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.

Big Water

Dad and I met in the lobby of our rather cool hotel in San Telmo, Buenos Aires. Situated in the bohemian, arty district, there was a film school one block over and colourful, imposing graffiti on all available walls. One night, on the way home from dinner, we even came across a theatrical performance by a bored dame leaning on her balcony clutching her fan, and her adversary on the street below. It looked like they were getting good tips from passers-by!

We visited a small modern art gallery in La Boca on the day that we went to visit El Caminito – the set of colourful streets reminiscent of Camden town. Whilst we had a coffee, an old guy sang along to two guitarists and the tapping of a Tango couples shoes. They carried on tirelessly for ages, presumably aided by the copious amounts of mate they were drinking.

The amount of wildlife that Dad and I have seen has been amazing! It all started when we went on a bike ride around the park in Buenos Aires. It was National Flag Day and nice and sunny, so the rest of the city accompanied us. We saw parakeets nesting and cracking seeds in the trees above us, and wild dogs running around the paths.

Our second destination was Ibera, a swampy marshland in the north of Argentina. We stayed on a ranch for two days and went on a boat ride out into the local lake. We saw Caimans, Capybaras and thousands of different bird species. It was really impressive that such biodiversity can exist on these little islands in such close proximity – there were caimans sleeping on other caimans, and birds having a rest on the backs of Capybaras! From the ranch we also rode out around the Pampas on horses to check up on the 400 cows and lambs roaming about the estancia. Not to mention that in our lovely host’s back yard we also found monkeys living in his copse, glow worms and yet more Capybara.

A few bits of steak and some red wine later, we left for the tropical heat of Puerto Iguazu and to take our pool side seats in the hotel. We visited Iguazu falls on three consecutive days, first to the Argentinean side and on the last day to the Brazilian side. All spectacular! On the Argentinean side you can stand on the board walk and stare down into the spray-filled abyss, wondering about the non-stop pummeling of the rocks below and the hypnotic journey of the water from precipice to river. We hadn’t realized how far the falls stretched, around a mile of individual waterfalls, some completely engulfing and roaring, others a trickle in comparison and dotted with shrubs and grasses still managing to cling on.

We were able to walk around the reserve and see the falls from many different angles, this included a quick cool off in an Iguazu shower and a long trek that led to a secret fall and pool deeper in the jungle. Whilst I was a little disappointed not to see any Jaguars, we saw more monkeys(!), an agouti, what Dad thinks was a Tapir, wild Guinea pigs and the stars of the show – the resident Coatis stealing pick nicks, frightening children, and demolishing rubbish bins (all of which we can bear witness to). The butterfly population is simply stunning. On the Brazilian side we were treated to a more panoramic view of the falls, and the size of the river Iguazu, itself. I feel very lucky to have seen one of the natural wonders of the world, and very, very small in comparison.

Rama Rama Hare Hare

Breakfast is every morning at 8 30. We then work from 9 to 11 30, when we take a break, before continuing our activity until lunchtime: 1 30. After lunch, we are free to do as we please until yoga at 4 30, our snack at 6 and dinner at 8. This is my daily routine at the Hare Krishna ashram where I’m staying for two weeks – one more to go. The devotees actually start their day at 5 with chanting and meditation, but us voluntarios prefer to stay in bed where it’s warm and comfy. The monks and mothers that live at the farm are all friendly, caring and surprisingly young people, some of whom led very world-wind lives before they arrived here. I’m working on the organic farm. We change our tasks every day, for example I have helped to build a manure house (not a house for manure but a house made out of manure!), weeding, hoeing (I never knew how much the land in Argentina needed to be hoed! One day, I hoepe we will have hoed enough…), chopping and washing up. It’s all pretty hard work, actually, but it does keep us warm. As we are only eating vegan meals, there is a lot of grating, peeling and mashing to be done, and they make so much food. Every meal preparation feels like we’re about to feed five thousand people. Eating is considered a spiritual meditation and act of thanks to Krishna, so the meals are always arranged beautifully and no food is ever wasted. It’s a very efficient farm, whatever is left over is fed to the various animals that live along side us. Only two of the six dogs that live here were invited – the others just turned up – and neither of the two chickens nor the two cockerels. The dogs are all very sweet and a constant source of entertainment/warmth, the cockerels on the other hand have no concept of time and crow at midnight, or at three in the afternoon. Yoga classes are everyday and often quite hard work, but again they warm us up. After not really feeling like I can roll out a yoga mat in a ten-bed hostal dorm room for the past three months, I’m embarrassingly unflexible, but little and often every day is the best way to improve, they say! The mediation classes are really nice, sometimes the mother taking the class will sing or play an instrument, and sometimes we just lie in quiet. I’m loving this detox. No wine, meat or dairy products for two weeks is doing me good! The farm is in the Argentinian country side just outside of Buenos Aires. It’s as flat as a pancake in every direction, apart from the rows and rows of trees around each field. It’s a peaceful and tranquil place- you can see all the stars and every corner of the sky- and it's also horse country! I walked past a field of about thirty horses yesterday, and we forever see gauchos riding their steeds over to their friends’ house if they need to have a word about a dog. I originally planned to stay here for three weeks, but on account of the blistering cold I’m leaving early. Back to BA, back to pastries and coffee!