"What is this? Grand Central Station?!"

Blog five: Bolivia: Potosi - Sucre - La Paz - Copacabana - Isla del Sol

"What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us"

Henry David Thoreau

          As we arrived in Sucre night was falling, and Carly and Eric were waiting for us on the balcony of their hostel apartment overlooking the courtyard. Upon hearing our voices they shouted their hellos and Carly confessed "I have been sat here waiting for you all evening", following a long pause and alarmed by her own honesty she asked "is that creepy?"; upon which we all burst out laughing and joined them upstairs. Carly is a tiny little lady of Jewish heritage from Jersey, and Eric is up from Boston, they had met in Chile teaching English and were now travelling together through Bolivia for a few weeks. Carly has an exceptional sense of humour that demonstrates intelligence and individuality through her running spontaneous witticisms. Eric is a young man (though being a few years ahead of the rest of us earned him the name "dad",) of outstanding intellect and challenging views that are always open to debate and always engaging. His Southern U.S. roots and full strawberry blonde beard lend him the serious and thoughtful look of a kind of Emersonian colonial Southern military leader character. I still speak to Carly at least once a week and shortly after the trip she confessed that she was working on her posture and reading the news daily in order to stop trying to turn the conversation towards electronic/psych music. Both truly unforgettable characters, and I will be ecstatically happy the day I see either one again.

          Sucre is known as the true heart of Bolivia. It is the constitutional capital of the country, and this is where the Declaration of Independence was signed at Casa de la Libertad on the 10th July 1825. Moreover it is also a student city, a UNESCO world heritage site and the city where once the wealth of the Potosí mines flowed into the hands of the rich to be spent in frivolous futility. This place has a different feel compared to anywhere else in the country. The people are well dressed, smiling, and holding their children's hands across the road. This is the place where looking at life in Bolivia does not make your heart contract. You can feel the difference as soon as the bus pulls in to the city, and you see a painted, finished building for the first time. 

          If you do not speak Spanish in Bolivia then do not expect to speak at all. Luckily Eric and Carly spoke Spanish to a much higher level than Phil and I, and so we got by easily. We decided to do the Casa de la Libertad tour in Spanish, but we were over confident because Eric ended up translating as much as time allowed, first just to me and Phil, later to the whole English Speaking group. This would become a regular occurrence on our trip. Eric's translations were exceptionally articulate, including all dates and details, and even his own commentary regarding the authenticity or reliability of the statements made on each tour. Often there are no documents supporting the evidence, and the story varies from country to country and is based on opinion and patriotism.

          The most fantastic experience you can have in Sucre is the market. It is a huge and wonderful, colourful jumble of sights and flavours. At the fruit stalls the indigenous ladies are competing for us to try their produce, they know once we try it we will succumb to the sweet taste. There are no fridges in Bolivia, and the butchery section of the market is not for the faint hearted. The metallic smell of blood and the sound of the flies' buzzing are an ominous warning as you approach the giant cows head bleeding upright from the counter. This is fresh meat. The poor old people that are not able to work beg for change on the stairs, or you sell what you can even if it is 10 tomatoes or some peanuts. The food court is where you go for cheap authentic home cooked food, but in Sucre you also have the option of American Pizza. Because in South America the people are taught not that there are seven, but six continents. I get the strong feeling that the USA does not consider this wishful brotherhood true. 

         The people of Bolivia are not taught a culture of rights or respect towards children, it simply does not exist. Sitting at home in the office or in front of our laptops, buying nice things for our children and loved ones, we know that somewhere in the world far, far away from here and far, far away from our minds, children have to work. The only pair of shoes I have worn in the past six months have been my trusted DM's. This is a product that prides itself, and who's image depends upon it's Britishness. As I later discovered however, only 70, 000 shoes per year are made in Britain, which means that 98% of their products are no longer produced in Britain, but in horrible conditions often imposed upon out of sight and out of mind workers in the far east. My shoes are perfect contenders for the countless professional shoe shine boys of South America, and I had to ruthlessly and constantly reject their pleading business propositions. My one experience of having my shoes shined by a little dirty ragged boy about my brothers age was devastating. He did a fine job, and he did it with grace, pride and the second nature skill of daily work. I was extremely uncomfortable with the notion and the action of a child working at my feet. He even put his own spit into it, and after a final polish I smiled at him and expressed how wonderful a job he had done, when asking him to propose a price a darkness came over us and we all looked to the floor in disbelief as the child proclaimed that 'the price depends upon my conscience'. I asked my friends what the normal price is and payed double, and that was still only £1.70. I would have given him the rest of my money and went home if that would take him out of the streets and into a classroom. His friend showed me a laminated piece of paper reading "help children work". I had no more money with me and asked his friend to share his money with him, I do not want to help children work. 

          Carly and Eric sat us down one evening with a very serious air and asked us to travel with them, so after a week of drunk charades, and ceaseless water balloon abuse for being gringos in the carnival we caught a bus to the actual capital city, La Paz or "The Peace". It was the bus ride from hell. Carly and Eric had seats at the back, Phil and I towards the front. Luckily, a traveller couple we met earlier was sitting in front of us. I asked whether they could swap seats with Eric and Carly so we can be together for the ride, and the girl, who was eating a sandwich at the time cut her boyfriend off with tears in her eyes and shouted at me or maybe more at him "no! I want to sit, here!", so that was pretty awkward, especially as we kept meeting them for weeks after. A few minutes into the journey the electricity cut out, there was no light and no air conditioning for the next fourteen hours. We opened the few windows that worked to let in some air and the ceaseless buzzing of the journey. All you could do was try to sleep. I woke up at night, desperate for a wee; but when I opened the door onto the section where the toilet is, there was a man passed out in front of the bathroom door. I tried to speak to him, kick him and shine the torch in his eyes but he was immovable. Following this the next move was to alert the cabin crew and ask for their assistance. I knocked on the door, and eventually the driver sleeping on the floor rose and opened his door. I explained my predicament. The driver listened intently and replied with "mm's" and "si" and "aaaaaaaaah". Then he asked me if I needed water or if I needed the toilet. We went over it again, and he seemed very interested, until he shut the door and went back to sleep. Apparently this was not the only hop on guest, Carly also had a man join her on the stairs by her seat. Everything about this journey was muy muy muy incómodo.

          The main attraction in La Paz were the llama foetuses. Shrivelled llama abortions either brown, crusty and dried up or with their white baby fur still on. Carly wanted to get one for her mum but was not sure if it would be legal to bring overseas, it was probably for the best. The markets here were huge too, but the produce was not so good, so we ended up eating at the hostel restaurants and drinking beer, playing uno, ping-pong and a riveting card game of spades. This was brought to us by a new and highly appreciated addition to the group, Eric and Carly's American teaching friend Charlie joined us from the States. We were immediately taken aback by his exceptional grace, kindness and intelligence. Charlie came from a family of writers and is also an avid writer and reader himself, so naturally we had a lot to talk about. Altogether we spent many wine and cheese (not the best in Bolivia) fuelled nights discussing important issues such as literature, politics, philosophy, world cultures and the inevitable almighty question Does Biggy Smalls hold the same poetic status as Bob Dylan?. 

          Another factor as to why we did not leave the hostel for days was that as a gringo, leaving the hostel in the capital city during carnival was a battle. It was not possible to hide out for the worst of it in cafe's like we had done in Sucre. But the hostel had a roof top bar, with food and beer and even a terrace to tantalise the carnivalleros from a safe distance and observe the mayhem. It was exquisite. The hostel owner shared his water balloons with us. The best hits included Carlita knocking a giant stack of boxes out of a salesman's hands, and I myself landed one directly into the lap of a seated spectator. As a group we also repeatedly managed to stop the passing, partying crowds from marching and instead stop and try to throw balloons back at us. They were a fierce crowd and only chanted for more "agua! agua! agua!". The entire city was in a state of watertight. We even saw some poor travellers, clearly caught unawares, with their backpacks stomping through the crowd trying to get to their hostel, soaked through and every inch covered in foam, probably also trying not to cry. 

     

          Another tearworthy event was the Tiwanaku tour. Luckily we chose to laugh instead.  The ruins of Tiwanaku were first recorded in 1549 by Spanish conquistador Pedro Ciesa de Leon, and having been the capital of power for a period of approximately five hundred years it is regarded as one of the most significant civilisations prior to the Inca Empire.  

The most remarkable factor about the tour was the tour guide. She was a Bolivian woman in a tracksuit with extremely moderate English language skills. This became apparent right from the start of the tour as she narrated the landscape around us while we were driving along in the mini-bus. Her seat was at the front of the bus, right next to the driver, it was a special seat because it was an office chair with the wheels taken off! When we got there she guided us to the Tiwainaku ruins, which had been largely restored and modified to include new special features such as bright red plastic pipes. One of the ruins had various faces carved into the stone. The diversity in the faces, our tour guide educated, are so varied that it proves international communications between the Tiwanaku tribe and the rest of the world, as well as extra terrestrial communications demonstrated by the bulb-shaped head carvings. We also saw a statue that had been moved because it was apparently and illogically better suited in it's new location, she did not really know why. The museum was furthermore filled with the fantastical and imaginative notions of this lady. Eric our friend and anthropologist once again translated, however this time we were the only foreign group and therefore his version of the tour proceeded as follows: tour guide translation, then the questioning of the tour guides version, followed by a confused and humoured group discussion and finally Eric would generously share his own research and knowledge regarding the Tiwanaku people and their lives.

          Despite the terribly biased and uninformed tour, the lady was trying hard to speak English and to make the tour interesting, besides this she was also extremely sweet, so of course we treated her with courtesy and respect. The other people on the tour were what I can only describe as Bolivia's version of 'new money chavs'. They took pouting photos of themselves in ridiculous poses by every single rock that was meaningless to them except for the purpose of Americanisation and in order to become part of a Facebook newsfeed. They were hideous versions of wannabe westerners with make up exploding in their faces and took romantic photographs with their boyfriend next to piles of rubble and blocks of unexplained earth that were to be the symbols of their superior wealth and education compared to the average Bolivian. The irony of going to explore your country's indigenous history, the history of a people who's ancestors and a people who still are exploited and suppressed by the wealthier non indigenous majority, and then disrespecting it by not attempting to be educated in the slightest, but talking over the tour guide and taking 'selfies' in an almost mocking manner seriously passed these ignorant people by. 

          We were glad to get away from these people and the madness of the big city when we reached Copacabana, a small tourist town on Lake Titiqaqa. This ice cold oceanic lake lies high up in the Andes with borders to Bolivia and Peru, it is the largest lake in South America, and the highest navigable lake in the world at three thousand eight hundred and twelve meters above sea level. Copacabana is a great resting spot for tourists, with three course meals for about £2.50, cheap beer and cocktails and fantastic beach style hostels overlooking the lake. There is not a lot to see except the inevitable carnival following us around the country which of course started up a day or two after our arrival as had become the norm.  There is also the beautiful cathedral, built in 1744 that is the most important church in Bolivia and the only one with a Madonna with indigenous features known as Virgen de Lourdes, 'the dark virgin'. In a small, poor and rundown town like this however, a church with a wall of gilded altar stands out like a vegetarian at a parilla. The overwhelming feeling of the abuses of power within organised religion made us all feel dismissive and melancholy.

          The most joyous activity in Copacabana would be the ascent of the two mountains on either side. The first mountain we went up is an enjoyable walk, with beautiful views all along the way, which is about an hour and a half thanks to the altitude, whereas the second, the famous  Cerro Calvario is a step by step steep and short climb that leads to a miraculous postcard perfect view of the town and the lake. So it depends on whether you are the type that wants to speed breathlessly to the top and enjoy the view, or the type to enjoy a slow, cumbersome and beautiful walk with your own thoughts. We, of course did both, and this would be my recommendation. 

          As always I was far behind the group, walking slowly and gasping for air. I had no idea that this was just the warm up. The next day we caught a little boat across the lake to explore Isla del Sol. What started out with relaxed laughter and humour whilst crossing the lake, quickly turned into one of the most challenging days of my life, and by far the most beautiful experience of the entire journey. When we arrived on the island of the sun (where in true Bolivian fashion we had to pay an entrance fee), we immediately commenced upon the dizzying ascent to the tip of the island. Dragging myself up stair after stair I was glad for the first time that our bags had been stolen, I would not have been capable of carrying anything more than my little rucksack and myself. It was so physically demanding, purely because of the lack of oxygen that all of my focus was concentrated upon each breath and each step rather than on the beauty that surrounded us. Turns out that in actual fact this was just the warm up. The island also seems to be run entirely by children, a group of these civilians from the Lord of the Flies secured a hostel deal with us and the Hefe showed us to our dirty concrete beds, and the detached makeshift bathroom for the group. Following our settling in (more specifically, the dumping of the bags), we embarked immediately upon our trek to the north side of the island. So we walked uphill, for seven hours, 4000 meters above sea level, with a small and unappetising lunch of stale cooked vegetable sandwiches and the unrelenting sun pricking at my skin. We were much too close to the sun, but I guess that this explains the christening of the island. 

          We walked through fields of grass, and fields of quinoa, coca, and corn that were the peoples back yards. We walked along pavements and stairs carved out of the stone that the ground was made of, and through single file paths among the trees. The Quechua people on the island still perform traditional communal farming and agricultural communes where work load and profit are shared. So we passed those too, with donkeys and chickens and pigs and llamas. Halfway through the walk somebody pointed out that there are no vehicles at all on the island, it would not be possible to drive across it. And if you look out far into the distance at any time, you are always surrounded by the deep navy blue calm of the lake. No food, no air and burning sun. Soon I was again focusing step by step at willing each foot forever further. The beautiful things about the trek were not only the surroundings, but the people I was with. Carly spent a lot of time walking at the back with me. She told me animated stories about her family and friends back home, and made me laugh and forget about my empty lungs, empty stomach and painful muscles. Eventually on the way back, we did get to the (mostly) downhill descent, and away from the dry rocks into the shades of the greenery. Phil even carried my water bottle, he held my hand and occasionally pulled me along despite having to carry his camera bag and despite his own exhaustion. He stopped to rest with me frequently and filled me with encouragement and kindness.

          Eventually we got back to the populated area, (where, yes, even here the carnival was just beginning) and found a restaurant for the dinner we had all been madly longing for. We were all so hungry, tired and exhausted that I was surprised we still had it in us to joke and talk, have a beer and smile at each other. The restaurant had two tables in it, it was a pizzeria that did not serve pizza (classic Bolivia). That was okay though because they had a huge menu… which however turned out to be entirely futile as there were only four items available: corn soup for starters, then either pollo or trucha with rice and potato, or potato omelette. Believe it or not, dinner was heavenly. It was one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten. When we got back to our hut the whole island was dark. We stood looking out over the island and into the sky, lit up only by the stars and lightening. After we watched the sky for a while we slept clothed and close. The little cement hut melted away as the loud sounds of rain, wind and thunder filled the hours of the night. It felt like being asleep in a dry, warm safe cocoon outside amongst the heavy rain, thunder, hail and wind, shaking the little house. 

          Isla del Sol is literally and figuratively the most breathtaking place I have ever seen. The little houses surrounded by livestock, the fields filled with blossoming coca leaves and the hills shrouded in greenery. The people that walk up those hills every day, and the little traditionally dressed girls that stop and smile shyly as we crossed on the path. The sounds and the smells take the existence of anywhere else, even my home entirely out of my mind, so it has become one of those few treasured moments in life that do not pass as the fleeting blink of an eye, but remain firm against the progression and movement of time, where one can stand and be truly in a place and forever know what it is like to be there at that moment. 

          Following on from the most fulfilling day came the sad day we had to part ways; wondering when we may see these friends again who have brought such stimulation both in intellect and humour in abundance, but forever glad to have shared this experience with these people. So Phil and I, in a state of disbelief faced the final chapter of our time in South America.  

The West is the Best

Blog Four: Salta, Argentina - San Pedro de Atacama, Chile - Atacama Desert - Uyuni, Potosi, Bolivia.

"It's worthwhile to die for things without which it is not worthwhile to live."

  

           The journey from Salta to San Pedro de Atacama was the most difficult I have embarked upon in my adult life, both emotionally and physically. There was a huge fight, and Phil and I stayed up all night at the bus station and throughout the coach journey I cried because he would not speak a word. I did not know whether I should step off and make my way home to England, or whether he would step off and leave, because I had truly taken things too far for forgiveness. The sadness and nervousness consumed me so much that I did not eat or drink. San Pedro is 2400m above sea level, so as we approached Chile I began to feel the effects of the severe altitude change. Though slightly perverse, it is this that brought about the kindness in each other and brought us back together.  

            The beautiful landscape as we drove through the desert emphasized my solitude, and mocked the things I thought were important. The world is so incredibly beautiful that it is not worth being stubborn and clinging to the small matters, it is not worth hurting another. The phrase that kept going through my mind was “happiness only real when shared”*. Another part of the journey that I am grateful for are the two German gentlemen sat behind us. I lived in Germany as a child, and hearing the language always has a cosey and nostalgic effect, so when we went past some salt flats I asked them a stupid question, I think I asked “are these the salt flats?”. And from that moment on, every time my eyes watered they would intersect with facts about the altitude, about the mountains, or try to engage me with the map; they even gave me some solid old fashioned advice about relationships and eventually got Phil involved in the conversation too. The mountains were endless and we seemed to go round in circles. It was the first time I have seen nature this way. The sky was baby pink and baby blue, flamingoes pranced upon the salty waters and all you could see for hours were the curves of mountains followed by hours of flat desert lands.    

            It is good not to have set expectations when travelling into the unknown and though we did not know what to expect, we certainly did not expect this. San Pedro is a small town in the middle of the desert. Despite having been to smaller towns in Serbia this felt like the smallest in the world. As we stepped off the coach the brown landscape looked sad and the little brown hut-houses looked out of place, few roads were named, and the sand blew through your hair and came to rest upon everything. We arrived at our hostel and could not help but expect the worst. Like I said, when travelling into the unknown you had better leave your expectations and judgments at home. The hostel was the best we had stayed in to date. Our room was clean and warm, and the rooms surrounded a patio in the middle of the hostel that was laid out like a wonderful living room café haven, with tables, hammocks and sofas. The whole place was colourful and friendly; the perfect resting place for assimilating to the altitude, and for quiet reflection and peace between us.  

We spent those four days cooking nice diners and eating them outside, writing, reading and playing cards and engaging in light conversation. When you step out of the hostel in the evening everything changes. The main road is lit up by fire pits and live music inviting you into the restaurants and bars. The food is of an incredible standard, though sadly not of a Chilean but a European. The streets are so filled with people in stripy woolen pyjama trousers and dreadlocks and glitterry unwashed traveller stereotypes that you can barely get through. We bumped into our German friends a few times, and talked a little about our trips and shook hands and wished each other well. I hope that they know for certain what a difference they have made.    

            After a few days and nights of assimilating to the altitude, by eating a high calorie diet, drinking plenty of water, no alcohol (one bottle of wine for the whole time counts as nothing if you know me), chewing coca leaves, drinking maté and being woken up in the night by a lack of air in your lungs, we had decided to plunge ourselves into our first true adventure. It turned out to be one of the most beautiful experiences of my life: the Atacama Desert.   

            First we had to queue to get out of Chile and get our exit stamps. It took hours, because in true South American fashion there was only one person working behind the counter. Also as you can imagine the work ethic in South America is a little different than at home. You will not be put on an 'action plan' if you work too slowly, you will not get a pay rise if you excel. You just sit there, have a smoke, and stamp the stamps and after stamping stamp after stamp after stamp for fifty years it stops and then what?    

            A few hours later we drove into the desert and stopped at two little huts. Both huts were made out of mud, they had hay roofs and just one room inside, and a big tin bin next to them for burning waste. This is the Bolivian border; and the transition is a true representation of things to come. We had strict orders only to go to the toilet behind the first hut. Which contained a D.I.Y table with a buffet of bread rolls, pâté, cheese, meat, yoghurt and ever more maté inside. I think the whole appearance of what we were doing and where we were gave some people a fright, as we spied them stuffing five rolls into their pockets whilst trying to look stern, as though this is not a knock to their personal pride. It was so cold in the desert because of the altitude, that Phil and I put on most of our clothes in the hut and still shivered. Following our buffet we were ordered to the next hut. Here a man in a green Bolivian army sky-suit type of uniform would stamp your passport, while a little child is playing, asking questions and eating the left overs from the tourist buffet.    

            Now we were all assigned a group, a tour guide and a Land Cruiser for the group. I had kept my fingers crossed that we would not be in a group with the German girls with make up and pristine clothes that spent the whole time at the hostel loudly discussing their boyfriend troubles and that stuffed all those rolls into their pockets. It worked, because our group was wonderful. Our tour guide (who drove the cruiser and only spoke Spanish) was called Noel, he wore an old tracksuit and had a kind of greasy mullet, dirty, rough hands and a friendly face. The cruiser itself had a crack in the windshield, and 180 000km on the meter - though impressive to us considering the type of terrain it went over, this is nothing new for Bolivian vehicles, held together by selotape and needs-must for decades.  

            We were with two couples, Sylvie and Ben from Berlin, and Marina and Bruno from Brazil. We could not have asked for a better bunch, and spent the whole time laughing, talking and appreciating the experience together. The second night of the trip we were waiting for dinner at the 'hostel', when one of the traditional Bolivian ladies asked us if we wanted any 'mota' (weed)! We all burst out laughing at the bizarre experience and ate our fried chicken in hilarity. We were in the middle of nowhere, in the desert, in a random house, being cooked meals by these ladies and no comfort or entertainment other than each others company. Every night when we went to sleep, Noel and the girls at the 'hostel' played this one Bolivian pop song on repeat and we could hear them laughing and singing along until about 2am.    

            His music did however enrich our experience, it was beautiful driving through the desert listening to nutty Bolivian rock and pop. Bolivian music is renowned for staying true to it's roots and carrying a traditional and native sound, so in all just a wonderful way of entering Bolivia. The Atacama Desert may be the most beautiful landscape I will ever set eyes upon, and the first thing I thought was what beauty could have been created if Wordsworth and Coleridge were able to travel through it!  At some points in the journey we went up to 5200m above sea level, so despite the coca, maté and water I still spent some of my time in the Cruiser swaying in and out of sleepy consciousness, but that was as far as the altitude affected anyone this time. Bruno, the Brazilian travelling with us kindly acted as translator between the group and Noel - he  passed on the fact that the Andes, through which we were currently travelling contain approximately 2000 volcanoes, of which about 150 are active, the most active being the Loskar in San Pedro de Atacama, which smokes daily and we could see it from our hostel at the time, which went by the same name. Bruno also turned out to be Phil's long lost photography soul mate, they spent a lot of time talking about their hobby, and even spent the first frosty evening outside photographing the desert sky in the freezing cold. Because we did not have internet, tv or any form of stimulation other than our surroundings and each other, it was easy to be with people and begin to get to know them. The kindnesses or idiosyncrasies became apparent rapidly and were appreciated graciously.   

            We stopped at many lagunas, saw salt flats and flamingos and llamas in their natural habitat, as well as extremely pungent geysers and colours that made me want to become a painter in desperate aim of capturing the beauty I could see here. Phil's pictures are as close as I can come to describing the beauty we shared, but you have to go there to know exactly what I mean. I do not know if anybody can ever truly describe the desert and it's nature. The moments that I spent there I questioned myself. How could I ever think anything else of, or see anything else in the world? Now that I have felt such beauty in existence, how can I see importance in futility.   

Our meals were car-boot-buffets set up by Noel and the ladies back at the 'hostels'. An example of one of our meals is tinned tuna, tinned mushrooms, fluffy rice, tomatoes and cucumber, and of course Coca-Cola. We ate it on a table and chairs made of rocks one day, overlooking one of the lagunas. Every one of these basic meals seamed a feast to us, we ate up every scrap, until on the last day we realised that Noel never ate, and made sure he joined us. Then I rested my head on Phil's lap and fell asleep for a few minutes.  

            The first night we all stayed in one big room, with a window made of cement and beds equally made of cement. Phil and I slept in all of our clothes and cuddled close trying to keep warm. If you want to know if there were showers then you are asking the wrong questions. The climactic moment of the trip, or the point of the trip was to see the great salt flats of Uyuni, although this was wonderful I generally enjoyed seeing the desert with these people the most. We dipped our fingers in the salt and took the generic salt flat photos.   

            We arrived in Uyuni and had to part ways with our friends. Uyuni is a poor, rundown crude and dusty town and a sharp entry into Bolivia. The shop next door to our hostel had an old traditional Bolivian woman working in it. So she was stood there, big with her harsh and stern face, her long plaits, huge long puffy skirt and apron, wearing her own history on her face and the history of her people in her dress, while the walls were covered in images of naked western women prostituting themselves. It was embarrassing to walk in there as a western woman and straight away you realise that this is how the world sees you, because that is how we portray ourselves to them with our TV programs, music and billboards. It was a strange feeling to stand there. The exploitation of Latin America is not a secret. it becomes apparent even in the images of naked western women, they glorify burgers and Nike, and drink Coca-Cola instead of water. There is even a special 'Inca-Cola', made by the Coca-Cola company. It is the colour of radioactive urine and tastes like gummy bear vomit. Branding it as the drink of the Incas? This time Coca-Cola has taken things too far even for themselves. All the worst trends of the West are being followed and it all cries a distant cry for education.  

            Unfortunately Latin American countries such as Paraguay and Bolivia suffer not only the effects of ever-present imperialism (first by the British then handed over to the US), but are also under the reigns of the sub-imperialism of it's stronger next door neighbors such as Argentina, Brazil and Mexico. Though President Evo Morales, the first democratically elected indigenous leader of the country has abolished McDonald's (the ideological hallmark of Americanisation), and nationalised Bolivia's leading institutions; Bolivia remains dependent on Brazil's goods, political powers and influences. So Bolivia working with Brazil and Brazil working under the US, ultimately means that Bolivia is subjected to a double-imperialism. It is apparent in every aspect of life, where to an outside observer the country can only be described as second world moving into third world.  

We got out of the sad tourist town as soon as we could and made our way to the infamous city of Potosí. The bus journey costs about £3 each and lasts three hours. The smell on the coach was unpleasant. Every time the coach stopped people crowded around trying to sell you things through the windows, most often choclo y queso in a sandwich bag. Every time you drive past a hut or a congregation of huts made of mud, in the middle of nowhere, with a donkey outside or a child, little fields of coca or quinoa you imagine what it is like to live there, but you cannot know what that is like. We do not know what it is like not to question a lack of electricity or running water, to live in a room made of mud with your family, heated by donkey dung and sleeping in your stall at the market for days to sell your produce.   

            The city of Potosí screams history. As is the norm, those places that had the closest ties with the British Metropolis in the past are now those suffering the most. It is rumoured that a third of the world's silver in existence comes from Potosí. Latin America also supplied the world with various other minerals including all important tin, as well as sugar, coffee, cotton and meat to name a few; for our convenience and a whole peoples pain.  

            Phil and I did not visit the mines, we made the decision based on the dangers involved in entering them as well as the moral implications in giving tourist encouragement to such conditions. Here are some examples of lives spent in the Cerro Rico ("Rich Mountain") mines, taken from Eduardo Galeano's influential text Open Veins of Latin America: 

"Indians were bought and sold; they slept in the open air; and mothers killed their children to save them from the torture of the mines." 

"The poison penetrated to the very marrow, debilitating all the members and causing a constant shaking, and the workers usually died within four years."  

            This single mine alone consumed eight million lives over three centuries. We should be looking at where our products and conveniences come from, question the value of this against the quality of lives or the very life of a human being. We rich profit more from consuming their products than the poor do from creating them. How can you simply turn away and continue in quiet ignorance the wrongdoings of past and present? Do not lie to yourself and tell me there are no options, there are far more options than there is sense at present.  

            I cannot decide if in Bolivia sense prevails or has been completely abolished due to sheer necessity. Bolivians make things work, their land for crop, their unfinished hut for shelter, their selotaped cars and D.I.Y lives and quinoa with rice or rice with potato. Potosí for example is built on a ridiculous hill, and at 4100m altitude it is one of the highest cities in the world, and it is not easy to walk up and down that hill as many times as your days work may require. The bus station is at the bottom, our hostel was at the top. A ten minute steady walk up the hill feels like an hour long circuit training, and the walk took us an hour. The city seemed wild at first, fearful, hectic and poor. At a second glance however it became welcoming and full of life. The architecture and the people started to become fascinating;  Potosí is where we accidentally started to follow the carnival around South America, and where we met our friends Eric and Carly, with which we would travel through Bolivia for the following three weeks.  

______________________________________________________________________________ * Quoting Christopher McCandless in Into the Wild novel by Jon Krakauer