Pat does battle with tenses - Hippy gets tense about battles - 24 Mar 2003
Tupiza reprisa
Top road to PotosÌ
Sweet road to Sucre
Fiesta. (what, another?)
Language learning and stuff in Sucre.
The train journey back from Uyuni got us into town at about 9 in the morning. We'd not slept a lot (about 2 hours cat napping in total) but there was no chance of getting to sleep so we went about our usual chores. Hippy (God bless) went about the business of getting all the salar grime from our clothes. I set out to find someone who could sort the brakes out for Bertha.
A certain SeÒor Velasquez had been recommended to me. A very nice chap he seemed to be. He reckoned that he knew a chap who could make a new pin to hold the brake pads in the calliper for the ridiculously low price of 10 Bolivianos. This equating to 80p, I promised him 20 Bols. if it could be sorted by the morning. He seemed confident that it could. Hmmm, this is Latin America.
The rest of the day was spent on a ludicrous amount of internetting to bring the Salar story to reality. As it takes us the best part of an hour to do two page of writing sometimes, the journal can get to be something of a chore. We seriously consider the lap top option on occasions and then shy away from it on the basis of breakability or packability. We shall have to get a grip on this facet of our travels some time. Only a year and a half down the road and no decision as yet.
I trotted over to see my man in the morning, full of the joys of the Bolivian summer. Well, what a surprise, the work was not complete, but I was promised that if I returned a little later it would be ready and raring to go. Weíve definitely started to get into the maÒana attitude. I couldn't really be that bothered that it wasn't ready. I had kind of expected it. I think that it's pretty easy to have this kind of feeling in a dusty little town in the middle of nowhere, but when in a very European kind of setting, one expects efficiency. Perhaps this is where Argentina may fall in our estimation. It seems so organised that it gets difficult to forgive latin-ness.
Of course, when I went back in the afternoon, everything was indeed complete. For the techno buff out there you may/may not be interested to find out how this job was completed. Basically, the machinist had turned a copy of the original pin and drilled a hole transversely at the middle. The method of retaining the pins then is to pass a piece of soft iron wire through the new pin and around the old pin and then twist it tight. This kind of prevents sideways movement of the pins but I really must try to remember to twist that wire now and again.
Once again, Bolivian roads exceeded their reputation. OK so it was dirt, but it was good dirt. One or two little streams to cross but not the swollen torrents other travellers will have you believe. Hippy was most concerned that I should change the jets or perform some other sort of carburettor surgery on Bertha but I stuck with the "ain't broke.." principle. OK, so she chugged a bit with a full load over the 4300 metre pass but as we were still easily overtaking the local buses (which one assumes are tuned for the local conditions) on the up hills.
We were dead excited when we reached the tarmac that had been promised before PotosÌ. Then we were sidelined once again to take the service road where this tempting new highway was being built next to us. It was pretty rough, too.
As we came over the hill next to Cerro Rico (once the greatest provider of wealth in the world) the tar started again and so we stopped for a rest knowing that we just had a simple little drift down in to town left for our days effort. As we munched biscuits and gazed in horror at the mine workers wheeling out trucks of ore to tip them by hand into lorries, I consciously made my mind up not to do the mine tour that this town is famous for. I mean, we had pit ponies, never mind mechanisation, a hundred years ago in every mine in the country. Not hard to believe the figures of 8 million people having died in these mines over the years. Somehow I donít feel that much of the money that we pay in the West for our silver jewellery ends up in these menís pockets.
I turned to Bertha only to discover that she was bleeding. I had hoped that the shock absorber saga was over, but it seems that my altitude theory is holding true. Having been even higher than ever before, the nitrogen container must have expanded hugely resulting in the jettisoning of a large amount of oil. I keep wondering if there is any left in there. Perhaps I should be pleased with every new leak in the way that British bikers know that they still have oil in the bike if it is still dripping out.
PotosÌ was not as easy a navigation exercise as we had hoped. The general grid pattern is broken up by pedestrian streets and so it is impossible to keep track of which way the one-ways are going. Added to this is the lack of signs to show which streets are ëcontra manoí. At every junction we stopped at, we sat and looked blank and then set off up a street as a local arrived. By reading their body language we could tell if we were going wrong or not and adjusted our trajectory to suit correct road usage.
The hotel that weíd selected from the guidebook was undergoing more than a facelift. Hoardings of corrugated iron around the front gave the impression that a complete remodelling was under way. Still, we tried and found them to be open. The temporary fence and piles of useable rubble actually made it easier to get Bertha in. When we came back from our checking out a suitable room, we found an array of little flags bedecking our steed. How nice, I think weíll stay here.
NEWS FLASH......Sunderland 0 Bolton 2 Oh, joy, we can beat someone, then, demonstrating that we do indeed not deserve to be the last team in the league.
The scarf had been worn with success for once.
Potosi was an interesting change from the plain adobe villages we had been through. The narrow streets were lined with brightly coloured colonial buildings. This is a town where nothing is on the flat and walking around in the evening at 4000m took a little effort. The people that we had met coming the other way, had not told us what a stunning town this is, the guidebook didnít either. Every building would have been listed in the UK, on the 5 or 6 main streets of the centre. I confess that the outskirts lacked the same eclecticism. What particularly impressed me was the complexity on the stone-carved frontages that would go full height of 4 storey building in intricate pillars and such. For us it was probably the best looking architecture since Eastern Europe and towns like Krakow and Koprovista.
That night there was a bit of an odd procession going through the town.. A brass band leading a bunch of girls of 8 to 13 years carrying lanterns and followed by a bunch of lads doing the same. We never did discover what this was all about. Answers to the webmaster.
The next dayís procession was far less ambiguous. Some rather smart calm, middle-aged folk were marching in support of their association ñ the coca growers association. Their banner resembled those of the mineworkers in Wales, painstakingly embroidered onto maroon satin material, by the women folk in support of their profession. A far less professional white banner with a painted slogan read that they were unimpressed that they were being ordered to stop production. And of course they were led around the town by the same rather tuneful brass band.
I will admit that on our excursion into the salar the coca leaf tea in the morning did appear to make a difference either psychologically or physically on the effects of altitude sickness. The day I decided to go for conventional tea, I felt nauseous and headachy until I braved the more rustic coca leaves (we did breach 5000m that day). The locals up here seem to swear by it. All I can see as harmful effects of perpetual coca chewing is bad breath and poor teeth. The only people I have seen apparently ¥out of ití have been people with a distinct smell of alcohol about them. Maybe we are not mixing with the right circles but I have seen no evidence of cocaine selling here at all ñ or should that be wrong circles.
We all know that purified cocaine is bad for you (doubtless there is a lobbying group out there who would argue), but the evidence against the humble leaf is far from convincing. The government here is caught in a catch 22. It needs to borrow from the World Bank and the US but in order to receive funds it has to promise to reduce coca production. This seems impossible. Its use is so ingrained into the lifestyle here, it would be like telling the French not to drink wine. Not to mention the fact that there will be no compensation for the farmers and labourers. The Bolivians I am glad to say still believe in making their feelings known to their government and will not be ignored. The demonstrations are calm and peaceable - but countrywide. We will see if the World Bank gets its way. I suspect that they will reduce production in some areas that external agencies are aware of and increase production elsewhere. Thus gaining funds from the IMF and keeping the populous happy.
The immigration department were obviously ploughing a lone furrow ñ unaffected by much of the gloom that surrounds the country they played seventies pop music at full blast from a ghetto blaster. Looking on from his elevated position on the wall, the president was decorated with an AC DC logo underneath him. Still, they were pretty efficient about extending our visa once we had provided the requisite photocopies.
A trip to supposedly the best museum in Bolivia, proved both depressing and interesting. PotosÓ with its huge mineral deposit had once been larger than London or Paris at the equivalent time and was the richest town in South America, producing coinage for the whole of the Spanish empire along with Lima.
There had been over 30 churches 10 monasteries and 5 nunneries in the town. Since independence the town has put most of the building to alternative uses, like hospitals and schools. But this has meant that the religious art has been moved out to the museum. One painting typified the way that the colonists blended Catholicism with local belief in order to encourage conversions. So, a painting of the Virgin Mary has her superimposed onto the shape of the mountain behind Potosi, showing the silver deposits and miners. At each side of her is a sun and a moon to symbolise the basis of the local religion etc. etc.
In order to prevent the workers running off with the loot they took the extreme precaution of shipping in African slaves and imprisoning them at the mint, until their working life came to an end i.e. they died of altitude sickness or disease, with apparently no survivors. Looks like England has competition for the dirtiest tricks of colonialism. Shouldnít that be Britain? [webmaster] Our guide, although appearing to speak excellent English had great difficulty with a question I put to her. She had been chatting away about the number of folk who had died in the mint and in the mine but could not understand me when I asked where the 8,000,000 bodies had ended up. I found it hard to believe that there are no local legends and stuff about huge mass graves. I mean, they must be somewhere.
The road to Sucre was tar ñ oh joy. And better than that it was fun tar. One of the best bits of biking road since South Africa. Marvellous. The countryside was no longer parched and barren, it was verdant and lush with crops. As we approached Sucre the signs of greater wealth were obvious, an end to adobe thatched shacks that had lined the route from Potosi and increasingly large brick-built villas with parking lots and the occasional swimming pools were in evidence. Riding in to the town itself, it seemed a poor cousin of Potosi in terms of architecture.
Just as we were struggling to get the bike up a couple of steps into the courtyard, who should appear to assist but Jason (we apologise for having previously, erroneously tagged him as Joshua) and the Argonauts. (We needed some Greek heroes at this moment). To be more precise it was Jason and Lauren that we met in Tupiza. Jason was not looking on top form and had been ill since we last saw him. Hopefully the reduction in altitude may at least mean that his body does not have 2 problems to deal with. I am only thankful that Pat and I have so far managed to avoid any serious lurgy.
They were lovely company for the evening and we were joined by Shane from Tupiza and Nicole and a second Pat for a Chinese meal. We were all rather over faced by the quantities but made a sterling effort to give our selves indigestion. Quite amazing, really, given that there are Chinese restaurants in the most extraordinary places around the world and that we have had the odd pang for their food from time to time that we have not had a single Chinese offering since Sept 2001.
Shane informed us that we had unintentionally timed our visit to Sucre at just the right time, as a fiesta in 2 days time at the town up the road (literally 1200m higher) was due to be the event of the year.
We mozzied around for the day, trying to get info about language schools in Sucre for phase 2 of Spanish learning. Only to find that Saturday was not a good day for information gathering. It was clear that this town had a) far more money splashing around by the quality of housing and b) had far more people of Hispanic descent. All the towns we had visited thus far had seemed 90% Amerindian descent, and we had kind of become accustomed to being the tallest people in the street and the lightest skinned. In some ways the European-ness of Sucre was a bit of a let down. The buildings in the centre were probably more majestic than those in Potosi but somehow it lacks an intimacy of Potosi. Its rigid grid structure leaves you feeling that the place is a little sterile, whereas the growth of the older Potosi has far more of a feeling of many towns in Europe, where the roads are less straight and orderly. OK so Iím biased, I liked Potosi a lot.
We arose full of cheer waiting to go and see another of the mad festivals that typify Andean life. The weather did not look too promising and I encouraged Hippy to consider the option of waterproof clothing. She, on the other hand always looks on the bright side and thought that even if it did rain, it would only be a small matter of a 40-mile ride back to town and the warmth of the hotel shower. I packed my waterproofs.
I began to realise what it was that made this road feel familiar. There was something about the stretch from Potosi to here and upwards into the hills that reminded me of Ethiopia. OK, it was high but other than that there were no obvious signs of similarity. Then we passed a Japanese government project board and it was clear that this road, just as the one into Addis Ababa had been built by the Japs. It is a very fine road and I congratulate the Japanese on the quality of their workmanship and their public spirit in providing it.
The rain held off even though there was a bit of light condensation precipitation on the way up into the hills and I began to realise what a chump I was and that Hippy had been right to have a positive attitude. Tarabuco was shrouded in mistiness and we found a bit of a muddy patch amongst all of the local buses where we could park up Bertha. I was much relieved by the fact that we were at the top of a hill as I imagined that with the altitude and damp Bertha would be hard to start once she'd cooled off.
Crowds of folk swelled and filled the town through the morning and the odd group of dancers clattered down the street warming up for their performances later. Clearly, the dancing was to be an al day session for them and not a simple turn around the parade ground. The first group who passed us at close quarters were dressed somewhat incongruously. I could have sworn that a bunch of cloggies were coming when I first heard them. Indeed, they were. Instead of the rather pathetic little tinkly bells typifying yer English Morris chappy, these guys had 3 inch diameter cymbals mounted as if they were spurs on the back of their platform clogs which were fastened to their feet with a series of Roman sandal-like straps.
Headgear was another matter and as for garb, I shall have to hand you over to my more creative writing fashion spotting partner...
Now Iím a bit worried about being considered some kind of fashion expert. But here goes. The blokes had hard leather hats styled on those of the conquistadors, and decorated with forward facing, large rosettes of material filled with what looked like dried heather. Highly embroidered priest-like broad sashes hung down their backs and this topped by florescent pink, shiny ponchos. Their ankles were adorned with highly patterned knitted leg warmers. Now if you have managed to picture all that you are doing well. They were followed in their parade by more conventionally dressed locals in plain Spanish hats and rainbow coloured ponchos who seemed to be in charge of instrumentals. In the lead of each band were only 2 women one with a sequinned hat resembling the roof of a pagoda and the other with hair braided Native American style down the sides of her face.
In town it was heaving with tourists and hawkers understandably trying to make the most out of the day. There we seemed to bump into every traveller we had met this side of the border. I was particularly taken with some of the local womenís more day-to-day wear. Detailed woven material based in black and red was then set off by sequinned peaked fez like hats topped with a pompom on a stalk, worn at a tilted angle. Well why not.
The locals certainly know the game here and know that there is money to be made from photos by eager tourists. The going rate seemed to be 3 Bolivianos. I donít know how I feel about this. I can see that they have a saleable product, as they looked amazing and the older folk especially had faces that were so full of character, but somehow it felt wrong. We succumbed a couple of times, with those looking in need of a good meal.
To avoid the crowds we headed down to the stadium early where later in the afternoon the festival was to take off in earnest. In the centre of the showground, folk were busy constructing a bizarre tower of food. Made from two telegraph poles and supported by rubber belts acting as guy ropes, stings of items were tied across to completely fill the gap between; a half cow, bottles of beer and Pepsi, tins of tomato puree and pilchards, fresh fruit and veg. Strange. We awaited enlightenment with bated breath but assumed for the time being that this was some kind of harvest festival. Much as in the way of harvest festivals in Britain and the associated collections for the old folk, this clearly had nowt to do with any harvest that had been made in this area.
Groups of dancers and musicians trickled into the area in front of the grandstand and did a bit of entertaining between heavy showers of rain. The only shelter that was available to them at other times was the umbrellas at the beer tents or underneath the multitude of lorries that surrounded the areas. We found quite a cunning little overhang round the back of the pavilion where we stayed perfectly dry.
It all got a bit too much, though, waiting for the main event and shuffling back and forth for shelter and so we set off in search of food and a nice warm spot in which to eat it. It persisted it down as we walked through the cobbled streets of Tarabuco and so we were easily enticed into eating a strange chicken dish served from a bucket where it lay under a layer of swimming red grease simply because of the opportunity to sit beneath a tiled roof eating it. The food was in fact extremely good ñ spicy and well cooked enough to give us the comfort of believing it to be safe.
Gazing out from our little courtyard we felt scant inclination to return to see what was happening down the road At last, the rain eased and we braved it to head down the road only to be once more driven under shelter, this time in the form of a tarpaulin at another food stall, as the heavens opened good and proper. This latest shower clearly had an effect on the locals who, as a man, decided to give the whole thing up as a bad job and streamed away from the stadium amidst a clatter of clog-cymbals and the hoots of assorted recorder like instruments. Taking advantage of the space created under our shelter, I donned my one-piece waterproofs conceding that sartorial elegance has to give way to practicality from time to time. As I walked up the road looking to all intents and purposes like a de-helmeted Neil Armstrong, I am sure I heard someone say that I was the guy their cousin had seen making the Nazca lines. But maybe it was just the waft of the local brew that had my head thinking such nonsense.
Par for the course, we headed back down into Sucre under drying skies but like a good boy I spared Hippy another joy ride down the now mud-washed tarmac. Good thing, too, as there was also a healthy collection of small boulders washed down onto the road just to keep my reactions sharp.
I ponder quite a lot about the places that weíve been and the people that live there ñ mostly from the point of how they could improve the quality of their lives and how developed world could help. Again and again I come to the conclusion that it would be best if these poor folk didnít have to live where they do. Of course, this is a totally unrealistic thought to have but I find it hard to believe that folk have been forced to live in these places in the first place. What drives them? Is it any wonder that people in situations like this get driven to drink when put in a position that they can afford it. Come on, Hippy had her rant about coca ñ itís my turn now. What brought all this to mind was the rocks on the road, indeed all the roads in Bolivia. People moan about the quality of the roads but how on earth could they be improved when the general terrain is so difficult to work with. Even the finest tar roads have bits of rock that have fallen from the hills onto them.
Language learning and stuff in Sucre.
We had booked ourselves in for 2 weeks of lessons, to try and improve our grammar and conversational Spanish. We have been getting by fine, but it is a shame that our talks with the locals are on a very superficial level. Apart from that it is a real treat to unpack everything properly in drawers rather than rummaging in bags to find a clean pair of knickers.
Itís almost falling into a routine, morning revision and homework, a veggy place up the road for lunch, an afternoon of lessons and a Chinese for tea.
I have had the odd sticky moments in my lessons, apart from the obvious ërí thing of course. My teacher Lenny went to great lengths to explain all the celebrations that go on at Easter culminating in a full fiesta with a procession following the stations of the cross up the local hill then a nosh up in the church. So she then asks me to explain what happens in England. It sounded pretty sad that all we do is eat chocolate eggs and have a couple of days off work. Trying to explain that we donít really have fiestas in England and even at Christmas people just eat, drink and watch TV - was met with disbelief. Then came:
What do you do on England Day?
We donít have one.
What about Independence Day?
We have never gained independence from anyone.
Come on, Hippy, we have exciting things like the Queen distributing Maundy money.
I was getting more and more embarrassed by the fact that England has little in the way of cohesive celebrations. OK the Hindus do a grand job of celebrating Diwali, the Muslims have Ramadan, and London has the Notting Hill Carnival, but there seems to be nothing that brings everyone together. Maybe it is the fact that we have not been colonised in the last 1000 years that we are not proud of being our own state.
Mind you at the moment there is little to be proud of. We have no manufacturing industry any more and our illustrious leader has taken us into war again. For the first 33 years of my life, there was only one military action of our own - Las Malvinas, and various peacekeeping actions where we lost troops. Now in less than 18 months Blair has taken us into 2 unprovoked wars. From a cyber cafÈ in Bolivia it almost seems like Blair is trying to act out 1984. I feel ashamed as I pass every shop and restaurant with CNN blaring out (in Spanish of course) that my country is part of it. Maybe it is my imagination, but Iím sure it feels as if people are giving us disdainful looks when we speak in English.
We have had a few diversions from the depression of world news and our studies. We had a sad attempt to watch a Spanish film at the cinema, which in truth we followed because we had read the preview in the paper and we looked at the pictures. It had had rave reviews and was nominated for an Oscar so if it comes out in the UK it would be worth a look. El Crimen del Padre Amora ñ or to you ëThe crime of Father Amoraí.
Also a trip to the local textile museum for my benefit. You may or may not know that Bolivia produces some of the most intricate hand woven material in the world. Thankfully there was enough of interest about the cultural meaning and use of the materials to interest Pat. When we got to the video section I could hardly drag him away. To illustrate some of the extraordinary customs that were created, they had film of the ceremonies. Boy do the Bolivians know how to party. They are just totally mad. People get dressed up in the most bizarre outfits, get completely off their face on home brew and coca and have a laugh. I know that behind the ceremonies are deep held beliefs, but instead of having solemn rituals to mark them, they take the more enjoyable alternative. Way to go, I say. They would also put the Hot Rockers to shame in a costume competition. It is also clear that although most Bolivians are supposedly converted to Catholicism, the older Inca belief systems run not far below the surface.
Time trickles on as Pat does battle with tenses and Hippy gets tense about battles.