Happy Tinku!

I was shopping in the Cancha today when something spectacular caught my eye. This pirated DVD cost me all of 3bs (50¢) and may be my new prized possession. Although it may be hard to appreciate if you haven’t lived in both Bolivia and the United States, a Happy Tinku is the most hilarious oxymoron imaginable.

Tinku is a traditional dance, which I described during Carnival. But the dance is a representation a very real ritual. Tinku is traditional combat between indigenous communities. Tinku is rarely practiced these days, and is found primarily in rural Potosi, Oruro and Sucre. Few outsiders have seen Tinku, but the people I know who have described it as absolutely terrifying. A fellow I work with actually invited me to a supposedly tamer Tinku in nearby Tapacari, but I declined, having learned my lesson with cockfighting in Nicaragua, Mexico and Guatemala.

During festivals, different communities come together for days to trade, sing, dance and above all else, drink. As different communities drink themselves stupid, latent hostilities and rivalries can rise to the surface, and people become increasingly aggressive. Young men don leather helmets like those of Phujllay and bind their hands with leather belts, sometimes with stones in their fists. They supposedly strike at each other with sickening ferocity, until one combatant is unconscious. Most years someone dies during a Tinku. Their blood is considered an offering to Pachamama, in lieu of a llama. While that may be hard for us to understand, Tinku does serve an important purpose, both asserting indigenous identity and diffusing conflicts between rival communities.

Occasionally young women also fight, but it’s generally a more subdued affair, with scratching, hair pulling and clothes ripping. So I suppose one might be able to draw a parallel between Jerry Springer or brawling fratboys in our society and Tinku in Bolivian society, but I’m still not a big fan of either.

Alasitaing It

Yesterday I took the day off of work and spent seven hours, each way, on a bus La Paz to experience Alasitas. And it was well worth it. Alasitas is already one of my all-time favorite holidays, right up there with Guy Fawkes Day and Bloomsday.

Alasitas means buy from me in Aymara. During the festival Bolivians purchase tiny items they hope to receive in the coming year, bless them and offer them to the household God of abundance, Ekekko, in hopes of receiving the real thing in return.

Alasitas used to fall on the autumnal equinox, celebrating the fields’ abundance. Thunupa, a pagan god, was offered foodstuffs, household goods, construction materials and such. When the Spanish came they shifted the date, so the annoyed Aymara changed the festival into a kitschy mockery of the real deal. Now Ekekko, which is Aymara for dwarf, is offered wallets full of cash, cellphones, first class tickets to Miami, lowriders and so on and so forth.

There was miniature everything. Petite pastries and salteñas. Little cigarettes and coca leaves. Diminutive newspaper editions. Enchanted by the adorable, itty-bitty objects, I joined in the hustle and bustle, as everyone rushed around, trying to buy everything before twelve. As midday approached the activity in San Francisco reached an apex and it was so crowded that we were unable to move, a sea of people smiling, singing and sharing the abundance. Unfortunately, neither peace nor forgiveness were for sale, so I settled for stuff.

At exactly noon, when the blessing is supposed to be most effective, I purchased for some of the best magic money can buy. In a ceremony that involved burning incense and monopoly money, ringing a bell, chewing coca, doing a shot, confetti and streamers, and spitting on me, a Yatiri blessed me and my things for the coming year.

The photo reminds me of an I-spy. If you expand the picture (by clicking on it), can you find the things I want?

A thesis and diploma?
Firecrackers?
Laundry soap and a broom for a clean house?
Trigo y mapuey?
A Bolivian visa and airline ticket for safe travels?
A crate of beer?
Music?
Toilet paper for no tummy troubles?
A rhinoceros?

Hungry Ally Haiku

Juicy, spicy, sweet.
Oh savory salteña.
Fill my mouth with mmm.

Piping hot, pica.
A perfect little pastry.
Meat and veggies, POW.

Only three b’s.
At a simple streetside stand.
Stop, snack, chat, no más.

Of course, your calle culinary options aren’t limited to my midmorning snack muse, the salteña. Other favourites include chocle, gigantic corn on the cob and a hunk of queso fresco, cordero, a sort of lamb and potato shish-kabob, and charque, llama jerky, often served over quinoa. To wash it all down there’s chicha, a think, tart fermented corn beer that campesinos brew in their backyards. Basically, Bolivia is a paradise for those with the uncommon combination of a strong stomach and a sophisticated palate. Take that, Tom Douglas.

Scared and Psyched to Shop

La Cancha, the market here in Cochabamba, is the biggest market in Bolivia. It makes going shopping simultaneously one of the most fantastic and stressful things about being in Bolivia.

The Cancha goes on for acres, block after block of covered stalls and street carts. On Wednesday and Sunday, market days, it seems to double in size. You can buy anything, but it will take you forever to find it, pawing through gigantic piles of cheap, tawdry tat. (Everything in the picture in the previous entry, excepting a few books, was bought in the Cancha.) Everything is also extremely cheap, but you have to haggle relentlessly, which I absolutely hate. It’s all extremely unhygienic, dogs, dirty children, mud and trash mingling to create a singular stench.

Thus far, I’ve had incredible Cancha karma.

First, I bought a laptop. I didn’t bring mine, but a computer was quickly becoming a necessity. Now, buying a laptop in an open air market would normally seem strange and stupid to me. But there is was, a Toshiba Satellite, sitting in between some tennis shoes and sacks of potatoes. Brand new, in the box, for a fraction of what it would retail for in the States. I tried it out in the street, the guy added some pirated software, and away I went. My apologies to whomever it was stolen from.

Then, on Tuesday, I got robbed. I was buying cherries from a little cholita and she kept stalling, arguing with about how much I wanted, counting and recounting my change. I slipped my wallet in my front pocket to arrange my purchases. As I turned around, thinking how strange it was, someone picked my pocket! I took off after him, screaming. As I ran, two guys joined in the chase. Three blocks down one of the good samaritans tackled the thief, knocking him flat on his face, in a mud puddle, in the middle of the street. Everyone stopped to stare, swearing at the guy, summoning the police, calling me a stupid gringa. I felt a little sheepish, getting pickpocketed, but all’s well that end’s well, and it felt good giving the guys the money.

Welcome to the Working Week

I’ve finally started work, settled into some semblance of a routine and have a shaky understanding of what we’re doing.

My team consists of Theo, a Dutch ex-pat and President of Acción Andina, Yeshid, director of the migration project at the Centro Vicente Cañas, Cristina, a Chicana-Filipina Berkley PHD candidate and Oscar, a University Mayor de San Simon undergraduate student.

We work for Centro Vicente Cañas, but we never actually work at Cañas. They recently fired an entire department, but they have been unable to evict them from what would be our offices. So we work at home, occasionally meeting at Theo´s office. My teammates are incredibly kind and caring, explaining everything and helping me adjust. Still, I don’t think I’ll ever entirely adapt to everything starting an hour late and people chewing coca in meetings.

We are writing a report, which will eventually become a book, on the effects of external migration on social, economic and political development in the Zona Sud of Cochabamba. We work in four barrios: Mineros San Juan, Lomas Santa Barbara, Nueva Vera Cruz and K’ara K’ara.

Founded in the last fifteen years by internal migrants, the barrios lack basic services and the people are desperately poor. None of them have running water, so they have to rely on periodic tanker trucks. Parts of the barrios have electricity, which only works when the rest of Cochabamba isn’t consuming much power. Transportation only runs when the roads are dry and even then it’s infrequent, uncomfortable and overcrowded. Only a few of the barrios have schools, and only elementary schools. The government hasn’t paid the teachers in months, so the communities have taken up collections to keep them from striking. There are no hospitals or pharmacies in the communities, so people don’t get much healthcare. In Lomas, people bought their land from shady speculators, so none of them have legal titles and they are often threatened with eviction. K’ara K’ara is located between the dump and the airport, which is almost unbearable, between the stench and the sounds of planes, which pass a few hundred feet above.

In all four of the barrios about one in five families have someone abroad. Most of the migration is to Spain and Argentina, with small Bolivian communities in Chile and the States (specifically Arlington, Virginia). It’s already clear that the migration has both positive and negative effects. Remittances send children to school, start businesses and help people survive with a little more dignity. At the same time, they strain the social fabric, as families are separated and children are left alone of with other relatives, the community is segmented and class divisions created.

Right now, we’re trying to define our informants and set up interviews. So Sunday morning, at 6am, in a rainstorm, we were out and about in Lomas, asking after the community leaders. It was pouring out, none of the roads and paths are paved and the barrio is built on steep slope, so everything was mud, and we were slipping and sliding down the hills. We were soaked to the bone and filthy, unable to find any of our informants, because there are no addresses. To make matters worse, feral dogs would periodically attack us, forcing us to retreat. As horrible as it sounds, everyone seemed to appreciate that we were there, and the team made it fun. Fieldwork is awesome.

Unfortunately, a significant part of my work is solitary and academic. I spend a lot of time in an archaic library reviewing loquacious literature, all in Spanish. I also spend tedious hours transcribing thickly accented, colloquialism-spattered, barely intelligible interviews, also in Spanish. My Spanish is completely inadequate for the work, but it’s forcing me to catch up quickly.

Here’s the home office I’ve set up. Please note my new goldfish, Sashimi and Yoshimi.

And An Entirely Other Waterwar!

Carnival is quickly approaching. Here in Cochabamba, that means only one thing: A gigantic, all-out, no-holds-barred, city-wide waterfight. It gets worse on the weekends and on especially sunny days.

It dosen’t matter where you are. Walking down the street, sitting in an open air cafe, or riding in a taxi with the window rolled down are all perils. Waterballons are lobbed out of car windows, super-soaker snipers perch on balconies, sometimes people simply dump buckets of water off of buildings. These shenanegans are not confined to children. Sometimes, a middleaged businessmen will have squirtgun up his suitsleeve or an elderly cholita will have waterballoons in the gigantic bundle she carries on her back.

Since I’m a young white woman, I might as well have a big bullseye painted on my back. It doesn’t matter if I’m dressed up or down, working on my laptop or reading a book, anytime and anywhere, I am a target. I get wet at least once, usually twice a day. I’ve been trying to develop my evil-eye, unfortunately to no avail. As such, I’m forced to arm myself before leaving the house every morning. Keys, check. Wallet, check. Cellphone, check. Squirtgun, check. Such is the difficult life of Ally abroad.

The Water War

Today, as in 2000, Cochabamba has chronic water shortages. Where I live we can go days without running water. In the outlying and rural areas people rely on periodic tanker trucks which sell water by the barrel, which is often recycled from rich peoples’ swimming pools or siphoned off of drainage ditches.

These water issues came to a head in 2000, when Cochabambinos made it clear that water is a basic human right and that they wouldn’t be bullied into the Washington Consensus by the World Bank or by multinational corporations, in what’s often referred to as the Water War.

To explain the issue, I’ll start with a little macroeconomics lesson:

Bolivia is the poorest country in South America, the result colonial pillage and centuries of political instability and strong-arming. The mineral extraction economy is boom and bust and is often subject to hyperinflation. The government is highly indebted and often unable to provide the most basic services to its people. As such, Bolivia is at the mercy of the World Bank and the International Monetary fund.

The World Bank and IMF subscribe to neo-liberalism, a school of though which sees the market as a panacea for all development issues. They tend to privileges economic development over all else. Thus, social spending should be cut so that debts can be repaid more quickly and currencies should be devalued to stabilize the economy, at society’s expense. They also assume that what benefits developed nations will automatically benefit the developing nations they invest in. Thus, trade should be liberalized and the market deregulated so that developed nations have easy access to the markets in which they have advantages without the hindrance of labor and environmental laws. Finally, they believe that anything government can do, business can do better. Thus, all public services should be privatized, even if that means not everyone will have access.

The World Bank and IMF force poor nations to implement these neo-liberal reforms. They condition loans, development dollars and debt relief on so-called Structural Adjustment Policies. The policies are a package of austerity measures, currency devaluation, trade liberalization, deregulation, a focus on direct export and resource extraction, privatization and governance policies. While these policies can be helpful, they are usually more helpful to developed nations than developing nations, and they are often hurtful.

In Bolivia the cornerstone of structural adjustment has been privatization. The hydrocarbon, telephone, airlines and railways industries were quickly bought-off, the nation’s assets sold away at bargain basement prices. Water was less lucrative. When Cochabamba’s water rights went up for auction there was only one bidder. Water privatization was a condition of a much needed $25 million World Bank loan, so Bolivia was forced to accept the offer.

The buyer was Aguas de Tunari, coalition which included US corporation Bechtel. President Hugo Banzer signed a $2.5 billion, 40-year concession with a guaranteed minimum 15% annual return on the investment. The conditions of the concession required Aguas de Tunari to pay down water authority’s debt, expand and improve the existing water system, and finance the Misicuni dam project. The Misicuni dam project was, by all accounts, impractical, uneconomic and only beneficial to Banker’s wealthy backers, including the corrupt mayor of Cochabamba, Manfred Reyes Villa.

The concession and the corresponding Law 2029 gave Aguas de Tunari a monopoly over all water and sanitation in Cochabamba, including campesinos’ irrigation systems, communally built water networks and rainwater collection schemes. Aguas de Tunari was allowed to install water meters on wells residents had dug, charging them for the meters and the water. They quickly raised rates 35%, to about $20 a month. Minimum wage here, which most Bolivians don’t make, is $70 a month, so the hike was a huge burden.

Local residents organized, led by Oscar Olivera of La Coordinadora and Omar Fernandez of FEDECOR. When the government refused to recognize them and their popular referendum against Aguas de Tunari they began protesting. Retired and laid off miners and factory workers, lustrebotes, street vendors, university students, the middle class, cholitas, campesinos, cocaleros and just about everyone else in Cochabamba was involved in a four day general strike. Other protests broke out across the nation, and at one point there were blockades in five of the nine providences and a thousand-person march to La Paz (in a nation of only eight million).

In response President Banzer declared a state of siege, the Bolivian equivalent of martial law. Meetings of more than four people were prohibited, freedom of the press severely limited, and many of the opposition leaders arrested and sent to prisons in the Amazon region. The situation escalated, protesters and police exchanged rubber bullets, tear gas and molotov cocktails, there were hundreds of injuries and five deaths. In one case, which was caught on tape, an army captain fired into an unarmed crowd of demonstrators, killing high school student Víctor Hugo Daza.

After Daza’s death, the political situation became so unstable that the Aguas de Tunari executives were forced to flee the country. Desperate to change the laws in contention and end the strikes, the government rented planes to fly a quorum of delegates back to the capital. Water rights were turned over to La Coordinadora and Olivera declared victory for the people of Cochabamba.

Arguing that they had been forced out, Aguas de Tunari eventually filed a $40 million lawsuit with the WTO claiming compensation for lost profits. In 2006, the lawsuit was dropped. Banzer and the army perpetrators have not been brought to justice for their human rights violations. The water situation here has not improved at all. It’s still expensive, dirty and chronically unavailable.

Still, the water war was an incredible success. People here are proud that they stood up to a gigantic corporation and said no to neo-liberalism. Rightfully so. Bolivia stands as an early example of the other option, the possibilities outside of the Washington consensus. Bolivia is slowly but surely paying off their enormous debt, diversifying and expanding their economy, trying to protect human rights, foster an independent identity and act sustainably at the same time. They’re not alone. Today Argentina, Chile, Brazil, Ecuador, Nicaragua, Venezuela and Cuba stand with them and against neo-liberal imperialism.

This mural says ¨Bolivia is not in play.¨ I walk by it everyday, and it always makes me proud to be here.

Cochabambina Cool

After a long and arduous journey which included a no blockade dance, bidding on sold-out bus tickets, sleeping on the stranger in the next seat and a midnight snowstorm, I've finally arrived in Cochabamba.

I am so happy to be here. While there aren't really any tourist attractions, there is warm weather and friendly faces, which is exactly what I wanted after cold, gray and conservative La Paz.

Cochabamba has a mild Mediterranean climate and a bright blue sky, only occasionally obscured by instantaneous and torrential downpours. The plazas are filled with park benches, ice cream sellers and shoeshine boys, shaded by palm trees and bordered by lovely Baroque churches. The Prado is lined with open air cafes, perfect for lingering over Cochabamba's famous cuisine and taking a parade of Caporales dancers, which are almost constant in the run-up to Carnaval.

Cochabama is Bolivia's breadbasket. When the Incas invaded from Peru, they were quick to colonize the fertile valley, so the people here are Quechua, as opposed to the Aymara of La Paz and the Altiplano. The indigenous women wear short velvet polleras, sandals, and wide-brimmed straw hats, adding to the air of eternal spring. Moreover, the Cochabambinos seem to be far more open than their highland counterparts. People are always happy to stop and chat, wanting to know who I am and why I'm here. I'm even a little relieved that the catcalls have resumed.

The openness suprises me, because there are an incredible number of gringoes here, some of them incompetent peace corps kids and others overzealous missionaries. At the same time, I must admit, there are some alright faithful folk. As it turns out, I'm living with two Maryknoll missioner boys, Jason and Steve.

We live in a barrio to the south of town, opposite the lovely Lauguna Alalay, which is Quechua for "Oh, cold!" There are stone-cobbled streets overgrown with weeds, walls covered with graffiti murals and plenty of parks for pick-up futbol matches. Evo Morales has a house a few blocks away. Our house is 'medidas aguas' which means that all the rooms open out onto the patio, forcing you to run through the rain and dodge the crazy annoying dogs to go to the bathroom or kitchen. But, between the showerhead shorting out and the pilot light of death, the kitchen and bathroom are somewhat scary. Fortunately my room is bright and airy, and I'm planning to paint it soon.

This gigantic statute, Christo de la Concordia, overlooks the city. At 33m plus it's a hair higher than the Rio de Janerio statue it's modeled after. While display of one upmanship and evangelism would normally annoy me to no end, it orients me when I get lost, so I've forgiven it.

Go to Jail, Go Directly to Jail, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200

Today, continuing my death-tourism stint, I tried to visit the infamous San Pedro prison. San Pedro used to have a brusque tourism business, but visits were called off after few too many tourists were caught buying cocaine. In order to visit, I had to have an inmate to visit and official permission.

Sebastian, a Dutch tourist awaiting trial on cocaine charges, and a friend of a friend, invited me to visit him. Unfortunately, I was unable to obtain official permission to visit him. Apparently, Sebastian was on some sort of probation, I was suspicious because I was white, and the person I needed to bribe was away on other business.

Instead, the guards let me stand at the gate and talk to Sebastian. Being a white woman and bearing a carton of cigarettes, a bag of chocolates and bars of soap, the inmates clamoured at the iron gate to talk to and touch me. The majority of the men I met were awaiting trial, almost all of them on drug charges. Some of them have been stuck in the stalled judicial system for years.

Inside the prison there are no guards, no uniforms and no real rules. The 1,500 or so prisoners must resolve disputes among themselves. They organize into unions and elect leaders. The prisoners are also quite political. Posters of Evo adorn all of the walls, and candidates campaign inside the prison. Problems that can’t be resolved peaceably are usually settled with knife fights. Prisoners accused of commiting particularly heinous crimes are often killed in vigilante violence. There are an average of four deaths, from 'accidents' and natural causes, each month.

San Pedro is divided into eight separate barrios, each centered its own patio. Some areas are better than others, and each has a hotel-style star rating. While wealthy inmates can buy or rent cells, poorer inmates sleep on crowded corridor floors. Towards the top of the prison, the cells are quite swank, complete with kitchens and bathrooms. One drug-baron, caught with $420 million worth of cocaine, had a second story built onto his cell. On the first floor, the cells are unsafe, with violence, vermin and diseases running rampant.

To supplement their meager rations, improve their cells and survive the prisoners must earn money. The prison is like a little city, with food stalls, repair shops, shoeshine boys, barbers, billiard halls and everything else you could want. However, the two biggest businesses in San Pedro are distractions from the difficult life: drink and drugs and soccer. Contraband substances seem to flow freely through the prison, the officials easily paid-off. There are cocaine laboratories in some of the cells. Apparently, it is so lucrative that many of the San Pedro guards pay for their postings. Soccer is almost equally important. Coca-cola sponsors the teams, in exchange for exclusive sales in the prison. On big games single bets can reach $1000. Sometimes, players are even scouted out by the wealthier sections.

Family members can come and go freely and some children live in the prison. There are so many of them, San Pedro has its own school. Without other relatives, the children don’t have any options. They offer suffer abuse, and are always stigmatized. However, as one father explained to me, they do their best to shield their kids from the violence and shame, and they are able to provide some stability and normality because they stay together as a family.

The San Pedro prison was an incredibly interesting and ironic place, a microcosm of Bolivian society. The majority of inmates are indigenous, there’s an astonishing divide between rich and poor, and almost everyone is there as a result the War on Drugs. Although I'm glad I visited, I don’t think I’ve ever cried so hard as I did on the cab ride home.

For more information and some excellent photos of the inside check out this BBC article and the Marching Powder website.

Bolivian Politics 101

This weekend Tracy and I were determined to get out of the city. We got up at dawn on Saturday morning and slogged up to the bus terminal, aiming for Sorata, a town a few hours north. Unfortunately, when we arrived at the bus station it was closed. There was a blockade. That's how Bolivians protest. There are so few avenues to power and little access to political infuence, people feel so disenfranchised, that they are forced to drag rocks, trees, old cars, burning tires, and so on and so forth into the streets, blocking all traffic from one part of the country to another and effectively paralyzing it.

Apparently, some Bolivian bus drivers are upset at the aptly named Seguro Obligatorio de Accidentes de Tránsito, or SOAT, an annual transit tax. Actually, all of a sudden, Bolivians seem to be upset about everything. Now that Christmas is over, the population of La Paz seems to have doubled, doubled their pace and doubled their grudges. This morning there were three dozen riot cops supervising the demolition of one of the municipal markets, a la the occupied territories. This evening there was a small protest in Plaza San Francisco. I stopped to watch and listen. A small group of indigenous people were stumping for the controversial new constitution and against the Media Luna autonomy movement.

A bit of background:

Santa Cruz and the rest of the Eastern lowlands, collectively called the Media Luna, consisting of the Beni, Pando, Tarija and Santa Cruz are culturally distinct from the rest of Bolivia. They tend to be whiter and more western than other Bolivians. Without exception, those that I've spoken to have been very kind to me, but utterly and unapologetically bigoted, refering to indigenous people as dirty Indians, swine, and a multitude of other unspeakable things. Unfortunately, these people also control much of the wealth and want to keep it to themselves. In recent years, government revenue has shifted from mineral extration, centered in the Altiplano West, to hydrocarbon extraction, agrobuisnesses and cattle ranching, centered in the Lowland East. So Santa Cruz and the Media Luna have begun rumbling about autonomy, if not outright succession.

On the other hand, Evo Morales campaigned promising a new constitution, one that would concentrate more power in the hands of the poor indigenous majority, concentrated in the Western Altiplano, instead of the whiter, wealthier minorty, concentrated in the Eastern Lowlands. After he was elected he conviened a constituent assembly to draft a new constitution. Unfortunately the opposition, unhappy with the proportional representation system, boycotted the assembly until the last minute. As a result, the legitamacy of the new constitution is in limbo. This is unfortunate, because it's incredbily progressive, focusing on health and education, increasing indigenous participation in government, redistributing hydrocarbon revenues and idle land, reducing the influence of the church and allowing gay marriage, while concentrating a little more power in the hands of the central government.

The political tension over natural resource revenues is mixing with racial tension and Evo Morales' election and constituent assembly is accentuating it, creating an incredibly explosive situation. The opposition has also begun attacking MASista representatives, preventing them from attending the constituent assembly.Youth gangs, called the Juventud Cruceñista, roam the streets of Santa Cruz beating up Cholitas. A few weeks before I arrived a sometimes revolutionary highland group called Los Ponchos Rojos killed and mutilated a pair of dogs on national TV, as a warning to the Media Luna. People are angry and afraid, and there have been a lot of attacks on individuals.

The speaker was standing under a Whipala, an indigenous flag. I thought it was interesting, and I snapped this photo. Oh, what an error. Immediately, I was surrounded by a gaggle of angry indigenous people, yelling in an unintelligible mix of Aymara and Spanish. "Where are you from?" one of them demanded. "Are you a journalist?" another asked. I explained myself, showing them my passport and pictures, taking care to emphasize my differences with our president and my support for theirs. Once they were sure I was an ally, they were actually quite kind, explaining their positions and posing for pictures. (Apologies for the pun). Apparently, because I was white, they originally thought that I was from Santa Cruz. Had I been, I have no doubt that they would have beaten me senseless and bloody.

All’s well that end’s well and I have learned an important lesson about the liabilities of white skin. Plus, if I’m going to get lynched for a photo, it should be a better one than this.

Textiles and Cholitas

Many indigenous women in La Paz, called cholas and cholitas, have adopted a particularly unique and now ubiquitous costume. It was originally imposed by seventeenth-century Spanish governors, but today it's a fashion, an identity and an outward display of wealth.

The women wear polleras, or gigantic petticoat skirts which emphasize the width of their hips. Over the pollera they wear lacy blouses and colorful shawls, often accented with sequins and fringe. Under the pollera they wear knee-high lace-up boots, or flat slippers. My favorite part are bowler hats, pinned at a jaunty angle over a pair of braids. It's unclear how they came into vouge. Some people say that a businessman imported too many and convinced the Cholitas that is was the latest Spanish fashion.

In general, traditional fabrics have been eschewed by indigenous women in the city as the mark of campesinas and tourist tat. However, I did meet this Cholita spinning in the street, and she told me a little bit about her trade and let me take her picture, which was a rare treat.

She was working with alpaca wool, which is prized over that sheep and llama, but below vicuña wool. She was pulling out clumps of wool, rolling them between the fingers of their right hand and on to a spindle that they keep moving with their left hand in one seamless motion. For everyday threads the spindle is spun counterclockwise. For ceremonial and special threads the spindle is spun clockwise. Eventually, she'll dye the wool with plants and minerals and weave it on a backstrap loom, as she has since she was a teenager and as her grandmothers for generations before her did.

Then she'll sell it for a fraction of what it's worth to tourists who have no idea the back-breaking, blinding work and hundreds of hours that go into their souvenirs.

Bolivia Has the EMP Beat

Today I paid a visit to the Museo de Instrumentos Musicales. While there is plenty of Bolivian guacarock, reggeton, ranchera, cumbia, nueva canción and etc., Bolivia has retained an incredibly rich folk music tradition with all sorts of instruments of their own invention.

We saw lots of charangoes, tiny guitars adapted from Spanish lutes and mandolins. However, charangoes are traditionally constructed out of armadillo shells. There are a few explanations for the unconventional soundbox selection. Some people say that Andean musicians liked the sounds of the Spanish instruments, but could not bend wood into the appropriate shapes and had to use armadillo shells. Others say that the Spanish prohibited Andean music, and that the charango was created because it was easily hidden. We also saw tortoise shell and more conventional carved wood charangoes. Charangoes usually have ten strings, requiring incredibly nimble and slender fingers. They appear and are tuned a little like an ukulele, but is played more like a banjo, and sounds completely different than either. All the strings are tuned inside a single octave, so it creates very full and sustained sound.

We also saw zampoñas, the panpipes so often associated with Andean music. They’re usually made from bamboo tubes of varying lengths. Some zampoñas are taller than the tiny musicians who play them! Pieces of dried corn, or pebbles, are placed in the bottom of the pipes to precision tune them. The pipes are split into two rows, called the ira and the arka, which symbolize the male and female, and together form a full scale. Traditionally, two people play the zampoñas together, but today one musician is more common.

Finally, there were plenty of quenas. Quenas are bamboo flutes played by pinching the top of the tube with your lower lip, and blowing downwards, as I imagine a beaver would. Pinquillo, tarkas, and moseños are similar variants. Other distinctively Andean instruments include the pututu, a ram’s horn, chajchas, a shaker made of goat, llama or sheep toes, and every imaginable size and shape of drum and rattle.

The museum also had a huge collection of non-Bolivian instruments. My favorite was this Peruvian ocarina. Then there were also homemade instruments, including a guitar made out of a spam can, and an exhibit explaining the tin can telephone. Finally, there were some instruments that I can only imagine came from a Dr. Seuss book.

The EMP has absolutely nothing on this museum. They had way more instruments, cooler instruments, tons of stuff to touch and play with. The EMP's only advantage is its amazingly ugly building. Not to be outdone, the Museo had blueprints of charago shaped edifice on display. If only Paul Allen had an interest in armadillo guitar shaped buildings.

Happy New Year!

Unlike Christmas, New Year's Eve celebrations appear to be exactly the same in all parts. Stay up late, get silly drunk. Bolivians generally begin the festivities at midnight, and continue with the drinking and dancing until 6am or so. Paul, Tracy and I weren’t up that much celebrating, so we started a little earlier and went for a more conventional pub crawl.

However, the pub crawl quickly turned into a drunk-girls-in-high-heels-on-cobblestones-can't-find-a-cab-stumble across the city. After a few close calls with me looking up at the lovely holiday lights instead of what was in front of me, oncoming traffic and children with homemade fireworks, we decided to settle on a single club.

At midnight we ended up at Ram Jam, which was apparently the hot place to be, both literally and figuratively. As someone said, if Bolivia had a Paris Hilton, she would have been there. The place was packed with a mix young of foreigners and paceños, in all sorts of bizarre fashions, shaking it to 70s and 80s pop hits. The Bolivians were almost astoundingly drunk, and yet still standing, singing and dancing through the entire evening. There were party hats, noise makers, and streamers that we accidentally caught on fire with a candle. Plus, in a truly ridiculous turn of events we ended up dancing on a raised stage for the local television news.

And despite the incredible, high-altitude hangover that ensued, this New Years, I resolve to take myself and everything a little less seriously, and to let my adventure unfold one day at a time.

And Relaxing at the End of the Road

The town at the end of the World’s Most Dangerous Road came highly recommended, both at home and in Bolivia. Called Coroico, it is as close as Bolivia has to a resort town.

It’s set on a hillside above a beautiful lush Yungas valley. Below you can see a river, lined with coffee, banana, citrus and coca plantations. Compared to the cold of La Paz, it’s the perfect temperature, always around eighty degrees. The square is filled with palm trees, park benches and people selling snacks, making it the perfect place to relax. A short walk along the cobbled streets takes you outside of town and to all sorts of little establishments where you can dine al fresco, overlooking the valley, on all sorts of amazing local and organic food (my favorite being the homemade coffee ice cream).

Coroico was full of Bolivian families on holiday, swimming, playing soccer, chatting and hanging out. There weren’t many other tourists about, so I was left to my own devices. The town boasts hiking, rafting and horseback riding, but I was feeling super lazy, so I spent most of my time relaxing by the pool, reading the last Harry Potter. (Although, to my credit, it is in Spanish). I also got a wicked sunburn and all sorts of itchy insect bites, but such is life.

Coroico was also interesting because it had black people. In this culture, black people are uncommon and a sign of good luck. Apparently, the Afro-Bolivianos are the ancestors of slaves brought over to work the mines. When mining production dropped the slaves were sent to the Yungas to grow coca, where their natural resistance to malaria gave them an advantage. They stayed after slavery was abolished in the 1850s, continuing their farming lifestyle. There are some 35,000 of them in Bolivia, most all of them in the Yungas. While they’ve adopted the Aymara customs and language, they have generally avoided intermarriage with the larger Aymara population. Their subculture also retains distinctly African elements, like plenty of attitude and openness (this family even invited me to take their picture), plus very soulful, rhythmic song and dance. However, not all of the Afro-Bolivianos know of their origins, let alone the existence of the African continent. When I asked one woman if she wanted to visit Africa she asked me where it was!

The World´s Most Dangerous Road

Attention Familiars: This may upset some of you. My apologies. You know me. Anything named the World’s Most Dangerous Something has an unshakeable appeal. Plus, in addition to being the World’s Most Dangerous Road, it’s probably the world’s most beautiful. I couldn’t help myself.

This weekend I went to Coroico, via what has been termed the World’s Most Dangerous Road. The Inter-American Development Bank bestowed the unfortunate name on the road a few years back, when hundreds of people would die enroute each year. In reality, the road is not so dangerous these days. As a result of the title a new $120 million bypass has been built and most of the traffic diverted. Also as a result of the title, there a tourism industry around the road, and most all of the remaining traffic is mountain bikers. All of the towns along the road have been abandoned and there are only a few houses.

I was a little too timid ride a bike down the road, so I talked a taxi driver who lives outside of Coroico into taking me there and back for a small fee. At the start of the road there is a gigantic statue of Jesus, as well as an indigenous rock altar called an Apacheta. Travellers pray for protection before they set off. Some people bless their vehicles with alcohol and feed the dogs that stand like sentinels along the road, in hopes of bringing additional luck. There’s also a sign which directs drivers to honk their horns liberally, which made me laugh.

The road itself is no laughing matter. It’s just a dirt and gravel track. Sheer walls rise above the road and drop-offs fall thousands of feet below. The road twists and turns like a corkscrew, into river valleys and out onto ridges. At points, waterfalls flow over and erode the road. Occasionally, they were so strong it was like being in a car wash. Towards the top of the road the clouds close in, and it’s hard to see the edge and the abyss below. The route is so dangerous that normal road rules don't apply. The downhill traffic always travels on the outside, so that the driver with the best view of their wheels takes the greater risk. The road is so narrow, that when you have to pass, the vehicles lean out precipitously over the edge, leaving you wondering if you’re in a car or an airplane. I felt thankful that I was in a tiny taxi, and not a big tour bus. Even so, on particularly tight turns I would involuntarily scoot towards the inside and my driver would ask me if I was alright.

The road is not so dangerous for its quality, which can be safely navigated by a sensible driver, but for the quantity of traffic it received. It used to be the main link between the Northern Yungas and La Paz, and the Brazilian Amazon and the Pacific Ocean. Each year dozens of downhill passing vehicles would fall off the edge and into the abyss, taking their passengers to their deaths. In 1983 more than a hundred passengers in a single camion plunged over the precipice and met their ends.

The road was dotted with constant reminders of the deaths. Crosses, big and small, singular and in clusters of ten to twenty lined the road. There were even a few memorials in other languages. Most poignant was a man with a little red flag, who would stand at a particularly dangerous corner signalling traffic when it was safe. His entire family, wife, children, parents and in-laws, died there in an accident over ten years ago. He lived where they died, surviving on food donations from passing travellers. The Bolivian government, for their part, took far more extreme safety measures, putting yellow caution tape along precarious stretches.

I am often cavalier, and have spoken fondly, of the Latin American safety ethic. Driving the World’s Most Dangerous Road was a reminder of how unacceptable it actually is. In the late nineties they made the road one-way on alternating days, which saved hundreds of lives, but generated so much opposition that it was scrapped. A bit before I left, the Bolivian BBC correspondent was killed in a car crash in La Paz. It’s insane that people drive drunk, without seatbelts, at night, in overcrowded camions over these sorts of roads. I was glad for my driver, who actually snapped at me for sitting with my feet out the passenger-side window, in classic Ally style.

Santa, All I Want for Christmas is Better Spanish

Unlike many Latin American nations, Bolivia celebrates Christmas in a big way. The malls are full of wealthy people, while the plazas are filled with makeshift market stalls selling every imaginable bit of Christmas kitsch. Tinny music, tons of blinking lights, tiny nativities, and Western-style Christmas trees are everywhere. Christmas centers on the Nochebuena, or Christmas Eve. Families stay up until midnight to attend mass, toast the birth of Christ, eat dinner and exchange gifts.

My family didn’t attend mass, but there is the Misa del Gallo, so-named because a rooster was supposedly one of the first creatures to witness baby Jesus' birth. In some towns, especially Sucre, baby Jesus is carried around town, with everyone dancing, carolling and generally adoring him.

For dinner Bolivians have picana, a special holiday soup with a spicy white wine broth and hunks of corn on the cob, whole potatoes, and chunks of lamb, chicken and beef. We also had encholata, a stomach churning solution of beer and coca cola. With the food, the alcohol and the hour I ended up falling asleep before either of the kids.

Gift giving here is straightforward. Adults give children gifts, but don’t really exchange among themselves. While they’re opened at midnight and all the squealing is in Spanish, the flurry of excitement and flying paper is exactly the same as at home. I made my family a basket of wine, chocolate, nuts and cheese, including some swiss cheese, which confused my abuelita to no end.

Christmas day is a more subdued affair. Some families attend mass a second time, but we were having none of that. Instead, we slept late, ate leftover picana for lunch, and then relaxed around the house. Because we live in Zona Sur we’re at a significantly lower altitude than La Paz proper and we had wonderful weather today. It was about eighty degrees outside, and we sat in the garden and talked politics and economics while the kids rode their new bikes around us.

Festivities continue through New Years and until the 8th, El Dia de los Tres Reyes Magos, when the wise men come and it’s time to put away the tree and nativity and start making good on those resolutions.

Feliz navidad, próspero año y felicidad a todos. I miss and love you all and I hope you’re having a merry Christmas. Know that I’m happy and healthy and all the rest.

Into the Yungas and Onto the Aqueduct

We woke early on the second day of the trek, anxious for and early start, food and clean water. We had reached the edge of the yungas the night before, but today the trail plunged downwards and into the steamy swale below.

As we descended it got warmer and more humid by the minute. The vegetation grew taller and more verdant and the wildlife more abundant. The air had a sweet floral scent, with eucalyptus trees abounding. Bird and cicada sounds competed with the roaring river below us. The Precolombian paving disappeared, overgrown by the flourishing foliage.

We wound up and down the mountain sides, in and out of the river valleys. When we crossed the Rio Takesi for the last time, over a dam, we began hiking along this aqueduct. We had beautiful vistas out over the lush subtropical landscape, down the river and into town.

We hiked though a gold mining camp called Chojilla. It was astounding to see the rape of the landscape; the bright green turned a dingy brown, a sulphur smell permeating everything and dirty water draining into the river. Look for another entry on the effects of mining sometime soon.

After Mina Chojilla we continued on to the tranquil little town of Yanacachi. In Yanacachi, everyone was out and about in their Sunday best. There weren't any busses running from Yanacachi but some of the local kids offered to show us a shortcut the highway. They lead us down a footpath out of town, through their families’ banana, coffee and coca fields, peppering me with questions about the States, Santa Claus, and my sunburn, which made me look somewhat like Rudolph myself.

When we reached the highway, we flagged down a bus headed for La Paz. The drive back felt like an extension of the hike, an exposed dirt track, winding around the mountains, with cliffs and gorges extending thousands of feet above and below us. An extension of the hike, except that we were speeding down the hill at 100kph, able to smell the brakes. Imagine my surprise when I learned that we weren’t on the world’s most dangerous road. That’s next weekend’s adventure.

Trekking Takesi

This weekend I was determined to get out and explore Bolivia. As it is Christmastime there aren’t a lot of other tourists around. It’s a blessing, since you get the sights to yourself, but it’s also a curse, since there aren’t any organized tours. I ended up hiring a private guide to take on the Takesi trek. The two-day trek links the highland altiplano with the lowland yungas through a low pass in the majestic Cordillera Real mountain range.

The owner of the trekking company drove us up to the trailhead on Saturday morning. We got stopped on the way there, outside of the town of Ventilla. I know this sounds silly, but I was really excited to see my first Bolivian roadblock. However, in reality, it was road construction. There was one fellow standing in a ditch, chucking stones into a wheelbarrow, while another one laid them up on the road, using the same strategy the Inca had hundreds of years before.

We began trekking off of an access road for Mina San Francisco, where wolfram and tin are extracted. The rocky trail climbed steeply, and at altitude, I was quickly exhausted. The only respite was the short distance to the summit. As we rounded the last switchback to the 4600m Apachetas Pass a gigantic ornate iron cross came into view. It was so ironic, because all I felt like doing was falling to my knees and begging for more oxygen. We stopped so I could leave a stone I carried all the way from Seattle. In the Aymara tradition it's good luck to bring stones from lower elevations and leave them at higher elevations, in piles called Apachetas.

Unfortunately, there was no reprieve after the pass. Instead, there was an absolute whiteout on the other side. So instead of resting, we began running. Eventually the snow turned to rain, and then to sunny skies, and we slowed down. I found myself in some of the most breathtaking countryside I have ever seen. We were in a valley with steep, smooth, stone walls on either side. Waterfalls ran down the rock faces and into a little river that wound down the basin the basin. Everything was a bright emerald green, accented with splashes of gold groundcover, and it was amazingly lush for the altitude.

Equally as amazing as the surrounds was the road. We were walking along a Precolombian paving, constructed by the Incas. The trail was a vital economic and political link between the altiplano and Yungas. It’s one of a number of such trails, which archaeologists believe may have been linked La Paz and the Beni at one time. Indigenous highlanders still use the trail for everyday transport, and we passed a number of them on their way to La Paz for the holiday. The road was perfectly paved, often accompanied by culverts and low stone walls. It was awe inspiring to see such engineering and effort, and the way it has lasted. However, the Inca were not so concerned with ADA accessibility. The cobbles were super slippery and I did a lot of falling down.

We walked through huge herds of llama and sheep. I was extremely excited for the animals, and insisted on stopping to take pictures of every last baby llama. This irked my guide to no end. The livestock belonged to the residents of Estancia Takesi. The town consisted of a dozen or so small stone huts with thatched roofs and stone enclosures for the llamas and sheep. Most of the buildings had been co-opted from the original construction, by the Incas, if not earlier. It certainly created a sense of history to see structures inhabited continuously for the last half-century.

We hiked out of the highlands, and down into the yungas. (More on that in the next entry.) The trail traversed around the Loma Pali Pali, high above a river gorge. We stopped to camp in Estancia Kakapi. Normally, there are a number of basic alojomientos in the village, but it being Christmastime, the town was closed. Everyone had gone to La Paz for the holiday and there was not a soul in sight. Just vicious dogs that we fended off with sticks and a sad little donkey. We found a level spot, set up our tents and got out the stove to make supper.

It was at this point that my guide realized that he had forgotten matches. We had no way to light the stoves, cook dinner, or breakfast, or, most importantly, purify water. Instead, we had the crusty bread that I had been carrying, and water from the Rio Takesi below. And while drinking out of the river was beautiful and picturesque, I’m not as excited for the giardia that I probably got. Check back soon for an update on the state of my stomach!

Mercado de Misterio

For this afternoon's adventure, I went to the Mercado de Hechiceria, or Witches’ Market. Innocuously tucked into a couple of back calles, you would never guess the mysteries that abound. It’s an absolute cornocopia of magical items. Tiny stalls and shops overflow with herbs, sweets, incense, candles, liquor, talismans, tiny colourful trinkets and all manner of animal products and parts.

Traditional healers called Yatiris put assorted items and animal parts appropriate for each situation into packages called pagos. They bless the package and then burn or bury it as offering to one of the many spirits and ancestors in the Aymara cosmology. Pachamama, the earth mother, and Ekeko, the household god of abundance, are particularly popular patrons. You can ask for luck, protection or a cure for any sort of ailment, physical or spiritual. The lama fetuses pictured here are usually buried under new construction to bless the house.

The Yatiris also tell fortunes by through coca leaves. While the fellow I met would not tell my fortune, he explained a little bit about what he was doing for a few Bolivianos. The Yatiri spreads a handful of leaves out on a sheet, and divides them into four quadrants. They represent the past, the future, the world above and the world below. Based on their position and distribution, the Yatiri divines your fate in all sorts of aspects of your life.

There is plenty of real medicine mixed in with the magic, and the line between the two blurs. The stall keeper I was chatting with offered all sorts of herbal remedies for everything from headaches to getting pregnant. I eventually settled for a tiny bottle of charms, which are supposed to keep me safe from automobile accidents.

Coca, the Bolivian Cure-All

This afternoon, I ventured over to the Museo de Coca, a hole-in-the-wall exhibit expounding the wonders of the leaf, to learn a little bit more about all the mate de coca I've been drinking. Mate de coca is a tea, drunk by all ilk of Bolivians, which does wonders for altitude sickness. According to the museum coca also increases tolerance for exertion, dilating bronchial passages, acting as an anti-coagulant, regulating insulin levels in the body and providing more nutrition than most cereals. It's a little acidic and bitter, but it creates a warm, tingly feeling in my tummy.

Mate de coca is a less intense alternative than chewing coca leaves. When you chew the leaves you place a wad of destemed leaves in your cheek and allow them to soften up. After ten to fifteen minutes, you add a catalyst like lime (the mineral), and sometimes some banana peel. Then you masticate the whole mess to a pulp. The juices anesthetize your mouth, and give you a mildly euphoric feeling.

Chewing coca has been a part of indigenous Andean culture for centuries, at least since 2500BCE. Coca was the first domesticated plant in the area. As such, chewing coca is an essential part of the indigenous identity. According to the museum approximately 90% of rural and indigenous Guatemalans chew coca. Coca is a medium to see sacred and the deceased. It's used as an offering to Pachmama, to insure fertility and ward off curses. When farming families start their homes, coca is often the first thing they plant. It's also a social lubricant, chewed after meals and at special events, much like alcohol in the states.

When the Spaniards came, they decried coca as an instrument of the devil. That was, until they realized saw how in increased hacienda and mining production. Then they encouraged and required its production, bringing large areas under cultivation and taxation. They commodified coca, to the point that it was and sometimes still is used as currency.

Coca continues to be demonized today. When chewed coca is a mild stimulant, more akin to a cup of coffee of a cigarette than cocaine. Coca is still an ingredient in Coca Cola. It's also been used successfully as an anesthetic and as a substitute for methadone. Still, coca is first ingredient in cocaine. As such, its eradication has been a central strategy in the US's War on Drugs.

I'll leave that discussion, of the economic and political effects of coca production and the War on Drugs, for another day, when I’ve visted more of the coca growing reigons. I snapped this photo of a butterfly sunning itself among drying coca leaves this weekend outside of the town of Yanacachi.

La Ciudad de Nuestra Senora de La Paz

La Paz is a breathtaking city, both figuratively and literally. The drive into town from the airport is amazing. The autopista winds down the hillside from El Alto to La Paz. There are houses built into hillsides so steep that you wouldn’t even think weeds could grow there. But slums do. Sprawling slums of tiny red roofed houses stuffed to the ceilings with big Bolivian families.

The autopisa quickly ends at the edge of the city, and traffic slows to a creep along narrow, one-way cobblestone streets, honking all the way. The city has such a quirky beauty. The steps of beautiful colonial churches and regal plazas and parks overflow with markets and street stalls, children selling chicle and shoeshine boys jostling with well-heeled business people. It is an absolute sensory assault of sights, smells and sounds.

The city is nestled in a valley which centers on the Rio Choqueyapu. More aptly called the Rio Choke, it apparently receives 132,000 gallons of urine, 200,000 tons of excretement and millions of tons of garbage each year. Fortunately, the river runs underground for most of the length of the city. Above the river is an avenue called the Prado. The Prado divides the city into two. To the north is the traditional Aymara area, which centers on the Plaza and Cathedral San Francisco. To the south is the colonial and criollo city. The Prado also connects the autopista to El Alto, the central city, and the wealthier Sopocachi and Zona Sur neighborhoods. El Alto and Zona Sur also represent extreme opposites. El Alto is a sprawling Aymara slum, situated over 1000m over Zona Sur, a well manicured suburb. The only link between the two is that every day thousands of domestic workers descend from El Alto to work in Zona Sur.

The weather is also quirky. During the day it either drizzles or it's blindingly sunny. I swear that since we're closer to the sky, it's a brighter blue. Still, it's smoggy all of the time, indoors and out, with tons of diesel exhaust trapped in the valley and cigarette smoke trapped in the cafes. At night it's always freezing cold.

At 3660m La Paz is also really intense oxygen wise. I've actually been in bed the last two days with soroche, or altitude sickness. Its only today that I’ve been up and exploring the city. I'm finally starting to acclimate, with the help of some mate de coca. I found a Spanish school, El Instituto Exclusivo. I also bought a Bolivian cellphone. My number is 591-7-658-1636. (I think. If not, say hi to some random Bolivian for me.) Plus, I climbed up to the roof of the cathedral.

American Airlines, How I Hate You

After more than forty eight hours of traveling, I've finally arrived, safe and sound.

It was a stressful leaving the States, with a misplaced passport and visa, a flight out of Chicago delayed for lack of flight attendents, a flight out of Miami missed by all of five minutes, luggage checked through without me and spending the night in a smoky, suburban casino.

Then it was downright scary entering Bolivia. The plane actually had to climb before the knuckle-whitening descent into El Alto. Apparently, planes have to be going twice as fast as at sea level to take off and land, so they are equipped with special tires and brakes and the runways are twice as long. As we landed, most all of the Bolivians were crossing themselves, the women next to me crossed me too!

Goodbye Guatemala

It's our last day in Guatemala, and I am so sad to go. I think I'm going to miss the Guatemalan people most. I'm going to miss all of those conversations on camionetas, in parks, in the market, even in bars. At the same time, I'm really ready to be home. I've got school, family and friends, and potable water to look forward to.

As we went for the plane, we could see people streaming out of schools, churches and municipal buildings after voting. They held up their blackened thumbs, proof that they had voted. The scene was so triumphant. It was an amazing image to end the trip.

So that's all for Allyabroad the Guatemala edition. Stay tuned for Allyabroad in Bolivia, coming winter 2008.

Volcan Pacaya, the Gigantic, Hot Geological Pastry

We started today with a little hang over, our first good cups of Guatemalan coffee and a stroll around Antigua. It's is such a pretty city! It's too bad about all of the tourists.

In the afternoon, we went to climb the Volcan Pacaya. The Volcan is only about an hour outside of Antigua and lots of tour operators do very inexpensive trips, so it was teeming with tourists. When we got to the ranger station, we were greeted by a gaggle of boys selling hiking sticks for a few cents. I felt a little bad that I already had ridiculously over-engineered and expensive hiking sticks, and no reason to buy theirs.

We started up the volcano at a brisk pace. On the way up, we passed a tourist who must have weighed three hundred pounds on a tiny pony. How I felt for that poor pony! It’s a steep hike, but very short. Most trips don’t take you all the way to the crater, because it’s become quite difficult and dangerous.

After a short approach, we reached a rim, where we could see the cone of the volcano and a ribbon of lava running down the side. In the distance we could see all of the volcanoes that rim Lago de Atitlan. We descended down onto the hardened lava flows. The rock looked like frosting, gently undulating into the distance. Some of the rock was super shiny, reflecting rainbow colors. However, it was also amazingly sharp, forming all sorts of little crystalline structures. They would break off, creating tiny, super sharp rock splinters for my fingers.

As we started up the slope, we quickly realized rock was not solid. The current lava crust was four years old. Under it was a layer of lava eight years old. In between the two were tubes, some of which contained molten lava. We were careful to test step before we put our weight on anything. We were also careful hike far ahead of the heavy fellow, who having left his pony, was huffing and puffing up behind us.

As we hiked higher and higher, over lava flows, the ground got warmer and warmer. I was wearing my Chacos, the only hiking shoes I had brought. Eventually, I had to start hopping from foot to food to stand the heat. While my Chacos withstood the heat, the basket of my hiking stick melted and warped. I wished I had bought a fifty cent stick.

We hiked up to this, one of a number of terranean lava flows. The lava would slowly bubble and ooze its way out of the ground, as if the earth were a giant geological pastry bag. We hung out for a while, poking the lava with a stick and playing volcano chicken. We began to descend as dusk fell, and when we reached the ranger station it was pitch dark. We looked back up the mountain and the lava flow had expaned to four or five times its original size.

I can't believe my first experience with an active volcano was so up closed and perilous. One again, it gave me a great appreciation for the Guatemalan safety ethic.

Happy Birthday Baby!

I'm twenty-one! (And in a country where I haven't been carded once.) I woke up this morning to a giant pile of cards. Some of them were singing and some had silly baby pictures, but they were all great. Thank you so much everyone!

We decided to move along to Antigua for the fantastic Allyfiesta. Since it’s a long haul, we took the first class bus. I assumed that they boys remembered it was a long trip, and that they knew the first rule of Guatemalan bus travel: limited fluid intake.

As with all Guatemalan highway travel, there was construction. Lots of seemingly senseless and endless construction, courtesy of the Korean government. The four hour trip grew into five hours, but our bladders seemed to be shrinking. By the time we reached Sacatepequez, where we were to change busses, one of us had peed in a bottle, and the other two were about to explode. Desperate, we settled for the first establishment in sight, a strip club.

The proprietress was wearing six inch platform shoes, a dress that wouldn't have been out of place at a prom attened by Molly Ringwald, a wig, and more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker. Plus, I swear she was pregnant. In the back, girls were gyrating around to 80s pop hits. We kept our heads down and paid our 1Q to use the bathroom. It was everything you would expect of a sleezy strip club sandwitched between an auto parts store and a recycling center and open at noon; there was no seat, an inch of standing water on the floor, and paper napkins for toilet tissue. But it was all worth it to see the look on Scott's face after seeing that stripper.

After the great bathroom fiaso, we continued on to Antigua. Antigua is an incredibly pretty city. It was the second colonial capital, before a spate of earthquakes in 1773 forced a move to the current capital. But the runis only add to the city's charm. In addition to the ruins, there are all sorts of amazing restored cathedrals, convents and monestaries.

For my birthday, we had dinner at an amazing restaurant. It was so strange to eat in a fancy resturant with cloth napkins, candels, an expensive winelist, overbearing waiters and all the rest, but it was wonderful! We went out for drinks and dancing at a funky overlooking a ruined convent. But, being the party animals we are, we went back to the hotel and fell asleep after one drink!

Civic Participation at its Best

Today we decided to visit Fuentes Georginas. However, we were in for quite a surprise. Driving through the town of Almonga, we were stopped by preperations for a big election rally. It appeared that every truck in town was out for the event.

Eventually, our bus driver gave up, and demanded that everyone get out, so he could return to Xela. We continued on foot, walking downhill to the next town. We hired a pickup to the hotsprings, which were everything they were the time before.

On the return trip we caught a bus to Almonga, but by that time the parade was in full force and we were again impeded. Almonga is especially civic minded. That is, if political participation could be measured by confetti and abuelitas in attendance. As we walked through town, a fellow told us that he knew a back way through town, and that he would take us all the way to Xela for 60Q. We took him up on his offer, and away we went. But we didn’t get very far. As it turned out, his alternate route ran right back into the parade route.

Unable to beat it, we ended up joining the parade. We weren’t all that out of place, since all of the floats were old disel trucks, decorated top to bottom, stuffed full of entire families and blaring their horns. Flags, banners, giant stereotypical sombreros, horns, and sheets of newspaper were all popular acutremonts. Scott took this photo of the truck behind us. We wondered how they could see out of the windshield, but since we were only moving two or three miles an hour it wasn’t much of an issue.

As an added bonus, there was an old Charlie’s produce truck parked along the parade route. This is especially ironic because Almonga is the vegetable capital of Central America. On the other hand, many Guatemalans attribute Almonga’s soil fertility to their Evangelical Christanity, which might not jive as well with Charlie’s.

San Pedro and Yet Another Long Winded Travel Story in Which Ally Ends Up Naked

San Pedro is yet another town on Lago de Atitlan. It’s a pretty place. As soon as you get of the dock, the cobbled streets run straight uphill and the town towers over the water. San Pedro caters to a funny crowd, mixing old school hippies with new school frat boys. But it has all sorts of nice amenities, and its own organic chocolate company, which sits well with me.

This morning we woke up super early to climb Volcan San Pedro. Armed with pan tostado, nutella, lots of agua and a guide from Bigfoot Tours, we set off. The hike began in town, quickly climbing up through the outskirts and along the highway. Once we left the paved streets behind, we hiked up through coffee and cornfields, then temperate forest, and then an almost alpine summit. The trail got steeper and steeper, sometimes turning to stairs. The boys put me to shame, almost running up the track while I huffed and puffed behind. The boys also put me to shame on the way back down, where Scott did some mud skiing, using his trekking poles for traction and steering. But I had a great time. We had paid a little bit extra for a private guide, he brought his son with him, so I was easily amused talking to them about life in San Pedro, school, and soccer.

Unfortunately, it was cloudy, so there was no view to show for all of our effort. This photo was taken yesterday. But it has a volcano in it and it’s Shawn and Scott, so it’s relevant.

Just as exciting was our trip back to Xela. After we got cleaned up and had a hot lunch we inquired around about the bus terminal. Unfortunately, the last bus to Xela had left at two, and it was two-thirty. Everyone in town had a different idea about how we should get to Xela. Our tuk-tuk driver offered to take us to the next town, where we could catch a combi to Xela. But by that point, it had begun to rain, and two hours in the back of a pickup with all of our luggage seemed less than appealing.

Instead, we decided to take a boat back to Panajactel, and catch a bus from there, So we waited, and waited, and waited for a boat. First we got in one boat. Then we switched to another. And after argument about the fare with the captain, we finally get situated and set off. Unfortunately, the tarp that the ayudante had tacked over us was poor protection from the storm that was brewing. Between the rain and the spray we were quickly soaked. We were wet and miserable, when the boat stalled. Or was propbound. Or swamped. Or all of the above. Or whatever it was that the boat was doing to keep us from progressing. Instead, we were adrift, beam to and beginning to get a little bit seasick. I wondered if we would be having Gilligan’s Island Guatemala style, and if I would be more Ginger or Mary Ann. But the captain eventually got the boat moving and we docked in Pana as dark was falling.

In Pana, we caught a tuk-tuk, and then a bus to Solola, and then a bus to Los Encuentros. Los Encuentros is one of the major road junctions in the Guatemalan highlands, where you often have to change busses. Usually, it’s incredibly busy, but it was about eight when we arrived, so all the little roadside stands were shut up and there weren’t a lot of people around or busses passing. It was dark, and after three or four hours of travelling, we were hungry, exhausted, wet and cold. After fifteen minutes of shivering, I decided that I couldn’t stand my wet skirt any more. Hiding behind the boys, I tried to change clothes. The very second I took off my skirt, the bus pulled up! I was half-naked in front of one of the most crowded camionetas I’d seen in all of Guatemala, with an impatient ayudante and way too much luggage. A good laugh was had all around.

When we finally got to Xela, we ended up at Casa Argentina, which was nice, because it feels as much like home as anywhere in Guatemala to me. Mama Argie took one look at me and laughed and laughed that I was back. I think Shawn was also a little relieved, as he got to offload the twenty pounds of industrial grade zipper that he had brought down for Quetzaltrekkers. Talk about being generous!

Ponies, Paintings and Prayers to San Simon

The town of Santiago Atitlan was a little short on suitable accommodations because it's usually just a stopover on boat tours from Pana, but I was glad we stayed the night. The town is the center of the indigenous Tz'utuhil population. It was also particularly hard hit by the civil war. In 1981 a priest and US citizen was murdered there. In 1990 one of the last major massacres of the conflict occurred outside of town.

Plus, we finally got to go horseback riding. It was Shawn and Scott's first time. We had to ask around a lot, but eventually we found a tuk-tuk driver to take us out to a private estate owned by a couple of expats, where we rented horses and hired a guide. Both the guide and some of our horses were a little green, and we found ourselves in some funny situations trying to keep the horses out of people's fields and from eating their crops while passing on the narrow dirt tracks.

It was an amazing ride, up through corn and coffee fields and into the foothills of Volcan Santiago Atitlan. From there, we could look back on the lake and the entire valley. Unfortunately, we were running low on time, so we had to turn back before the summit. On the way back we rode past a bizarre, burnt-out and abandoned country club that was built in the 1980s, but lost much of it's appeal with the conflict. It was hilarious to see cows grazing on overgrown tennis courts and chickens pecking the bottom of an empty pool. Our hosts, Jim and Nancy Matison, bought their estate at a bargain basement price under similar circumstances, and have developed it into a tourism destination.

After our ride, we went back into town to shop for paintings. Santiago Atitlan is known for its oil painting. There are a number of unique styles, from massive portraits of inigenous people to the unavoidable Diego Rivera rip-offs. (Although I'm not afraid to admit that I bought one.) My favorite style was create by fellow from the area who was enlisted as a helicopter pilot during the conflict. When the war ended he began painting the scenes he saw from the air. His paintings depict fields of flowers, produce or coffee, with the faces of the campesinos peeking out, baskets in hands, babies on backs in amazing explosions of color and texture.

After we had made a few painting purchases, we set out to find Santiago Atitlan’s San Simon, or Maximon. As I explained earlier, San Simon is part Mayan idol, part Catholic saint. Hes the bad Saint, particularly popular with prostitutes. Santiago Atitlan’s San Simon was even more fantastic than San Andres Xecul’s. His ayudante was far more attentive, and he had been offered way more liquor, cigarettes and other stuff. When we were there, an indigenous fellow was making an impassioned request in an indigenous language. All I understood was that he wanted a tuk-tuk or a combi so that he could get to Santa Cruz. I began to wonder if we should start making offerings, for all of our transportation woes.

Atitlan, Where the Rainbow Gets Its Colors and Panajachel, Where the Gringoes Go

Today was our first day on the amazing Lago de Atitlan. As Aldous Huxley once wrote of the lake, "It really is too much of a good thing." Rimmed by a number of volcanoes, sparkly and startlingly blue, the lake is absolutely beautiful. I’ve heard Atitlan translated as "the place where the rainbow gets its colors", which is understandable once you’ve seen it.

The lake lies in a gigantic volcanic crater, formed in four stages over the last 11 million years. The lake was created during an eruption 1.8 million years ago, which was detected from Florida to Ecuador. The lake fills the bottom of the caldera, reaching a depth of about 2,000 feet. It has no surface outlets, only underground outlets to the Pacific Ocean. Interestingly enough, some Mormons believe that the Lago is the lake mentioned in the Book of Mormon, which is probably a powerful selling point for all of the evangelists who live around the area.

The most popular tourist town on the lake is Panajachel, often affectionately referred to as Gringotenago. It used to be a huge hippie town, but during the civil war it cleared out pretty quickly as the army terrorized the local Kaqchikel and Tz'utuhil populations. Fortunately (and unfortunately), the lake is so beautiful that tourism was soon revived. Panajachel has a huge assortment of international restaurants, bars, artesania and New-Age practitioners.

In the morning we went to Reserva Natural Atitlán, a preserve a little way out of town. It was a nice walk around the grounds of the historic Hacienda de San Buenaventura, through the forest, up and down stone stairs and across suspension bridges. While there wasn’t much in the way of animals, (except spider monkeys!), there were a huge variety of plants and a wonderful butterfly garden with glasswing butterflies, among other things.

In the afternoon we went for a temazcal, or Mayan sauna, at our hotel. The temazcal was much like the one I had on my hike to the lake, but with a higher ceiling, no tar, and the ability to breathe. As it turns out, with oxygen and drinking water, temazcal is actually a fantastic experience.

After our temscal we moved on to Santiago Atitlan, another town across the lake. While we all wished we had a bit more time in Pana, we were also ready to go. The gringofication was exemplified when the lancha captain charged us twice as much as the local passengers. While this particular captain explained that it was because the others were frequent riders, a fair explanation, other captains would insist that the others were paying the same price despite my protests and profanity.

Chichcastenago, the Commercial Heart of Central America

Chichicatenango is a tiny town, nestled in the mountains to the north of Lago de Atitlan. That is, except Wednesdays and Sundays, when it it morphs into the largest market in Central America. It had an especially different feel for us, because we had been a little off beaten track and its such a tourist destination. And with tourists come all sorts of scammers about, which made us a little wary.

We woke up early this morning to get a jump on the market. When we started shopping, there were only a few stalls open and we were unimpressed. After a bit, vendors began to arrive from other highland areas. First a trickle, then a flood of people and goods arrived in busses, cars, trucks, handcarts and on backs. As the day went on, we realized exactly how mistaken we had been. The market had grown up around us into an almost impenetrable labyrinth of stalls and street vendors hawking every imaginable household and artesianal item, food and drink. The indigenous and tourists shoppers rubbed shoulders in a mad rush to get the best possible deals. It took us over an hour to get a few city blocks, from one side of the market to the other. Around the edges of the market, the religious cofradias were worshipping, politicians were stumping and borrachos were drinking, adding to the ambience of utter chaos.

I’m not one to haggle. I hate the feeling that I’m being taken advantage of, but I also hate arguing over a couple of dollars with someone far worse off than me. On the other hand, Scott is an expert haggler. I’m sure his parents love knowing that his expensive UPenn econ education is being so well utilized. He would just walk away during negotiations, forcing the vendors to follow him, lowering their prices. Or he would get them to agree on a seemingly low price for a single item, and then ask them to lower it if he bought a second. He would always consult with us in English, to make himself seem unsure. The prices got better and better as they day wore on and the vendors wanted to get home, sans their wares, and I got better and better at haggling.

At the end of the day, we had purchased every imaginable sort of artesania: Some of the brightly colored and exquisitely embroidered textiles that stretched as far as the eye could see. Masks and musical instruments from shelves and shelves of smelly, but cool, carved wood. Jade, coral and silver jewelry from vendors with innumerable necklaces over their arms, tinkling as they walked. And tons of tiny, brightly colored trinkets from little indigenous children that crowded around us like ants wherever we walked. Worn out and with substantially lighter wallets, we set off for Panajactel.