You are currently browsing the monthly archive for February 2009.
While my trip to La Paz and Titicaca was officially to get a new visa, and to see a little more of this country that i am claiming to be something of an authority on, there was also another motive. My very short rotation of t-shirts was becoming tedious in the extreme, not to mention unhygienic; i needed more clothing, and not just clothing, but clothing that said something
Before i had left Sucre , i had a feeling that i knew what t-shirt i wanted. It took a while to be able to admit to myself that it was so, but of the limited options available in Bolivian markets, what i most wanted was a Che Guevara tee.
For those who have known me longer, you might recall that in 1998 i had augmented my wardrobe of heavy metal shirts with a Che tee. This posed a problem; could i really regress a decade to my fifteen year old taste in fashion?
And more crucially, now that i have given up on my rather adolescent notions of communist revolutions, and actually know something both of Guevara’s life, and of the type of people who long after puberty has finished still wear Che t-shirts, i had to ask myself; would wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt make me a wanker?
And would people who took me for a wanker in a Che tee really wait around long enough for me to explain that i wasn’t wearing it out of solidarity with the last dregs of world communism, or because i thought war or berets were cool, but because i liked the iconic image, and the story behind the image much more than the man himself. or rather what the man had become. Could i support Che the writer and traveller, or Che the doctor, without supporting Che the gun-toting murder advocate?
Would people let me explain, and would it make sense if i said that i’d rather wear a tee showing Gael Garcia Bernal as Che Guevara?
And would i be less of a wanker if i explained that it seems somehow more acceptable to wear a Che tee that has come from Bolivia, given that Bolivia’s relationship to Che is an ambivalent one. Bolivia, after all, killed Che Guevara, but Bolivia (or certain portions of Bolivia) also idolises him and still invokes him as a hero, saint and saviour today.
It is a difficult question, and one i am yet to find a satisfactory answer to. I think wearing a Che tee in Bolivia is not intrinsically wanky, but if me and my Che shirt should return to Australia, or somewhere else, who knows what we might become?
The name on the lips of every backpacker passing through La Paz, and advertised on every tour agency’s signs and fliers, is San Pedro. La Paz’s lack of superlative tourist attractions has allowed San Pedro to become one of the hottest backpacker destinations in the city.
San Pedro prison, located in central La Paz and just a short hop from the main tourist burrow, was catapulted to fame in 2002 with the publication of Marching Powder, which tells the story of Thomas McFadden, an Englishmen caught moving cocaine through Bolivia and subsequently left to languish in San Pedro prison, awaiting trial. The destitution and corruption a the heart of the Bolivian judicial system had spawned this prison, where prisoners were forced to pay for their cells, if they could afford them, and where drug barons lived in penthouse cells with cable TV. The families of poorer inmates lived in the prison, coming and going through the main gate, to attend school or visit the markets before returning to sleep within the guarded walls.
The entrepreneurial McFadden started offering prison tours, whereby seriously hardcore backpackers could visit the tour, spend the night in a cell, and avail themselves of the ample quantities of cocaine – said to be the best and purest in Bolivia – produced in the guts of the prison.
McFadden was eventually released, as was the book, leading to disintegration of the prison tours. Thereafter they have persisted as rumours, resurrected from time to time by enterprising inmates, and causing a headache for guidebook authors; how to deal with one of La Paz’s most intriguing sites, given that it was potentially very dangerous (rumours echo about of tours gone wrong, of disappearing money, and of the occasional assault), and very far from being legal. The current Lonely Planet Bolivia volume offers general details about the prison, which are no different to those given in Marching Powder, but no clues as to how to actually arrange a tour.
By the time I arrived in Bolivia word was out that the tours were operating more successfully than ever. They had been cleaned up and were very safe. When I finally made it to La Paz I wandered around the walls of the prison, and in the space of about fifteen minutes, while sitting in the plaza outside the prison, I saw three tour groups enter. I was offered the chance to join one of these groups, but didn’t have the 250 bolivianos ($40-50ish) needed to get in. If I’d had the cash on me I almost certainly would have joined the tour, out of obligation if nothing else.
By the time I returned to La Paz less than a week later, the tours had been shut down. There was no one in the plaza offering tours, and no gringos passing through the gates and into the prison.
A new word was out; an article had appeared in The Guardian in the UK, explaining exactly how to join a tour – who to talk too, how much to pay, and what to expect once inside. This posed a very serious problem; the tours were only possible while they were unofficial. They depended on corruption and blind eyes being turned, and existed only because officially they didn’t exist. An industry built on bribes and feigned ignorance can only function for as long as there is no public scrutiny. As soon as the tours were publicised and official, something had to be done to stop them.
Officially the prison tours were shut down as part of an effort to combat the corruption about the prison. Unofficially, rumours got about that the official powers of the prison were unhappy with their cut of the now officially advertised prices.
And further in the distance lurked another fact; Brad Pitt has bought the rights to Marching Powder, and his production company is currently completing a film adaptation of the book. When this is released San Pedro will become very much public knowledge, and it will be next to impossible to deny the cocaine labs, the bribed guards and officially illegal prison tours that are all a daily reality of life in San Pedro.
And for me there is the ongoing conundrum; I feel obliged to visit San Pedro, to prove myself a consummate traveller by visiting the prison and writing about it. But on the other hand I have no desire to be one of these parasitic gringos who bribe guards, enter the prison, and so become a part of the whole problem of the corrupt Bolivian judicial and penal systems. Every Bolivian I have heard talk about San Pedro speaks about it with a kind if embarrassed bafflement; why would all these gringos on limited time and money, bother visiting one of the ugliest, most corrupt places in their country. Every gringo, on the other hand, talks about the prison as the ultimate exotic destination; a mixture of crime and violence and drugs and a world very different to the one back home.
For now I find myself siding with the Bolivians. Ten days ago I would have visited the prison, and almost did. Now it seems like just another over-exploited tourist trap, which does more harm than good to the people of Bolivia.
(Later I wrote an update on the San Pedro prison tours…)
At the beginning of time, the land was dark, and full of stone and precipices. Viracocha, the creator of civilisation, decided to bring light to the world, and called the sun, followed by the moon and the stars, up out of the waters of the great dark lake. Then he summoned a race of giants out of the cold rocks, but they were ignorant and rebellious, so he swept them away, swelling the lake and flooding the land. When the waters receded he made a smaller race of men out of clay and pebbles. Once the best of these had gone forth and founded a civilisation in the high mountains, he began to wander the land as a tramp, leaning on his staff and instructing the people. Then Viracocha, the bearded old man, the white god of the Andes walked west across the ocean, leaving his creations to their destinies.
Before the first gringos arrived in South America – those bearded, shining beings that seemed momentarily like Viracocha returned, until they opened fire and set about dismantling the civilisations that the creator god had crafted – Titicaca was a tourist destination, a pilgrimage site at the heart of the Inca empire. Isla del Sol, the island of the sun is where the sun and man first rose, and ever since then people have been visiting it to pay their respected.
Once the Spanish did arrive, bringing Catholicism with them, a town on the shores of the lake, Copacabana, became an equally important pilgrimage site. Here resides the Virgen de Candelaria, one of the most important icons in the latino canon, with a long history of bestowing miracles.
Arriving in Copacabana I could see why such importance was invested in the place. The town, surrounded by hills and pastures, was far smaller and far prettier than I expected, the streets empty save for the faint murmur of a bustle around the cathedral. A beach – one of the few in Bolivia – spanned from hill to hill in a long, colourful crescent of trout restaurants, boats and fussball tables. The sky and lake mirrored the blue warmth of one another.
Though the streets of Copacabana are heavy with handicraft stall and pizza restaurants, the town doesn’t need gringos. A steady flow of pilgrims flow through town to have babies and vehicles blessed at the cathedral. Hippies from all over South America come to camp on the beaches of Isla del Sol, and to sell jewellery and jugglery on the streets of Copacabana.
Fortuitously, I arrived on a weekend, which meant that the street outside the cathedral was full of stalls selling religious trinkets, and of cars, trucks and vans decorated with ribbons and flowers, there to be blessed by the priest and his holy water, and by families pouring out libations of beer and wine. In her sanctuary – probably the most beautiful church I’ve seen in South America – the Virgen was on display, her holy curtain pulled back to reveal the little icon, surrounded by gold and icon and saints a martyrs.
On the hill above the town – itself a pilgrimage site – people bought model cars or shops or houses or children or whatever it was they wanted most. They cracked beers and poured them over their offerings. They lit candles in grottos, niches and caves, the whole hill stained with black wherever offerings had been made to the syncretic god of the town.
On the morning of my trip to Isla del Sol the sun was strangely absent, and rain was prickling the surface of the lake. As the clouds gradually cleared the enormous mountains off behind the lake became visible, as did the other islands, peninsulas, beaches and bays of the lake. This undoubtedly is the best of lake Titicaca. From high up on the spine of Isla del Sol the entire lake is visible – an immense thing but never quite so large that the horizon swallows the distant mountains. The perfect size to be both amazing and beautiful. Far away I could see the Peruvian side of the lake, and the islands and hills I had already visited.
The island self is a strange mix of pre-Colombian ruins and herds of sheep and eucalyptus groves and barren slopes of brightly coloured, layered stone. At time it looks like Australia, at other times like the Mediterranean, and at other the chill fjordlands of Chile or New Zealand.
The particular sites of the island were not particularly interesting before the weird beauty of the island itself – the ruins of an Inca temple, another labyrinthine ruin inhabited by nervous sheep, a ceremonial stone table, a sacred stone, the rock Titicaca which gives its sacred name to the whole lake – but the path of carefully laid stone twisted between these sites, while on all side the magnificent lake was changing colours and textures and tones.
In a long day I walked the length of the island, spied its many barren peaks and tiny villages and hidden beaches, and at every turn it was easy to see why this should be the sit of creation myths, the birthplace of civilisation and the sun.
In the evening back in Copacabana a spectacular sunset rose out of the lake, the colours changing and blooming as I watched. These sunsets no doubt having settled over the lake for centuries, seen variously by pilgrims from all corners of the old and new worlds, and affecting all of them, causing them all to pause and consider what a beautiful land they had come upon.
I reached the ugly border town and crossed into Peru exactly ninety days after arriving in Bolivia. As I did so I became a backpacker again, skimming over the surface, choosing only the most worthwhile pursuits, knowing almost nothing about the place I was in. The nightly processions through the streets, the graffiti on the walls, the names of the streets and restaurants and plazas all meant next to nothing to me.
Peru is full of thieves, I had been warned by many Bolivians. I don’t know that this is true; I wasn’t robbed, but I did find my cash disappearing much faster across the border. Peru a country far more accustomed to tourist hordes, and to finding ways both legitimate and illegitimate to make tourists part with their cash.
I spent three nights in Peru, in the town of Puno on the shores of Lake Titicaca. It was a time of oscillation between loneliness and boredom within the town, and wonder and contentment out by the lake.
I had written about Puno, and more specifically about a town further along the fringe of the lake, Chucuito, in Lord of Miracles (which I swear will be on every book shelf one of these days), and so felt I should go pay my respects. A bus crammed full of people and one llama took me out of the grit of Puno and into the beautiful crystalline light of lakeside Peru. The great expanse of the lake lay pale and blue beyond the floodplains, which were being reclaimed by agriculture, stranded boats lying crooked among the crops and flocks.
Chucuito has been put on the tourist radar by the Templo de la Fertilidad, an Inca ruin perched on a hill overlooking the lake. Within the perfectly fitted stone walls of the tiny temple are arranged row upon on row of stone phalluses, which Inca maidens would visit, pouring out offerings of coca and booze, and squatting over the monolithic cocks in hope of conceiving an emperor or a warrior or a boy or a girl or whatever. That, as best I can tell, is the official line, explained to me by two kids who had learned the history word for word and recited it in singsong voices.
There is something suspicious about the temple, thought. It is in part the lack of any government or university investment or official anthropo-archaeological interest in the site; it is in part that the stone phalluses look exactly like the carved stones used by the Incas to fix the thatched roofs to their buildings, it is also in part that the temple and its phalluses lie across the road from a colonial church, which was erected (ha ha ha) during the age of the Inquisition, at a time when the church took great delight in smashing and burning anything or anyone deemed offensive or heretical. Rows of pagan penises would surely qualify for destruction for multiple reasons.
Even if the temple isn’t authentic, even if the phalluses were added later to draw curious tourists, the temple remains a fascinating place to visit. It is a testament to the added value that the word ‘inca’ adds to any tourist site. Other cultures – Tiahuanaco, Moche, Chavin, Mapuche – excite next to no interest in the tourist world, but Inca trails, Inca temples, Inca ruins are all goldmines. It is hardly surprising that Chucuito should want in on the lucrative business. And given how funny the temple is, and how pretty the town is, why shouldn’t they make use of the heritage of the region to make a few dollars?
On my other full day in Peru I headed out onto the lake on a tour of the islands. The day started lugubrious and overcast, and I soon found myself excessively unhappy to be stuck on a tour boat.
Our first stop was the floating islands of the Uros people. It is said that hundreds of years ago these peaceful people took to man-made islands of reeds to escape the predations of their warlike neighbours. The lives of the people have been woven into the lives of the great beds of reeds that grow thick in Peruvian Titicaca. The reeds are eaten, they are made into islands and houses and boats. The many-layers of reeds that float upon the lake are constantly replenished to keep the islands high and dry. It is a funny, funny feeling, walking on these folded beds of reeds.
Naturally, these floating islands are a major curiosity for tourists. The locals have long moved on to wooden boats, some with motors, and away from the many tourist islands larger houses are made of wood and metal, though they still float upon the lake. The traditional life of the Uros is preserved today only in parody, for the sake of luring tourists and their dollars to the handicraft stalls and boat rides of the islanders. Spending a few hours visiting various islands, eating with the locals, spending time with them might be fun, but as it is every tourist boat (and they are legion) visits one islands, receives a brief explanation of how the reeds float, and then is given thirty minutes to take photos and buy souvenirs. It is not particularly fun or interesting.
Beyond the reed beds and the floating islands sits another island, out in the greater, deeper expanse of the lake. Isla Taquile receives far few visitors, and is far less well know than the floating islands, but it is infinitely more enchanting. Here, too, the people make a living out of the tourists that rumble through, some times staying the night, sometimes just for lunch. The difference is that here life has not been bent entirely to work the tourist industry. The people still keep sheep and make most of their clothing from homespun wool. They farm and they work, and the rest of the time they congregate in the plaza looking out onto the lake, the men in their floppy red caps and puffy shorts looking either like clowns or a religious order.
It took some time to reach Taquile, and in that time the sky clear and Titicaca began to shine. On the island we were free to wander, and poke our noses in wherever we pleased. I made my way up the ridge that runs down the island, offering massive vistas of the lake, and the mountains that surround it. It was a perfectly tranquil spot, looking down on the fields and houses covering the slopes, the tall eucalyptus trees, and the stone paths that meandered in every direction. From up there, seeing the lake properly for the first time, I was struck by what a strange thing it was; too calm and pale to be a sea, but having its own ports and shipping roots and islands and bottomless depths full of myths about Atlantean cities. The insularity of this island completely different to the insularity of say, Australia; we are isolated and surrounded by sea, but Isla Taquile is isolated and surrounded by other countries. There is certainly no sense of distrust or discomfort shown by them towards the mainlanders that daily come coursing across the water to explore their homes. Rather, the sense that they give is of a simple, content life, a hybrid of ancient farming and contemporary tourism. They are managing the strange disparity very well.
I had one free hour on the island but it more than made up for the rest of the day, herded along, on and off the boat, my head nodding asleep against the window.
And then back to Puno, and the following day another border crossing back to Bolivia, and I as I received my entry stamp I couldn’t suppress a big, silly grin from spreading across my face. I was very happy to be back.
My well-connected host in La Paz had emphatically described Tiahuanaco, the mysterious name of a lost civilisation, and of their grand ceremonial centre, now a ruin on the route from La Paz to Titicaca. He was even good enough to check the operating hours of the nearby Peruvian border for me, by phoning his friend the mayor of Tiahuanaco. Off I went.
The day was glorious, the mini-van hummed along, out of the city and into the rich green farmland, all tethered cows and adobe houses. When the driver called for Tiahuanaco I leapt from the van and into the sunny emptiness of the Bolivian countryside.
I wandered along the disused train tracks, past the half finished hotels, and ducked into a café for the usual sandwich and fries – the unimaginative staples of the vegetarian in Bolivia. By the time I finished eating and re-emerged dark clouds had blown over the town, and quavering columns of rain could be seen drifting in from the mountains.
There was nothing else to be done; I was at Tiahuanaco, but I had to be in Peru before 7pm (6pm Peruvian time). I passed through the gate and into the ruin complex as the first fists of rain thudded into the clay.
The Tiahuanaco culture flourished for millennia, rising in power and importance until about 900 A.D. By the year 1200 the civilisation had basically disappeared. The lake that had reached to the fringes of the ceremonial complex receded away, and mud and weeds accumulated over the carefully sculpted stone; later the Spanish came marauding through, exorcising the demons in stone monoliths, and appropriating stone and sacred objects for their own ceremonial centres in the old and new worlds.
Today Tiahuanaco is something of a rallying point for indigenous Bolivian culture. When he was elected, Evo staged a ‘traditional’ inauguration ceremony at the site. The ceremony was an Aymara ceremony, but the ancient Aymara were enemies of Tiahuanaco and may have contributed to their downfall. These details are less important than the emerging pride Bolivia feels in its premier pre-Colombian site.
The Tiahuanaco I visited resembled a quarry; the ancient capital being once again constructed out of the same materials, the same old stone being dug out of the mud and re-fitted to the same old walls. It is an incredible slow process, and most of the grand pyramid presiding over the site is still buried under mud. Other sites bear names like the Palace of the Sarcophaguses, but are essentially piles of exhumed stone, and the vague outline of an ancient wall.
Still, the place is impressive, and as the storm groaned overhead the place felt profoundly forlorn and once again abandoned. The gutters and irrigation still work, funnelling muddy water out of the main temple and into troughs below. A few lonely monolithic figures, one bearing the etched mark of Spanish exorcism stood tall against the deluge, their carved details still distinct. In the semi-subterranean temple distressed and worn faces leered out of the moistening stone, expressing ancient concern at the speed with which a storm can be formed in these lands. The storm that overtook the civilisation must have come on scarcely less fast.
By the time I left, heading for the border, the sun was back out and the impressive stone gates of Tiahuanaco were standing grand and regal against a blue background. As more of the civilisation is uncovered and its treasures restored the site will regain its old grandeur. But the layers of history have settled thick over Tiahuanaco, and much will remain lost and mysterious and forlorn forever.
