Tupiza to Potosi

My last experience of Bolivian buses (see Uyuni to Tupiza) was memorable for some fairly wrong reasons. That account prompted the following recollection from Liza Eastman, who travelled in Bolivia in the days when buses were a luxury:

Thoroughly enjoying your blog Bill, especially because I have memories, be they everso ancient, of many of the same places and experiences, except we could not afford the buses and travelled on top of the produce trucks. We may have gotten the better deal, as we sat on our packs, lots of leg room, fresh air, and fun with the kids, every one facing different directions. The Indians usually facing us so they could study us, as gringos were pretty rare in those days. Need a loo stop? Hammer on the drivers roof, yell "Necesito bano por favor", screech to a stop, every one pile out, men one side, women the other. I was the one who got the shtick because I was wearing boys, clothing and couldn't just squat covered by my skirts! The ride that lasted the longest with us was a whole day on top of loose garlic!

Thank you, Liza for permission to share that lovely story. By the way, travelling by truck is still practiced but I am too old for that sort of thing.

I made very sure that the Trans O´Globo company (yes, really) ran buses, not jeeps, before I booked my passage, and that it was a direct service with no changes along the way.

It was almost disappointing. The bus left on time and arrived on time. This was my first Bolivian bus to achieve that. I had a pleasant, if limited, conversation with the gent in the next seat and my bladder behaved itself. Severely rationing my liquid intake may have helped. There was a lunch stop after 2 hours during which I joined the queue to utilise the Cotaigata public toilet. Easy.

That is not to say that the journey was without interest. The driver hauled his big vehicle briskly around the winding, gravel road without ever using his horn. This was not terribly comforting because 2 days earlier a bus had gone off the road and many passengers were killed or injured. I think it happened in Eastern Bolivia, but I couldn´t follow all of the news report.

Along the way we encountered clear evidence of a new road under construction. Apart from the very first section we encountered, it appeared to be a completed concrete road. Why then was the bus not permitted to drive on it? There were rocks and piles of earth every so often to make quite sure that no vehicles soiled its pristine, level surface. Certainly we crossed the concrete a few times. Just occasionally the bus was able to quit the gravel and grant us a kilometer or so of smooth riding before jolting back onto the old track.

I was not always be sure of the details, because the two carriageways were not parallel, but the new surface seemed to be complete for well over 100km. Why would this be prohibited territory? If anyone has any theories, please leave a comment.

The winding path got to one passenger. The baby across the aisle was sick. Fortunately it was not too lavish and the parents efficiently reclothed the child, who now looked quite comfortable.

I opened my guide book to select a hostal for the night. I had plenty of time so I read the entire entry for Potosi. Ah, there is a big fiesta on the last Saturday of August. Advance booking is essential. And today is ... the last Saturday in August. I´m already on the bus so I can´t change my plans. I don´t have access to a phone so I cannot now book ahead. Why did I not read this before?

It´s all right. I am lucky. There will be no drama. So I didn´t worry. No, I just worked out that if all else failed I´d just have to get on a bus to Sucre.

The last, long stretch of the journey was over a well-made, sealed and painted road. Luxury. As it neared Potosi it took us past the famous mountain that produced so much silver that Potosi was the biggest and richest city in the world at one time. We approached the ´back´ of the mountain, with little evidence of mining. Then the road swept us round to see the great terraces of waste on the city side. My affable companion kindly pointed out the miners´houses. They looked like industrial revolution terraces, but smaller.

Shortly after that we saw some gaily decorated vehicles. "That´s because of the fiesta", my companion told me. "It´s in honour of Saint Batholomew." I wondered what the saint cared for travellers who neglect to book ahead.

From the bus terminal I took a taxi to my first choice hostal. Along the way there were many harrassed traffic police trying to unjam the traffic. The driver blamed the fiesta. At one of these enforced pauses a lady passer-by exchanged words with the driver and then jumped confidently into the front seat. The guide book refers to the practice of sharing taxis, but this took me completely by surprise. Eventually we cleared the traffic jams and I was delivered to a hostal in a narrow street just off the main plaza.

Did they have a room? Yes, but it was a double and would cost me 80 bolivianos per night. That´s steep when you have been paying 25Bs. However, it did give me confidence that I would not be searching for a park bench at midnight. I shouldered my pack and stumped off to hostal no.2. Yes, they did have a room. Did I want private bathroom or shared? Getting a choice was more than my lack of organisation deserved. Shared bano it was, at 40Bs.

The senora provided a map and marked the route of the dancing. Then she inked in the route I should take to go and see it. The quickest way was, she insisted, dangerous. The guide book was not entirely accurate, though. It was an all weekend event. And its description deserves a post all to itself.

The Dance Festival in Potosi

The Entrada de Chu´tillos (taken into the Catholic church under San Bartolome) is a major dance competition in Bolivia, with teams coming from all over the country and extensive TV coverage. According to my informants it kicks off on Saturday evening with the local troupes of campesinos. It goes on all through Sunday until 5 or 6am on Monday morning. There is so much to tell that I don´t know where to start.

I´d better point out that all the pictures of dancers were taken on Sunday afternoon. The after-dark lighting was OK for human eyes but my little camera is only set up for close-range flash photography.

Costume is most definitely important. A huge amount of thought, time and, it seems, money goes into the costumes.

Most of the local teams stuck to fairly traditional garb, at least for the ladies. This photo shows the sort of thing. And older ladies always wore skirts of at least calf-length. The ability to catch the eye, with sequins, tinsel or bright colours seemed to be much more important than taste.

All sorts of influences were evident from the various costumes; cowboys, Zulus, devils. You name it, a hint appeared somwhere.

Only men wore outrageous constructions in which massive collars were popular. Elvis would have looked drab and conventional beside these. This style of costume frequently included a tail or other dorsal extension.

Many of the out-of-towners wore masks. By the time they got within range of my vantage point it seemed that many of the masks had become uncomfortably hot and were either tilted up or removed entirely until the dancer had cooled down a little.

After nightfall the costumes that incorporated lights came into their own.

ALL the dancers wore hats. Sometimes a mask incorporated the crowning glory, but generally it was a separate item. They ranged from everyday styles like the Bolivian matron´s beloved bowler to towering feather confections best suited to a silly hat contest. One team had hats so tall and unwieldy that they couldn´t dance in them. They had to be carried.

Hand-held accessories ranged from handkerchiefs to woollen balls on a string to assegais. These were simply brandished or swung round. A Maori poi dancer could teach them a thing or two.

But possibly the most effective costume was that worn by the local miners. They simply wore their mining overalls, taking care to colour co-ordinate, and helmets. The lights were turned on, which was very effective at night, particularly as they turned and the beams swept round in unison. They each carried a hammer and chisel, which were clashed in time to the music.

I only saw one troupe that danced to recorded music. A large part of the fun is hearing the different bands playing.

Sadly, traditional Andean instruments were the exception. Only some of the local ensembles danced to pipes, flutes or tiny Andean guitars. One very small group from Tupiza had its flautists mounted on horses! Everyone else was accomanied by a brass band. I still find these incongruous in S. America.

There´s no doubt though that they are loud in comparison to recorder-type instruments of whatever size. And volume seems to count. The fiesta was liberally sprinkled with aerial bangers, often launched with happy disregard for overhead wires. Other popular fireworks were of the roman candle type, sending up missiles that exploded in showers of coloured light.

The dances did vary, but there was one almost universal rythym. The bands seemed to strongly favour one tune and I am sure I heard the band that just passed me and the one approaching playing the same piece, but eight-and-a-half bars out of synch. Most disconcerting.

All the brass bands were organised with the cymbals in the front. Cymbals were the only instrument I saw women playing. Right behind those were the drums, dominated by 3, 4, 5 or more bass drums thumped in perfect unison. Behind them marched the deeper toned instruments, which were 98% little tubas (I know there´s a proper name, sorry) and trombones. These would play a chorus and then have a rest while the higher pitched trumpets had their turn.

Right at the back were the huge oompahs that curl round the player like a constricting snake and then open up into a big forward-facing mouth. I think they were supposed to play with the bass section, but in practice they seemed to throw a few resonant parps into the mix whenever they felt like it. I theorised that the alternating choruses were to allow breath to be caught. I imagine playing a brass instrument for 2 continuous hours would be too much to ask.

Generally the bands were in uniform blazers and just tramped along, with some more or less co-ordinated instrument waving from those not actually playing. Glenn Miller would never have accepted such sloppy discipline. However, there was one band that was actually choreographed with simple manouvres.

For young women only there were examples of very short skirts, which were noticeably popular with the young men in the crowd and the TV cameras. They were often accompanied by knee-length boots. See the girl in blue in the 3rd picture above. The footwear for the short-skirted, of whatever length, often featured platform soles. Would they be easy to dance on? Please let me know.

Dancers were invariably in sections, nearly always segregating the sexes. Generally there would be one costume for all the members of a section. Often I could not detect any co-ordination between the ladies´ dress and the men´s rig and I had to recheck that the following section was not a new team. In the men´s sections there would frequently be one or a very few dancers in especially extravagant costumes. I think every section had a leader, who would (try to) use a whistle to issue basic instructions. With the noise of the bands, the fireworks and the dancers ahead with bells sewn to their costumes, normal speech was very difficult.

There was, unsurprisingly, a great deal of variation in the dancing. Some sections even danced as couples, varying lines with circles. However, there was a recurring theme. Dance in lines 5 or 6 across the road. Take 2 steps left, twirl to the right, 2 steps right and twirl to the left. This had the advantage of allowing forward movement.

Age was no barrier. Many of the groups included children, some no more than toddlers. One of the mounted pipers had a child with him barely more than a baby. The television crew interviewed dancer eight years old. He had been dancing for two years.

An enduring memory, which sadly could not be succesfully photographed, was the lead dancer of one team. He, too, would have been about eight. He had his face blacked up and wore frilly green sleeves on his costume. He had a whistle in his mouth and he shrilled out the beat as he pranced, leaped and ran, always in perfect time with the band behind him. Crowd discipline, especially on the corner where I stationed myself, was not good. This lad did a better job of clearing the road than the police - and he never missed a beat.

It seemed to be quite in order for any member of the public to get up and take a photo of an especially magnificent costume or a particularly pretty girl. Young men would often take each other´s picture alongside a comely maiden. The short-skirted ones got most attention. The swain would then kiss her cheek to thank her. I never saw the maid kiss back nor, indeed, did I see one that appeared to relish this attention.

Nearly all the oompahs were white. I´d not seen this before. Can anyone suggest a reason for this colour scheme? The other instruments were all regular shiny, metal colours.

The fiesta naturally attracted many street vendors. The last two blocks to my favoured posi were solid with stalls selling just about anything a hawker could carry to the site. There were toys, cellphones, radios, kitchenware and clothes of all sorts. I didn´t like to ask what the facilities were for trying on a bra. Perhaps you had to be really confident of your size.

I replaced the penknife that was confiscated in Cusco. The new one has two extra survival tools; a bottle opener and a tiny corkscrew. Why ever did I set out travelling without these essentials? All this for 5Bs ($1.00).

Naturally there were those who offered to cater for the multitude of spectators. They were well organised and had secured the best sites, nearest the dance route. Some had set up camp kitchens with benches and tables and served up on china plates. More commonly your comestibles came in a paper or plastic bag.

I was particularly fascinated by the metre-long coils of sausage being grilled just behind me. The senora would slice off a short length, about the size of a regular snarler, split it lengthways and serve it in a bun with salad and lots of sauces like a mini hamburger. I can tell you that it was very tasty.

I don´t know what the licencing laws are in Bolivia, but there were a couple of stalls that openly sold beer alongside colas and other drinks. Not cold ones, unfortunately, but a fiesta is better with ambient temperature beer then with no beer.

All in all it was great fun to have been there.