needed to get away).
Our guide Rolando took us to the Miner’s Market to check out the supplies that the miners take inside the mountain – Bolivian dynamite, fertilizer soaked in diesel fuel (to augment the capacity of the dynamite), coca leaves, soda, 96% sugar cane alcohol. After milling around the market and buying “gifts” for the miners, we went to one of the “ingenios” (silver refineries) to see how they grind up the rock and then purify the minerals with a variety of noxious chemicals. Traveling to the mine entrance (4200 meters) in a severely underpowered bus, I was extremely glad that I had opted to be in the smaller, Spanish speaking group - I heard one of the British girls say “I didn’t buy coca for the miners because I just didn’t have enough money…” I pretty much wanted to smack her for being so ignorant of the mining conditions and the poverty.
I wish that I had been able to take better pictures inside the mine, because I don’t think that anything I say can possibly describe the experience (but here I go anyway.) As we went into the entrance, trying to stay out of the way of the workers manually pushing huge mine cars of ore down the rickety tracks, I was thinking to myself “this isn’t so bad, I can handle this, all I have to do is duck down a bit.” Sure, I was hitting my head every 5 minutes on the ceiling, but I was able to breathe and I didn’t feel the least bit claustrophobic (as I had been warned at the beginning). Our guide turned to our group, asked us if we wanted to go on a “small adventure,” and we nodded in consensus. He brought us over to a 2x2’ hole about 5 feet up in the wall, and motioned for our group (made of me and three very tall, very athletic men) to follow him. I went right after him, and when I had stepped into a small, dark hole I started to have panic attacks. My heart was racing, I was having a hard time breathing, and every part of my body was screaming “GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!” I watched Rolando climb through a hole about was wide as my hips, and I told him “I don’t think I can do this, I’m very afraid.” He looked at me and told me not to worry. At that point I decided that what scares you probably makes you stronger in the end, so I put beside all my fears and started crawling through the incredibly claustrophobic areas.
After about 15 minutes of climbing up and down passageways (at one point I had to shimmy on my back, the ceiling about 3” from my face, and then down a vertical hole), we came to our first group of 5 miners working a small hollow, surrounded by deposits of gold, silver, and lead. We talked to them for a while about their work, their age (one man was 17, looked about 30, and had been working the mine with his dad since he was 14). They had been in the mine for over 24 hours, sleeping, eating, and working. We offered them a few gifts, including the alcohol (which was an awkward experience, certainly meant to bridge the cultural gap, but in reality it had no such effect.) The mixed the alcohol with a bit of soda, and then offered it to our group in a small cup made out of the top of a plastic bottle. We had to offer a little bit to Pachamama, the goddess of the earth, and to the Tio, the evil spirit of the mine, by pouring a tiny bit on the ground. Luckily for me our offerings were quite big, because the stuff we were drinking was quite strong.
As we climbed deeper and deeper into the mine, it became harder to breathe because of the incredible amount of dust in the air. All of the work was done manually, with a hammer and pick, and there were no ventilation systems. When we were on the third level, the heat and feeling of claustrophobia became almost unbearable, and I had to take the bandanna off of my face because I couldn’t bear the feeling of something constricting my breathing, even if it was moderately filtering silicone particles out of my face. After seeing the areas where they lift the ore from the lower levels to the top level to be taken out of the mine, our guide decided to take us back up to the surface. We scurried up a long, nearly vertical shaft for about 20 minutes, and when we finally emerged from the mine, I was thanking the higher ups that I was alive and able to pull air into my lungs. By the end I was glad that I had been chewing on a large wad of coca the entire time, because the combination of altitude and lack of air left me feeling dizzy and exhausted. We were the last group to emerge from the mine, after crawling around for about 2.5 hours (and boy did I feel it in my legs the next day.)
I'm incredibly glad that I went on the tour, but it was the most terrifying and exhilarating experience of my life. Looking back, it's one of those things that you appreciate afterwards, but while it is happening it is horrible. I can't imagine how those miners can work down there, and I now have a tremendous amount of respect for the miners and their way of life. I suppose it also gave me a greater appreciation for the lack of communication that exists between tourists and manual laborers in Bolivia, because in the end our lives are completely different. There is no way I can begin to understand what a miner's life is like.
Our guide Rolando took us to the Miner’s Market to check out the supplies that the miners take inside the mountain – Bolivian dynamite, fertilizer soaked in diesel fuel (to augment the capacity of the dynamite), coca leaves, soda, 96% sugar cane alcohol. After milling around the market and buying “gifts” for the miners, we went to one of the “ingenios” (silver refineries) to see how they grind up the rock and then purify the minerals with a variety of noxious chemicals. Traveling to the mine entrance (4200 meters) in a severely underpowered bus, I was extremely glad that I had opted to be in the smaller, Spanish speaking group - I heard one of the British girls say “I didn’t buy coca for the miners because I just didn’t have enough money…” I pretty much wanted to smack her for being so ignorant of the mining conditions and the poverty.
I wish that I had been able to take better pictures inside the mine, because I don’t think that anything I say can possibly describe the experience (but here I go anyway.) As we went into the entrance, trying to stay out of the way of the workers manually pushing huge mine cars of ore down the rickety tracks, I was thinking to myself “this isn’t so bad, I can handle this, all I have to do is duck down a bit.” Sure, I was hitting my head every 5 minutes on the ceiling, but I was able to breathe and I didn’t feel the least bit claustrophobic (as I had been warned at the beginning). Our guide turned to our group, asked us if we wanted to go on a “small adventure,” and we nodded in consensus. He brought us over to a 2x2’ hole about 5 feet up in the wall, and motioned for our group (made of me and three very tall, very athletic men) to follow him. I went right after him, and when I had stepped into a small, dark hole I started to have panic attacks. My heart was racing, I was having a hard time breathing, and every part of my body was screaming “GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!” I watched Rolando climb through a hole about was wide as my hips, and I told him “I don’t think I can do this, I’m very afraid.” He looked at me and told me not to worry. At that point I decided that what scares you probably makes you stronger in the end, so I put beside all my fears and started crawling through the incredibly claustrophobic areas.
After about 15 minutes of climbing up and down passageways (at one point I had to shimmy on my back, the ceiling about 3” from my face, and then down a vertical hole), we came to our first group of 5 miners working a small hollow, surrounded by deposits of gold, silver, and lead. We talked to them for a while about their work, their age (one man was 17, looked about 30, and had been working the mine with his dad since he was 14). They had been in the mine for over 24 hours, sleeping, eating, and working. We offered them a few gifts, including the alcohol (which was an awkward experience, certainly meant to bridge the cultural gap, but in reality it had no such effect.) The mixed the alcohol with a bit of soda, and then offered it to our group in a small cup made out of the top of a plastic bottle. We had to offer a little bit to Pachamama, the goddess of the earth, and to the Tio, the evil spirit of the mine, by pouring a tiny bit on the ground. Luckily for me our offerings were quite big, because the stuff we were drinking was quite strong.
As we climbed deeper and deeper into the mine, it became harder to breathe because of the incredible amount of dust in the air. All of the work was done manually, with a hammer and pick, and there were no ventilation systems. When we were on the third level, the heat and feeling of claustrophobia became almost unbearable, and I had to take the bandanna off of my face because I couldn’t bear the feeling of something constricting my breathing, even if it was moderately filtering silicone particles out of my face. After seeing the areas where they lift the ore from the lower levels to the top level to be taken out of the mine, our guide decided to take us back up to the surface. We scurried up a long, nearly vertical shaft for about 20 minutes, and when we finally emerged from the mine, I was thanking the higher ups that I was alive and able to pull air into my lungs. By the end I was glad that I had been chewing on a large wad of coca the entire time, because the combination of altitude and lack of air left me feeling dizzy and exhausted. We were the last group to emerge from the mine, after crawling around for about 2.5 hours (and boy did I feel it in my legs the next day.)
I'm incredibly glad that I went on the tour, but it was the most terrifying and exhilarating experience of my life. Looking back, it's one of those things that you appreciate afterwards, but while it is happening it is horrible. I can't imagine how those miners can work down there, and I now have a tremendous amount of respect for the miners and their way of life. I suppose it also gave me a greater appreciation for the lack of communication that exists between tourists and manual laborers in Bolivia, because in the end our lives are completely different. There is no way I can begin to understand what a miner's life is like.
Potosí, Faded Glory
(I was in Potosí from August 16 to August 18th.)
The bus ride from Cochabamba to Potosí (10ish hours) was quite tranquil, even though I have a hard time sleeping on bus camas. As I was getting settled, I became quite annoyed by someone pushing repeatedly on my seat. Usually I try to let those kinds of things go, but after about 5 minutes (I was also trying to write) I stood up and turned around to lecture my bus-mate. Turns out an adorable little girl was squirming on her mothers lap, and as I started asking her not to push on my chair, por favor, I started to melt at her toothless smile and giggling. We ended up chatting for a bit, as she told me she was 5 years old by holding her hand up to my face, and then when I told her how old I was, she asked me “How many hands is that? Show me!” She proudly told me she was “from the campo!” and then as I tried to go back to my writing, she tapped my head a few times and eventually grabbed my nose between her chubby little fingers. As the night wore on and I tried to recline in my seat, I heard her say “You are going to squish me!” I felt kind of bad, as she was laying on top of her mothers lap and it was bound to be uncomfortable, but by that time I was dead tired and need to relax.
My experience with Bolivian children, in general, has been amazing. Aside from the looking at me like I’m an alien, they are incredibly outgoing and friendly. They also have a fascination with being photographed, which is such a change from every other photography experience I have had here. In Cochabamba when I was photographing a museum, a group of school children literally jumped on me, eager to be photographed. It’s so nice, such a relief, that they aren’t yet influenced by the cultural issues that surround photography here. Instead, sheer joy and excitement at seeing a weird machine that can take pictures.
I arrived in a very cold (after Cochabamba) Potosí at about 6:30 in the morning, just as the sun was starting to come up over the mountains. I left my luggage at the bus terminal (not without a bit of fear for its safety) and proceeded to walk towards what I thought was the city center. I ended up going down the wrong side of the hill and getting a fantastic view of the shacks speckled on the red-brown hillsides. Also turns out that I was wandering around arguably the poorest part of the city, so as soon as I realized that there were not beautiful colonial buildings in the near vicinity, I hailed a taxi and went to the city center.
Once I was in the right area, I started wandering down the narrow, cobblestone streets gazing at the beautiful, colorful colonial buildings and the grand churches. At that hour the city was perfectly deserted, and there was none of the dizzying traffic of Cochabamba or La Paz. I found my way over to a tranquil little café to have breakfast, and was a bit startled when I emerged to find the city alive with taxis and people advertising the days papers. Of all of the cities that I have visited thus far, Potosí is by far my favorite – it has preserved a charm that makes it feel miles away from any other part of civilization. Perhaps it’s the altitude, the serene setting among the mountains, the sheer visibility of past glory. But I haven’t felt so peaceful or intrigued by any other place that I have been in Bolivia.
The bus ride from Cochabamba to Potosí (10ish hours) was quite tranquil, even though I have a hard time sleeping on bus camas. As I was getting settled, I became quite annoyed by someone pushing repeatedly on my seat. Usually I try to let those kinds of things go, but after about 5 minutes (I was also trying to write) I stood up and turned around to lecture my bus-mate. Turns out an adorable little girl was squirming on her mothers lap, and as I started asking her not to push on my chair, por favor, I started to melt at her toothless smile and giggling. We ended up chatting for a bit, as she told me she was 5 years old by holding her hand up to my face, and then when I told her how old I was, she asked me “How many hands is that? Show me!” She proudly told me she was “from the campo!” and then as I tried to go back to my writing, she tapped my head a few times and eventually grabbed my nose between her chubby little fingers. As the night wore on and I tried to recline in my seat, I heard her say “You are going to squish me!” I felt kind of bad, as she was laying on top of her mothers lap and it was bound to be uncomfortable, but by that time I was dead tired and need to relax.
My experience with Bolivian children, in general, has been amazing. Aside from the looking at me like I’m an alien, they are incredibly outgoing and friendly. They also have a fascination with being photographed, which is such a change from every other photography experience I have had here. In Cochabamba when I was photographing a museum, a group of school children literally jumped on me, eager to be photographed. It’s so nice, such a relief, that they aren’t yet influenced by the cultural issues that surround photography here. Instead, sheer joy and excitement at seeing a weird machine that can take pictures.
I arrived in a very cold (after Cochabamba) Potosí at about 6:30 in the morning, just as the sun was starting to come up over the mountains. I left my luggage at the bus terminal (not without a bit of fear for its safety) and proceeded to walk towards what I thought was the city center. I ended up going down the wrong side of the hill and getting a fantastic view of the shacks speckled on the red-brown hillsides. Also turns out that I was wandering around arguably the poorest part of the city, so as soon as I realized that there were not beautiful colonial buildings in the near vicinity, I hailed a taxi and went to the city center.
Once I was in the right area, I started wandering down the narrow, cobblestone streets gazing at the beautiful, colorful colonial buildings and the grand churches. At that hour the city was perfectly deserted, and there was none of the dizzying traffic of Cochabamba or La Paz. I found my way over to a tranquil little café to have breakfast, and was a bit startled when I emerged to find the city alive with taxis and people advertising the days papers. Of all of the cities that I have visited thus far, Potosí is by far my favorite – it has preserved a charm that makes it feel miles away from any other part of civilization. Perhaps it’s the altitude, the serene setting among the mountains, the sheer visibility of past glory. But I haven’t felt so peaceful or intrigued by any other place that I have been in Bolivia.
viernes, 24 de agosto de 2007
Cochabamba Heat and Urkupiña
(I was in Cochambamba from August 12th to August 15th.)
Traveling by bus from La Paz to Cochabamba was an interesting experience, not only because I was seated in the only section of the bus with two crying babies, but also because it was my first real view of the vast expanses of the country between cities. Leaving El Alto I had a terrific view of the Altiplano—the small dirt-colored mountains with shacks scattered here and there, the endless dead looking fields. As we got closer to Cochabamba the climate became noticeably warmer, and the flatness gave way to larger mountains and valleys speckled with small bushes and cacti, a few flowers here and there. The variety of socioeconomic classes traveling by bus was also astounding…there was a collection of tourists, businessmen, and campesinos.
When we got to Cochabamba I left my luggage at the station (not without worrying for its safety, even in the “guarantee” of left luggage), and went off to find an internet café. I ended up stripped off several layers of clothing (a shirt, my socks) in the café, causing several people to look at me with the “what the devil is that gringa doing?” expression. But I’ve gotten used to the colder climate in La Paz, so at that point I was pretty much drenched in sweat and I didn’t care how weird it looked.
After Anna (I was in Cochabamba to visit her) got out of her classes, she took me to her house in the suburbs of the city, a pleasant little middle-class barrio full of fenced in houses and flowering trees. Señora Ellie, Anna’s host mother, is an adorable little woman who lives with her extended family and multitude of pets. After I set my things down in Anna’s room we sat down for dinner. While Anna had told me about the ridiculous amount of food Señora Ellie piles onto her plate and expects her to eat every night, I was not really prepared for the sight of my plate – a platter of white porcelain piled about 3 inches high with chuño cooked in peanut sauce and a reddish potato stew served over a bed of potatoes. Balanced meal, right?
The next day we wandered around the town, which seemed surprisingly similar to La Paz, much more so than Sucre or Potosi. There is certainly a warmer climate, which means that there is more vegetation and flowers and color, and there is also a distinct lack of hills. I also noticed that the cholitas have a very distinct method of dress – because the indigenous culture here is mostly quechua, the women wear shorter polleras (skirts), sombrero-like hats (instead of bowler hats), and more colorful textile clothing. And yet the buildings, the bustle, and the general dirtiness of the city felt very familiar to me. It really annoyed me, however, when a man approached Anna and me on the street and warned us “You have to watch out, you have to be careful, those people are looking at you and it’s dangerous to be here!” If you look at all like a tourist, you elicit such a strange range of reactions here in Bolivia. But the assumption that you are helpless (specifically women) and that you have no idea what you are doing drives me crazy.
On Tuesday we headed off to Urkupiña, the folkloric festival for the Cochabamba department. It’s held in Quillacollo, which has a similar relationship to the main part of the city as El Alto does to La Paz, and drew in a large crowd of not only city-dwellers, but also campesinos. After wandering around for 20 minutes, guided by a very vague and hand-drawn map, we finally found our seats. The dancers, accompanied by local musicians, danced down the streets surrounded on each side by cheering crowds of people. The colors of the costumes, along with the energy of the dancers, was incredible – depending on what dance and what part of the country, the costumes were full of sequences, ruffles, feathers, traditional textiles, elaborate masks. The parade, I guess you could call it, was so much more alive (even with the horribly out of tune Bolivian bands) than any celebration in the United States.
By 6:00 the entire crowd was drunk, and by nightfall people was singing and dancing in the streets, now heaped with piles of beer cans and food wrappers. I had no idea how to do any of the dances, but because I was standing along the side moving to the beat and one of the only gringos in the area, I was repeatedly dragged into the crowd to join the dancers. There were, of course, the fair number of sketchy and drunk men, but thankfully Anna and I were able to avoid any issues. It was tremendously liberating that people were excited to see foreigners participating (in contrast to the usual mistrust and hostility). It’s sad to me that it seems like flowing alcohol is a necessary prerequisite for cultural mixing, but it’s still thrilling that people were friendly, and came up to us asking “Where are you from!?” and “How do you like Bolivia?!” All of the revelry was of course accompanied by the “look at that fool of a gringo dancing” and the customary “make the gringo drink” (people would come by and demand that you take a sip of their beer, and if you refused they would look at you with a confused and offended expression), but I have never felt so part of Bolivian culture. In all my time in La Paz, I have never been able to break down that barrier, and I have never been so filled with energy. The color of my skin, the difference in my education…in the moment that I was attempting (rather badly) to dance tinku in the street, none of it mattered.
At the end of the night the crowd was quite out of hand, and the streets were so filled that the dances were unable to proceed. We left at about 11:00 when they were performing dance #56 of 80. The night had been generally quite good-spirited, but after Anna’s camera had been stolen and another tourist’s bag had been slit open, we decided that the atmosphere was decidedly a bit more dangerous. The next morning Anna and I recounted our adventures to Señora Ellie, and as I explained my perception of Bolivian men and their wandering hands, Señora Ellie’s reaction was priceless: she told us that we had to “kick them where it hurts,” complete with a demonstration and high pitched squeals and giggling.
Traveling by bus from La Paz to Cochabamba was an interesting experience, not only because I was seated in the only section of the bus with two crying babies, but also because it was my first real view of the vast expanses of the country between cities. Leaving El Alto I had a terrific view of the Altiplano—the small dirt-colored mountains with shacks scattered here and there, the endless dead looking fields. As we got closer to Cochabamba the climate became noticeably warmer, and the flatness gave way to larger mountains and valleys speckled with small bushes and cacti, a few flowers here and there. The variety of socioeconomic classes traveling by bus was also astounding…there was a collection of tourists, businessmen, and campesinos.
When we got to Cochabamba I left my luggage at the station (not without worrying for its safety, even in the “guarantee” of left luggage), and went off to find an internet café. I ended up stripped off several layers of clothing (a shirt, my socks) in the café, causing several people to look at me with the “what the devil is that gringa doing?” expression. But I’ve gotten used to the colder climate in La Paz, so at that point I was pretty much drenched in sweat and I didn’t care how weird it looked.
After Anna (I was in Cochabamba to visit her) got out of her classes, she took me to her house in the suburbs of the city, a pleasant little middle-class barrio full of fenced in houses and flowering trees. Señora Ellie, Anna’s host mother, is an adorable little woman who lives with her extended family and multitude of pets. After I set my things down in Anna’s room we sat down for dinner. While Anna had told me about the ridiculous amount of food Señora Ellie piles onto her plate and expects her to eat every night, I was not really prepared for the sight of my plate – a platter of white porcelain piled about 3 inches high with chuño cooked in peanut sauce and a reddish potato stew served over a bed of potatoes. Balanced meal, right?
The next day we wandered around the town, which seemed surprisingly similar to La Paz, much more so than Sucre or Potosi. There is certainly a warmer climate, which means that there is more vegetation and flowers and color, and there is also a distinct lack of hills. I also noticed that the cholitas have a very distinct method of dress – because the indigenous culture here is mostly quechua, the women wear shorter polleras (skirts), sombrero-like hats (instead of bowler hats), and more colorful textile clothing. And yet the buildings, the bustle, and the general dirtiness of the city felt very familiar to me. It really annoyed me, however, when a man approached Anna and me on the street and warned us “You have to watch out, you have to be careful, those people are looking at you and it’s dangerous to be here!” If you look at all like a tourist, you elicit such a strange range of reactions here in Bolivia. But the assumption that you are helpless (specifically women) and that you have no idea what you are doing drives me crazy.
On Tuesday we headed off to Urkupiña, the folkloric festival for the Cochabamba department. It’s held in Quillacollo, which has a similar relationship to the main part of the city as El Alto does to La Paz, and drew in a large crowd of not only city-dwellers, but also campesinos. After wandering around for 20 minutes, guided by a very vague and hand-drawn map, we finally found our seats. The dancers, accompanied by local musicians, danced down the streets surrounded on each side by cheering crowds of people. The colors of the costumes, along with the energy of the dancers, was incredible – depending on what dance and what part of the country, the costumes were full of sequences, ruffles, feathers, traditional textiles, elaborate masks. The parade, I guess you could call it, was so much more alive (even with the horribly out of tune Bolivian bands) than any celebration in the United States.
By 6:00 the entire crowd was drunk, and by nightfall people was singing and dancing in the streets, now heaped with piles of beer cans and food wrappers. I had no idea how to do any of the dances, but because I was standing along the side moving to the beat and one of the only gringos in the area, I was repeatedly dragged into the crowd to join the dancers. There were, of course, the fair number of sketchy and drunk men, but thankfully Anna and I were able to avoid any issues. It was tremendously liberating that people were excited to see foreigners participating (in contrast to the usual mistrust and hostility). It’s sad to me that it seems like flowing alcohol is a necessary prerequisite for cultural mixing, but it’s still thrilling that people were friendly, and came up to us asking “Where are you from!?” and “How do you like Bolivia?!” All of the revelry was of course accompanied by the “look at that fool of a gringo dancing” and the customary “make the gringo drink” (people would come by and demand that you take a sip of their beer, and if you refused they would look at you with a confused and offended expression), but I have never felt so part of Bolivian culture. In all my time in La Paz, I have never been able to break down that barrier, and I have never been so filled with energy. The color of my skin, the difference in my education…in the moment that I was attempting (rather badly) to dance tinku in the street, none of it mattered.
At the end of the night the crowd was quite out of hand, and the streets were so filled that the dances were unable to proceed. We left at about 11:00 when they were performing dance #56 of 80. The night had been generally quite good-spirited, but after Anna’s camera had been stolen and another tourist’s bag had been slit open, we decided that the atmosphere was decidedly a bit more dangerous. The next morning Anna and I recounted our adventures to Señora Ellie, and as I explained my perception of Bolivian men and their wandering hands, Señora Ellie’s reaction was priceless: she told us that we had to “kick them where it hurts,” complete with a demonstration and high pitched squeals and giggling.
jueves, 23 de agosto de 2007
Picture Slideshow
Now that my time here is (sadly) coming to an end, here's a slideshow of some of the photo highlights, enjoy.
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