(1)Pepper, growing near Sucre (3) Dinosaur footprints, in 5 million year old lava apparently (4) Near the crater of Maragua (5) Me...unimpressed by dinosaur footprints. (6) Juice stalls, Sucre market (7) back in La Paz
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
sucre
(1)Pepper, growing near Sucre (3) Dinosaur footprints, in 5 million year old lava apparently (4) Near the crater of Maragua (5) Me...unimpressed by dinosaur footprints. (6) Juice stalls, Sucre market (7) back in La Paz
potosi
(1) Sophie, ready for the mines! (2)Miners, JOse, left, is 13 years old (3)With Tio, the devil worshipped in the mines (4) Cerro Rico, a mine that has claimed 8,000,000 lives (5) Miners depositing the mineral rich rock outside the mine. For each of the carts they share 20 bolivianos, about $3. In a day they make about $15.
Cusco to La Paz .... travels with Gerard
So the cigarette clung smoke on hair fell away to the passing breeze, and the taste of a hangover fell too that way, and we left the city in a bright blue day. Thin and shining still the crescent moon - cut as a shining gash in a sunlit sky, and the remembrance of it full and huge, purple bruised and bursting above Cusco when I first arrived, marked the passing of two weeks.
Flat roads and blissful smooth for the first time in hundreds of kilometres and we smiled, Gerard and I, to be moving again, and heading further south.
...
Across from the hostal, a lady sells bread. The owner is not there. He will come back later the lady says.
Gerard, who, even after we have heard the separatist cries, even after statutes of autonomy, is Spanish, asks the question.
" Do you know when he will arrive?"
The lady points, "Over there," she says.
"Do you know what time he will arrive?"
"Over there," again she points.
...
The next day we followed a dirt track from the road, and bounced along the lines of fences. Llamas and alpacas of varying species filled fields, bathed in a frozen sun. Single storey buildings, dirt white, sat around concrete yards; small cracked windows, with the years of neglect visibly hanging from the roofs. The sign from the road had said The South American Camel Research Centre, but what appeared was a ghost village of strange rectangular buildings; the most obvious thing to be surmised from any research carried out, was that at altitudes where these animals thrive, people do not.
Another kilometre along the dirt track and steam rose from the ground. Striped yellow red patterns ran smooth in the earth and a pouring of water swam, bubbling and hot. We spent the afternoon warm in thermal baths, at 4200m, the cold air all around. Sun slipping slowly up the mountainsides.
The light of morning hopeful through tent walls. The swirling of cold breath. The numbness of feet. The falling failing grey of a falling failing light.
Outside Gerard was awake, "It´s snowing!" he said, in a voice half-excited, half shivering cold and cracked. It was snowing outside, a white and cold hand-numbing snow from a bleak and cold grey sky. We made tea, and ate cold pasta, packed wet tents, and left.
The warm mineral water heated the earth, and the steam touched snowflakes, and around the streams of water I watched the snowflakes melt, instantaneously to tears, to sink into the ground.
As we rode along the tracks I watched a slow motion film, a snowflake larger than it was, colourless celluloid silver white, crashing upon the dirt floor, and breaking as something huge and slow, spreading white dust all around. And the llamas had snow on their heads and backs, in the way that roofs collect snow.
...
Gerard, who, notwithstanding the French pronunciation of his name, is Spanish, asks the question.
"How is it cooked?"
"It is cooked with an egg and a fried banana."
"Yes, but how? Is it fried? Or grilled maybe? Marinated?"
"It is cooked with an egg and a fried banana."
The chef comes out.
"You want to know how it is cooked?"
"Yes."
"It is cooked with an egg and a fried banana."
"Thank you."
...
"Flying?" I asked. The wind had taken the words.
"Life. Life at this altitude must be hard."
"Oh, life. Yes. Really."
"Those children. And the burn marks on their cheeks."
Those children. And the burn marks on their cheeks from the raw, cold sun. And those babies wrapped up against the cold, bare faces to the wind. And those children with their small flocks of sheep, and sticks and whips and cows. And cold mud huts. And those children with their children. Those children with old hands, old cheeks, unreading eyes. And those children with their children. Life at this altitude must be hard.
Another vulture cut black circles in the sky.
...
Gerard, who, despite lack of lisp and home by the coast near the border of France, is Spanish , asks the question.
"Is there a restaurant on this road or do we have to go into the village?"
"There´s no restaurant. You have to go into the village."
"Okay, thank you. There´s really nothing?"
"There´s a restaurant."
"On this road?"
"Yes."
"What about the village."
"There´s nothing in the village."
...
"Inglaterra, ven aqui."
Realising that it was myself being referred to as England, I went to the old man Gerard was talking to, and said hello.
"Como estás?" he asks.
"Bien, gracias. Usted?"
"Muy bien," he answered, smiling wide. "Habla Español?" he asked Gerard.
"Habla perfectamente," Gerard lied.
"Es joven o señorita?" the man asked Gerard, still smiling wide and staring at me. "Is it a girl or a boy?"
"I´m a boy," I say, in the manner that a 4 year old might correct someone making the mistake, and I rode away thinking about how ugly his wife must be. Half laughing, half planning a hair cut, half planning never to shave again.
...
Gerard, who, even given all dislike, unstated dilemmas, and ongoing contestation with the identity, is Spanish, answers the questions.
"Where are you from?"
"Spain."
"You´re from Spain?"
"Yes."
"Where did you learn Spanish?"
"In Spain we speak Spanish."
"Yes, but where did you learn Spanish?"
Gerard, who really, really, is from Spain, turns to me, shakes his head, stops answering the questions.
Flat roads and blissful smooth for the first time in hundreds of kilometres and we smiled, Gerard and I, to be moving again, and heading further south.
...
Across from the hostal, a lady sells bread. The owner is not there. He will come back later the lady says.
Gerard, who, even after we have heard the separatist cries, even after statutes of autonomy, is Spanish, asks the question.
" Do you know when he will arrive?"
The lady points, "Over there," she says.
"Do you know what time he will arrive?"
"Over there," again she points.
...
The next day we followed a dirt track from the road, and bounced along the lines of fences. Llamas and alpacas of varying species filled fields, bathed in a frozen sun. Single storey buildings, dirt white, sat around concrete yards; small cracked windows, with the years of neglect visibly hanging from the roofs. The sign from the road had said The South American Camel Research Centre, but what appeared was a ghost village of strange rectangular buildings; the most obvious thing to be surmised from any research carried out, was that at altitudes where these animals thrive, people do not.
Another kilometre along the dirt track and steam rose from the ground. Striped yellow red patterns ran smooth in the earth and a pouring of water swam, bubbling and hot. We spent the afternoon warm in thermal baths, at 4200m, the cold air all around. Sun slipping slowly up the mountainsides.
The light of morning hopeful through tent walls. The swirling of cold breath. The numbness of feet. The falling failing grey of a falling failing light.
Outside Gerard was awake, "It´s snowing!" he said, in a voice half-excited, half shivering cold and cracked. It was snowing outside, a white and cold hand-numbing snow from a bleak and cold grey sky. We made tea, and ate cold pasta, packed wet tents, and left.
The warm mineral water heated the earth, and the steam touched snowflakes, and around the streams of water I watched the snowflakes melt, instantaneously to tears, to sink into the ground.
As we rode along the tracks I watched a slow motion film, a snowflake larger than it was, colourless celluloid silver white, crashing upon the dirt floor, and breaking as something huge and slow, spreading white dust all around. And the llamas had snow on their heads and backs, in the way that roofs collect snow.
...
Gerard, who, notwithstanding the French pronunciation of his name, is Spanish, asks the question.
"How is it cooked?"
"It is cooked with an egg and a fried banana."
"Yes, but how? Is it fried? Or grilled maybe? Marinated?"
"It is cooked with an egg and a fried banana."
The chef comes out.
"You want to know how it is cooked?"
"Yes."
"It is cooked with an egg and a fried banana."
"Thank you."
...
"Flying?" I asked. The wind had taken the words.
"Life. Life at this altitude must be hard."
"Oh, life. Yes. Really."
"Those children. And the burn marks on their cheeks."
Those children. And the burn marks on their cheeks from the raw, cold sun. And those babies wrapped up against the cold, bare faces to the wind. And those children with their small flocks of sheep, and sticks and whips and cows. And cold mud huts. And those children with their children. Those children with old hands, old cheeks, unreading eyes. And those children with their children. Life at this altitude must be hard.
Another vulture cut black circles in the sky.
...
Gerard, who, despite lack of lisp and home by the coast near the border of France, is Spanish , asks the question.
"Is there a restaurant on this road or do we have to go into the village?"
"There´s no restaurant. You have to go into the village."
"Okay, thank you. There´s really nothing?"
"There´s a restaurant."
"On this road?"
"Yes."
"What about the village."
"There´s nothing in the village."
...
"Inglaterra, ven aqui."
Realising that it was myself being referred to as England, I went to the old man Gerard was talking to, and said hello.
"Como estás?" he asks.
"Bien, gracias. Usted?"
"Muy bien," he answered, smiling wide. "Habla Español?" he asked Gerard.
"Habla perfectamente," Gerard lied.
"Es joven o señorita?" the man asked Gerard, still smiling wide and staring at me. "Is it a girl or a boy?"
"I´m a boy," I say, in the manner that a 4 year old might correct someone making the mistake, and I rode away thinking about how ugly his wife must be. Half laughing, half planning a hair cut, half planning never to shave again.
...
Gerard, who, even given all dislike, unstated dilemmas, and ongoing contestation with the identity, is Spanish, answers the questions.
"Where are you from?"
"Spain."
"You´re from Spain?"
"Yes."
"Where did you learn Spanish?"
"In Spain we speak Spanish."
"Yes, but where did you learn Spanish?"
Gerard, who really, really, is from Spain, turns to me, shakes his head, stops answering the questions.
leaving Cusco
following the railway tracks
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