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.