This is a Kidz' World

If you go to the Isla Del Sol, not only will you encounter beautiful stars, dazzling sun and a dozen donkeys, but you’ll also see the cutest puppies and babies EVER. Before you scroll onto the next post, I promise there’s no soppy ranting here, my weekend trip to Copacabana and the island was just the jolt I needed to write about the abundant amount of child labour in Bolivia.

Morales’ government has just passed a new law legalizing the employment of children. On the one hand, this doesn’t seem to be working towards a future where kids are in full-time education and people employing them are penalized by the state, but on the other hand now those children who have no option but to work can be protected by legal rights and take pride in their work, instead of being ashamed or vilified.

My belated blog entry about such an important topic highlights how second-nature it is to see a six-year-old selling sweets and cigarettes, or an eight-year-old shining shoes.

I watched a film about two young boys working in the mines in Potosi. This type of work is really dangerous in case of collapsing mines or gunpowder miss-explosions, not to mention the lack of oxygen, and the dust which infiltrates and irritates lungs. These kids had to work there because their father had died, and their mamá’s income was not enough to sustain them. In a Spanish language class, we watched a video produced by Save the Children in which many children said they opted to work with their parents to minimize the risk of being mistreated elsewhere, and to boost profit for the family company. Why do so many children work? Because their parents are employed in precarious work, and they have little other choice to help or to go hungry.

Lots of the children work in the morning and go to school in the afternoon. One little girl I met whilst walking around the Isla del Sol was towing along her llama, Ivan, and started telling me that she’s on commission for the local hotels to take newly arrived tourists straight to their door, and after all the boats have docked, she goes to school. Her brothers came rushing up to us a little later, and demanded Bs. 5 to keep walking. You have to pay Bs. 15 at the start of the hike, but anything after that and the young entrepreneurs are having you on. These kids work and study, but when do they have time to play?

Two elements could be addressed to reduce the number of kids working: firstly, children need resources to be able to go to school. Schools have strict regulations about clothes and haircuts. If the state provided uniforms, paper and pens, children wouldn’t need to save up to go to school. Listening Morales? Secondly, the nature of the work can be really damaging for the children. Working in the mine is of terrible detriment to health even if you’re a healthy adult, children’s lungs suffer, and they have vitamin deficiencies and can be poisoned from the chemicals in the metal. Elsewhere, children are paid to carry heavy sacks for shoppers in the market, which is really bad for their backs and can stunt growth. Perhaps an amendment to the law could stop children injuring themselves and impacting on their future. Judging by the number of children parading around Plaza Avaroa playing instruments and singing on Independence Day, it’s a future which remains bright and hopeful.

Raison d'Etre

Let me introduce you to a phenomenon peculiar to Latin America: the Passion. I first encountered Passion in Buenos Aires’ San Telmo market two years ago. Sophia and I got chatting to a man selling saddlery equipment and all the leather a Gaucho could desire. When we asked him if he had any horses, he replied that he’d never ridden in his life, but that the saddlery was his Passion.

Such graffiti adorns the wall of La Paz as, ‘You can’t choose your Passion, but you’re tied to it for life’.

Last Monday I visited the FEJUVE offices in El Alto. They’re a grassroots community organization that facilitates basic neighbourhood needs. They were at the forefront of pushing the government to nationalize water and gas – a move which has saved many families from paying extortionate amounts for basic human requirements. The men were at first reluctant to talk to us, but after Wilmer and I promised them that Bolivian Express didn’t have a political agenda, and was a cultural publication, they agreed to answer our questions. They became really animated and talked with passion about their projects.

Christy and I went to see a film showcasing political Passion during the 70s and 80s. It was called Olvidados, and tackled the difficult subject of the union of dictatorships, orchestrated by the US, that formed in many South American countries, and documented the communist struggle against them. Many ended up as political prisoners being tortured and ultimately murdered. We concluded it was an apolitical film about extremist views as opposed to a vilification of either party. Two generations of love stories were the vehicle for telling the history which found us sympathising with both torturer and torturee.

Gato (real name Michael), our magazine designer, has two Passions: Bolivar fútbal club and Photography. We had the rare opportunity of experiencing his interaction with both first hand. We’ve been having Photography lessons as part of our journalism course, and one night (described by one La Paz resident as the coldest day of the year) Gato took us up to a Mirador overlooking the city. It was really beautiful, and we decided to brave the cold. Taking a good photograph is really rewarding. We’ve discovered that it helps a journalist to look closely at the details of their surroundings.

The following day, we went to see Bolivar Vs. San Lorenzo of Argentina. The curses and jeers from the Bolivian fans were an excellent exercise in Spanish vocabulary, with a particularly loud woman behind us shouting, ‘You’re screwed, there’s no Oxygen up here’. A chorus of ‘Alemania’ rang out every so often, teasing the Argentinean players for their World Cup defeat. Not only were the sounds and smells of popcorn permeating the game, but the sight of toilet roll, confetti, seat cushions and all manner of objects being chucked around (mainly directed at the Argentinean players) provided amazing visuals making for an intensely dramatic, multi-sensorial experience.

We saw another game in Cochabamba, a town two girls and I visited this weekend. In this town, both players and fans must face extreme weather conditions (blistering heat) as well as draining altitude. The fans’ relentless cheering and t-shirt waving was impressive. Emotions were running high: the game went to penalties, and the first player from the Cochabamba team to take a penalty missed (it wasn’t even saved, he missed the goal), and broke down in tears and dropped to his knees before it had even become clear that they’d lost the game altogether.

We went to an amazing reggae bar last Tuesday. They had a house band consisting of aging rockers that kept bickering and stopping the music for half an hour at a time. They played Bob Marley covers, and even let me and another gringo sing into the microphone, although I must confess that after a few beers we couldn’t quite remember all the words. Seeing as it’s my Passion, we’re going back again this week.

The Promised Land

‘Where the fantastical is reality’...this is the official slogan of the Bolivian tourist board. It aptly represents the land of contrasts in which I find myself. This week’s installation of the Llama Diaries revolves around religion: ancient, modern and hybrid.

This choice of theme is firstly inspired by my recent trip to Tiwanaku, a pre-Colombian archaeological site, and a two hour incredibly idyllic bus ride from La Paz. Tiwanaku is a clash of cultures, it played host to civilizations trading from both Peru and Chile. Tall anthropomorphic sculptures dot the series of the small walls, and crowd the museum just outside the site. These figures have icons and representations tattooed all over their bodies, such as the condor, puma and snake which are three sacred Incan animals. They are very imposing – especially the ones whose heads have been decapitated. Indeed, the site exposes conflicting objects of devotion: not only would the Spanish colonisers have destroyed the sacrilegious half-human figures because they didn't fit with Catholicism, but there’s also evidence that they destroyed Incan crosses in search of the gold adorned within.

I crashed a guided tour which explained the site in depth, and pointed out the areas where sacrifices were made, including that of llama and guinea pig (pobresitos!). The tour guide was using a small mirror to reflect the sun and indicate points of interest. This was an interesting modern interpretation of the sun worship integral to the ancient culture that surrounded us: Tiwanaku was adorned with precisely placed sun doors capturing the year’s sacred solstices.

The ceramics museum housed a mummy a million times scarier than any of those in the British Museum. It was wrapped up in a wicker basket with the skull poking out. I tried really hard to take a picture for you lot, but the security guard was following me around like I was a 14-year-old in Superdrug. Try Googling 'Momia Aymara'.

I went to El Alto on Wednesday, and noticed some mummies with a modern twist. People hang up Guy Fawlkes-esque scarecrows outside their houses to warn off robbers and thieves. I interviewed a Sociology PhD student who explained that the influx of rural-urban migration has seen a correlated increase in crime. People migrating as free-radicals rather than in groups has made for an anonymous neighbourhood. I was told that the police don’t always catch criminals, so residents have taken the law into their own hands.

Not only were the mummies going all medieval on me, but there was also a lot of political graffiti heralding Evo Morales as the Messiah of politics. We watched a film about Morales called Evo Pueblo, which featured lots of panning shots of him walking across a desolate landscape and looking pensive. The blatant emphasis of Morales’ ‘What would Jesus do?’ moral compass was complete when we watched the young president staying up all night during his years as a shepherd to ensure the safety of his flock. He also had a great relationship with his father, and was really popular at school.

To conclude, us girls at the BX house have discovered a new religion in Orange Is the New Black. We settle into our comfy leather pews in the evening and stare transfixed at the TV.

Soy Boliviana

Who runs the world? Cholitas. This is the women’s instillation of the Llama Diaries. It would be impossible to write anything about Bolivia without mentioning their cultural symbol: the bowler hat-wearing, big skirt-sporting, chatty and sassy Cholitas.

Following the impossibility of taking the Teleférico last week, we made a special trip to visit the silent, floating orbs that glide above the city. As a mode of transport it provided a whole new framework from which to view the city. It allowed for an insight into what goes on in private rooftop terraces, a panorama of all the football games taking place, and the madness and chaos of La Paz traffic jams. A woman that shared our pod was absolutely terrified of heights. She clung on to Eve, my colleague here at BX, and laughed hysterically for the full ten minute ride. We got chatting, and when I mentioned that I hoped to go to Cochabamba next week, she immediately gave me her number and promised to show me around. Read my blog next week to find out what happens...

We emerged from the Teleférico into El Alto, trying to stir some life back into our numb hands whose life had been squeezed out from fear. The outskirts of the city, the more affluent area thanks to the weekly market, were sufficient evidence to for us to realize the scale of the poverty in El Alto. In La Paz, we had got used to the potholes, the stray dogs and the copious litter on the streets. Culture shock struck once again as we took in the begging children, the streets smelling of piss, and the noticeable lack of teeth. Not only was the standard of living lower, but the mode of living was also radically different: Women worked in construction on the side of the road, mixing cement and digging with spades, women worked as traffic police blowing whistles in the faces of minibus drivers, and women worked as gardeners on the verges of the motorway, weeding, watering and cultivating. It must have been like London during the First World War when women dominated industry as opposed to being the minority in physical labour.

What El Alto lacks in infrastructure, it makes up for in culture. The city plays host to the famous Sunday Cholita Wrestling at the Multifunctional. We arrived at 17:00 after the show had already started, and were met by an eruption of applause and jibes from the audience as one man dressed in elaborate glam rock get up sat on his opponent and stuck out his tongue. This was an amazing pantomime experience: WWE wrestling is all acrobatics, and the Cholitas and the other wrestlers added to the show with slapstick love-hate relationships between the characters, and even the involvement of the referees who cracked out amazing moves when prompted. The audience threw bits of orange peel onto the stage, and we couldn’t help but get enthralled in all the drama.

Cholita wrestling was originally conceived of to help women with self-defence who experience domestic violence in the home. We watched a documentary on three famous Cholitas who made the sport famous, and who gained massive independence from their homes and from their street stalls with it. For example, at one point in the film a Cholita called Carmen Rosa decks a man in Plaza San Francisco for alleging that she wasn’t really Aymaran. After their heyday, the women that wrestle in El Alto are no longer real Cholitas. They are modern young women who have mastered the art of acrobatics and use traditional dress as smoke and mirrors to please tourists. That didn’t really matter though: locals and tourists alike smirked at the occasional glimpse up a Cholita’s skirt, and the use of their handbags during the fight.

Turning the clock backwards now, women have historically played an essential role in Bolivia through the presence of Catholic Virgins, with one attributed to each city. On El día de La Paz, following a debaucherous street fiesta the night before, members of the Catholic church solemnly paraded the Virgin of La Paz through the streets. We were sitting in a café, feeling hungover, when suddenly well-dressed Bolivianos walked past us murmuring songs and holding hands. It didn’t make us feel any better.

Bolivia seems to excel in creating a happy medium between tradition and modern life. A recent campaign to recognize indigenous cultures saw Morales’ government install a backwards moving clock in the Plaza Murillo, the main governmental square. Many Bolivianos are distraught at this new feature, as they think it’ll make them a laughing stock, but others consider it an acknowledgment of myths and legends of Andean culture that still permeate urban life. Indeed, the Cholita dress code is certainly an emblem of the mash up between Spanish colonialism and Andean tradition. We went to a protest in support of Palestine last Sunday, and the single Cholita in attendance was the focus of local media attention. She truly represented a collision of modern and traditional living: Protest is integral to La Paz’s spirit, residents take to the streets at the drop of a bowler hat, but international crises still demand a more global and modern consciousness. In La Paz, it’s not a surprise that women are leading the way.

Bolivia, glorious Bolivia!

Viva America Del Sur! The Llama Diaries are resurrected! This time, however, I’m staying put in Bolivia. I’m doing a four week course at the La Paz-based Bolivian Express magazine. It’s an English language publication promoting cultural exchange between Bolivia and the rest of the world. Most Bolivians are materially poor and cannot afford to travel very far abroad (on my flight from Miami to La Paz there were only a handful of Bolivianos) so bringing us lot over means Bolivians can encounter foreigners and foreigners can learn about, and from, the organized chaos of La Paz.

*************************** The magazine’s issues are distinguished thematically, and I’d like to take a leaf from their magazine and do the same for my blog. I start, as life must, with food! When I arrived at the Bolivian Express house (in great time from the airport, after all, why would my taxi driver go to the effort of circumnavigating the whole roundabout when he can just cut across and take the last exit?) the first thing I recognised from my short stay two years before was the smell. Street food is abundant in La Paz, and its aroma is an integral feature of the city. Cholitas bake empanadas to sell on street corners, kids exchange small nuggets of frankly delicious chocolate for Bs. 1 (10p) on the city busses, and heladeros sell ice cream in las plazas. Aside from these stand-out examples, it is the reign of fast-food joints endlessly frying meat that really makes the stray dogs’ ears prick, and my nose tell me I’m back for more South American vida linda. ************************************* - I'm sorry for dropping all the Spanish phrases like a pretentious student, but Bolivia seems better described in Spanish than in English -

********************************************* Street food is found at its best in La Paz’s markets, and it’s a necessary feature if you’re going to get round the whole thing. We went to El Alto market last weekend which is perhaps the largest of its kind.It sells everything from bed sheets to silk ties, and cutlery dividers to glittery dog collars (watch out Echo!). El Alto is considered a different city to La Paz because it was constructed by a working class community whose representative architect designed the houses in a neo-indigenous urban style to play host to both family life, and factory life so people can work primary materials from their homes. To the untrained eye, La Paz and El Alto have merged into one, and a newly built funicular now takes shoppers directly from the centre of La Paz to the vertiginous peaks to which the vendedors cling. We were going to take the funicular back home, but given the very cheap fare, the novelty, and the incredible views, the end of the queue was nowhere to be seen as locals are keen to enjoy their city’s new attraction. So instead, we bought some homemade crisps (not in short supply thanks to the country’s prolific potato cultivation) and nursed our sunburn on the bus. Seriously, the altitude is so immense I felt like I’d grabbed the sun with both hands and given it an Eskimo kiss.

******************************* Over 4,000 different types of potato are grown in the Andes alone. Thanks to my stay at the Hare Krishna Finca in Coroico, I can say with confidence that I’ve encountered a fair few of the notorious spuds. First, let me explain the whole Hare Krishna thing. The Finca is part of an Eco Yoga Park network spanning South America. Hare Krishna is a popular faith not only amongst people living on the continent, but also travellers because they offer food, board and spiritual activities for a reasonable price (£3.50 a day in Coroico). Your average gringo is hungry for these three things. The Finca itself consisted of a temple, a kitchen, three bedrooms and some eco compost toilets. Life revolved around the inextricable link between the kitchen and the temple. Every item eaten must first be prepared with love, for Krishna. That the food is vegetarian (except for eggs and garlic) requires a lot of preparation like chopping, washing, peeling and grinding. To complete my required voluntary service, I peeled potatoes every day. Hence my close acquaintance with them! Following the preparation, the food is be blessed and offered to Krishna. I was lucky enough to attend a fire ceremony on my second day. This involved building a fire in Coroico's cloud forest which is unsurprisingly quite hard, and then throwing a lot of rice about. Finally, a prayer is said before the food is consumed, and Krishna pop is listened to during the meal. You can check out George Harrison’s interpretation of this genre on YouTube.

*************************************** I have never witnessed such devotion before. The Brazilian monk, Rada, and the Colombian madre (unfortunately I couldn’t pronounce or hence learn her name), and their little boy, spent every second of their day chanting, reading sacred texts, talking about Krishna, or cooking in the name of Krishna. Food, singing, discussion, and reading were all conduits to enunciate his influence in their lives. It was certainly food for thought: both inspiring in terms of their discipline of mind, and, ironically, unbelievable: How can anyone believe in something that much to renounce all other forms of life? Thankfully, I was joined by two other travelling comrades, Leyla from Chile and Wim from the Netherlands, whose discussions over Uno definitely helped me digest the whole experience. It’s amazing how travelling by yourself is never really that lonely – there’s always someone going your way and doing what you’re doing.

************************************* I draw to a close this blog post with two questions for my readers revolving around my chosen binding agent for today: food. First of all, whilst Leyla and I were walking in Coroico’s spectacular cloud forest, a kid ran up and offered to sell as a Toucan. Was it to eat? And second, I want to know why we don’t eat spiders. A spider the size of my hand was found hanging ominously from the wall of us voluntarios’ bedroom one evening... I would have felt much better to know it was in a cooking pot than lurking outside my door, or in my shoe, all night. And I’m a vegetarian.

Buenos Aires (again) et le grand Mont Royal

This is my final blog post! I am landing at Heathrow on Wednesday, and very much looking forward to going home. However, I will miss traveling very much. It's been an amazing 5 months and I feel really lucky to have been able to see all that I've seen (both landscapes and cityscapes) and to have met hilarious lunatics, awe-inspiring hard workers, generous strangers and rude portenos. Nothing beats people and places.

In my last two weeks traveling I have spent a lazy week in Buenos Aires and a very cultured week in Montreal.

After saying goodbye to Sarah, I got back to Buenos Aires feeling utterly exhausted. I slept for roughly two days and earned myself the reputation of always being asleep among the other travelers. But later on during the week I was able to relive my favourite aspects of Buenos Aires and see some new areas of the city, too. I went with some friends to La Cabrera steak house. At this famous restaurant, you are presented with a 600g steak and lots of little pots of various veggies to try it with, such as artichoke hearts, peppers and spinach salsa...it was the best meal of my trip. I also went to a 50s Rock dance class which was lots of fun and, of course, there was more Tango. On my last day we stumbled across a Colombian street festival and were treated to some traditional dance shows and music (enthusiastically commentated by our Colombian friend from the hostal). I also had a healthy dose of Buenos Aires night life; a hip hop club, a house club, chic bars in the leafy Palermo neighborhood and grimy local joints. I also made use of the extensive film collection at the hostal and discovered at the beginning of the week the last book in the Dragon Tattoo series. I had not read the first two (recently watched the first film), but was immediately hooked by it and couldn't put it down until I had finished. A couple of girls there had also been at the Krishna farm, and it was so sad saying goodbye to the people that I had spent so much time with. That is one of the hard aspects of traveling; constant heart ache and goodbyes... on the other hand we all have somewhere to stay now in each others' respective countries!

I'm now in Montreal, possibly the world capital of culture, and it's baking hot (29 degrees yesterday and today). There's so much to do here, it's almost overkill. Since being here, I have seen two comedy shows and lazed at the free comedy stage for many hours, visited both contemporary and Inuit art galleries, seen a free open-air production of the Taming of the Shrew, listened to a lunch-time blue grass concert in the local plaza, raved with the group of drummers and cow bell musicians who meet up every Sunday for jamming sessions, and after a Friday night BBQ, gone to a late night House music club with a few locals from the city. Not to mention the awesome history museum, my bike ride around the two islands on the river, the visit to the eden project-esque Biodome in the Olympic park, and the feast we prepared after going shopping at the Saturday farmers market in the north of Montreal. Sigh. 

On another note, it's really nice being in a bilingual city. There seems to be a lot of rivalry about French and English, but everyone speaks both. Signs and announcements are primarily in French but often translated. Apparently, in Quebec they are defend their French heritage a lot fiercer. I like speaking French, but I kind of miss Spanish now! I've been sharing my bunk bead with a guy from BA so we can reminisce about La Cabrera and the San Telmo Sunday market. 

We watched the Olympic opening ceremony, and the coverage is playing on the TV everywhere. If you have any questions about how the Canadian team are doing, just ask. I loved the opening ceremony, it made me feel very patriotic and eager to go home. And see my clothes. And the dogs. And my Mum!!!!

The Girls From Ipanema

Broccoli trees clustered on miniature mountains, mile-long white sand beaches and crashing green waves...Rio turned out to be a little piece of heaven! The people were chilled, the sun was hot and so were the bodies. We made our first outing on a Sunday from Centro Rio, along the beach and all the way to the Sugar Loaf mountain. People were jogging, playing football, volleyball and beach tennis, and drinking refreshing coconut water across the stretch of the coast. Sarah and I stood out like pink flamingos but we carried on chasing the shore line, and just included ourselves in the colourful mixture of people and dogs running about. * It was all about the views: from Cristo and the Sugar loaf, to hand gliding above Leblon beach, Rio could be admired from every angle. The city also seemed to take influence from every angle of the world- the music and art was really colourful and had a lot of influence from Africa (like the drums in Samba), and the bar culture from Europe was ever present (especially the night Sarah and I went on a bar crawl through trendy Leblon sampling Caipirinhas and Bohemia beer). Everyone we met was very relaxed and happy, they seemed to be well aware of the fact that their city was enjoying a bright future, fat economy and winters with temperatures of 27 degrees in the shade. * Sarah and I left this hustle and bustle for a long weekend on Ihla Grande. It was paradise – the beach we hiked to, Lopez Mendez, is often voted as one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. With no cars on the island, our only option to get around was– alas! - via speed boat. On our second day we took a trip visiting more inaccesible places, such as the green lagood and the blue lagoon whilst posing and tanning on the bonnet of the boat. We snorkelled a couple of times and saw fat orange star fishes, unpuffed puffer fishes, and a graceful turtle. The fresh fish was exceptionally yummy, and we ate sushi and sashimi a lot back on the mainland. * It was so different compared to the other countries that I have visited in South America. First and foremost, the completely inpenetrable Portugese provided a barrier between us a total experience of local life, and it didn’t really sound that nice either ... it seemed that no one felt the need to learn Spanish. When we met a couple from Rio, the man offered that Brazil is the King of South America, but was promptly shut up by his friend for involving us in South American politics. Otherwise, the food is more fishy, the cachaca liquor is stronger and they seem to work harder (both at their bodies and at their jobs). * I can’t believe I was going to go to South America and not go to Rio. It has definitely been one of the highlights of my trip... but then again my whole trip needs to be highlighted, underlined, in bold and capital letters as a rather special section of my life.