EXPEDITION ACCOUNTS

WITH CHOLITAS AND LLAMAS IN THE BOLIVIAN WILDERNESS

Descending into La Paz (13,300 ft) inhaling its polluted air and looking at the chaotic traffic, choked drains, strewn garbage and the surrounding hillsides hidden under unfinished, unplastered slum hovels that tumble down to the valley below, we dreaded our four-night stay in the Bolivia's capital. However, when we walked its streets the city came to life and began to grow on us. We did not need to acclimatise as from Mexico onwards we had constantly been over 5,000 feet and, since Southern Colombia, at dizzying heights between 9,000-16,000ft. Checking into our hotel, we straightaway hit the steep and winding cobbled alleys, absorbing the sounds and smells of La Paz. Cholitas, fancily dressed in multi-layered skirts, bright manta shawls and their trademark bowler hat through which fall two plaits of hair bound together at their ends, flood the streets selling fruits, vegetable, meat, bread, coca leaves, rugs and garments. At the Witches Market hang llama foetuses, animal skulls, magical herbs and images of Pachamama, the mother goddess. Crowds gather around musicians, magicians and jugglers performing in front of the deserted San Francisco. At Plaza Morillo, flanked by the cathedral, presidential palace and the national congress, shoeshine boys, their masked faces hiding their identity in submission to the social stigma against their profession, invited pedestrians to have their shoes polished. Sensibly, they, after taking a quick glance at my shoes, that have carried the dust and soil of the Americas for last three months, never beckoned me. Abandoned youth, dressed as zebras, help manage the chaotic traffic and assist children and the elderly cross the street - a part of a noble and successful initiative to bring 3,000 at-risk youth into the mainstream.

 Near our hotel traffic was brought to a standstill by an endless stream of revellers downing copious quantities of beer and dancing to the music being played by accompanying bands. It is a wild masquerade of people. Men dressed in their best suits and the ladies, the Cholitas, in their expensive, colourful costumes. Some fat-cat, to flash his wealth, had invited his relatives, friends, associates and entire neighbourhood for the street party. And this was only a rehearsal. The main event was a month away. Every day there is street party somewhere in La Paz. Everybody enjoys and no one complains.

From the eerie Valley of the Moon, just outside La Paz, we called on the Andean animals and birds in the zoo. The enormous enclosure of the condors was full of energy. It was time for the solitary female to reproduce and the four males were vying for her attention - hopping and dancing with their wings spread, brandishing only their inflated neck and chest and nothing else, clucking all the time. We hung around for quite some time but the lady, as usual, was either playing hard-to-get or could not make up her kind. There are 24 pumas in the zoo. But that day, when they heard there were two Indian tigers on the prowl, they all ran away and sought refuge at the vet's.

One night we drove up to El Alto, a fast-growing slum that sits high on top of La Paz, to watch Cholita Wrestling. These Bolivian ladies, dressed in traditional clothes with colonial roots, think they are better than men -and give ample proof to justify their belief. Being devout Catholics, they do not practice family planning and have children by the dozen. To supplement the husband's income to raise a large family they sell merchandise on the street or trade in garments and handicrafts from city to city, within Bolivia and in neighbouring countries. More often than not, they make more money than their employed husbands. The men had been wrestling since the last 60 years and consider their format to be the original WWF. Nine years ago the Cholitas also decided to hit the stage - and became an instant box office hit, drawing huge crowds every Friday night. The event was professionalised and the Cholitas raked in money The men, as is their nature, did not like being elbowed out by the women. Later, out of compassion, the Cholitas allowed the men to participate in the event  - as long as they got drubbed. It was an evening of hoarse shouting and loud laughter.

As global warming melts the glaciers in the snow-capped peaks that dominate the La Paz skyline, several farming families, unable to plant their potatoes and maize due to lack of irrigation, have left their villages and moved to El Alto and La Paz, crowding them further and putting more pressure on their dwindling supply of drinking water. As the poor queue up for the limited water supply, there are frequent fights. Even the rich are suffering: the Chachaltaya ski resort above La Paz has run out of snow and closed down seven years ago, depriving them of their weekend outings. Dr. Edson Ramirez, a glaciologist from the University of San Andes in La Paz, had predicted that the Chachaltaya glacier will be history by 2015. It happened ten years sooner. Unable to find a practical solution to the water problem, the government is contemplating a radical large-scale resettlement of people from the La Paz region to the northern rain forests where water supply is still adequate. Millions of acres of rain forests will be cut for building roads and townships.

On a Sunday afternoon, while walking around the La Paz stadium, that had been taken over by battalions of policemen in readiness for the Clasico football match between the two arch rivals - Bolivars and The Strongest, I noticed, at a round-about, several sculptures and icons that were reminiscent of the Easter Island statues, lying out in the Pacific Ocean, 4,300km away. These were from Tiwanaku, said our guide, Jenny Jara. Next morning, we left in a local bus for the ancient archaeological site, two hours north of La Paz, that is said to represent a culture that could be over 10,000 years old - making it the oldest site in all of Americas.

Cramped in the rear seat of the beat-up minibus, I struck a conversation, Jenny translating, with a young evangelist Brazilian pastor and his Bolivian wife. I asked the pastor if he subscribed to the theory of evolution. He said he believed in creationism and only Darwin's theory of adaptation of species was believable. Jenny, also an evangelist, agreed with him. It was god, not nature, that brought life on earth. I asked him if the natives, however mixed, still practiced their ancient rituals along with Christian worship. He said that they did and though he did not agree with some of their practices - like killing sick infants, as was the custom amongst some tribes in Brazil. "Here, in my church in Bolivia, some natives started bringing human skulls, some of their near and dear ones, others procured from cemeteries or medical universities, and placed them on the altar, crowned with flowers and caps - and sometimes a cigarette stuck in their mouth. They believe the skulls will bring them good luck and protect them from evil. It is an ancient pre-Hispanic tradition - and harmless enough - unlike killing sick infants. So our church condones it. If we don't play along with them and accept some of their non-Christian traditions, we might become irrelevant."

A cholita, of humble, rural background, was sharing our seat and, through Jenny, I asked her if she practiced any of the ancient rituals - like using offering llama foetuses to Pachamama. She said she was a devout catholic and did not practice any of the old rituals. Would she be willing to become a pProtestant, I enquired - as throughout of journey through Latin America we had heard that Protestants, as a percentage of population, were rapidly increasing in numbers - biting into the market share of the Catholic church. Definitely not, she said. As we got our of El Alto, the road was blocked by protestors demanding better schooling. While planning the expedition I had been warned of delays due to roads being blocked by political agitators. The mini bus took a detour though fields and sandy tracks, dipping into drains and streams, blowing clouds of dust into our lungs.

"Rascals," screamed the Cholita. "This is just the way of some vested interests to divert the attention of the government  - so that it can not work. Our president is a good man. He cares for the poor. But these people will not let him perform."

"Have you ever met the president?" I asked her.

"Our president is a man of masses. He is always meeting people. He came twice to my village. And both times he shook my hand."

Evo Morales is a darling of the poor masses. A llama and sheep herder, a coca farmer, of the most modest background, who rose through sheer application and hard work, to become the undisputed leader of his country;  who, having himself felt the pains of deprivation, introduced progressive policies and measures that substantially raised the living standards of poor. Uncourted and outcast by the rich pcity-slickers and snubbed by Uncle Sam for his socialist, leftist policies, he is popular amongst the masses in all of Latin America. He stood up for the coca farmers - saying that consumption of coca leaves  - not cocaine - was a part of ancient Bolivian tradition. The US government could not force them to eradicate coca cultivation and take away the livelihood of the poor cultivators. Instead, they should check their own growing demand for cocaine. Evo, as the president is endearingly called, takes on America at every opportunity. He has offered refuge to Snowden, the American whistleblower. Just before we left India,the Spanish, Portuguese, French and Italian authorities, under American pressure, denied his plane access over their air space, thinking he had Snowden on board. "And why not? Why should we not offer asylum to Snowden for speaking the truth?" said the English-speaking waiter in Hotel Rosario. "Has America not given asylum to our former president - I do not even want to utter the name of that bastard from my mouth. He - who looted this country and killed hundreds of innocent civilians to protect American interests! And now lives comfortably in Virginia with his billions!" Evo Morales's story is an inspiring one and should be read by all.

The Brazilian pastor's Bolivian wife was from Cochabamba. She insisted that I was from Cochabamba - as I looked like the people from that region. In fact, throughout Latin America the local people thought we were from their country - till we opened our mouths and no Spanish would pour out. "Cochabamba! Racist people!" said the Cholita. In Bolivia the people of the Andean highlands and the plains are involved, since ages, in a continuing cultural and political scrimmage.

Tiwanaku site is a jumble of massive stone blocks fixed together to form pyramids, gateways with elaborately sculpted lintels, stairways, courtyards, walls - and the favourites of perplexed archaeologists: ceremonial altars, rooms of priests and temples of sun and moon. Tiwanaku was once on the southern shore of Lake Titicaca. Now it is about 20km away and 100ft higher than the lake. Stone roads and structures of huge stone blocks have been discovered under the waters of
Lake Titicaca. Marine fossils found around the lake imply that the lake was once a part of the sea and Tiwanaku was a port city. This indicates that a colossal natural catastrophe struck this area 10,000-12,000 years ago, substantially shifting the  axis of the quaking earth, creating a huge tectonic upheaval, tearing away land in some parts and raising it skywards in others, radically changing the geography, causing disastrous floods, and eradicating much of human and animal life, forcing the surviving populations to migrate en masse to new and safer regions. The enormity of the catastrophe would have affected not only the Andean region but the entire planet. It makes one wonder if the  ancient cities in world mythologies, the great floods mentioned in various scriptures, the lost worlds of Atlantis, Dwarka and others are indeed true; that there existed, in various parts of the Earth, advanced human civilisations that were in contact with each other, as they are now,  and were destroyed simultaneously in one big sudden catastrophe. The survivors, hurled back in time, again started to build from a scratch.

Arriving in the middle of the night in Uyuni, in southern Chile, we were restless to enter the Salar, the Salt Flats, a grand sweep of 12,106 sq km of shiny white earth at 12,055 ft that holds in its crystal depths 10 billion tons of salt reserves. Our Land Cruiser glided through the surreal, horizonless landscape formed by the white surface and the blue sky. The eerie solitude is fascinating and uplifting. In the middle of the Salt Flats, about 100km inside, is a picturesque hill, Isla de Pescado, covered with gigantic Trichoreus cactus. We climbed to its peak for a stunning view of the distant Tunupa Volcano (17,926ft), its graceful, symmetrical cone reflecting in the polished mirror of the white wilderness. We camped that night at the edge of the Salt Flats in a house with walls, tables and benches made out of solid blocks of salt.

Leaving the Salar's nothingness, we drove 800 km over dusty trails for the next two days through one of the world's harshest wilderness regions. It is absolutely magnificent, awesome, barren scenery that gives you the exhilarating feeling of being in a remote corner of the planet. In this desolation are mineral-rich lagoons of different hues teeming with countless flamingoes. Herds of shaggy llamas and comely vicunias graze on the grass near water bodies. Maras, over-sized rabbits, sit meditatively on rocks. A tribe of geysers belch out clouds of sulphurous fumes. Bubbling hot springs, panoramically located, offer a cheerful opportunity to dip your rattled body and gaze at the llamas and flamingoes. Wind and nature have sculpted a pageant of peculiar rock formations. The night sky was studded with glittering stars and constellations.

After three mesmerising days, we left for the border outpost of Villazon from where we would enter northern Argentina and drive down its entire length to Ushuaia, 5,171 km away.