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
Monday, June 16, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
El Altiplano de Bolivia
Since we last spoke old friend I have crossed into Bolivia. A combination of off road trekking, cold nights, high altitudes, wondrous landscapes, and food poisoning have graced me.
On Wednesday, 21 May, after a long and hungry bus ride from Calama, Chile, I arrived in the small town of Uyuni, Bolivia. On the bus ride, I befriended an amicable, and also hungry, Swiz couple - Daniel and Anne-Marie - whom I would share a room with. The ratio of gringos to locals in Uyuni is 1:1. It is nothing more than launching pad for tourists for tours or as stop over to Potosi. Much like many of the other towns I had passed it is reliant on tourism for its survival.
I had held off doing a tour, and sought alternative means to visit the local scenery in the past; but to discover this vast wonderland you either needed access to a vehicle, or public transport that will take you there - neither were to be found. To discover the region of Uyuni you needed to take a tour - I reluctantly conceded; though the offer was good: 2 nights, 3 days, all meals included, accommodation, and 200 kms later on a 4x4, all for $70 US.
On Friday, 23 May, a caravan of 4x4s awaits a hoard of tourists to depart Uyuni in synchronisation; fortunately this separates along the trip, and we were soon bastards. The tour was picturesque; but long travelled with only short stops at the tourist areas. Throughout the three days I was presented with salt plains, isolated lakes that inhabit the Andes mountains, thermal waters, geysers, and historical tracks dating back to pre-Incan society. No description will give these sites justice, so view the photos.
It was my intention to travel with the Swiz couple, but due to last minute swaps, I was placed with other gringos - present: Manu, Sebastian, Tomas (all Dutch), Kate (English), Matt (Kiwi), and me. The social relations throughout the trip were on acquaintance level with most, although the companies of Matt, and Kate to a certain extent, were more interesting and enjoyable. The Dutch group embodied the stereotypical aspects of a gringo traveller: simple minded creatures, easy amused with sexist remarks, and curious only in the superficial qualities of a trip (or holiday). Indeed, I found interest in adventuring around the tourist stops, and chatting to other people, particularly our local tour guide, Pablito - an Aymará-Bolivian, who is very knowledgeable about the terrain we explored, and very personable.
During the trip I was inspired to look at the possibility of hiring a campervan, or similar, and independently exploring Bolivia. The idea of journeying around, stopping where I please, and being self-reliant was a day dream I fell into more than once on the third day of the trip. Indeed, it made me question myself why I never did this back in Australia. Regardless, in the future I wanted to move away from the tour agencies, and seek alternative means.
The following day upon returning to Uyuni, I took an accident prone - flat tire, and a small collision that left a broken window - bus ride to Potosí, the capital of the department (state) which shares the same name. Potosí is said to be the highest city in the world, about 4,000 above sea level. The streets are, at first, a mountain climbing experience, where little old ladies pass you by, as the altitude requires some time to adjust. Conquered by the Spanish in the 16th century, it still retains the marvellous colonial arquitecture.
I had arrived in the evening, and immediately felt that it was worth staying longer than what is customary; the sensation of being in a different country is palpable here, small towns can seem alike after a while. I had acquired a comfortable private bedroom for about $6 US, which facilitated the urge to stay longer in Potosí. However, in the end, it was out of necessity that I extended my stay in Potosí as I caught a pernicious stomach virus that left me completely debilitated in bed for a day, and which I have not fully recovered from.
Discovering the mines of Potosí is a must when you visit this historical capital. I was given a contact from of a union organiser in one of the mines; unfortunately, due to my illness I was unable to visit him. Instead, I did a tour (yes, so much for seeking the alternative). However, it was fortunate that the day when I went to do the tour there were only two other tourists, therefore, we had the luxury of having the guide to ourselves. The tour lasted about 4 hours.
Historically, the birth of global capitalism can be attributed to Cerro Potosí, or Cerro Rico. The veins of silver that were exploited flowed to Spain, and from there to Europe, and later to North America. The altars of Catholic churches where constructed with the silver and gold from these mountains. The mines were exploited by slave labour, at times Indigenous, but when exhausted hands died - it is said that over 8 million slaves died during the colonial centuries - the Spanish viceroy would order slaves from Africa to maintain precious supplies to Europe. During the peak of the silver exploitations by the Spanish, the city of Potosí grew to about 160,000 inhabitants, and was, at one point, one of the largest cities in the world, far bigger than London or Paris. The old sayings goes that with all the silver extracted from Potosí during the colonial period one could build a silver bridge between Potosí and Spain, and by the same means, the old saying continues, it could be built with the bones of the dead that can be found in the mountains.
During the early part of the 20th century the mines of Bolivia were concentrated into three families, or the three barrons as they were known. However, after the National Revolution of 1952 the natural resources were expropriated into state property. Today, the Cerro Potosí mines are exploited by nominal 'cooperatives', which are essentially exploitative and capitalistic local companies. Cerro Potosí employs 17,000 miners, 2,000 of them are young boys. The minimum hours of work are said to be 8, but many miners may work up to 15 hours a day (however, I was told that they only work 4 days a week). A miner is fortunate to see life beyond 40, and if he manages to escape work at the mines he may not escape the respiratory dieases that acompany. A miner will earn on average about $23 US a day. To be a miner is considered to be in a good job.
The day after the tour I decided to leave Potosí for the former capital of Bolivia, Sucre in the department of Chuquisaca. I had spent six nights in Potosí, and on Sunday morning, June 1 - still questioning the choice to have fried chicken when I hadn't fully recovered from the food poisioning the day prior - I was determined to take the bus out of Potosí. I felt a change of scenery would rejuvenate me, but I had the three hour bus trip to contend with first. During the bus trip, I was struggling to contain stomach twists, and, to say the least, the campensino (farmer) that sat beside, who smelt of grass and country, was probably not thinking he had me to deal with. But when the bus was climbing a mountain, my will, and stomach collapsed, and I reached for my plastic bag - let's just say I found a way to get a spare seat. Shortly thereafter, I passed out until the bus reached Sucre, relieved of the pain.
I am currently in Sucre, enjoying the company of a group of travellers that I befriended. I have only been here a few days, and do not feel the need to rush to see everything, rather taking my time, delighting in the tranquility of Sucre. However, perhaps by the end of the week I will be on the road again looking towards Cochabamba, a 12 hour bus ride away; but I plan on taking a few days on getting there. Who knows, maybe I'll find that campervan to get me there.
***
Photos
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=40889&l=92453&id=732774973
On Wednesday, 21 May, after a long and hungry bus ride from Calama, Chile, I arrived in the small town of Uyuni, Bolivia. On the bus ride, I befriended an amicable, and also hungry, Swiz couple - Daniel and Anne-Marie - whom I would share a room with. The ratio of gringos to locals in Uyuni is 1:1. It is nothing more than launching pad for tourists for tours or as stop over to Potosi. Much like many of the other towns I had passed it is reliant on tourism for its survival.
I had held off doing a tour, and sought alternative means to visit the local scenery in the past; but to discover this vast wonderland you either needed access to a vehicle, or public transport that will take you there - neither were to be found. To discover the region of Uyuni you needed to take a tour - I reluctantly conceded; though the offer was good: 2 nights, 3 days, all meals included, accommodation, and 200 kms later on a 4x4, all for $70 US.
On Friday, 23 May, a caravan of 4x4s awaits a hoard of tourists to depart Uyuni in synchronisation; fortunately this separates along the trip, and we were soon bastards. The tour was picturesque; but long travelled with only short stops at the tourist areas. Throughout the three days I was presented with salt plains, isolated lakes that inhabit the Andes mountains, thermal waters, geysers, and historical tracks dating back to pre-Incan society. No description will give these sites justice, so view the photos.
It was my intention to travel with the Swiz couple, but due to last minute swaps, I was placed with other gringos - present: Manu, Sebastian, Tomas (all Dutch), Kate (English), Matt (Kiwi), and me. The social relations throughout the trip were on acquaintance level with most, although the companies of Matt, and Kate to a certain extent, were more interesting and enjoyable. The Dutch group embodied the stereotypical aspects of a gringo traveller: simple minded creatures, easy amused with sexist remarks, and curious only in the superficial qualities of a trip (or holiday). Indeed, I found interest in adventuring around the tourist stops, and chatting to other people, particularly our local tour guide, Pablito - an Aymará-Bolivian, who is very knowledgeable about the terrain we explored, and very personable.
During the trip I was inspired to look at the possibility of hiring a campervan, or similar, and independently exploring Bolivia. The idea of journeying around, stopping where I please, and being self-reliant was a day dream I fell into more than once on the third day of the trip. Indeed, it made me question myself why I never did this back in Australia. Regardless, in the future I wanted to move away from the tour agencies, and seek alternative means.
The following day upon returning to Uyuni, I took an accident prone - flat tire, and a small collision that left a broken window - bus ride to Potosí, the capital of the department (state) which shares the same name. Potosí is said to be the highest city in the world, about 4,000 above sea level. The streets are, at first, a mountain climbing experience, where little old ladies pass you by, as the altitude requires some time to adjust. Conquered by the Spanish in the 16th century, it still retains the marvellous colonial arquitecture.
I had arrived in the evening, and immediately felt that it was worth staying longer than what is customary; the sensation of being in a different country is palpable here, small towns can seem alike after a while. I had acquired a comfortable private bedroom for about $6 US, which facilitated the urge to stay longer in Potosí. However, in the end, it was out of necessity that I extended my stay in Potosí as I caught a pernicious stomach virus that left me completely debilitated in bed for a day, and which I have not fully recovered from.
Discovering the mines of Potosí is a must when you visit this historical capital. I was given a contact from of a union organiser in one of the mines; unfortunately, due to my illness I was unable to visit him. Instead, I did a tour (yes, so much for seeking the alternative). However, it was fortunate that the day when I went to do the tour there were only two other tourists, therefore, we had the luxury of having the guide to ourselves. The tour lasted about 4 hours.
Historically, the birth of global capitalism can be attributed to Cerro Potosí, or Cerro Rico. The veins of silver that were exploited flowed to Spain, and from there to Europe, and later to North America. The altars of Catholic churches where constructed with the silver and gold from these mountains. The mines were exploited by slave labour, at times Indigenous, but when exhausted hands died - it is said that over 8 million slaves died during the colonial centuries - the Spanish viceroy would order slaves from Africa to maintain precious supplies to Europe. During the peak of the silver exploitations by the Spanish, the city of Potosí grew to about 160,000 inhabitants, and was, at one point, one of the largest cities in the world, far bigger than London or Paris. The old sayings goes that with all the silver extracted from Potosí during the colonial period one could build a silver bridge between Potosí and Spain, and by the same means, the old saying continues, it could be built with the bones of the dead that can be found in the mountains.
During the early part of the 20th century the mines of Bolivia were concentrated into three families, or the three barrons as they were known. However, after the National Revolution of 1952 the natural resources were expropriated into state property. Today, the Cerro Potosí mines are exploited by nominal 'cooperatives', which are essentially exploitative and capitalistic local companies. Cerro Potosí employs 17,000 miners, 2,000 of them are young boys. The minimum hours of work are said to be 8, but many miners may work up to 15 hours a day (however, I was told that they only work 4 days a week). A miner is fortunate to see life beyond 40, and if he manages to escape work at the mines he may not escape the respiratory dieases that acompany. A miner will earn on average about $23 US a day. To be a miner is considered to be in a good job.
The day after the tour I decided to leave Potosí for the former capital of Bolivia, Sucre in the department of Chuquisaca. I had spent six nights in Potosí, and on Sunday morning, June 1 - still questioning the choice to have fried chicken when I hadn't fully recovered from the food poisioning the day prior - I was determined to take the bus out of Potosí. I felt a change of scenery would rejuvenate me, but I had the three hour bus trip to contend with first. During the bus trip, I was struggling to contain stomach twists, and, to say the least, the campensino (farmer) that sat beside, who smelt of grass and country, was probably not thinking he had me to deal with. But when the bus was climbing a mountain, my will, and stomach collapsed, and I reached for my plastic bag - let's just say I found a way to get a spare seat. Shortly thereafter, I passed out until the bus reached Sucre, relieved of the pain.
I am currently in Sucre, enjoying the company of a group of travellers that I befriended. I have only been here a few days, and do not feel the need to rush to see everything, rather taking my time, delighting in the tranquility of Sucre. However, perhaps by the end of the week I will be on the road again looking towards Cochabamba, a 12 hour bus ride away; but I plan on taking a few days on getting there. Who knows, maybe I'll find that campervan to get me there.
***
Photos
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=40889&l=92453&id=732774973
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