A salty end to Bolivia and - hello Malvinas!

Uyuni. A small town from which you take a tour to the famous salt flats: isolated, windy, dusty, boiling hot and freezing cold. Full of tourist agencies and, yes, tourists. Tourists hanging out on the streets in big groups like they’re the best thing since sliced bread. Suffice to say, I didn’t like Uyuni: a victim of its own salty success. Of course, the locals can’t stand the sight of the tourists, either. I got into a pickle with a man working in an internet café where everyone was paying to watch pages load. He followed on my heels as I walked out, silently threatening to hit me. That was when I realised what machism really is. I’ve seen how women sometimes barely look at you, how their man speaks for them, how the man who speaks louder gets served first. But to see a man in his forties threaten me so publicly was frightening. I couldn’t imagine what he’d be capable of behind closed doors. Sometimes I like to think I’m such a modern woman that I can break through gender barriers, that there are moments when I’m genderless, but in that incident I was reminded very clearly that I was a female, and that, in Bolivia at least, there is a marked difference between ‘her’ and ‘him’.

With the tour came other-worldly landscapes that made you feel you'd stepped off Earth, and the world's largest salt flats:

 the red, white, and coloured lagoons, the stone tree, Dali's desert, and various breeds of pink flamingo:

geysers (huge stinky holes that smell of rotten egg where sulphur is bubbling away), and a locomotive cemetry.    
     Our driver, Javier, was lovely. He drove us in a jeep for 3 days, prepared lunch at mid-day and cooked dinner as soon as we arrived at our resting place for the night. On the third day he told us about a bus accident he was in on his way home for Christmas - the brakes failed and the bus flew through the barrier and 200 metres down the mountain. Javier lost his memory, ability to speak French and English and had to have several operations. I knew buses were dangerous around these parts: I have blessed myself on more than one occasion, and we had our own scare when a chunk of the engine fell off our bus in Peru and I woke up to shouting and whistling.
     After the tour, being offered a shower by a little girl in the street and a night bus, I was on the bridge, officially in no-man’s land, waiting to get into Argentina. Standing in the queue under the scorching sun, I watched a pig eat a dead puppy. She got every bit of meat off that corpse, I can tell you.
     Stepping onto Argentian soil, after getting through with no search or questions (not everyone got through so easily), I was welcomed by a huge sign: “ The Faulklands are Argentinian”.

The poor old devils in Potosi

I wasn't going to do a tour of the mines - the LP warns you of extreme conditions like no air, darkness, lack of safety in descending etc, but the guy in our hostel was an ex-Miner and had good reports so I found myself suited and booted and ready to see the mines of Potosi.

     Potosi is where silver was mined years ago from the Cerro Rico hill when it was discovered by the Spaniards, and back in its day, was the richest, largest city in South America. Millions of African and (later) Indigenous slaves died in the mines extracting silver. Now there is none left, but there are other minerals like zinc here to be had, working underground so as not to destroy the UNESCO protected hill. The tour began in the market with how to light dynamite, then we bought gifts for the miners (who work in a cooperative - which isn't as great as it sounds) and we went in.
     Not only is it freezing, it's also pitch black, and you have to tread very carefully so as not to fall into the huge holes that are everywhere. There are 400 explosions a day, and 2 to 3 miners die per month. Before, this figure was 5 to 6 per week. Welcome to the world of the Bolivian miners.
     We saw 2 miners working, pushing a cart of 1 tonne of rock along the tracks. "Mind your feet," Antonio, the guide said, "lots of people have lost their feet this way." When the men passed, he continued to tell us they would live until about 35 years of age. Each of the men had a cheek bulging with a ball of coca leaves, and their teeth covered with a green film. Antonio told us several times of the importance of coca: it keeps them going with energy, it suppresses their appetite, and it marks the time. They chew leaves for 4 hours, then break, spit the ball out and put a fresh ball in for the remaining 4 hours. That way they break up the day and keep track of time. Why don't they have lunch? I thought. "Why don't they eat, I bet you're thinking," said Antonio on cue. "Because, with food in their bellies, they will have two problems: deadly toxins in their lungs, and in their stomachs." The air is thick with toxins, and asbestos is everywhere. The walls and roof of the mines glisten with beautiful stalactites of asbestos. And these toxins cause the fatal disease silicosis which kills the miners one by one.
     When we were buying gifts I decided not to buy cigarettes so as not to support an unhealthy habit. When I saw these men literally breaking their backs, inhaling toxins that are killing them, and chewing coca that is rotting their teeth, I realised the cigarettes are the least of their worries. It was hilariously sad.
     In the mines we saw several statues made of clay and earth. These are the devils worshipped by the miners, called "Tios".

This comes from when slaves worked the mines and the Spaniards told them that if they didn't extract minerals the devil would take them and they would never see daylight again. The devil slowly became their friend and they now worship and adore them, bringing them gifts such as cigarettes to smoke, 96% pure alcohol, and coca leaves which they sprinkle on the devils' hands, feet and penis. In return for these things they ask for the following: strong hands to work and push the carts, feet that carry them out of the mine alive, and fertility of the mountain to produce minerals, as well as their own fertility to produce more children to continue working the mines.
     Their motto: "For you today, for me tomorrow."

Sucre and the search of a better life

Weed-out and dehydrated we arrived in Sucre, with its white-washed buildings and beautiful churches on every corner. We went to see dinausaur prints here - they were the longest trail in the world until a chunk of rock fell off - oops.
     In Bolivia in general there are children everywhere. They are on corners, on streetcurbs, in plazas, selling sweets, selling on jewellery stalls, begging, working in shops, restaurants, or hotels. So you often find yourself ordering food from one, checking into a hostel with another. One little girl sold us a magazine for an organisation working with child workers, and it was only then that I realised the number of child workers there are, everywhere. I had gotten so used to it that I no longer noticed.
     We went to a museum of masks and folklore, which was filled with amazing masks of all different shapes and sizes, from the various regions and cultures of Bolivia.One was over 1 metre high. A particular person wears this mask in carnival, and afterwards, sleeps with a virgin. Much more than old fashioned fancy dress!
     Anita, the girl working in our hostel, got chatting to us about Spain. One of the wonderful things about this journey is the ability to talk to people in Spanish. In such a small moment, you can learn so much about a person, about their culture, about what it is like to be from their country. Our chat with Anita over breakfast was one of those moments. One of her brothers and two sisters moved to Spain eight years ago, leaving their children to their mother and sister Anita, to bring up. Between them, they left six children behind,including two babies. When her sister returned five years later, the babies didn´t recognise them or want to know them. Now, though, they have moved away, bought houses and are relatively well off.
     Anita´s brother, though, won´t come back. He refused to come back with his sisters, and refused still when his wife died in a car accident and left their two sons alone. He lives in Madrid with another name. His mother wants him to be thrown out of Spain so he is forced to come home and face his responsibilities. It must be so easy for him, so far away, with a new name like Miguel to help him to forget.
     Anita goes to university studying Plastic Arts. She wanted to move to Argentina to work but now has her own baby. Her mum told her to go, that she would look after her daughter, but she doesn't want to leave her. I imagine this is because she has lived it once, and she doesn't want her own child to forget her. She's not studying this year becuase she needs to work in the hostel, earning 50 euros a month. I hope she studies next year and becomes a Plastic Arts teacher. 

I am

I am not Irish, I'm not English,
I am not Catholic, but there are moments when I bless myself,
I am not Jewish, but my name is Miriam.

I'm not fat, I'm not thin,
I'm not tall, not short,
I'm not grey, yet.

I'm not a doctor, not a dentist,
I haven't studied emotional intelligence, but am emotionally intelligent,
I'm not a hairdresser, but cut my hair.

I'm not a writer, I just write,
I'm not political, I just vote,
I'm not a philosopher, but sometimes like to think we live in an old man's right knee.

I am not Irish, I'm not English,
I am not Catholic, but there are moments when I bless myself,
I am not Jewish, but my name is Miriam.

Crossing borders: to Bolivia

We went into an office for a stamp, walked up the road and went into another office for another stamp, got on a bus and drove away. All in under three minutes. I thought: if only it was this easy for anyone to cross a border. Wouldn't the world be a different place?
     We arrived in Copacabana, still beside the Lake Titicaca, still the same languages, (Spanish, Quechua, Aymara), people of the same appearance and dress, the same landscape, but - a different country. It made me think of the old days when those borders weren't there, when the Andean people were the Andean people, whether in Peru, Bolivia, Argentina.
     We brought in 2012 in Copacabana. Had a lovely dinner, wine, went to a bar that suddenly emptied. Decided to go to another and found everyone on the street getting ready for midnight. Fireworks are a huge thing around these parts and once again we saw the sky light up. Let's just say it was a great night that involved fireworks, beer, wine, cuba libres, caiphrinas, more beer, a badly cut finger and a crippling hangover: a fantastic new year.
     Day 2 of 2012 we were in La Paz and wondering around the Witches Market where you can find anything including llama foetus. A llama should have one baby but somethimes there are many foetus' so they pull out the dead ones until they get to the live one. The dried llama foetus are then for sale to be buried under your house as an offering to Pachamama for good luck. Afterwards we were nearly robbed at knifepoint but I saw the man, the scenario, the knife all beforehand and we miraculously escaped that one. Phew.
     In the Plaza de Murillo we watched the families and the children in the christmas mood. Every other child had a puppy, and the ones that didn't have a puppy were getting their photo taken with a puppy. I almost asked for a photo too but Oscar stopped me, saying, maybe I was a bit old for that? Maybe a teeny bit.
     Next: Coroico. The beginning of the tropics without the 12 hour journey to Rurrenabaque we unfortunately didn't have time for. Our first night we shared a table in a restaurant (common here if it's full) and we made friends with a lovely Swiss/Chilean/Bolivian lady who lives in Coroico, a Bolivian girl and American guy who live in Florida. The next day we went for breakfast at Doris' house (the most beautiful, peaceful, paradisiacal house I've seen) and went walking through the tropical mountains where we saw banana trees, avocado trees, coffee plantations and coca leaf plantations, ending in an animal refuge called La Senda Verde which has birds, parrots, turtles, caiman and monkies - all but the caiman are walking around freely in the large refuge. The only problem was we made a friend along the way - a dog - which got into the refuge. Suddenly all the animals started screaming and I spotted our friend. The owner started screaming at me to get him out of here now! And I said he's not our dog! and she screamed that she didn't care, that I brought him in here! Who knows how he didn't attack any of the animals - he had been pretty aggressive with all dogs and cars on the way - but we got him out. At the exit I asked the guys working there how he would have got in and they showed me the gap in the door. Well surely that's not a great idea for the door of an animal refuge...
     Oscar had a baby monkey on his shoulders which made me jealous and relieved at the same time. It came off safely.
     We headed on to Cochabamba and then to Sucre - both journeys with no toilet so I had to starve myself of liquids for several hours before and then take advantage of the driver taking a leak or checking the tyres to nip around the back of the bus and take a leak myself. Fun - not. One bus made a toilet stop at 2am in a village and everyone got off and walked down the road to a nook, cranny, tree, rock and I realised there was no actual toilet. I felt sorry for the village.
     Sucre is beautiful. More of that another day.