Open Pains of Latin America

I will write about the road trip we took, but thought I would talk about the skydive I've just done while it's fresh in my mind.

Of all the things I never thought I would do in my life, a skydive is quite high up there. Extreme sports don't generally interest me and the mentality of an adrenaline junkie is about as far removed from my own as is possible. Nonetheless, when Eyal told me he was going to do one I couldn't help but be intrigued. My brother Justin had made a case for watching a bullfight when I was in Madrid, stating that I should experience something before casting judgement on it. I didn't feel that I could follow this in that instance as it was a moral decision, but with skydiving, it seems reasonable. So I resolved to see what all the fuss was about and signed up.

This morning, the worries started to fill my mind. I tend to think about things in my life in a way that, someone might be forgiven for thinking, indicates some sort of belief in fate, that someone or thing is pulling the strings. I don't. I believe that aside from our own and external, earthly influences, life is chaotic and random. But, perhaps a hangover from my Church of England upbringing, I look at future eventualities with a perspective on what seems "right" or "fitting". To me, that morning, it started to seem fitting that just after landing a new job in Lima, Peru for 2 years, something bad would happen to prevent its fruition. Once we had set off in the car towards the hangar though, my fears were replaced by an excitement. The reality of situations in my life don't tend to sink in until the last minute. It was because of this that I was able to hand in my notice and book my flight to South America with a nonchalance that was inconsistent with the gravity of the decision. So once I had put my irrational imagination to the back of my mind, what I was about to embark on became unreal again.

This lack of realisation continued right up to the last moment, with the occasional lapse. One such lapse came after I read the disclaimer before having to sign it. It was written in what seemed like (although my legal knowledge is non-existent) a poor emulation of legalese. It began, "Be known by all men that I Warren Quinton... hereby formally disclaim liability, in respect of demage (sic), physical or otherwise, that tandem jumping might inflict in (sic) me". I dislike any such documents. For me it drives home the stupidity of much human behaviour in our pursuit of thrills. That we would sign a form to say we are willing to do something with a risk of death entirely of our own volition is a madness. I ignored this feeling, however, and signed the form.

I was second up to jump. I wanted to get it done relatively quickly not so much because I was getting nervous, more because I was just bored of waiting around. I was surprised at how calm I remained. I guess it was a mental struggle, but I knew that the key was to ignore the creeping realisation of what I was doing. Eyal wanted me to act up for the video camera; I stayed calm and quiet, occasionally saying the odd word, gesturing with thumbs up or waving when prompted. The flight was great as the view was incredible. We continued to ascend and things got smaller and smaller. My professional tandem partner, Alejandro, had gone to sleep. I felt at ease. I think a great deal of my calm came from the fact that Alejandro seemed to know what he was doing.

I had been slightly worried when they had explained what we had to do at various stages. When we jumped, we had to keep our arms crossed across our chest, put the head back and kick our legs behind us. This seemed far too much to be thinking about when in a state of fear as I thought I would be. But when it came to the jump, all was well. It was such a rush and the free-fall, lasting about a minute, was incredible. I haven't a clue what went through my mind, but I don't think it felt real. That is to say, even then, it hadn't registered that I was actually free-falling towards the ground at a ridulous speed. When the chute opened, it was quite a strain on my legs. I ignored the pain and enjoyed the gentle descent. A couple of times, Alejandro manipulated the chute expertly, allowing the wind to spin it so I gained a 360-degree panoramic view of Córdoba, although this less than gentle movement did make me feel pretty nauseous.

When we landed, I hadn't lifted my legs sufficiently as instructed and landed on my knees which was a little painful. But I felt amazing. I still don't understand people who live for the thrill of activities like this, but I at least understand people's reasons for doing it. It's not something I will do again for a long time, perhaps I never will again, but it was definitely an experience worth doing.

I am currently travelling with two friends. One, an Israeli called Eyal, I met in Uyuni just before I took the three-day salt flat tour (I want to write an entry about this but haven't got round to it yet). I met up with Eyal again after the tour and we travelled to Tupiza together. Eyal is a very interesting person: a talented musician who has given me lots of brilliant tips for the guitar and someone who obviously has a different perspective on the Israel/Palestine conflict than most people. I had a heated but fascinating conversation with him about this. It was the first time I had spoken to someone directly concerned with the situation and I felt I learned a lot from hearing a side to the story that is often dismissed, especially by anti-Israelis. Why am I going into this here? Anyway, the other is an Australian called Anna. Eyal and I met her in Tupiza and went on the horse tour with her.

So the three of us travelled together on Monday to Villazón on the border of Bolivia and Argentina. We took a collectivo, usually a people-carrier that waits for enough people to fill it up and then leaves to its destination. We were on our way to Villazón when, as is usual when taking taxis and other trasport in Bolivia, we heard Cumbia loudly pumping out of the stereo. Cumbia: god I hate this music. It is a genre that is very popular in both Perú and Bolivia, among other places, comprising electronic beats with singing. I rarely uderstand the lyrics but I am reliably informed that they are almost invariably about the same subject matter - love. They always seem to use the same words, such as corazón (heart) and metiroso (liar). The music sounds like it has been made using the basic rhythm component of an electronic keyboard and the singing is so amateurish and whiny that it makes the bad X-Factor audition hopefuls sound mellifluous. I expressed my distaste passionately to Anna and Eyal, and about 10 minutes later the gentleman in front of us turned around and asked cheerfully, "So, do you like this music?" I glanced knowingly at Anna, amused at the coincidence and then lied most unconvincingly, not wanting to offend him: "Está bien", I said with my thumbs up, belied by my evidently unenthusiastic countenance.

When we arrived to Villazón, we went straight to cross the border. It was a surprisingly swift process. I, who was actually 1 day over my allowance in Bolivia, managed to get my exit stamp and enter Argentina without a mention. As we walked into the centre of La Quiaca, the town on the Argentine side of the border, I saw a big sign with the outline of some islands stating boldy: "Las Islas Malvinas son Argentinos". "The Malvinas Islands" is the Argentine name for the Falklands. I told Eyal the story behind the islands and how I had met a girl called Kerstin in La Paz who had lived there for 2 years. Ever the anti-patriot, I had always believed that Britain should hand them back to Argentina, but Kerstin had defended Britain's reluctance to do this, explaining that the established British population living there might find their future there threatened. It was a fair point. Eyal compared the situation to Israel. I didn't buy the comparison.

After waiting around for a couple of hours in La Quiaca, we took a bus to Salta. None of us could believe just how expensive buses are here. To their credit, they are luxurious compared to their Bolivian counterparts, but the fact that cheaper alternatives just don't exist is more than frustrating.

We arrived in Salta early the next morning. After getting settled in the hostel and sleeping for a couple more hours, we ventured out for lunch. Again, the prices were foremost in our minds. It's not that they are as expensive as England, more that, after paying £1.50 for a three-course lunch in Bolivia, to pay over £4 for one course is quite a jump. Depsite its exorbitance, howeve, I really liked Salta. It had a very European feel to it with its old colonial buildings sitting neatly next to much more modern structures. The main plaza (a square with trees, often a fountain and pigeons that every town and city inSouth America, I think without exception, has) was surrounded by lovely cafes with outdoor tables and the weather was scorching!

We had heard that there were some worthwhile sights in Salta's surrounding area so we decided to rent a car to explore. It meant, of course, my having to drive on the right side of the road, which made me a little nervous. Details of this excursion to follow.

I had been full of excitement when I learnt that in Tupiza you could take a tour of the surrounding area by way of a horse ride. I hadn't ridden a horse since I was about 10 and the idea appealed to me, especially when accompanied by the fact that the surrounding areas consisted of a setting reminiscent of the wild west (nearby was where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid had had their last gun fight with the police and were killed).

With terracotta canyons and copious cactuses, the scenery was beautiful. As we set off, I was feeling confident. You feel a sense of exhilaration and power at riding and being in control of a live animal. I even found that when the horse started trotting, a horribly uncomfortable experience, I actually picked up quite fast the technique of rhythmically lifting up and then sitting back down in the saddle to relieve the bumpy motion. However, it soon became apparent that I was far from in control. I began to realise that my horse (Emperor - a misnomer considering his pathetic inability to lead) would merely follow the movements of his peers. When they began trotting, he did - and to persuade him to change this gait was impossible. Similarly, when stationary, to expect Emperor to move if the others hadn't started moving was just as unfeasible.

I was fairly tolerant of this trait at first, but as the day progressed, Emperor's behaviour became more and more intolerable. He had a very frustrating habit of undertaking the other horses at an extremely close proximity, which usually resulted in either my kneeing the horse next to me in the behind or coming into contact with the rider's leg as we rode past and having to apologise profusely as we scraped past each other. One time, this dangerous breach of the highway code resulted in Emperor's upsetting another horse so much that he kicked back his rear leg - right into my shin. Luckily, the impact was slightly reduced by the chaps (leg guards that prevent chafing from the stirrups) I was wearing. To further my dimishing patience, we had to wait 2 hours for our lunch to arrive. This put me in a fouler mood. I became more and more impatient with Emperor; I started having small battles with him, pulling his reins, usually to no avail. He began to get pissed off with my constant pulling and even reared up on a couple of occasions.

Towards the end of the first day, Emperor, again after seeing the others do it, did manage a canter (slower than a gallop but still pretty damn fast). This was amazing and made up for the preceding discomfort and frustrations. It was so much more comfortable than the trot and was thrilling. At the end of the first day, I was glad to be walking on my own two feet again. The main reason for this though was the serious discomfort I was in from the saddle. My legs were not used to being in that position and were very sore and, well, let's just say that I was feeling more than a little delicate in my nether regions from all the trotting. Anna, also on the tour and with experience of riding from the age of 4, also conceded that this was the most uncomfortable horse riding experience she'd had and that the saddles were, in a word, shit.

I awoke the next day feeling more sore. I was reluctant to get back on the horse. As we went back through the countryside, my appreciation of the views was superceded by the immense agony I was in. To make matters worse, the guides we had (aged 15 and 17 respectively - although the 15 year-old looked more like 12) had switches and when it suited them they would whip the horse and make a clicking sound which seemed instantly to cause the horses to begin trotting. I tried to emulate this sound and seemed to have it down perfectly; it had no effect on Emperor though. Because of the pain I was in, I was shushing Emperor to ensure he remained at a walk. Then our guide would come up behind and, without warning, encourage Emperor to trot. These mixed signals must have confused my steed greatly and infuriated me.

We managed to canter more and more throughout the second day, which was still incredible, although I was still in pain. By the time we arrived back, I felt a sense of utter relief. Undoubtedly, the scenery had been breathtaking and when we cantered I felt great, very almost forgetting the pain. But on the whole, the discomfort was too much for me and sadly I won't be getting back on a horse for a long time.

Next stop, Salta in Argentina.

Upon arriving in Potosí, I was a little disappointed. Having spent 3 weeks in Sucre, learning Spanish and helping to teach English, I had grown to like it a lot. The city was beautiful with whitewashed colonial buildings. Potosí just seemed more, well more like Bolivia if I'm honest. The poverty was much more evident. There were narrow streets and bustling traffic. I resolved to stay just 2 nights. I planned to take a tour of the mines the following day and leave the day after that.

At the hostel, I met some fellows travellers and went out for a bite to eat. When I came pay, I realised I had lost my debit card, my only source of money in South America. My heart sank. I was seriously buggered as this meant I couldn't do anything. I had no more money at all. I couldn't pay for the hostel, the tour or leave Potosí: I was stranded. I emailed my mum and asked that she send some via Western Union. In the meantime though, I met Rosanna, who very kindly offered to withdraw some money from her account if I transferred the money using internet banking. A day or two later, I managed to collect the money sent by my mum (Thanks mum). Crisis over for now.

The Mines

Taking a tour of the Cerro Rico (Rich Hill) in Potosí is an experience like no other. The mines aren't a touristic attraction; they are working, dangerous, unbearably hot mines where the risk of a cave-in (the number-one cause of deaths in the mines) is very real. I was especially worried because of my height: many of the cavernous walk ways through the mines shrunk to passages where one could only crawl - or, in my case, attempt a kind of commando crawl.

We set off first to the miner's market. Here is where the miners stock up on all their necessaries. We were encouraged to buy some of these things as presents for the miners we would meet. The only practical item we were shown, however, was dynamite. The rest of the items were essentially "survival" tools that came in the form of cigarettes, alcohol and (most importantly) coca leaves. The cigarettes were harsh-tasting, hand-rolled quasi-cigars. The alcohol was 96% and made from sugar cane. I tried some and it tasted how I imagine white spirit to taste. The coca leaves are a miner's staple. According to Bolivians, they are a wonder-substance. By chewing lots of them and storing them in the side of your mouth, sucking the juice but not eating the leaves themselves, they supress your appetite - useful for long hours with no food way down in the depths of the mines; they give you energy - again very useful for the stupidly hard manual labour they have to do; and they seemingly have no end of additional health benefits such as increasing the oxygen in your blood, which eases altitude sickness, relieving headaches and making hangovers more bearable.

The Cerro Rico was discovered when the city of Potosí was, in 1546 by the Spanish. The Conquistadors soon realised the immense riches to be found inside the mountain: namely silver. They soon set to work (or rather forced the natives and imported African slaves to set to work), stripping the mines of as much silver as they could find. It was taken straight to Spain, Bolivia failing to benefit from any of the riches to be found. Because of the huge quantity that was to be found, in Spain there still exists an expression: "valer un Potosí" which means "to be worth a Potosí", that is to say, something of huge wealth.

The workers were forced to work in the most unimaginable conditions. Estimations are that around 4-6 million people have died in the mines. These horrendous conditions along with the miners' effective treatment as animals presumably led to the reliance on cigarettes and alcohol. Also, if you visit any mine in Bolivia, you will find the famous "El Tio", a shrine to the devil to which offerings are made. The story goes that the Spanish, in an attempt to "encourage" the workers, created the myth that the devil had jurisdiction over the mines and to slack off would result in feeling the wrath of Beezlebub himself. Needless to say, the workers worked. The most interesting thing about this for me was that I learned this story whilst watching a documentary on the mines in Sucre, and it was told by a 14-year old boy miner. The mere fact that he was telling the story would imply that the miners were aware of the false pretexts behind the story, yet they all still not only believe in El Tio, but take him very seriously. This is a clear testament to the desperation for the need to believe that something is watching over you, even if it is evil incarnate, that the harsh working conditions induce.

The mines were nationalized in the 1952 revolution and then eventually the state closed them in 1980, effectively giving them to the people. Now cooperatives can work for themselves in the mines, taking the last of what they can find (mainly zinc and tin).

As we enetered the mines, I instantly felt the heat. We were kitted out in rubber trousers and jacket, boots, helmet and head lamp. The helmet was the most useful as I hit my head innumerable times. The first workers we met were a family. They spent the whole day loading rubble that contained zinc and tin into a wagon that could be wheeled out on the track that extended from the entrance into the warren of passages. The dad was 57 and seemed to work the hardest. He stopped to speak with us, happily receiving a bottle of the 96% proof, ensuring that before taking a swig he spilled some on the floor as an offering to El Tio, praying for good health and that they find lots of minerals (all spoken in Quechua). While the sons took the 1-tonne wagon out of the mines, I attempted to shovel the next lot of rubble into another pile ready to be loaded when it returned. Anyone who knows my lamentable physical condition will appreciate how I struggled. The strength and stamina required to maintain this level of work for 12 hours a day is incredible, the difficulty increased by the unbearable heat.

By the time we had gone down to the fourth level, involving a hair-raising descent down a sort of chute that was incredibly slippery due to loose rocks and culminating in a makeshift ladder that didn't look strong enough to hold a child, I was struggling. The constant crouching and crawling around was taking its toll on my knees, which are not in a fit state. I was just dumbfounded that people could work down here. And that they weren't even forced anymore (though I got the impression that they didn't have a many choices). Further down in the depths, we met a man working by himself, boring holes in which to put dynamite. He would then seek cover at a safe (as safe as you can be) distance and ignite the explosive. I thought that to do this alone is crazy. If something were to happen, would anyone even know that he was there or where?

Our penultimate stop was further down still, into an area aptly named "The Sauna". The heat reached 40 °C and was stifling. There were more workers loading wagons. As they left they had two people pushing the wagon and one behind it, pulling when needed and pushing to ensure it didn't lose control. The wagon reached a decline and the one person was understandably far too weak to stop the wagon running away from them. Luckily it derailed and stopped before it could crush him against the wall. Our guide said it wasn't advisable to be in front of the wagon so we waited for the miners to re-rail it and set off again. This took a tremendous effort, including picking up a piece of the track and using it as a lever; we were waiting for about 10 minutes. Finally it set off. As we carried on, retracing our steps back towards the mine's entrance, we had to scale the same narrow, steep inclines we had previously climbed down, only this time there were many miners starting work and coming the other way.

Before the entrance, we took a brief but tough detour to see the EL Tio. It was made, it seemed, of mud stone, had a sinister face and, bizarrely, had even at one time had quite large genitals, though these had been broken off at some point. His mouth had a cigarette in it and scattered everywhere were beer cans, cigarettes and coca leaves. Some people felt a strange sense of some ominous presence when facing El Tio; I just felt pity that these people should have to resort to such a patently fallacious belief in order to get through the working day.

I left primarily with a sense of relief to be out in the fresh air again, but combined with an appreciation and admiration for these people's way of life. I reflected on how I could never do what they do and how it should make us all appreciate the relatively easy jobs we have. Although, I know full well that once I get back in a classroom and the children are running rings around me again, I will very quickly revert back to the conviction that teaching really is the worst of the worst and that nobody has it as hard as us. It takes sharp contrasts such as the Cerro Rico to be experienced first-hand, or close enough, and to be staring us in the face before we can ever make comparisons that cause us to reflect in some worthwhile way, and these invariably fade as soon as the memory does. One guy said he was going to put a photo of a miner up in his office as a constant reminder. Sadly, I think even this would fail to work. Perhaps we all need coping mechanisms in our work. In a similar, though much less extreme, way to the miners' El Tio, at least with teaching, we need to complain, to feel like it is an imcomparable trial as a means of getting through it. It gives us a deluded sense of self-importance that spurs on our motivation. The difference is that we can and should realise that this is a delusion. The miners don't have this luxury.

So it has taken me almost 4 months, but I've finally decided to write a blog. I admit I was dubious for a long time, believing your average blogger to be a narcissistic, unnecessarily verbose, wannabe professional; blogs, it seemed to me, were just one more way that the masses could feel like they were able to partake in an activity that has historically been elitist. Writers go through great pains to get themselves published, and, in much the same way as the reality television explosion, now it seems as if any cretin, regardless of how illiterate they be, can post a blog, perhaps acquire a modest readership and feel that they should be regarded with a kudos worthy of Huxley or Chomsky. This is not dissimilar to Youtube members who offer their opinions on anything and everything from science, religion and current affairs to impassioned commentary on the latest celebrity scandal.

So if I seem so anti-blog, why am I writing one? Well, I have realised that I was perhaps a little hasty in my analysis. I still believe far too many people write mundane blogs on irrelevant subjects, or even mundane blogs on interesting subjects. But with travelling, it's slightly different. Back in the UK, I perceived Facebook as one of the biggest evils on the planet - nothing more than a procrastinatory tool that served little purpose, save the almost complete obliteration of privacy and the occasional job loss; abroad, however, I regard it as a very useful means of communicating with your nearest and dearest, as well as being a very quick way to stay in touch with the copious people you meet whilst travelling. Blogs are much the same: aside from being a smart way to recount my travels for others' benefit without having to repeat myself in various emails, messages and wall posts, I can also expand my own personal journal (kept, handwritten and in Spanish, in my trusty Moleskine) into a fuller narrative.

I will try my very best to keep it updated. Don't hold your breath though...