I'm only days away from flying to La Habana, Cuba. It won't be long till I am counting down for New Years 2009, over indulging in some mojitos, that will, more than likely, lubricate my spirits for singing 'the Internationale' euphorically more than what would be required. I had been infatuated with the idea of spending new years in Cuba with close friends, celebrating 50 years since the triumph of the revolution, since I began travelling.
At times, the months that have passed feel like years. Occasionally, the events and circumstances that have led up to the here and now provide for some quiet reflection...
I had left Peru for Venezuela on November 4, it was an extremely emotional and stressful trip. The day began with two close friends missing their flight to Spain. I had put them in a taxi and slipped them some money to help out. After checking-in for my flight, I made my way to customs. I had entered Peru with my chilean I.D card, perfectly acceptable with the border countries of Chile. I presented my documents to the customs official, he looked up and coldly stated that I was unable to leave the country, to do so I would need a passport. Undeterred, I handed over my chilean passport. However, he elaborated, that it necessary to leave the country with the same method as I entered, that it is illegal to board a flight with an I.D card. Asking for a solution, he recommended I return to Chile and re-enter Peru with my passport. The flight was due to leave in 30 mins, Chile was a day's trip away. Beginning to stress, and thinking that I would see my Spanish friends sooner than expected, I demanded to see his supervisor. The official agreed to go and grab him, however, he explained that the supervisor would tell me the exact same thing.
Ten, long, agonising minutes passed. I paced around in a circle thinking of what to do. I looked in my wallet, and thought of what would be an appropriate number, one that would be too juicy to be turned down. I placed $60 US in the sleeve of my passport. The same official returned, with no supervisor in sight. He explained the supervisor is preoccupied but would be on his way.
- I quietly asked, "surely, there is a way that I would be able to acquire an entry-stamp for my passport, perhaps I could purchase one?¨
The official looked around and under his breath responded, ¨how much?¨...
- ¨60 dollars¨, I replied, and moved the passport towards him.
- ¨No, its okay, leave it there¨, he ordered. Grabbing the passport, he swiftly took out the money. He then reached into his briefcase and pulled out a stamp.
-¨What date do you want?¨
-¨The same as on my other one¨, I replied, trying to hide the flabbergasted smirk.
The exit-stamp soon followed. It was done. It all happened so quickly, and played out like a movie. I arrived at the boarding gate. There was a duty-free shop close by, where I bought a bottle of Pisco (peruvian white rum) - I needed one...
During my time in Venezuela I have been basing my operations mainly out of Caracas. I've managed to live with some comrades, which has aided the fading budget enormously. Being on edge for the first few days, I quickly adapted to the uniqueness of Caracas. The gunshots at night are no longer perturbing - Caracas has one of the highest crime rates in the world. Caracas is not ascetically pleasing, but Venezuela has something far more interesting to offer: a social revolution. There are a gamut of activities, festivals, cultural events, and people to engage with. Venezuelans are very helpful people and it is not hard to make friends. It did not take long before I had befriended some radicals that were able to introduce me far deeper into the process of change and the social life in Caracas, of course.
It had been an anxious, emotional and exciting day when my dear brisbane friends - Lauren, Andrew, Naomi and Dom - arrived in Caracas. Our friendship seemed continuous, as though I hadn't left. Throughout my travels I reminisced of the past, so from the day they arrived till the day they left Venezuela, I soaked up as much of their company as possible. Fortunately, I will be seeing them in Cuba shortly, to share another unique experience.
On November 19, I participated in the Australia-Venezuela Solidarity Network (AVSN) brigade, which is a political tour of Venezuela highlighting the achievements of the revolution. I had acquired a concession rate in exchange for being a translator. The tour consisted in, amongst other things, meeting various intellectuals; visiting the social missions, where free education and health care is provided; touring historical sites; touring alternative media groups; and, observing a multitude of red shirts at rallies. Although offering some interesting meetings and trips, I found it, at times, a bit too propagandistic and rhetorical for my likening, which equals boring and utterly mind numbing. Sometimes speakers would only touch the surface of an interesting topic rather than going deeper.
Recently, I had been preoccupied with sorting out my life. Having a vague idea of what I want to do after travels is one thing; actually achieving this is another. The inspiring conjuncture that Venezuela lives has attracted me to the place more than what I first thought. The conditions to form and capacitate myself as an individual, the ability to participate in a revolutionary situation and learn from it are prevalent in Venezuela. Therefore - and perhaps without much surprise - I have decided to stay here. The best method to channel this is, and not without its flaws and criticisms, is by studying at the Bolivarian University. I am hoping on undertaking an undergraduate degree in politics and governments.
However, as I have discovered in the last few days, I will need to return to my "country of origin" to process my application for a student visa. I will admit that I had considered returning to Australia at the end of 2009, and when I discovered how cheap the return flights cost, the sensation of an idea able to become a reality overwhelmed me, and the floodgate of memories and homesickness dawned upon me for a while. Now, due to the circumstances, I will be returning in early 2009. Although I have not reserved my flight it is looking to be around March for about 4-6 months. That's right. I'm coming home!
************
Photos:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=74838&l=f9d96&id=732774973
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
My Inca Trail
After spending the September days of spring with my family I was now back on the road. Retaking my adventure in La Paz, the futherest point of journey up until then, I spent the days frivolously, taking advantage of the time to enjoy the company of my Bolivian friends. Upon leaving La Paz, after an over than expected stay, the feeling of solitude seeped in, a sensation that I have become familiar with, particularly after leaving people and places that has become a home. Nevertheless, discovering new places and befriending new people would feel this void.
Spending a few days in Copacabana, which hugs Lake Titicaca, was the first point of my journey. Exploring, and understanding, the ruins of civilisations that had passed was to mark a new chapter in my odyssey. From Copacabana I travelled by boat to La Isla Del Sol (Island of the Sun) a significant area for the Tiwanaku people, where the ruins are still used for spiritual purposes. The expansive lake gives the impression of an endless ocean. I had met an enjoyable Argentinian couple whom I comparted my travel around Titicaca with.
Setting my sights to Peru, and satisfied with Copacabana, I took a day trip on a bus to Arequipa, the white city, aptly named for the predominate white stone used in its construction. The distinctly conserved and developed Spanish colonial architecture was impressive. I also had the pleasure of reuniting with Lara - an English woman that was seated next to me on the bus were we kepted each other entertained - on a few occassions, that made the time in Arequipa enjoyable.
Being ambivalent of undertaking a 3 day trekking tour of the Colca Canyon from Arequipa, due to the less than pleasurable experience I had with a group tour in Uyuni, I finally decided to accept due to the positive feedback I had received. I had made the right choice, as the people and scenary were equally fantastic. Throughout the trip I forged a really close bond with Olivia, a young Spanish woman, and made some good friends with the other travellers. The daily treks up and down the canyon were extremly arduous, but satisfying once you reached your destination. On the 2nd day we reached an oasis, with swimming pools, palm trees and huts in the valley of the canyon, and we bathed in the serenity of this paradise. On the final day it was a grueling climb up the mountain, reaching the peak of the canyon the Julius Caesar's saying "Veni Vidi Vici" ("I came, I saw, I conquered.") came to mind.
That night, on the return to Arequipa, I had learned of blockade of main roads leading into Cuzco; however, not deterred by this I was keen to continue immediately. No respectable bus company were transitting this route; but I had found one bus that was boarding to go. I embarked the bus, finding no seat I settled for the less than comfortable floor in the drivers cabin, where I managed to sleep, and slightly recover from the trek for a while (here, on the floor, I seriously thought, "this is all part of the experience"). The bus arrived in Sicuani, the epicentre of the blockade, at 4:00am. At 5:00ish I decided to start walking, with the hope of quickly passing the blockade to find another bus to take me to Cuzco. However, things were not so simple. Befriending a priest, we proceded from one blockade to the next, taking any kind transport that was available to advance... 8 long, blistering hours later, 4 of them walking with my 18 kilo backpack, I finally reached Cuzco.
Cuzco, the naval of the world, as the Inca's knew it, was the political, economic, spiritual, and administrative centre of the grandiose Inca Empire. Tawantinsuyo, as the Empire was known, was the largest pre-colombian Empire in the Americas. Although the Empire spanned a few hundred years (estimated 1100 A.D - 1532 A.D), and expanded in an extraoridinary amount of time, it was the articulation of knowledge and experience from previous peoples of the Americas that were foundations of this civilisation. Passing through the streets of Cuzco it is remarkable to see the original stone walls of the Inca's still standing and forged with Spanish colonial architecture. The conquest and imposition of Spanish civilisation is palable (and sad), as the old Inca temples and ruins were used as the foundation for churhes and a New World Order. Cuzco is immensely impressive in both culture and history.
Meeting up with my dear friends, Olivia and her partner Alberto, we booked an overpriced tour (as they all are) to Machu Picchu. We spent 2 days and 2 nights on our journey. Along the way we toured the Sacred Valley, which still retains monuments, ruins, and the vestiges of a Inca village, Ollantaytambo. Needless to say, the highlight was the awesome Machu Picchu. No words could describe this marvel or the emotions you feel when you pass through the ruins of an ancient world. All I can say is that Machu Picchu would have to be the highlight of my entire trip, thus far. We had the fortune to spend the entire day there, from 7:00am - 4:00pm. Thankfully, the old gringos did not overcrowd the place, so at times you can find yourself alone. Also, we took the opporunity to climb up Waynu Picchu, the iconic mountain behind Machu, for a magnificent view of the historic ruins.
On Thursday, October 30, returning to Cuzco, Olivia, Alberto and I took an overnight bus to Lima. They departed to Iquitos, far away in the tropics of the Amazon for a few days, and were to return shortly; however, I realised how much we had bonded when the familiar feeling of lonliness creeped in. But meeting up with my extended family in Lima from the side of my sister-in-law, Guisela, was great.
On Tuesday, November 4, I left to revolutionary Venezuela. It was a stressful and emotional trip (I will save that story for the next post). Shortly, some familiar faces will arrive and I will soon see my long-lost friends from BrisVegas. I intend to stay here till the end of the year, then, hopefully, travel with the crazy kids from Brisbane to Cuba. The idea of seeing them has got me really excited. I eagerly await to explore and understand Venezuela, who knows what will happen here though...
***
Photos:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=65353&l=0028c&id=732774973
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=65764&l=6eea9&id=732774973
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=65997&l=e096e&id=732774973
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=65353&l=0028c&id=732774973
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=65764&l=6eea9&id=732774973
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=65997&l=e096e&id=732774973
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Southern Cone And Back Again
Exactly 6 months to day - March 23 -, at least here, since I said goodbye to my loving family, my adorable friends, and my dear comrades, I have traveled the Southern Cone of South America - Chile, Argentina, and Bolivia. While it does not seem like that long ago since I left, upon closer reflection, I have seen, experienced, and learned a lot. But I am only half way through my odyssey, with the rest of Latin America still left to conquer.
My loving parents, whom I keep in frequent contact with since I left, had come to Chile for a 3 month holiday since late July. In late June they went to Arica, Northern Chile. Having previously arranged to meet them there I was, once again, set back by a few days by a mild stomach bug in Bolivia. But finally, after settling down in La Paz for 3 months, I departed from Bolivia, who I had fallen in love with, to reunite with my parents. It was a refreshing and exciting reunion with my family. We spent the short time we had together catching up and enjoying each others company. They were to return to Central Chile, as was I, only I was going through Argentina.
I had befriended an Argentinian in La Paz who had explained that his father was going to pick him, and his girlfriend up from the Argentine-Bolivian border for a road trip back to Buenos Aires, he offered me a ride, which was too delicious to decline. The idea was to meet up in Argentina and continue along the way to Buenos Aires.
It was a long, long 24 hour bus ride from Arica, to Salta, Argentina. After recuperating from the trip, I took the opportunity to explore the city. After two nights in Salta, and somewhat impatient to move on, I began to sense that my road trip wasn't coming. I had learned with other matters, and with the timeless Bolivian proverb - "everything is possible, nothing is certain" - to not rely on any one option. Having received no word from my potential ride, I decided it was a no show, and the following day bought a bus ticket on the "executive class" to Buenos Aires, Argentina.
The underdevelopment of a railway system in Argentina has produced a network of efficient highways, and a plethora of luxurious, affordable bus companies that service them. With leather bound seats that recline to a bed, endless movies, and a service attendant that provided meals and beverages, the 20 hour bus ride was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Never had I slept straight through on a bus to wake up and practically be at my destination.
I was back where it all began: Buenos Aires! Martin Spada - who I had originally met through the couch surfing community and stayed with for a week on my first visit to Buenos Aires - and I had formed a warm friendship since I first arrived on his doorstep. He, and his caring sister Fabiana, had welcomed me back like a brother. Our friendship was as though I hadn't left.
Although it was a pleasure to see the Spada's, Buenos Aires, and other acquaintances, I had an alternate motive to visit Buenos Aires. Lately, and with more frequency, I began questioning what my plans are for when I finish traveling? - after all, this particular odyssey does have to end, but only for another one to begin. While in Australia, and when asked about my thoughts about life after traveling, I had always stated my intention to resume university studies. The history, culture and politics of Latin America have always attracted me. It would only be natural to study this here in Latin America. The University of Buenos Aires is recognised as one of the most prestigious and considered to be intellectually rich in culture. I had come to Buenos Aires to enquire about the possibility of studying sociology. The idea of undertaking this is beginning to manifest: orientating my travels to conclude at the beginning of the first semester of 2009, organising the necessary paper work, and beginning to see a future life in Buenos Aires.
After a few days in Buenos Aires, the time had come to move on, with my destination being Santiago de Chile. I took the overnight bus to Cordoba, where friends of the family were awaiting to greet me. I wasted no time (as I didn't have much time to waste) in traveling to Alta Gracia, where Ernesto 'Che' Guevara had lived for 11 years of his childhood. The Guevara family had moved there due to ease Ernestito's chronic asthma. His house converted to a museum, adorned with photos, writings, and replicas, is a testament to his revolutionary life, rather than to his childhood.
Staying only one night in Cordoba, I travelled on another overnight bus to the tranquil city of Mendoza. However, I only had half a day to explore the city before embarking on a minibus for a 6 hour trip to Santiago de Chile. Passing through the Andes mountain range was spectacular, I saw and touched (yes, touched!) snow for the first time. Going back for a ski trip would be something, perhaps one day.
The dash across Argentina was because I had always intended to be back in Santiago and commemorate "the other" September 11 - the day when Chile changed for the worst with the overthrow of the democratically elected president Salvador Allende in a military coup by Augusto Pinochet. That evening I made a brief note: "There is a past that I had never lived, but feel intimately linked with. I had never been in Chile to commemorate September 11. It is a sad day. Chile was callously crushed, and, until now, it has not fully recovered. I feel a sense of mourning for the past, disheartened by the present, but optimistic for the future. Although the "official" acts organized by the government in recent years to commemorate September 11 have been downsized, I wanted to participate, to make sure that this day isn't forgotten, that the victims and heroes of then live in the here and now". The unofficial rally took place that following Sunday, where the police, once again, repressed the crowd.
Currently, I am staying with my parents, who have a cabin in the Chilean countryside, near the port town of San Antonio. The rolling green hills give the impression that your in Scotland (even though I had never been). From the top of the hill where we frequently dawdle and chat, you can see the Pacific Ocean. It is a serene place, where you can sit down, be at peace and almost forget that there is another world out there.
I will be here for the next week or so, after which I will retake my travels through Peru, with my destination being Venezuela then Cuba. I am very enthusiastic about this next part of my odyssey and look forward to all that awaits. Until then I will appreciate and savor the short time I have left with my family, as I am not sure when I will be seeing them again.
Photos:
http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=57798&l=deb90&id=732774973
My loving parents, whom I keep in frequent contact with since I left, had come to Chile for a 3 month holiday since late July. In late June they went to Arica, Northern Chile. Having previously arranged to meet them there I was, once again, set back by a few days by a mild stomach bug in Bolivia. But finally, after settling down in La Paz for 3 months, I departed from Bolivia, who I had fallen in love with, to reunite with my parents. It was a refreshing and exciting reunion with my family. We spent the short time we had together catching up and enjoying each others company. They were to return to Central Chile, as was I, only I was going through Argentina.
I had befriended an Argentinian in La Paz who had explained that his father was going to pick him, and his girlfriend up from the Argentine-Bolivian border for a road trip back to Buenos Aires, he offered me a ride, which was too delicious to decline. The idea was to meet up in Argentina and continue along the way to Buenos Aires.
It was a long, long 24 hour bus ride from Arica, to Salta, Argentina. After recuperating from the trip, I took the opportunity to explore the city. After two nights in Salta, and somewhat impatient to move on, I began to sense that my road trip wasn't coming. I had learned with other matters, and with the timeless Bolivian proverb - "everything is possible, nothing is certain" - to not rely on any one option. Having received no word from my potential ride, I decided it was a no show, and the following day bought a bus ticket on the "executive class" to Buenos Aires, Argentina.
The underdevelopment of a railway system in Argentina has produced a network of efficient highways, and a plethora of luxurious, affordable bus companies that service them. With leather bound seats that recline to a bed, endless movies, and a service attendant that provided meals and beverages, the 20 hour bus ride was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Never had I slept straight through on a bus to wake up and practically be at my destination.
I was back where it all began: Buenos Aires! Martin Spada - who I had originally met through the couch surfing community and stayed with for a week on my first visit to Buenos Aires - and I had formed a warm friendship since I first arrived on his doorstep. He, and his caring sister Fabiana, had welcomed me back like a brother. Our friendship was as though I hadn't left.
Although it was a pleasure to see the Spada's, Buenos Aires, and other acquaintances, I had an alternate motive to visit Buenos Aires. Lately, and with more frequency, I began questioning what my plans are for when I finish traveling? - after all, this particular odyssey does have to end, but only for another one to begin. While in Australia, and when asked about my thoughts about life after traveling, I had always stated my intention to resume university studies. The history, culture and politics of Latin America have always attracted me. It would only be natural to study this here in Latin America. The University of Buenos Aires is recognised as one of the most prestigious and considered to be intellectually rich in culture. I had come to Buenos Aires to enquire about the possibility of studying sociology. The idea of undertaking this is beginning to manifest: orientating my travels to conclude at the beginning of the first semester of 2009, organising the necessary paper work, and beginning to see a future life in Buenos Aires.
After a few days in Buenos Aires, the time had come to move on, with my destination being Santiago de Chile. I took the overnight bus to Cordoba, where friends of the family were awaiting to greet me. I wasted no time (as I didn't have much time to waste) in traveling to Alta Gracia, where Ernesto 'Che' Guevara had lived for 11 years of his childhood. The Guevara family had moved there due to ease Ernestito's chronic asthma. His house converted to a museum, adorned with photos, writings, and replicas, is a testament to his revolutionary life, rather than to his childhood.
Staying only one night in Cordoba, I travelled on another overnight bus to the tranquil city of Mendoza. However, I only had half a day to explore the city before embarking on a minibus for a 6 hour trip to Santiago de Chile. Passing through the Andes mountain range was spectacular, I saw and touched (yes, touched!) snow for the first time. Going back for a ski trip would be something, perhaps one day.
The dash across Argentina was because I had always intended to be back in Santiago and commemorate "the other" September 11 - the day when Chile changed for the worst with the overthrow of the democratically elected president Salvador Allende in a military coup by Augusto Pinochet. That evening I made a brief note: "There is a past that I had never lived, but feel intimately linked with. I had never been in Chile to commemorate September 11. It is a sad day. Chile was callously crushed, and, until now, it has not fully recovered. I feel a sense of mourning for the past, disheartened by the present, but optimistic for the future. Although the "official" acts organized by the government in recent years to commemorate September 11 have been downsized, I wanted to participate, to make sure that this day isn't forgotten, that the victims and heroes of then live in the here and now". The unofficial rally took place that following Sunday, where the police, once again, repressed the crowd.
Currently, I am staying with my parents, who have a cabin in the Chilean countryside, near the port town of San Antonio. The rolling green hills give the impression that your in Scotland (even though I had never been). From the top of the hill where we frequently dawdle and chat, you can see the Pacific Ocean. It is a serene place, where you can sit down, be at peace and almost forget that there is another world out there.
I will be here for the next week or so, after which I will retake my travels through Peru, with my destination being Venezuela then Cuba. I am very enthusiastic about this next part of my odyssey and look forward to all that awaits. Until then I will appreciate and savor the short time I have left with my family, as I am not sure when I will be seeing them again.
Photos:
http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=57798&l=deb90&id=732774973
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Bolivia Adelante
Previously, I had stated my intentions to go to Santa Cruz and observe the recall referendum of August 10. Why Santa Cruz? Because it is the most politically divided region, at times escalating into street skirmishes. A hot spot to be in. But I had never been there either, so it would be a interesting place to explore. There is also a saying: the most beautiful women in the world are in Santa Cruz.
In my last post, I had also stated that I needed to travel "under-cover", or risk being identified as a leftist and be beaten to the side of the curb. The time had finally come, I went to the hair-dresser to get butchered. Subsequently, I must admit, that it was like looking at a stranger in the mirror. I think peoples most common reaction was "wah!". In my photos, most people may not recognise the face staring back at them, don't be alarmed, for it is only me.
Unfortunately, some miscoordination on my behalf had me miss the overnight bus to Santa Cruz. Still itching to get out of La Paz I decided to go to Cochabamba for the weekend to observe the referendum. Cochabamba, at time, seemed like the next best thing: the governing prefect was contesting that the referendum was illegal, and there were rumors of shock groups being mobilised.
A few days before the referendum I had got accredited as an international(ist) journalist. Upon arriving in Cochabamba I immediately went to the Electoral Court to request authorisation for transport - during the weekend there was a curfew in place, to avoid any form of confrontation, and only those authorised could drive on the day.
On Sunday, August 10, the day of the referendum had turned out unexpected: quiet. No street fights; no fascist gangs; no burning tires - just quietness. It had taken me till the afternoon before I got some wheels. A few friends and I then traveled around Cochabamba, visiting the electoral booths, where I took the opportunity to interview people. It was a interesting experience to listen to peoples varied opinions. However, to actually transcribe these interviews into a coherent article is some hard labor, one which I haven't got around to.
During the evening the results came in: Evo Morales, the indigenous president, was ratified with 63% (67% final count, a historic vote); the prefect for Cochabamba, Manfred Reyes Villa, was revoked with 60%. In the evening, at the government party (MAS) headquarters, the festivities were underway. Outside the prefects office, the people were heckling him.
The following day I had unique opportunity to attend a press conference were the prefect gave a rabid, delusional speech. Afterwards, I interviewed the director of MAS of Cochabamba to compose an article. But the article was only valid for one day, as the prefect soon resigned. Nevertheless, it was a interesting insight.
I was soon accompanied in Cochabamba by Maria-Elena - a young Colombian woman, who, like me, is traveling through South America, but on her way to Buenos Aires, Argentina, and decided to live in La Paz for a while. Circumstances had it that my weekend stay turned into a week. That weekend, Maria-Elena and I were eager to go La Higuera, where Comandante Che Guevara was captured and executed, until we discovered it was a 12 hour bus ride in a what looked like an extremely uncomfortable bus - we decided not to proceed, as our timeframe was tight. Still desiring to escape Cocha, we chose to go the Tropic of Cochabamba, Chapare.
Arriving in Villa Tunari, Chapare, at 2am after an 8 hour bus trip, in what was suppose to be a 4 hour trip, Maria-Elena and I wandered around looking for accommodation. We had stumbled onto a cheap hostel that had a river view, the sound of the rapids gives the impression that it is raining. However, the next day, in an attempt to escape the humidity we booked into a hotel with a swimming pool, were we lounged around for the weekend. Our idea of visiting a coca farm, which is the main harvest in this region, was foiled by our laziness, and inability to adjust to the humidity.
On Sunday, August 16, we returned to Cocha, in a mini-van that played chicken with on coming traffic, but you learn to accept the notion of a cliff drop death, and then just appreciate the marvelous view. Upon arriving in Cocha, and with no time to waste, I took the evening bus to La Paz, whilst Maria-Elena stayed in Cocha to work on an independent film as assistant art director.
The last week in La Paz has been some what tedious: finishing up my charango lessons, buying some souvenirs, losing at poker (I've concluded that I am a horrible poker player, and serve the purpose of someone else's jackpot), and, once again, getting sick with a mild case of stomach bacteria that left my in bed for a day.
Apart from that I am looking forward to traveling to Arica, Chile, which is supposedly a 7 hour bus trip, in the next few days to visit my parents who are holidaying there. Thereafter, and unless there are no unexpected events in Arica, I may travel to northern Argentina to a catch a ride with a friend who's dad is picking him up there, for some cross-country adventures. In September I will return to Santiago, Chile, to visit my parents and family and stay there for a month.
***
Photos:
http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=52869&l=91d96&id=732774973
In my last post, I had also stated that I needed to travel "under-cover", or risk being identified as a leftist and be beaten to the side of the curb. The time had finally come, I went to the hair-dresser to get butchered. Subsequently, I must admit, that it was like looking at a stranger in the mirror. I think peoples most common reaction was "wah!". In my photos, most people may not recognise the face staring back at them, don't be alarmed, for it is only me.
Unfortunately, some miscoordination on my behalf had me miss the overnight bus to Santa Cruz. Still itching to get out of La Paz I decided to go to Cochabamba for the weekend to observe the referendum. Cochabamba, at time, seemed like the next best thing: the governing prefect was contesting that the referendum was illegal, and there were rumors of shock groups being mobilised.
A few days before the referendum I had got accredited as an international(ist) journalist. Upon arriving in Cochabamba I immediately went to the Electoral Court to request authorisation for transport - during the weekend there was a curfew in place, to avoid any form of confrontation, and only those authorised could drive on the day.
On Sunday, August 10, the day of the referendum had turned out unexpected: quiet. No street fights; no fascist gangs; no burning tires - just quietness. It had taken me till the afternoon before I got some wheels. A few friends and I then traveled around Cochabamba, visiting the electoral booths, where I took the opportunity to interview people. It was a interesting experience to listen to peoples varied opinions. However, to actually transcribe these interviews into a coherent article is some hard labor, one which I haven't got around to.
During the evening the results came in: Evo Morales, the indigenous president, was ratified with 63% (67% final count, a historic vote); the prefect for Cochabamba, Manfred Reyes Villa, was revoked with 60%. In the evening, at the government party (MAS) headquarters, the festivities were underway. Outside the prefects office, the people were heckling him.
The following day I had unique opportunity to attend a press conference were the prefect gave a rabid, delusional speech. Afterwards, I interviewed the director of MAS of Cochabamba to compose an article. But the article was only valid for one day, as the prefect soon resigned. Nevertheless, it was a interesting insight.
I was soon accompanied in Cochabamba by Maria-Elena - a young Colombian woman, who, like me, is traveling through South America, but on her way to Buenos Aires, Argentina, and decided to live in La Paz for a while. Circumstances had it that my weekend stay turned into a week. That weekend, Maria-Elena and I were eager to go La Higuera, where Comandante Che Guevara was captured and executed, until we discovered it was a 12 hour bus ride in a what looked like an extremely uncomfortable bus - we decided not to proceed, as our timeframe was tight. Still desiring to escape Cocha, we chose to go the Tropic of Cochabamba, Chapare.
Arriving in Villa Tunari, Chapare, at 2am after an 8 hour bus trip, in what was suppose to be a 4 hour trip, Maria-Elena and I wandered around looking for accommodation. We had stumbled onto a cheap hostel that had a river view, the sound of the rapids gives the impression that it is raining. However, the next day, in an attempt to escape the humidity we booked into a hotel with a swimming pool, were we lounged around for the weekend. Our idea of visiting a coca farm, which is the main harvest in this region, was foiled by our laziness, and inability to adjust to the humidity.
On Sunday, August 16, we returned to Cocha, in a mini-van that played chicken with on coming traffic, but you learn to accept the notion of a cliff drop death, and then just appreciate the marvelous view. Upon arriving in Cocha, and with no time to waste, I took the evening bus to La Paz, whilst Maria-Elena stayed in Cocha to work on an independent film as assistant art director.
The last week in La Paz has been some what tedious: finishing up my charango lessons, buying some souvenirs, losing at poker (I've concluded that I am a horrible poker player, and serve the purpose of someone else's jackpot), and, once again, getting sick with a mild case of stomach bacteria that left my in bed for a day.
Apart from that I am looking forward to traveling to Arica, Chile, which is supposedly a 7 hour bus trip, in the next few days to visit my parents who are holidaying there. Thereafter, and unless there are no unexpected events in Arica, I may travel to northern Argentina to a catch a ride with a friend who's dad is picking him up there, for some cross-country adventures. In September I will return to Santiago, Chile, to visit my parents and family and stay there for a month.
***
Photos:
http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=52869&l=91d96&id=732774973
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Bolivia: Life is Beautiful
Life in Bolivia, while not exactly routine, is pleasant. I have settled on group of regular friends; I have my daily hobbies of guitar and charango classes; and I continue to participate in the political and cultural activities that La Paz has to offer.
It has been about 3-4 weeks since I moved into my apartment at Sopochachi. I’m still piecing things together, and will probably have everything I require by the time I leave to return to Chile in early September. The area, and accompanying life, is slowly growing on me. It will be an unhappy day when I leave, which is not too far away.
Once again, after thinking that I was invincible with an iron stomach, I got food poisoning. In Bolivia, you can eat from a BBQ on the sidewalk and be fine, and then eat at an overpriced café and get sick. The latter applies to me. I’m not sure what it could be that contributes to this debilitating illness: altitude? Hygiene? Or perhaps it’s that unknown bacteria alien to outsiders – the gringo killer! Fortunately, I recovered enough to be on my feet within a day. All was not lost though, as I took the time to watch some crappy, Hollywood movies - as you do.
The other day I had the pleasure of attending an art exposition by the acclaimed ecuadorian painter, Oswaldo Guayasamin (google it!). His art pieces are a social-political expression of a profound nature. Back home (i.e., my parents house now, where my meagre possessions are) I had a book with his art pieces on one-side, and the poetry of the Chilean Pablo Neruda on the other. Seeing these vivid works was extremely heavy (some of Nerudas words shot through my mind). I was very thankful to have had the opportunity to attend this, and I may return, as it was free.
Down the road from where I live, there is an American Texas Hold’em bar. No thanks to some people, it has become a regular thing – although I have been known to go there by myself. Wednesday and Saturday nights are the preferred nights as there are free drinks. Fortunately, it is cheap to play – the minimum pot you can buy is 20 Bolivianos ($3), big blind is 4 Bolivianos ($0.50c). One can spend so many hours there. A pair of friends shocked me when they told me they were there till 8.00am! Far from being gambling (you don’t lose much, and you don’t win much), it has become somewhat of a social scene. But only in Bolivia; anywhere else I wouldn’t have the funds for it. Sometimes we transport these poker nights to the house of Abraham, a reporter for the Spanish news agency EFE.
As of last week, after much suffering, I finally got my laptop. I regretfully decided to leave it in Chile as I feared it would break on the many bus trips, or get stolen. However, after travelling I discovered that neither was a risk (at least till now). As soon as I had settled in La Paz, I had my uncle investigate the various ways of sending it. It turned out that going via the state postal system was the cheapest, but I was unsure of how secure it was. I chose to have it sent it via express post. Days went past, and I was regretting my impatient decision.
Finally, after 10 days it arrived; but I needed to go through customs. My uncle had declared it. Consequently, my worst fears were confirmed, I would need to pay an import tax of at least 20% on it – about $200US. I was shattered. I explained that had I of known I would not have accepted it, this was supposedly a gift from my family. Attempting to reason with her, she passed me over the boss.
I was hoping on reasoning with this person, appealing to any sympathy. I explained I was a student, with no income, living in Bolivia to participate in the political process, planning on writing on the events for the English world, and this laptop would be a useful instrument. He listened, then asked where I was from. I told him I lived in Australia, but I knew he would have picked up on my Chilean accent (In Bolivia, being a Chilean is the worst. In the 1879 War of the Pacific, Chile appropriated the coasts of Bolivia and Peru, leaving Bolivia landlocked. Subsequently, Chileans are synonymous with thieves), so I explained that I was born in Chile but my family immigrated to Australia, and that one day I would like to go to the beaches of Bolivia – something I say often, depending on the person, when I have to introduced myself. He began to calculate the numbers, and write them down. I didn’t want to look. The customs officer began to explain, that they understood my situation, and could help out. He gave me the final figure of $50US. I couldn’t believe it! I thought, as a gesture of my appreciation I would be him a bottle of red, which I still have to do.
In the next week I will be applying to have a journalist license, giving me access to press conferences, certain press travels paid for by the government, etc. Regardless, I am contemplating on travelling to Santa Cruz, an enclave of the vehement opposition, by the end of next week, to observe and report the recall referendum of August 10 for Direct Action, and other mediums. For this, I may have to travel clandestinely, so I’m thinking of cutting my hair shorter, and trimming the beard, cause as numerous people have commented I have the ‘obvious look of a leftist’.
***
No photos this time around as I am not journeying outside La Paz (unless you want to see photos of the poker bar?)
It has been about 3-4 weeks since I moved into my apartment at Sopochachi. I’m still piecing things together, and will probably have everything I require by the time I leave to return to Chile in early September. The area, and accompanying life, is slowly growing on me. It will be an unhappy day when I leave, which is not too far away.
Once again, after thinking that I was invincible with an iron stomach, I got food poisoning. In Bolivia, you can eat from a BBQ on the sidewalk and be fine, and then eat at an overpriced café and get sick. The latter applies to me. I’m not sure what it could be that contributes to this debilitating illness: altitude? Hygiene? Or perhaps it’s that unknown bacteria alien to outsiders – the gringo killer! Fortunately, I recovered enough to be on my feet within a day. All was not lost though, as I took the time to watch some crappy, Hollywood movies - as you do.
The other day I had the pleasure of attending an art exposition by the acclaimed ecuadorian painter, Oswaldo Guayasamin (google it!). His art pieces are a social-political expression of a profound nature. Back home (i.e., my parents house now, where my meagre possessions are) I had a book with his art pieces on one-side, and the poetry of the Chilean Pablo Neruda on the other. Seeing these vivid works was extremely heavy (some of Nerudas words shot through my mind). I was very thankful to have had the opportunity to attend this, and I may return, as it was free.
Down the road from where I live, there is an American Texas Hold’em bar. No thanks to some people, it has become a regular thing – although I have been known to go there by myself. Wednesday and Saturday nights are the preferred nights as there are free drinks. Fortunately, it is cheap to play – the minimum pot you can buy is 20 Bolivianos ($3), big blind is 4 Bolivianos ($0.50c). One can spend so many hours there. A pair of friends shocked me when they told me they were there till 8.00am! Far from being gambling (you don’t lose much, and you don’t win much), it has become somewhat of a social scene. But only in Bolivia; anywhere else I wouldn’t have the funds for it. Sometimes we transport these poker nights to the house of Abraham, a reporter for the Spanish news agency EFE.
As of last week, after much suffering, I finally got my laptop. I regretfully decided to leave it in Chile as I feared it would break on the many bus trips, or get stolen. However, after travelling I discovered that neither was a risk (at least till now). As soon as I had settled in La Paz, I had my uncle investigate the various ways of sending it. It turned out that going via the state postal system was the cheapest, but I was unsure of how secure it was. I chose to have it sent it via express post. Days went past, and I was regretting my impatient decision.
Finally, after 10 days it arrived; but I needed to go through customs. My uncle had declared it. Consequently, my worst fears were confirmed, I would need to pay an import tax of at least 20% on it – about $200US. I was shattered. I explained that had I of known I would not have accepted it, this was supposedly a gift from my family. Attempting to reason with her, she passed me over the boss.
I was hoping on reasoning with this person, appealing to any sympathy. I explained I was a student, with no income, living in Bolivia to participate in the political process, planning on writing on the events for the English world, and this laptop would be a useful instrument. He listened, then asked where I was from. I told him I lived in Australia, but I knew he would have picked up on my Chilean accent (In Bolivia, being a Chilean is the worst. In the 1879 War of the Pacific, Chile appropriated the coasts of Bolivia and Peru, leaving Bolivia landlocked. Subsequently, Chileans are synonymous with thieves), so I explained that I was born in Chile but my family immigrated to Australia, and that one day I would like to go to the beaches of Bolivia – something I say often, depending on the person, when I have to introduced myself. He began to calculate the numbers, and write them down. I didn’t want to look. The customs officer began to explain, that they understood my situation, and could help out. He gave me the final figure of $50US. I couldn’t believe it! I thought, as a gesture of my appreciation I would be him a bottle of red, which I still have to do.
In the next week I will be applying to have a journalist license, giving me access to press conferences, certain press travels paid for by the government, etc. Regardless, I am contemplating on travelling to Santa Cruz, an enclave of the vehement opposition, by the end of next week, to observe and report the recall referendum of August 10 for Direct Action, and other mediums. For this, I may have to travel clandestinely, so I’m thinking of cutting my hair shorter, and trimming the beard, cause as numerous people have commented I have the ‘obvious look of a leftist’.
***
No photos this time around as I am not journeying outside La Paz (unless you want to see photos of the poker bar?)
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Nuestra Señora de La Paz
Nuestra Señora de La Paz, as the city of La Paz is officially called, is the capital of Bolivia. It was founded in 1548 by the Spanish capitan Alonzo de Mendozo. The name commemorates 'la paz' (peace) after a civil war, in what is today Peru, between two Spanish conquerors, each that were seeking to gain more power and riches. After 'the federation war' of 1899, between the oligarchs of the north and south, and the subsequent triumph of the north, the capital was moved from Sucre to La Paz. Today, La Paz is the economic, political, and cultural centre of Bolivia.
During my stay in Cochabamba, a compañero had offered me a room that would become available in a month. My initial plan was to travel to La Paz and explore the surrounding region then return in time to move in. A Bolivian proverb says: 'everything is possible, nothing is certain'. This was to become descriptive of my plans.
On the evening of Tuesday, June 17, I departed on a 7 hour bus ride to La Paz. I arrived at 5:30 in the morning, checked into a hotel, and explored the quiet streets of La Paz. Essentially, my time in La Paz was characterised, until recently, by watching South American World Cup qualifiers, or the European Cup; visiting museums; but more so, attending cultural and political events.
Bolivia's indigenous heritage is still preserved and practiced; the Spanish were unable to conquer certain parts of Bolivia due to the organised indigenous resistance, and during the Inca empire cultural autonomy existed and was respected. Bolivia has three primary indigenous groups: Aymara, Quechua, Guarani, each with their own language; with most being multilingual.
June 21 marks the Aymaran New Year 5,516 (the Aymaran calendar has 13 months). The ancient archaeological site of Tiwanaku, about 2 hours north-west of La Paz, is the historic area to celebrate the Aymarn New Year. The event attracts between 30,000-50,000 people, most are Bolivians that identify themselves as Aymaran, and, of course, tourists. A mini-bus at 2:00am shuttled me there, where icy temperatures awaits to greet me. The small town seems like a massive festival: music, booze, and hoards of people. At times I observed the old generation vent their disgust at some of the young people, who were blind drunk and on the verge of passing out. Unfortunately, for some it is an excuse to drink; however, for others the event holds more cultural significance. At around 4:00am most people begin to line up to enter the archaeological ruins. A traditional ritual takes place before sunrise (all in Aymaran so I couldn't understand anything). The climax is willkakuti (return of the sun), it signals the new year, and people extend their frosty hands to receive the rejuvenating energies of Inti (sun). The ceremony was attended by the indigenous president, Evo Morales. After the ritual, several groups put on a traditional autochthonous performance, and then the dancing begins.
Recently, I have found myself hanging out with individuals who range from journalists, photo-journalists (some from Associated Press), academics, PhD students, political activists, and other intellectuals. On occasion it has been by coincidence that I would be attending an event, and these same people would be there. Most are acquainted with each other and socialise in similar groups. Some are foreigners and others are local. Yet most of them are connected, one way or another, to a middle-class group called Comuna, a political group that the vice-president, Àlvaro Garcia Linera, participated in, and still does on occasion.
The cultural, political and social events that La Paz offers was the catalyst for me to settle here -at least until September, after which I will return to Santiago, Chile, to visit my parents, and commemorate and celebrate the events of September. Yesterday was my first stay in my new apartment, located in a middle-class suburb called Sopochaci (comparable to New Farm or West End). However, the reality of Sopochaci is distinct to that of the rest of La Paz; at times it feels like another world: pretentious restaurants with WiFi spawn here, petite-bourgeois families walk through the plazas where beggers break the fabric of illusion. The apartment is the attraction - quiet, and illuminated by natural light that shines through clear plastic roofing. No longer am I confined to a small hotel room. Neither will I be confined to Sopochaci. I intend to dedicate time to reading, writing, and participating further in the process of change.
***
Photos:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=44385&l=39dd9&id=732774973
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=44392&l=c5ca2&id=732774973
During my stay in Cochabamba, a compañero had offered me a room that would become available in a month. My initial plan was to travel to La Paz and explore the surrounding region then return in time to move in. A Bolivian proverb says: 'everything is possible, nothing is certain'. This was to become descriptive of my plans.
On the evening of Tuesday, June 17, I departed on a 7 hour bus ride to La Paz. I arrived at 5:30 in the morning, checked into a hotel, and explored the quiet streets of La Paz. Essentially, my time in La Paz was characterised, until recently, by watching South American World Cup qualifiers, or the European Cup; visiting museums; but more so, attending cultural and political events.
Bolivia's indigenous heritage is still preserved and practiced; the Spanish were unable to conquer certain parts of Bolivia due to the organised indigenous resistance, and during the Inca empire cultural autonomy existed and was respected. Bolivia has three primary indigenous groups: Aymara, Quechua, Guarani, each with their own language; with most being multilingual.
June 21 marks the Aymaran New Year 5,516 (the Aymaran calendar has 13 months). The ancient archaeological site of Tiwanaku, about 2 hours north-west of La Paz, is the historic area to celebrate the Aymarn New Year. The event attracts between 30,000-50,000 people, most are Bolivians that identify themselves as Aymaran, and, of course, tourists. A mini-bus at 2:00am shuttled me there, where icy temperatures awaits to greet me. The small town seems like a massive festival: music, booze, and hoards of people. At times I observed the old generation vent their disgust at some of the young people, who were blind drunk and on the verge of passing out. Unfortunately, for some it is an excuse to drink; however, for others the event holds more cultural significance. At around 4:00am most people begin to line up to enter the archaeological ruins. A traditional ritual takes place before sunrise (all in Aymaran so I couldn't understand anything). The climax is willkakuti (return of the sun), it signals the new year, and people extend their frosty hands to receive the rejuvenating energies of Inti (sun). The ceremony was attended by the indigenous president, Evo Morales. After the ritual, several groups put on a traditional autochthonous performance, and then the dancing begins.
Recently, I have found myself hanging out with individuals who range from journalists, photo-journalists (some from Associated Press), academics, PhD students, political activists, and other intellectuals. On occasion it has been by coincidence that I would be attending an event, and these same people would be there. Most are acquainted with each other and socialise in similar groups. Some are foreigners and others are local. Yet most of them are connected, one way or another, to a middle-class group called Comuna, a political group that the vice-president, Àlvaro Garcia Linera, participated in, and still does on occasion.
The cultural, political and social events that La Paz offers was the catalyst for me to settle here -at least until September, after which I will return to Santiago, Chile, to visit my parents, and commemorate and celebrate the events of September. Yesterday was my first stay in my new apartment, located in a middle-class suburb called Sopochaci (comparable to New Farm or West End). However, the reality of Sopochaci is distinct to that of the rest of La Paz; at times it feels like another world: pretentious restaurants with WiFi spawn here, petite-bourgeois families walk through the plazas where beggers break the fabric of illusion. The apartment is the attraction - quiet, and illuminated by natural light that shines through clear plastic roofing. No longer am I confined to a small hotel room. Neither will I be confined to Sopochaci. I intend to dedicate time to reading, writing, and participating further in the process of change.
***
Photos:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=44385&l=39dd9&id=732774973
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=44392&l=c5ca2&id=732774973
Monday, June 16, 2008
Central Bolivia
The following is a very general overview of the situation in Bolivia, so that you may understand the circumstances and context under which I travel:
Bolivia is living in times of deep socio-political divisions. Racism and discrimination, a product of colonialism, is entrenched in Bolivia, and continues to divide. The eastern departments (states), known as the half-moon, have recently been seeking 'autonomy' from the government. At times these divisions have expressed themselves violently. During the recent autonomy votes, considered illegal by the government and international community, spot fires of skirmishes have broken out. In an extreme, and disgraceful example of this division, in Sucre, on May 24, a group of 40 indigenous-campesinos were beaten and humiliated in the central plaza - this during the day, with the police nearby - and under the observation of the locals. The term 'civil war' is alluded to at times.
The journey of a backpacker is characterised by brief stops and continuous movement. Rarely does the common traveller find reasons to stay longer than a few days somewhere. I had arrived in Sucre on Sunday, 1 June, after a hellish bus ride, as you may recall from my last post. I lodged in a pleasant hostel known as Pachamama. The ambiance, and company, where cause to extend my stay for that extra bit. The residence was like an oasis in the centre of a city: a quiet, ample garden, and friendly people that induced long chats. Time was non-existent, the general mood was nonchalant. It provided the perfect scene to convalescent.
Sucre, the capital of the department Chuquisaca, was formally known as Charcas, La Plata, and Chuquisaca; but after the independence war was named Sucre, in honour of the liberator, and second president, Antonio Josè de Sucre. It was the original capital of Bolivia, however, towards the end of the 19th century, after a civil war, the capital was moved to La Paz. Sucre is still the juridical capital, where the supreme court, and constitutional tribunal convene. Today, the right-wing is trying to bring the capital back to Sucre.
The city is characterised for its conserved Spanish colonial arquitecture - endless white buildings with terracotta roof tiles - and its tranquil streets. The mood in Sucre was not what I had expected, especially after the events of May 24. I was surprised that it was described as a quiet place by many. During my one week stay there were no racist gangs roaming the streets, no loud anti-government protests; instead, there was the annual university-entry parade, which lasts three nights, and runs into the early hours of the morning (regrettably, I got no photos of this).
Due to my easygoing mood during the week, I didn't get along to any museums or many tourist sites, apart from the general cemetery, which I just got to. Instead, I visited the local gringo bar (where only gringos, and rich bolivianos go) for the big screen TV to watch the European cup (football) - unfortunately, I was unable to find an average bolivian bar to watch these games. Ironically, Sucre hosted the 'International Film Festival for Human Rights Week', which I attended occasionally. Thankfully, the presenters took the opportunity to address the recent events.
A national strike of transport workers had blockaded the roads, so for about a week there was no exit or entry into the city. This was fine by me as I was in no rush to leave. However, on Friday, June 6, the strike was lifted, and the roads were open. Subsequently, there was an exodus from the hostel, with many travellers that I befriended taking the opportunity to leave. This was the catalyst for me to leave as well, and on Sunday, June 8, I left in the direction of Cochabamba.
It's a 12 hour bus trip to Cochabamba, but I decided to break this down and stop at a small town called Aiquile, about halfway. It proved to be a wise choice, because my good fortune with bus trips continued: the bus ride was uncomfortable as the twists and turns made me a bit lightheaded (yes, poor me). Aiquile was tiny, and there wasn't much to explore, so I decided to continue along to Cochabamba. I had purchased a trip in a van, and after getting use to the accelerator-happy driver, and the way he takes those blind turns on the barely twin lane road that hugs the side of the precipiced mountain, I was able to enjoy the amazing scenery of the trip.
Cochabamba (indigenous name meaning plain lake) is a crowed city, with over 1.5 million habitants, it is known as the city of valleys. It is usually skipped by many tourists, as superfically it doesn't have much to offer. But in the central plaza beats the heart of the city, and what drew me here: the plaza is a meeting spot for the city, the people, a place to come discuss and debate a gamut of topics - politics, culture, religion, etc. I was astonished, and still am surprised, by the amount of people this plaza draws in.
Those that are organised here are the 'activists of the plaza'. One of the prinicipal groups is 'Red Tinku', whom I had contact with prior to arriving, and am currently a participant of. Ramiro, the coordinator of Red Tinku, and other compañeros, have been very helpful and shown me around the city (giving me the Tinku tour), taking me to cultural events, political meetings, and introducing me to a range of people. I also help setup the informative panel, which contains the day's news with critical captions, that the plaza people read. Also, I help staff the stall that has alternative books, etc, and collect signatures for the referendum of the corrupt departamental governor, whos father helped capture Che Guevara. A typical day usually concludes in the late evening with an open-meeting of the plaza activists, to discuss the day's events, news, and plan ahead.
It has been a very busy week, but extremely interesting. However, in the next few days I may travel to La Paz, the capital, and explore that part of the region. It is my intention to return to Cochabamba in a few weeks though, a compañero has offered me a spare room that will become available then. I hope to stay here in Cochabamba for a while and participate further in this process of change.
***
Photos:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=42310&l=de322&id=732774973
Bolivia is living in times of deep socio-political divisions. Racism and discrimination, a product of colonialism, is entrenched in Bolivia, and continues to divide. The eastern departments (states), known as the half-moon, have recently been seeking 'autonomy' from the government. At times these divisions have expressed themselves violently. During the recent autonomy votes, considered illegal by the government and international community, spot fires of skirmishes have broken out. In an extreme, and disgraceful example of this division, in Sucre, on May 24, a group of 40 indigenous-campesinos were beaten and humiliated in the central plaza - this during the day, with the police nearby - and under the observation of the locals. The term 'civil war' is alluded to at times.
The journey of a backpacker is characterised by brief stops and continuous movement. Rarely does the common traveller find reasons to stay longer than a few days somewhere. I had arrived in Sucre on Sunday, 1 June, after a hellish bus ride, as you may recall from my last post. I lodged in a pleasant hostel known as Pachamama. The ambiance, and company, where cause to extend my stay for that extra bit. The residence was like an oasis in the centre of a city: a quiet, ample garden, and friendly people that induced long chats. Time was non-existent, the general mood was nonchalant. It provided the perfect scene to convalescent.
Sucre, the capital of the department Chuquisaca, was formally known as Charcas, La Plata, and Chuquisaca; but after the independence war was named Sucre, in honour of the liberator, and second president, Antonio Josè de Sucre. It was the original capital of Bolivia, however, towards the end of the 19th century, after a civil war, the capital was moved to La Paz. Sucre is still the juridical capital, where the supreme court, and constitutional tribunal convene. Today, the right-wing is trying to bring the capital back to Sucre.
The city is characterised for its conserved Spanish colonial arquitecture - endless white buildings with terracotta roof tiles - and its tranquil streets. The mood in Sucre was not what I had expected, especially after the events of May 24. I was surprised that it was described as a quiet place by many. During my one week stay there were no racist gangs roaming the streets, no loud anti-government protests; instead, there was the annual university-entry parade, which lasts three nights, and runs into the early hours of the morning (regrettably, I got no photos of this).
Due to my easygoing mood during the week, I didn't get along to any museums or many tourist sites, apart from the general cemetery, which I just got to. Instead, I visited the local gringo bar (where only gringos, and rich bolivianos go) for the big screen TV to watch the European cup (football) - unfortunately, I was unable to find an average bolivian bar to watch these games. Ironically, Sucre hosted the 'International Film Festival for Human Rights Week', which I attended occasionally. Thankfully, the presenters took the opportunity to address the recent events.
A national strike of transport workers had blockaded the roads, so for about a week there was no exit or entry into the city. This was fine by me as I was in no rush to leave. However, on Friday, June 6, the strike was lifted, and the roads were open. Subsequently, there was an exodus from the hostel, with many travellers that I befriended taking the opportunity to leave. This was the catalyst for me to leave as well, and on Sunday, June 8, I left in the direction of Cochabamba.
It's a 12 hour bus trip to Cochabamba, but I decided to break this down and stop at a small town called Aiquile, about halfway. It proved to be a wise choice, because my good fortune with bus trips continued: the bus ride was uncomfortable as the twists and turns made me a bit lightheaded (yes, poor me). Aiquile was tiny, and there wasn't much to explore, so I decided to continue along to Cochabamba. I had purchased a trip in a van, and after getting use to the accelerator-happy driver, and the way he takes those blind turns on the barely twin lane road that hugs the side of the precipiced mountain, I was able to enjoy the amazing scenery of the trip.
Cochabamba (indigenous name meaning plain lake) is a crowed city, with over 1.5 million habitants, it is known as the city of valleys. It is usually skipped by many tourists, as superfically it doesn't have much to offer. But in the central plaza beats the heart of the city, and what drew me here: the plaza is a meeting spot for the city, the people, a place to come discuss and debate a gamut of topics - politics, culture, religion, etc. I was astonished, and still am surprised, by the amount of people this plaza draws in.
Those that are organised here are the 'activists of the plaza'. One of the prinicipal groups is 'Red Tinku', whom I had contact with prior to arriving, and am currently a participant of. Ramiro, the coordinator of Red Tinku, and other compañeros, have been very helpful and shown me around the city (giving me the Tinku tour), taking me to cultural events, political meetings, and introducing me to a range of people. I also help setup the informative panel, which contains the day's news with critical captions, that the plaza people read. Also, I help staff the stall that has alternative books, etc, and collect signatures for the referendum of the corrupt departamental governor, whos father helped capture Che Guevara. A typical day usually concludes in the late evening with an open-meeting of the plaza activists, to discuss the day's events, news, and plan ahead.
It has been a very busy week, but extremely interesting. However, in the next few days I may travel to La Paz, the capital, and explore that part of the region. It is my intention to return to Cochabamba in a few weeks though, a compañero has offered me a spare room that will become available then. I hope to stay here in Cochabamba for a while and participate further in this process of change.
***
Photos:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=42310&l=de322&id=732774973
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