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Greetings
from
Potosi
Bolivia,
Potosi
Bolivia is a charming OLD town with a remarkable
past.
There are more churches and other religious structures in this
small city of about a hundred and twenty thousand than in any of
the other cities I've visited in Bolivia (maps).
Sunday is a day of bells; all day long. At one point in it's
history it could lay claim to being the world's largest city!
That would be back in the 1600's when nearly all of the world's
silver came from the large hill to the south of the city. The
brutal Spanish overlords literally worked millions of black and
indigenous slaves to death, keeping them underground on twelve
hour shifts for up to four months... or until they died. A
surprising number of miners
still
work the mountain, though the income from recovered silver
is meager.
One
afternoon I made a pilgrimage to the road that snakes up among
all the mines. Near the start of the road a small community
catering to the needs of the miners has grown up; small shops
selling everything from sticks of dynamite to picks and shovels.
At one of the small hole-in-the-wall shops I stopped to talk
with the proprietor. She seemed amused by my earnest attempt to
use my meager command of Spanish and cooperated with the effort.
As we talked a customer interrupted us and she retrieved his
lamp and battery which he insisted be tested before leaving.
Sure enough, it needed the battery fluid topped off. Several of
my photos show the contents of these small shops.
While there is a large population of indigenous people living in
poverty, there are surprisingly almost no beggars on the
streets near the central plaza. The few I've encountered in the
outskirts seem to ignore locals, limiting their efforts to
foreigners like me. I suspect begging is a shameful activity
frowned on by the local culture. I did see a couple boys of
about seven in dirty torn clothes selling rolls of toilet paper
to stopped cars downtown, no doubt in an effort to augment their
family's income. Conspicuous by their absence are well off
people flaunting their wealth. I saw no one overdressed for
effect. Also absent are luxury cars. "Sports cars" driven by
teenage boys trying to impress the girls are limited to Hondas
with spoilers and loud mufflers. I can't recall seeing anyone
obviously angry or distressed on the streets, even among the
teens who use the uphill Avenida Bolivar as a place to hangout
and flirt every evening. The only way I happen to know the name
of that particular street is because it is the main East-West
street through town and the city's best hotel is located on it.
There are no street signs in this city! Everyone just memorizes
street names.
Public drunkenness also may be taboo as I saw only one obviously
inebriated chap staggering down one of the pedestrian lanes. On
the other hand, up in the mining community last Sunday a dozen
or so young men shared a couple buckets of a home brew called
Chicha. The
yellow liquid is definitely intoxicating as evidenced by the
boisterous behavior of the celebrants. As I paused for a closer
look at their activities several took notice and insisted I join
in the drinking. One fellow filled a gourd dipper and offered it
to me. Two others grabbed me good naturedly and nudged me
towards the party. It took a bit of effort to extricate myself
from their grips and cajoling... all the while snapping photos
of the commotion.
The hotels have not been making a big deal out of the country's
water problems... I've seen only one that invited guests to
let them know they would be willing to use towels and sheets
more than once. Hotel room rates are so cheap I assume they need
all the foreign exchange they can get and exempt the lodging
industry from stringent water conservation measures.
Bolivia is among the worst South American countries in terms of
anti-smoking efforts. The government preoccupied with bigger
smoke
problems, appears to have taken no steps to educate the
population about the hazards and though it has signed the Framework
Convention for Tobacco Control, it has not ratified it. My
experiences last year in Buenos Aires with the "Plague
of Wild Smokers" should have prepared me for the behavior I
experienced with a sneering Argentinean girl who refused to
refrain from smoking in the tiny enclosure where the three
Internet terminals are located here in the Coloso Hotel. Gentle
and reasoning at first my entreaties escalated into a shouting
match finally refereed by the hotel manager who immediately
posted a notice: "No Fumar - No Smoking" on the glass door to
the room. The damage had been done and the room still stinks
from that girl's indiscretions... my eyes burn as I write this.
Potosi promoters have overlooked a promising way to
stimulate tourism! The fabulously popular gravity assisted
Death Road bicycle ride near La Paz soon led to an imitator.
The Death Train out of Santa Cruz is so named specifically
to appeal to the morbidly curious... a tactic designed to
increase ridership... which worked according to travel
agents I met. I mention this interesting observation because
Potosi, in addition to being declared a
World Heritage
Site in 1987 can lay claim to being the place where as
many as eight million
black and
indigenous slaves were literally worked to death in the
bowels of the silver ore rich mountain
Cerro Rico, which according to legend is considered the
incarnation of
Pachamama,
an Andean divinity associated with the earth's fertility.
Doesn't that qualify it to be called the Death
City? ... or, the Mountain of Death... or the
Silver Deathtrap? Any of these or similar monikers
would surely attract a certain class of traveler in droves!
When I
checked out of the Capital Plaza Hotel in Sucre last Tuesday 9
October I planned to dash over to the city's Terminali de
Buses and catch a ride to Potosi some three hours
distant. While walking the kilometer to the terminal it seemed
strange there was little traffic and no city buses on the
streets that morning. Closer to the terminal I ran into trucks
and buses deliberately parked to block the main streets in the
area. At the bus terminal the lots were empty and the gates
locked. No buses to anywhere could be seen. People milled around
the area; stranded foreign tourists and others sat on their
luggage wearing forlorn expressions. Finally after a number of
attempts to learn what the devil had happened, someone explained
protesters had staged a one day transportation strike throughout
the entire region to draw attention to the government's failure
to force contractors to complete a highway between Potosi and
the Argentina border. So, when life deals you a lemon there is
only one thing to do: make lemon-aid.
Strolling
back to the city center I decided to try the other excellent
hotel I had previously found, the charming
Hotel Independencia. This one had many of the attractions of
the Plaza in addition to carpets and they gave me a suite when I
suggested the first room they showed looked small... for the
same $30 single room rate! My good fortune had a dark side, or
should I say a cold one. The same steam heater installed in the
smaller rooms and no doubt perfectly rated proved woefully
inadequate for my oversize mini-suite and I shivered all night.
That possibly explains the dreams... in SPANISH! What a surprise
to discover ideas occurring in my twilight state of near sleep
expressing themselves in primitively formed Spanish. I have
heard this is an intermediate condition commonly experienced by
people fully immersed in the Spanish language before fully
mastering it.
The next
morning I skipped the long walk to the terminal and sacrificed
three and a half Bolivianos (about 45 cents) for a taxi ride. As
luck would have it, one of the better buses sat ready to leave
in ten minutes on it's 10:00 departure. As is my habit I paid a
little over $5 for two seats and waited... and waited; the "I'm
in no hurry" bus left an hour late.
Moments
after the bus lurched forward starting it's run a young man
loitering in the isle fixed himself next to the empty seat
holding my bag and began what I assumed would be a begging
speech to his captive audience. The speech delivered in rapid
fire carefully articulated Spanish went on for a half hour,
augmented by several visual displays of hideously malformed or
decayed examples of oral hygiene neglect, totally worn out
toothbrushes and packages of dental hygiene articles... soon to
be offered for sale to his dazed audience. The length of his
speech plus time to distribute product and collect money
coincided perfectly with our first stop to pickup additional
passengers.
During the
three hours to Potosi an interesting panorama of sights kept
passengers entertained: herds of wild alpacas appeared from time
to time; unusual geographic formations interspersed with desert
expanses and grove after grove of wild lavender flowering
Jacaranda trees seemed to have been planted in the most unlikely
places along the way. Across the isle a mother nursed a tot who
between bites found me fascinating beyond words and stared
fixedly until hunger returned him to his handy meal.
Even with
the late start we made it to the outskirts of Potosi just before
2PM... where the bus came to an unceremonious stop behind a long
line of stranded vehicles. The blockade had moved from Sucre to
Potosi! This part of the city is full of steep inclines... all
up hill from where we stopped. Of course I had no idea where we
were or how far from real civilization we might be.
Directions
from fellow stranded passengers came in conflicting torrents,
partly because most people I asked assumed I would do the
sensible thing and hop on a fifteen cent city bus that would
take me anywhere I wanted to go in the city. Silly people. So, I
walked this way and that as a series of helpful people gave new
contradictory directions to "good" hotels or the city center.
All I could
find the day I arrived were real dogs, backpackers crash pads!
After three or four inspections of what had been represented as
el mejor hotel, I realized my idea of a "best" hotel
differed dramatically from those of ordinary people in Potosi.
In desperation for some place to dump my increasingly heavy
pack, I settled on an $8 room in the commonly recommended
Hostal Compania de Jesus. Surely being a companion of Jesus
in this country dominated by the Roman Catholic Church would
have its compensations! Overlooked in my oxygen starved and
fatigued state were the complete absence of towels, soap, toilet
tissue and heat! Closer inspection revealed the electrical
shower head to be positioned directly over the toilet seat! It
quickly became obvious that even a Buddhist monk might well have
a hard time dealing with all the deficiencies and I went looking
for alternatives.
During the
search I learned of the five star $45
Hotel Coloso Potosi, the best hotel in town... and fully
booked for the rest of the week according to the discouraging
receptionist on duty at the time. Actually, I think the guy
resented my awkward attempts at Spanish and possibly the
appearance of my still scruffy travel attire. Eventually I found
the $27 three star
Hotel Claudia and booked an available room without a second
thought to the fact I had already parted with $8 to be a
companion of Jesus. The illusive gate keeper back at the Hostal
Compania de Jesus finally responded to my shouts for some
attention and accepted my explanation for leaving so
precipitously with an obviously hurt expression, but no offer of
a refund.
Really tired
now, I cabbed back to the Claudia and fell into a deep trance
until the following morning when I awoke before dawn. Showered
and dressed in my change of clothes selected to make good first
impressions, I headed back to the five star Coloso hoping for a
different receptionist who spoke a smattering of English. Julio,
finishing his night shift proved eager to demonstrate a meager
command of my first language as he regrettably noted the hotel
was still fully booked; "todo occupado," he added in Spanish. It
turned out no one in the hotel had fully mastered the mysterious
computerized reservation system and the actual occupancy
situation remained unknown to anyone viewing the reservations
display! Clearly built to meet five star luxury standards two
years ago, management of the facility has yet to catch up with
the promise of the physical plant!
"Could I
possibly get a cup of coffee in the hotel's restaurant?" I
inquired.
"Yes, of
course. You can also get American breakfast, if you like. Here,
follow me. I'll show you the way. When you finish come back down
to the lobby and we will see what we can do about finding you a
room... and you can pay me for the breakfast." After enjoying
the early morning coffee I decided to treat myself to some five
star hotel food despite the fact the Claudia included a free
breakfast in the room rate. When I finished my leisurely morning
breakfast in what I can rate as no more than a mediocre dining
facility, I headed back down to the lobby and further
conversations with Julio.
Knowing
hotels often discover unexpected vacancies as guests checkout
early, I asked Julio if he could put me on a waiting list while
I went out exploring the city for a couple hours, promising to
return after eleven. My Spanish, his English combined to make
for some confusing communications, but Julio seemed eager to
please. "Yes, come back about noon. Your room should be ready by
then, but you might need to change rooms tomorrow."
"Does that
mean you already know you have a vacancy for me tonight?" I
asked.
"Yes, it
will only be on the first floor, but tomorrow we can change you
to the fourth floor, if you don't mind." Wow! From fully booked
to available and it is still only eight in the morning. When I
returned from retrieving my bag at the Claudia, Julio smiled
broadly and handed a key-card to the bellman. Still somewhat
disoriented, but expecting a temporary room on the first floor, it
took a moment to note we had entered a room with a king-size cama
matrimonial on the forth floor. Later, I asked Julio
if we still would need to change the room the next day. He
grinned and said this would be my room for the entire stay...
what a guy. Management should put him to work training the rest
of the hotel staff in guest relations!
Peace
Fred L Bellomy
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 Reference photo:
authorAugust 2002 |
