Subject: highs and lows...
Date: Mon, 19 Mar 2001 12:06:00 -0800 (PST)
From: Evelyn Dean <evdean@yahoo.com>

they say, are a natural part of any intercultural
experience.  Well, I have definitely hit mine: namely,
Potos’ and Santa Cruz.  I'm now sweating in an
internet cafe in the latter on the final day of our
trip.  We returned yesterday from the edge of the
Parque Nacional Amboro, which contains Bolivia's chunk
of the Amazon Basin.  Sadly, we weren't able to enter
the park due to poor road conditions.  Unlike our
notion of a national park, this one is not at all
easily accessible.  There is not much of a tourist
industry, and most of the state's energy is currently
devoted to figuring out how those populations who have
lived there for years can continue to live off the
land in a sustainable fashion.

Although we couldn't enter the park, we still had a
fun and of course educational time exploring the
outskirts from our base, a center for environmental
studies deep in the forest.  (It is on my growing list
of "places I never thought a micro could take me.")
Putting higeine on hold for the weekend, we swam in
the Suturu river and went on early morning
monkey-sighting jaunts and enjoyed typical Camba fare.
 ("Camba" is the name for those living in the
«tropics, while "kolla" refers to those higher up).
The menu offers a diverse range of options: yuca
(manioc, a starchy fibrous root) fried with hot pepper
sauce, mashed yuca with cheese on a stick  (sonso),
yuca-filled pastries (cu–ape), yuca soup...you get the
picture.

Although most of us think of the Andes and
Inca/Aymara-derived cultures when we think of Bolivia,
in reality the tropics constitute a much larger area
of the country.  There are some thirty plus different
tropical cultures, each with their own language.  We
visited an indigenous political organization that,
among many projects, works to change the
"andinocentrismo" that dominates discourse on problems
facing indigenous communities.

And now, as I suffer the oppresive, humid heat, I
can't believe that mere days ago I was bundled up from
head to toe, shivering and watching my breath escape
from my scarf...while *inside* the cafˇ waiting for my
quinuah soup.  This was the experience of Potos’, the
legendary colonial city of luxury that sits at about
13,000 feet.  The remnants of its past glory are
readily seen in any of the thirty-odd churches, with
their huge, elaborately carved doors and interior
decor of precious metals.  In the 1600's it was larger
than Paris or London.  The source of its fame is el
Cerro Rico (the rich hill), a massive orange-ish peak
that dominates the landscape.  The Spaniards grew rich
off of its deposits of pure silver, (not to mention
the slave labor of the native people) followed by the
age of the tin barons.  The mines on el Cerro Rico are
still open, but now all that remains are mixtures of
silver and tin with zinc (plus lots of pyrite for the
tourists).

Our trip to the mines exemplifies one observation I
have made about Bolivia: compared to the United
States, Bolivia is a much less regulated society.
Everyday examples of this include that anyone can sit
and sell anything on any streetcorner. (Not to mention
relieve him or herself, should nature call).  Our bus
drivers only stay on the right side of the road when
an oncoming vehicle forces them too.  And in the case
of el Cerro Rico, any Joe can go buy himself a hard
hat and some dynamite and crawl in one of the holes to
pull out some ore to sell.  Ever since the closing of
the state mines in 1985, mining is a purely individual
venture.  All you have to do is pay a portion of your
earnings to the particular mining co-op that somehow
has claim to the tunnel you want to use, and you are
good to go.  I was really confused by this.  "Why
don't the companies provide the miners with tools?" I
asked.  "There are no companies."  "Yeah, but who
*owns* the mines?"  "Nobody owns the mines, there is a
committee of community members who makes decisions
about it, but it is open to everyone."  My poor
capitalism-fed brain could simply not wrap itself
around this concept.

The first stop on our tour was the market where the
miners purchase their dynamite, coca leaves for
endurance, and 95% alcoholic beverage.  "You don«t
feel any effects until you leave the mine," they
swore.  Feel free, anyone, to explain that one to me.
Our micro lurched up the hill, thrashing our bodies to
and fro in the process.  The dynamite was sitting on
the seat next to me. "Keep hold of those detonants,
they go off pretty easily!"  I sat frozen in terror
for the rest of the ride and didn't realize that he
was joking until we got off.  (He had the detonants
the whole time).  Guided only by feeble kerosene (or
something) lamp light, we then crawled in the mines.
"Hueca a la izquierda!" (Hole on the left!), shouted
our guide to warn of us the occassional bottomless
pit, without guardrails of course. "We haven't had
many Japanese tourists since one fell down a hole and
died three years ago," he lamented to me later.  No
law suit ensued, of course; this is Bolivia.

So we mucked and squeezed through the tunnels,
chatting with the miners we passed with crow bars and
steel hammars prying away at the walls, until we
reached a little room.  At the end sat a huge,
grotesque  and anatomically erect...I mean, correct,
paper mache statue of a red devil.  He is "El Tio" of
the mines, an Andean deity of the underworld to which
miners pay homage so that the mines may produce (and
not kill them).  The miners come a couple times a week
to sprinkle him with coca leaves, put a lit cigarrette
in his mouth and pour some of the alcohol on the
ground (before downing the rest).  In the middle of
the guide's explanation, the room trebled with the
deep "BOOM" of dynamite.  "Not a problem, not a
problem, just the disco upstairs," we were assured.
Nonetheless, after the second one we were more that
ready to leave.

So we emerged, dirty but alive, and finished our tour
by visiting the old women who scavange the metals from
the rocks left on the surface.  These were some tough
ladies, mostly widows.  Imagine your grandmother
pounding rocks with a hammar and hauling bags full of
them to market to sell.

When I think about it, the whole mining tourism
industry is a bit of a strange concept.  The
promotional pamphlet might read, "See them utilize the
most primitive technology in life threatening
conditions, all so that they may barely feed their
families!"  We were indeed fascinated.  Ethics aside,
it was invaluable to see firsthand how tough life can
be in this country.

I know I have yet to give you all a play by play of my
stint as a Caporal dancer a few weeks ago.  That will
have to be for next week.

Hope you are all well,

Evie