War and Peace

Good morning from Sucre, Bolivia! What a gorgeous day! There´s something about the briliiant sunshine at this altitude and the whitewashed buildings shining brightly that makes mornings here very special. It really makes me start my day with a smile and a spring in my step.

YesterdayI took a guided tour of the National Military Museum. They had weapons, uniforms, and other artifacts from what was described as Bolivia´s four wars. I found myself asking myself "four wars????". There was of course the war of independence from Spain in the 1820´s. Two of the other 3 wars were border disputes. One was a fight with Paraguay (the Chaco War), named after that part of Bolivia where the boundary line with Paraguay was in disupte. The irony here is that the boundary line was drawn in the dry infertile plains that separate the two countries.

The other border dispute was/is much more interesting. Historically it had never been clear just where Bolivia´s border on the west should be. Bolivia took the position that its border went down tothe sea, the Pacific Ocean. The only problem with this was that 70% of the people who lived there were Chileans, and communication with La Paz was poor at best. The only thing Bolivia ever did for the area was send tax collectors there to collect taxes from the saltpeter mines. Needless to say, they were not welcomed with a great deal of enthusiasm. The Bolivian government exacerbated matters by raising the tax. The chilenos refused to pay and called upon the Chilean government for help. The Chilean government was ready. In fact, they had been preparing for just such an excuse. They sent in the Army and occupied the territory. Bolivia sent an ill-equipped and poorly prepared army to the area. The Chileans beat the pants off the Bolivians with the result that, ever since, Bolivia is permanently landlocked. This battle is called in Bolivia the "War of the Pacific." I watched a propaganda movie at the museum featuring a young officer who kisses his bride goodbye and goes off to die a glorious death at the hands of the Chilenos in the cause of a greater Bolivia.

The tour guide saved what was planned to be the most moving part of the tour to the end. We were ushered into a room to see the thousands of letters written by school children all across Bolivia about 3 years ago to the UN asking that Bolivia have access to the Pacific Ocean. We were told emotionally that the letters, when laid end to end, cover several kilometers. Incredibly enough, Bolivia still has some token naval officers and the country even has a ship! It looks like a converted freighter which is permanently anchored in some Peruvian port. ("Save your confederate dollars; the Southwill riseagain!"). A unviersity student I met here says that some Bolivians still get upset at the idea of negotiating ANYTHING with the Chileans, since they can´t be trusted, etc. This is a recurring theme throughout South America. Each country distrusts the other ones and sees the other as being as foreign as Martians.

The Bolivian government is obviously trying to drum up popular support for Bolivia´s efforts to negotiate with Chile some sort of access to the sea. About the only product Bolivia can export is natural gas and they´re currently piping that to Brazil and Argentina. There have been informal talks with Chile for years over some sort of access. However, Chile does not seem overly anxious to accomodate the Bolivians. Bolivia doesn´t have the necessary political, economic or military clout to try to get Chile to change its mind.

All the exhibits on these 3 wars took up large spaces on the walls of a very large room. The fourth exhibit was barely 1 meter square and almost half-hidden behind the open door tothe room. This exhibit was labelled the "War Against the Guerillas," in which Che Guevara was killed. The tour guide was notably very reticent about this exhibit.The killing of revolutionary hero Che Guevara by the Bolivian Army, supported and financed by the CIA, is not exactly politically correct in today´s (almost) socialist Bolivia.

Today I had the chance to visit the Museum of Indigenous Art here in Sucre and it was truly fascinating. I saw both contemporary and ancient examples of musical instruments. The first night I arrived and watched the group perform, I thought a couple of them were playing guitars and a kind of ukulele. Actually, both instruments are a chorango and each has 10 strings, 2 for each note. The sound is somewhat similar to a mandolin. What looks like a recorder is a toqoro. They had video tapes and audiotapes of performances and the music is captivating. I was surprised to find that there are probably several dozen groups of people, each with their own distinct version of the instruments and distinct sound.

The same is true of their costume. The designs or patterns in the women´s dresses are extremely elaborate. In addition to displaying many types of dresses, there was a girl about 20 weaving on a hand drawn loom. It must take a couple of months to make one large bolt of cloth.

The public interest in these works of art is noticeable, both by the number of museum attendees and the high acclaim in which they´re held by both Bolivians and tourists. I couldn´t help but compare this museum visit with my attempted museum visit in Argentina. Almost all the museums of Argentina and Uruguay seem to take the position that history for them begins with the conquistadors. I can remember Elsbeth and I walking through a museum of endless portraits of Spanish noblemen who lived in Argentina.

There is a museum in Cordoba, the Museum of Anthropology, dedicated to pre-Columbian history and art. I had a heck of a time finding it. It´s not well marked from the street. I doubt taxi drivers even know where it is. When I finally did find it, the sign outside the locked door indicated it was closed for several weeks, then open on inconsistednt days and times.

In all fairness, smallpox and tuberculosis traveled through Argentina and Uruguay faster than the conquistadors did. What natives were remaining were dispatched in a manner similar to the Yankees treatment of native Americans. As a result, unlike Bolivia, there are no indigenous folks left who might take pride in their ancestral heritage.

Sucre is named after Bolivia´s general, Antonio Jose de Sucre, who teamed up with Simon Bolivar in the 1820´s to help secure independence from Spain. Both Bolivar and Sucre were from Venezuela. There must be something in the water of Venezuela which causes the leaders from there to want to revolt against control by foreign powers.

Bolivar wanted to see a strong large South American country made up of Venezuela, Columbia, Ecudador, Peru, and Bolivia, if not more. Sucre wanted a more independent bolivia. The result, as we know, is that South America seems to be made up of very individual countries that have difficulty coming to an agreement with their neighbors on anything. They have the potential for forming something like a European Union and achieving the economic benefits therefrom. But they, almost universally, lack the political will. The one exception might be Venezuela, where Sr. Chavez envisions himself as the leader of all South America.

Sucre is similar to Merida, Venezuela, in that in the center of the central plaza, there is a large statue. In the case of Merida, it´s a statue of Simon Bolivar. In the case of Sucre, it´s General Sucre. The guide book to Venezuela warns tourists to show proper respect when walking around Bolivar´s statue for fear of local reaction to perceived disrespect. A teacher at my language school in Merida indicated that anyone attaching political signs, etc., to the base of the state would be arrested for showing disrespect.

Today, while walking through the plaza of Sucre, I noticed that children were thoroughly enjoying themselves climbing all over the well-worn lion sculptures at the base of the General´s statue. The nearby park bench sitters, old men reading the newspaper, gossiping mothers, and necking teenagers, were all completely indifferent to any possible disrespect.

The Hills are Alive

My first impression of Sucre is music and flowers!

I arrived on a Sunday afternoon. In the evening I went to a bar that offered a live pan pipe group playing what they said were arrangements of indigenous melodies. There were 4 performers, each playing at different times at least two instruments. There were pan pipes, a drum, a guitar, the equivalent of recorders (tarcas), and a small guitar like a ukulele. They also sang, in Spanish, not Quechua. I enjoyed it very much. The pan pipe makes a quiet breathing sound, that adds a melancholic tone whatever is being played.

On the way back to my hotel, I walked through the main square where there was a live concert of contemporary music going on. It was great to see every generation represented among the listeners. Little kids, university students, and old folks were all grooving to the rock sounds.

Today, it´s Monday at about noon and I discoverd my hotel has a rooftop terrace above the open courtyard. I´m sitting up here enjoying the marvelous sunshine. Probably because of the altitude (we´re at 9,000 feet), the sun feels very hot. The air is absolutely crystal clear and I can see for what seems like forever. Unfortunately, the surrounding mountains are treeless, no doubt a consequence of the altitude. However, there are a great number of trees and other vegetation in the city.

As I was sitting here eating my orange and enjoying, I could hear a marching band, oom-pahing its way around the streets. I couldn´t see it, but from my roof top perch, I could tell exactly what streets therywere walking on. This is Monday. I have no idea what the occasion is. After writing this, I have since learned that today (Monday?!) is Father´s Day in Bolivia, and many proud fathers were marching around the streets behind the oom-pah band, while kids lit off fireworks. that´s cool!

The parks and squares have, of course, walkways across them, and, in addition, BEAUTIFULLY manicured parcels of grass and flowers. The flowers are planted in beautiful designs. I saw women working on their little patch, grooming it carefully. I have since learned that, as part of a workfare program, unemployed women (mostly) maintain the parks. The result is that the parks are strikingly beautiful.

This evening, I had the good fortune to run into Mario, the lawyer from Santa Cruz. I was walking along with my head in the clouds when my way was blocked by this man in a suit and tie. I tried to move around him and he blocked me. Only then did I notice it was Mario with a big grin on his face. He was with another lawyer, Carlos. We went out for beer and had a gredat time talking about the terrible bus ride and life as a D.A.. They are both attending a 2 month continuing education class for prosecutors. It{ s surprising how similar the laws of Bolivia and California are.

They are from Santa Cruz and of course I am from California. Interestingly, we all had the same impression of Sucre. We all like the town because of its smallness, the friendliness of the people, and the interesting night life and music available. They were full of suggestions of things I must see while in Sucre. I could tell they were envious of my free time. They still had to study for the following day.

We parted with shared e-mail addresses and hopes of some future contact. However, the distinct bummer about foreign travel is that you meet people, sometimes in very close quarters, get involved in lengthy conversations, only to part knowing you´ll most likely never meet them again. ("Two roads diverged in a wood..."). It´s great to enjoy the moment, to step into the moccasins of some one else, even if only for a short time, and to get a glimpse into a foreign culture and way of life.

"Oh, It´s a Long Way to Sucre"

Getting from Argentina to Bolivia is surprisingly difficult. There is minimal contact between the 2 countries. To take a bus from Argentina to Bolivia, you end up transferring to smaller buses, which end up taking you to the town at the border. You get off the bus and walk across the border to the bus station on the other side, and attempt to continue on your way. For that reason, I chose to fly from Buenos Aires to Santa Cruz, Bolivia, and then take the overnight bus to Sucre, Bolivia.

I stayed in Villa General Belgrano longer than I had anticipated, so I had to take a bus from there to Cordoba and the overnight Argentine bus from Cordoba to Buenos Aires. At the Cordoba bus station, our bus was late. When it finally arrived, it´s "platform" was occupied by a different bus, so we had to wait for this bus to pull out. I notice in writing this that I make this sound relatively simple. In actuality, these announcements were being made over a loudspeaker system which, for me, was unintelligible. So, as I´ve grown accustomed, I asked endless questions of every official looking person I could find, at the same time, scanning up and down the platforms for my possible bus.

When the other bus pulled out, it did so so effectively, that it backed into our waiting bus, wiping out its passenger side mirror. The 2 drivers then entered into a very entertaining exchange. Some honcho from the bus company of my ticket insisted our bus would still operate, but that there might be a "short delay." They boarded us onto our wounded bus. the bus took off and drove for three quarters of an hour and stopped at the main shop of the bus company. It was about 11 p.m. They must have woken up the mechanic to come down to the shop. It looked like they cannibalized a side view mirror off of something. Our bus was a wonderfully modern double decker monster with a side view mirror that was a marvel of engineered plastic and mirrored glass. They came up with something that was definitely not the same make or model, but what the heck, as long as it works. As I looked out the window, I could see the bus driver and the "ride attendant" standing over the all-important guy with the tool box, and probably giving lots of totally unnecessary advice. From my vantage point, it looked like a marvelous application of sheet metal screws and duct tape.

As a result, the bus arrived well over 2 hours late in Buenos Aires. I hustled from the bus station to the station for the shuttle bus to the airport and jumped on the next bus. I was kind of proud of myself for knowing my way. I arrived at the airport with about 45 minutes before my flight was scheduled to leave. The electronic signs all indicated that the flight was on time.

It took forever to stand in line at the counter and check by bag, to stand in line to pay the departure tax, to stand in line to go through security, to stand in line for immigration, and then to find out that my flight was leaving from a completely different terminal, and that I had to walk, hurriedly, about a kilometer to the station gate. I arrived at the gate, out of breath, about 5 minutes late. There were 3 young station agents at the gate, busily talking with each other about their social plans for the weekend. I, rudely, interrupted them to ask if the plane was still boarding. One of them looked at me, somewhat disgusted, and said, "When it´s ready, we´ll announce it. Just listen for the announcement." Only then did I notice that about 100 people were sitting around the waiting area. The flight took off an hour late with the electronic sign still indicating that it was "on time." As an aside, going through security, no one had to take their shoes off, or give up their bottle of water.

When we landed in Santa Cruz, I was also proud of myself. I navigated through customs and immigration, changed money, and got onto the local transit bus. The bus driver told me where to get off to transfer to the local bus that would take me to the long distance bus station. I arrived at the long distance bus station at 3 p.m. and bought a ticket for Sucre on the best bus possible. This bus is also called a "bed-bus" but the similarity with Argentine bed-buses ends there. The bus was supposed to arrive in Sucre at 9 a.m. There was no bathroom on the bus. For ventilation, you opened the window, and for light, you pulled out your flashlight. There was a large tv monitor hung above the aisle, and literally every one on the bus bumped their head on it at least once. It didn´t work. There were 2 drivers, who changed off and on throughout the ride.

We left Santa Cruz pulling up into the mountains. We left the pavement and started winding our way through a narrow canyon with incredibly high steep walls. If I had been watching the news, I would have known that Bolivia had suffered torrential rains in the past 2 weeks, there was flooding everywhere, and many towns, roads, bridges, etc., had been wiped out. We drove right next to a river that was very impressive, because the waters were well above the banks and flowing very rapidly. The road from Santa Cruz to Sucre is about 200 miles, of which about 150 miles of it is a one-lane dirt road. Actually, it´s not a dirt road. It´s a mud road. The mud road is narrow with occasional spots for 2 vehicles to pass. Every night there must be literally hundreds of trucks and buses that make use of the mud road to transport people and goods between the main cities of Sta. Cruz, Sucre, and Cochabamba. Where there´s a creek, the road fords the creek. Where there´s a mud slide, the bus climbs up and over the mud. Imagine driving from Quincy to the Bay Area on a one lane dirt road. In addition, there was never a straight stretch of road longer than 100 meters. We wound up switchbacks, up, up, and up, and then dropped into deep valleys in what seemed like an endless succession of steep Andes mountain ranges.

By daylight, the Bolivian countryside was nothing short of spectacular. It is lush and green. The valleys are beautiful with the occasional farmhouse. It seems hard to believe that these lush green valleys are at 5,000 to 9,000 feet. The men wear cowboy hats, kind of like in Argentina. The women wear colorful skirts, like in Guatemala. But they top if off with a large black hat, sometimes an English bowler.

During the nighttime ride, we made frequent lengthy stops. A bus or a truck would get stuck in the mud, and other drivers would go up and help free up the vehicle. The result was that this bus ride took 23 hours!! We left at 4 p.m. and arrived at 3 p.m. the next day. Every one in the bus was pretty ripe by then and the odors were pretty powerful. There was no toilet on the bus. During the night, when men had to go pee, they just stepped off the bus when we were stopped at many of the road slides and did their thing. Women just held it!

One piece of good news. I sat next to a Bolivian lawyer and we talked a good deal through the night. Theoretically, the bus stops for meals and potty breaks. However, when we first reached a pueblo that offered food or a bathroom, it was already so late at night, the driver just kept on going. By about midnight, I was very hungry. We were stopped for a couple of hours at a mudslide and some very enterprising Bolivian teenagers on motorcycles were racing back and forth from somewhere(!) with genuinely hot empanadas and genuinely cold beer and selling them to passengers on the many buses. My attorney seatmate treated me to a beer and 2 empanadas. They were the greatest!

It still boggles my mind that this main thoroughfare of Bolivia is a barely serviceable dirt road. On the other hand, given the engineering that would be involved in attempting to construct a first class 2 lane highway, the cost would be astronomical.

We stopped for breakfast in a poor little pueblo in the middle of nowhere. There were several food stands on the street. You could buy lemondade and drink it out of the common plastic cup. There were all kinds of foods being cooked by old women. My attorney friend dragged me to a cafe where wooden crates were set up in front of a counter. The mamacita offered empanadas and coffee. Against my better judgment, I drank coffee and ate the empanadas. The coffee came in a well-used mug. But I was hungry!

Back on the bus, about an hour later, a young Israeli girl-tourist, jumped up from her seat with her roll of toilet paper and ran to the driver. He immediately stopped (we were in the middle of nowhere, which was the case for 90% of the ride). She went out of sight behind the bus and returned 5 minutes later and off we went. About half an hour later, it was my turn. By now, I had the drill down. The driver and everyone on the bus was very understanding. I suspect this is a frequent phenomenon, particularly for us gringos. Afterward, I popped a couple of imodium, and made it to Sucre without further incident or accident. Fortunately, I never leave home without my little daypack complete with toilet paper, some meds, and hand sanitizer.

When the bus stopped for lunch, my attorney friend dove into barbecued intestines. (In Argentina, they call them morcilla. Here, in Bolivia, they just say chorizo, which I think can include a variety of sausage). I passed up the opportunity, and chose instead to eat a Clif Bar (thank you, Elsbeth!) and some sort of Bolivian soda pop. How does the Mastercard commercial go? The bus ticket cost $12. The empanadas and coffee cost 35 cents. The experience was priceless, just maybe not worth repeating.

In contrast to the ride, Sucre is a marvelous place! More on that to come.