Logbook 3- Reading the papers in the country of Evo
Having had enough of the cold and the thin air of the altiplano, I decided to head downhill in search of tropical warmth, and the ‘other Bolivia’ that my Argentine acquaintance had talked about. Time to relax and read the papers as well as looking through windows onto an unfamiliar world.
Graham Douglas
In an internet café a small boy talking to his mum on the internet and phone, saying things weren’t good with papa.
In a Bolivian paper, the editor comments about breaking a cycle of alternately nationalizing and privatizing oil, which recurs every 30 years he says.
I read quite a lot in the papers about Morales and the Govt and its problems. Issues are not simple, he does seem too directive, but they are trying to do away with decades of corruption. There is an article saying the government is planning a bullet train to Uyuni to take advantage of the exponentially growing numbers of tourists, maybe today is April 1st…. Political attacks on the judiciary are frequent too, but the history is complicated: while La Paz is the seat of Government, Sucre is where the judiciary is based. Lula has ordered Petrobras to sell its Bolivian holdings at a loss, “to avoid risk of instability in Bolivia”. But Venezuela is also an actor here, and probably supplies Brazil too? Morales has allocated $50 million for the army to improve accommodation; the money is from Venezuela.
Then there is this story in a Bolivian paper about La Rinconada that I can’t get out of my mind, and I actually download it, because it is so shocking. La Rinconada is a remote mining village in the Peruvian Andes, and the story is about how Bolivian girls have been lured there by adverts offering work and end up held prisoners and forced to work as prostitutes for the mine workers: on drugs and drink to kill their pain they have lost interest in escaping. The brothels, it says, are ordinary shops during the day but after dark they turn on the neon signs and open upstairs rooms where drunken men abuse the girls for money. At night the streets stink of urine and vomit, the police ignore what is happening, and even getting to the place is difficult because it is 4000m up at the end of dirt roads travelled only by the mine workers, so a stranger on the bus is a warning signal to anyone concerned about nosey journalists.
The next day I read an article saying that the Peruvian president is going to do something to stop promiscuity among young people.
There is a strike here on Friday, streets blocked, with the assistance of the mayor. Placards in the main square denounce his attempts to sow division, while pocketing money set aside by government for local use. In the bus station a woman trade – unionist harangues a group of workers, and every time she raises her voice the armed police shuffle their feet. But a few hours later everything is calm again and no blood spilt.
Down to the warm
After the relentless cold and the altitude, I decide not to go to La Paz, but turn right to the lowlands and Santa Cruz. The engineer was right; it is like a different country here. On the altiplano there are graffiti everywhere saying “Evo Cumple Bolivia Cambia” - Evo keeps his promises and Bolivia is changing. Here instead there are nicely carved wooden posts around the main square saying simply “Autonomia”, as if it is a solid fact or a tourist attraction to visit. People here are lighter-skinned, more Spanish than Indio, and there are expensive-looking shops. While I am having a coffee, a woman comes in carrying a child and asking for money, and the waiter is already pushing her out before she has gone two steps. I never saw this attitude before in Bolivia or in Argentina.
I spend a long time walking round to find a cheap place to stay as usual, because I resent paying someone money while I am asleep. After dinner, I am sitting in a café when Maria arrives carrying a lot of luggage. She is a beautiful black Brazilian who plays in a band in Cuiaba and is here to buy a new Japanese keyboard because instruments are only one third of the price they are in Brazil. She has just noticed the same bar that I did, with blue neon and loud music and wants to go in but not on her own. So, we went together and had a few beers in a place which seems to be frequented mostly by lonely teenagers with a few pesos to spend. The next morning, we meet for breakfast and after talking about both our hotels not having been very warm, she says “what a pity, maybe we should have stayed together”. Sure, of course it crossed my mind too, but now we are going different ways, and anyhow I was more concerned about my wallet than all the fun I might have had. And yet it still piques me to think that I missed the chance of knowing this soulful lady better: Men ! Women ! Money !
Taking the Tren della Muerte towards Brazil I am less than impressed by its name. It isn’t very fast, and it does bump a lot, but maybe in the wet season when the area is a swamp full of mosquitoes it isn’t so nice. Anyhow I decide to get off halfway, in San Jose de Chiqitos, and find myself walking in what I have decided must be the right direction, along an unlit dirt-track at 10.30pm, wondering at my own recklessness - it must be the excess testosterone still circulating unused after my interrupted encounter with Maria. But somehow, I always felt safe in Bolivia, and eventually I find a place to stay, for the first night. The next morning when I can see where everything is I move to a small pension on the main square for the rest of the weekend as there is no train until Monday. I take a picture of one of the phone-boxes in the street, which are in the shape of a brightly coloured bird like a cockatoo. There is a Jesuit mission nearby, dating from the 16th century, one of many in this area which can all be visited in a tour by anyone obsessed with religion. One is interesting enough for me, and after my visit I turn to the more important business of lounging by the square, with the first of many beers, and watching the world spending a weekend. There is obviously money, here at least in farming, judging by the families who have rolled up in their new Toyota trucks to enjoy an evening out with lots of food and drink. But there isn’t too much for teenagers to do here. Those who have a moped just seem to go round and round the square, occasionally stopping to talk. I counted one couple make 14 circuits before they disappeared. On Sunday evening the biggest excitement is a local military brass band playing under the trees in the square.
La Rinconada was the subject of an article I wrote later for The Prisma, after it became thew subject of a documentary film.