Flight of the condors

 
























Samaipata, Bolivia, where there is no word which expresses a greater sense of urgency than 'mañana.'

The road to Samaipata

Laying a couple of thousand metres lower than Cochabamba the short flight to Santa Cruz is practically a glide. The pilot just needs to clear the ridge of mountains which surround the city, and then it’s all downhill.

After three months in the thin air of Cochabamba, Santa Cruz feels heavy and humid, but there’s hardly time to draw breath before we are heading back up into the hills again.

I sit in the front passenger seat of the Japanese conversion, the gaping hole of the absent steering wheel, and the redundant instrument panel in front of me, while our driver Bernardino, with grim-faced determination, sets about beating his personal best time to cover the 120 kilometres, passing everything we catch up with, despite the fully-loaded taxi, the shot suspension, and the hole in the exhaust pipe.

To begin with the road is smooth tarmac, and the going is only impaired by the occasional strips of hard yellow plastic speed blocks at junctions and crossings, which most Bolivians treat with great respect given their no-nonsense construction, which even at low speed makes the car jolt violently (twice) and could cause untold damage should they be ignored. These gradually become less frequent as we leave behind the urban sprawl, but as the road starts to wind up through the mountains, there are unmade sections to be negotiated with care, places where the road has been practically washed away altogether, and at one place where a huge moraine from a recent landslide had spilled into the road virtually blocking it.

At one particularly hazardous point, a horseshoe section of road following the boulder-strewn river bed at the bottom of vertiginous mountain slopes (where no doubt landslides are a frequent occurrence) a bridge is under construction to straighten out the section and improve the status quo.

Further on a truck is coming towards us, clouds of red dust billowing up from its wheels. A familiar enough sight on these roads, and used to move everything from animals to crates of soft drinks. But this vehicle's 'livestock' is human — workers being transported to where their labour is needed. As it passes I glimpse brown skinned faces above the decoratively painted wooden panels, lit up in the sunlight which penetrates the dust particles and giving the appearance of watching old home-movie footage through a fog of audience cigarette smoke.

We stop at small roadside village and Bernardino gets out for a few moments. I have no idea if he’s paying a road toll, finding out whether there are more passengers waiting, or buying a packet of cigarettes, because as soon as we stop the car is surrounded by women and children trying to sell us food, drinks and sweets. Their hardened expressions say plainly enough that this passing trade is an important form of revenue.

As we climb steadily higher into the mountains, I notice large birds circling above. “Condors aqui?” I ask Bernardino, in my very limited Spanish. “Sí,” he replies, nodding his head affirmatively.

Being the national symbol of Bolivia I am childishly pleased to hear this, the only one I’ve seen to date being the rather crude painted cement statue with wings outstretched on top of the Column of Heroes in the centre of Plaza 14^th Septiembre in Cochabamba.

We arrive in Samaipata after 2.40 hours on the road. There is no exclamation of triumph from Bernardino, so I guess he’s not broken any records today. It’s midday, and with deserted streets and the sun beating down from a clear blue sky, there’s a distinctly siesta time feel in the town.

Having not known what to expect to find here, I had no preconceptions, I have merely arrived.

Samaipata is a Quechua word meaning ‘the height to rest’ and as I gaze into the distance, trying to work out whether the birds circling in the sky above are Condors or vultures, I become aware of the sound of the wind gently blowing through the branches of the pine trees — such a beautiful sound after the virtually non-stop car alarms and firecrackers of Cochabamba. Yes, I think — this is a very good place to rest.

Peluqueria - Super Globo - De Don Francisco

“There are loads of barbers down on San Martin," amigo Pierre tells me. “There’s a place just down on the right with loads of mirrors that looks interesting.”

Sure enough, within 100 yards of Plaza Colon there is an establishment which fits that description — Peluqueria -Super Globo- de Don Francisco — is painted on the window, and also on a sign above the shop front. There are about eight barber chairs, all state of the art — state of the art in 1920s Chicago that is, and the walls are almost entirely lined with mirrors. As it’s still quite early there’s only one guy on duty, and he’s already busy attending to an older gentleman with a head of hair that can still be cut with scissors into something called 'a style.'

I bide my time looking around the interior; the antique barber chairs in slightly differing styles and colours; the reflections in the mirrors; the green marble effect formica counter tops that are cracked and chipped and have the odd tell-tale yellow-brown stain from cigarettes that have been left to burn right down; the ‘kit’ set out on said counter tops in front of each empty chair in preparation; the inevitable girly pinups fixed up with faded brown selotape; a poster of Machu Picchu; and a few framed pencil drawings of hairstyles that were obviously once very fashionable (and most likely still are here in time warp Cochabamba).

An amount of time passes, neither long nor short, but the time that is necessary to pass. There’s only me waiting, and I’m in no hurry.

Then the old(er) guy is putting his jacket on and it’s my turn to step into the chair. As I stand up and hang my jacket on the coat stand I notice that the barber chairs all have their manufacturer’s names in raised letters in the time- and shoe-worn cast aluminium footrests. Mine reads THEO A KOCHS, CHICAGO.

I say “Buenos dias,” and hold out my hand, for I always like to shake hands with a man who is just about to bring sharp things into close proximity with my head, especially razorblades. As he ties on an apron I say, “numero dos por favor,” which is about all I need to get by in any barbers these days.

In the mirror I am confronted by a large round head, which being isolated from its body by the apron doesn’t do it any favours. Its eyes stare straight at mine. Meanwhile the barber unscrews the cap from a small chromium-plated and flask-shaped primus burner on the counter top and fills it with some kind of spirit. Having replaced the cap he gives the handle a few pumps then clicks a lighter in front of the nozzle. A small blue flame erupts into life. In front of this he passes various bits of equipment — the cutting heads, scissors, comb, the cut-throat razorblade holder etc, but I’m sure this is purely for my entertainment, and perhaps an inducement to be generous when tipping.

Cutting heads reunited with the power plant he begins to sweep the machine over my cranium. When he’s done my head looks astonishingly naked, and the eyes in the mirror do not look very impressed with what they see. 

He then wets the skin around my ears and neck and uses the razor to trim up. He trims my eyebrows with scissors, a few hairs spouting from my ears, and then takes me by surprise by sticking them in the end of my nose and trimming those guys too. 

I wonder why it is — and try to express this to my barber — that the older you become your hair doesn’t necessarily grow where you want it to, but from all the places you’d rather it didn’t. 

When he’s all done cutting, trimming and shaving he picks up the spirit lamp (un-lit) and sprays all around where he has shaved, and then for good measure, my entire head. I’ve never had this done before and for a moment I feel very light-headed — and highly inflammable. Suddenly I'm thankful there is no one in close proximity who is just about to light a cigarette. 

We go through the mirror routine, and I nod approvingly, even though I don’t like what I see, but the man has only done what I’ve asked him (except for the nose bit) so I’ve no reason to other than pleased with the job. 

Apron off and standing up (still feeling a bit light-headed from the atomized droplets of spirit), I pay and we shake hands again. I tell him my name for future reference, and he tells me his. It’s very easy to remember — it’s the same as mine but with an “o” on the end. 

I retrieve my jacket and bag, put my hat back on my freshly-trimmed and spirit-cooled head, slide on my shades, and venture forth once more into the streets of Cochabamba.

The Begging Bowl

I’m sitting outside one of the restaurants on the Prado — set meal for 20bs (about £2). I’m not expecting much, and I’m not disappointed.

My bread arrives just ahead of the soup, and sits patiently in its basket, not caring whether I eat it or not.

A woman with a huge bundle on her back (no room for chips on either shoulder), and a young raggedy child in tow, walks between the tables making the time-honoured gesture of the hungry, and then holding out her hand, in the more familiar gesture of those in need of a hand-out.

I give her a chunk of bread, which she accepts, but is obviously not all that impressed as she repeats the earlier gesture combination.
I stand firm, compassion fatigue kicking in.

As she walks away it goes through my mind that she’s probably dumb; it stands to reason, given all the other deformities so common in this town.

I begin tentatively to spoon the soup into my mouth, trying to decode its essentially non-complex taste, and unfamiliar glutinous texture. I try some of the bread with it; I believe this is what you’re supposed to do. Neither the soup nor the bread succeeds in stimulating my appetite.

A boy of indeterminate age (older than five, younger than ten perhaps) approaches my table and holds his hand out.
There is something almost mechanical in his movements, as if he has to make the round of restaurants in a given time, and he can only give each person five seconds to react.
I can hardly pour soup into his hand so I give him a chunk of bread. He doesn’t seem very impressed either, but then, neither am I.

The waiter brings the main course and I eat the rice and vegetables, and the more edible looking parts of the meat.

As I’m poking around at the remains of this with my knife and fork, trying to determine from which part of which animal it used to belong, a little girl appears holding out her plastic begging bowl, which bears the scars of previous hand-outs in the same way an unwashed cat bowl gains a crust.

I can’t tell how old she is either; maybe it’s the world-wary eyes in such a young head, which are barely level with the tabletop.

A bit of eye movement occurs: she looks at the food left on my plate, then at me; I look at her, then at the food left on my plate. It’s the amount of time my brain needs to realise that she wants my leftovers.

The ‘deal’ having been arranged entirely by eye movement, I pick up my plate and use my knife to scrape what’s left of my meal into her bowl, acutely aware that this is something you would usually do for your dog.

She walks away though, seemingly content, and I stare at my empty plate, thinking that this isn’t something that would happen at Jamie’s Italian.

When the dessert arrives, in the shape of a piece of cake, I don’t even bother to try it. I wrap it up in a napkin and wait for the next contender.

It turns out to be the same little girl, bowl empty once more.

I pick up the paper-wrapped cake and put it in her bowl.
She pulls at the paper napkin to see what’s inside (for all she knows it could be a lump of half-chewed gristle).

When she sees it’s an unmolested piece of cake her eyes widen, and I take this to mean that she’s pleasantly surprised.

When she’s gone, I see again her wide-eyed expression, like an after image, and I start to wonder if she’s been studying Charlie Chaplin movies in between her begging forays.

If you want to get ahead get a hat (or a parrot)

So many hats, only one head

Such great style...

Hat stall in the Cancha market Cochabamba...

Out and about in Cochabamba...

...and of course this in Bolivia, so you can wear whatever you like on your head, even a parrot!

Cochabamba audio portrait

As she cycles around the neighbourhood with a pile of newspapers balanced precariously on the handlebars of her bicycle, she calls out — "Los Tiempos" (The Times) - in a long drawn-out call and repeated like a mantra, practised and perfected over many years with only subtle variations in emphasis and duration. The 'Los' is all but lost, as is the final 's' as she hits the note on 'po' and holds it for a few seconds until it fades away. So all I hear is "T-iem-po…….." 

Meanwhile a loose formation of bright green parrots are doing an early morning recce over the city, squawking to each other as only parrots know how — probably one of the squadrons that colonise the tall palm trees on Plaza Colon.

This is followed by the sound of a dull metal clanging: this means there is gas, bottled gas, which like most things here is subject to interruptions in supply and availability. But in an almost comic farce, many who are in need of this essential substance to cook their food, run out from their homes or business premises to find that they are too late — the truck has already driven past, the driver too impatient to wait around for more than a few seconds.

An eruption of fireworks indicates yet another demonstration taking place — these occur very frequently. The protesters use hand-held mortar tubes to launch their pyrotechnics, which shoot up in the air about fifty feet before exploding, usually in a cluster of three and sound like short bursts of gunfire. Sometimes this is accompanied by protest chants, which must have some sort of bonding function for those taking part, for no one else takes the least notice.

Hearing the rapid blast of a bicycle hooter about one o’clock, I know that the little white bread and cake van has arrived and is parked in its usual spot to the side of the Comteco building. At other times of day the bicycle hooter usually means the approach of an ice cream vendor.

"Papaya-papaya-papaya-papaya..." heralds a young woman pushing her wheel barrow loaded with the fruit along the treacherous pavements, the sunlight filtering through the open weave of her broad-rimmed hat scattering speckles of light across her face. Also listen out for, naranja, mango, aguacate (avocado), piña (pineapple) and much more besides.

AT certain times of the day and night you will no doubt encounter the Cochabamba car alarm, a cacophony erupting at random from hundreds of parked cars throughout the city. This is activated by a mosquito landing on the roof of an adjacent building, the wing beats of a passing butterfly, or — the sensitivity setting most popular here — when someone sneezes in Buenos Aires. Needless to say that no one takes the slightest notice, and it only takes about thirty seconds to go through the entire routine of idiotic noises before there is a respite.

(As hard as might be to imagine, like hand grenades and land-mines, someone must actually be responsible for designing these things.)

A woman stands in the same spot every day on the narrow pavement by the convent on Baptista, retching once every second. It sounds like someone trying to grate a rock. Gradually a small amount of frothy white stuff accumulates in a puddle on the paving slab below her, and after a while she reaches down and combs it, one way and the other, as if trying to divine her future. I haven’t seen her for a while, so perhaps whatever it was she saw has come to pass.

An old man lies on the ground under the western colonnade of the Plaza Principal, striking the pavement with his stick in bursts of three, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap. The end of the sick is frayed from this repeated action. His legs and feet are bare, his T-shirt and shorts little more than rags. The white stubble of his beard contrasts with his brown, weather-beaten face. Nevertheless he manages a toothless smile as he holds out his grubby plastic cup in the event that someone might not yet have succumbed to compassion fatigue so early in the day.

The blind piano accordion woman, whose pitch is also along here, is not playing today. Her contribution to this sound portrait must be included by imagination. (She also sings, softly, almost to herself, as her fingers glide over the keys.) 

The blind pianist is here though, playing his tinny-sounding keyboard, propped on his knees, sitting on the pavement outside the Café Paris, his plastic cup equally bereft of coins.

In the Plaza Principal the members of a silver band are lined up, practising for the imminent Carnaval. They are not playing with any particular enthusiasm, so no one listens with much enthusiasm either.

Car horns inevitably interweave the day: a taxi driver is alerting you to his approach, should you require transport services – just jump in, the other passengers will make some space for you; another car approaches a green traffic light and sounds his horn just in case the driver coming the other way is not so attentive to the colour red; a millisecond after the lights have changed to green, every one behind the car at the head of the line cannot resist a blast or three — the mañana principle is somehow lost once behind the wheel of a vehicle.

As dusk falls, the blast of a whistle means the security guard is taking his job reasonably seriously. Another blast at 1am means he is still awake. The almost continuous car alarm from across the street means that someone is going down with a heavy cold in Buenos Aires.

On the Prado each restaurant has its own soundtrack. Outside Restaurant Colon, in the pavement seating area, there is a huge box on wheels, like a gaming machine. It has a TV screen showing someone crooning a song on a stage, somewhere in the land of sequins and mirror balls, the music blasting out at maximum volume, distorting the sound. 

At Tunari a small band has pitched up and are playing some traditional tunes to the assembled diners. Wandering minstrels, with guitars and charangos on their backs, walk on past looking for somewhere else where they can ply their trade.

About 2 am I hear Jimi Hendrix play All Along the Watchtower, and Little Wing played with the volume they deserve: this is Ed, I know just how he feels — and it’s his gift to the night.

Later in the night (or perhaps very early in the morning) I hear a clarinet and a side drum, a laconic trombone and a charango; it’s a mixture of Klezmer and Andean folk music. They are marching up the middle of the street because the bus and taxi drivers are on strike, and in any case, the streets have been blocked off for the parade. Those who are not watching soap operas or the football highlights weep for no apparent reason, but that’s what a clarinet and a charango can do to you if placed in the right hands. The neon lights of the cemetery mausoleum flicker as there is a momentary interruption of current. 

I wake to the beat of a drum, and some brass instruments (a trumpet and a euphonium?) — they are playing Happy Birthday (to someone). 

It’s not long before I hear the first few tentative chirps of the birds heralding the new dawn, and, as the sky lightens, some other familiar sounds: the clang of an empty metal gas canister; the gun-fire crackle of fireworks; the early morning flypast of the parrots squawking to each other with characteristic enthusiasm; and then, that faint, but unmistakable call — "(Los)Ti-em-po.…"

Cristo de la Concordia

As we stand in the slowly diminishing queue for the cable car, I can't help but notice a huge wooden reel of steel cable in the maintenance yard; it's the same cable the gondolas are suspended from. I can't make up my mind if it has been left over from the initial installation — it being cheaper and easier just to leave it here — or they are holding onto it just in case it's needed for repairs.

At 40.4m (including its pedestal) Cristo de la Concordia is the third tallest statue in the southern hemisphere, and deliberately constructed a few centimetres taller than Cristo Redentor in Rio de Janeiro (upon which the Cochabamba version is modelled), but it doesn't have anything like the same wow factor of Corcovado. And there are no sugarloaf mountains here, only San Pedro Hill, where the colossus Christ stands, open armed and watchful of his Cochabamban flock. 

Having said that the panoramic view is impressive - the city laid out beneath, looking quite prosperous from this vantage point, and encircled by the hills and mountains, which are the foothills of the Andes.

Unlike Cristo Redentor, the Cochabamba Cristo is of a hollow construction, allowing visitors (for a small charge), to climb up inside (though only on Sundays). 

A series of rickety spiral metal staircases link the concrete floors, from where it is possible to gaze out from open porthole-esque apertures, though not with much success. 

Unfortunately, the graffiti and the smell of urine may be off putting to some, and a disappointment to the Godly, perhaps seeking some white-light communion by being inside the Christ statue. 

The stairs only go so high, where I was disappointed to find that it is not possible (because of the crisscross of metal beams forming the armature), to walk along the arms and look out from the large holes in the sleeves below the hands. 

And so, even though Cristo may not in my heart, I can now say that I have been to the heart of Cristo, (even if it was a bit smelly).

Watchful Cristo may well be, and a potent symbol of hope to many, but when I see so many people who could do with a little help here, his open armed gesture might as well read, "Okay guys, so just what do you expect me to do about it?"

Bury my heart in Cochabamba

Cochabamba, what a great town: I've only been here for a couple of months and they've already named a street in honour of my birthday.

The real thing?

According to the Lonely Planet 1.5 million kilos of coca leaves are consumed in Bolivia every month, but don’t go looking for a shop with a sign over the door that reads — COCA LEAVES SOLD HERE. Meanwhile Coca-Cola’s red and white logo is emblazoned everywhere, the masthead and de facto flag of cultural imperialism.

The UN Single Convention on narcotic drugs still considers the coca leaf a narcotic and calls for the eradication of coca leaf chewing. And that’s a bit like telling an Englishman to stop drinking tea.

But hang on a minute Rob; aren’t you talking about the notorious coca leaf, reviled by the US and other governments around the world because it is the principle ingredient of Cocaine? Well, yes I am. Only that the coca leaf is considered sacred amongst the Andean peoples, and has been used since pre-Inca times. It plays a key role in many indigenous ceremonies, is used as a stimulant to overcome fatigue, hunger and thirst, and it is considered particularly effect in alleviating the effects of altitude sickness. I can vouch for the latter.

When Coca-Cola was launched its two main ingredients were cocaine, and caffeine. The cocaine came from the coca leaf, and the caffeine from the Kola nut, hence the name Coca-Cola. Here endeth the lesson. My give on this is that if the American Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) had its way the entire coca leaf production in Bolivia, Peru and Columbia would be napalmed, except for its own domestic supply of course — for medicinal purposes and as a flavouring for America’s top brand and global phenomenon.

“In the United States, Stepan Company is the only manufacturing plant authorized by the Federal Government to import and process the coca plant, which it obtains mainly from Peru and, to a lesser extent, Bolivia. Besides producing the coca flavoring agent for Coca-Cola, Stepan Company extracts cocaine from the coca leaves, which it sells to Mallinckrodt, a St. Louis, Missouri pharmaceutical manufacturer that is the only company in the United States licensed to purify cocaine for medicinal use.” (Wikipedia)

During the first prime-time address of his presidency, George Bush, desperate to get some sort of war going, declared a War on Drugs. During Evo Morales first address to the General Assembly of the United Nations he held up a Coca leaf (considered by the US and most of the West to be a class one drug) and said, “It is green, not white like cocaine.”

“The question is not only one of economics. Why should Bolivian coca growers change what they have been growing for centuries in order to appease another state? In essence, the U.S. is holding Bolivia, as well as Peru and Columbia, responsible for its domestic problems of drug abuse.” (Alexandra Dzero, TheSydneyGlobalist)

So: a case of double standards? I think so. America promotes coca eradication as a means to solve some of its internal drug abuse problems, disapproves of the likes of Morales and Chavez for not towing the line, and has not a care in the world about the true significance of the coca leaf to Andean peoples — as long as it can get its own supply.

Sources and further reading:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coca

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/mobile/world-latin-america-12222395

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coca-Cola

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coca_eradication

http://thesydneyglobalist.org/archives/680

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/apr/20/bolivia-financial-aid-us-coca

http://www.tfy.drugsense.org/tfy/bushwar.htm

The washing powder Cristo

Keep your robes whiter than white with OMO, you know it makes sense...

Carnaval

So, after all the preparations, practice, sewing of costumes, and applying of make-up, it's Carnaval time once again. Time to strut your stuff, and maybe drink a beer or three . . .

Martes de Challa

Following on, hot on the burning llama foetus heels of the first Friday of the month, is Martes de Challa (offerings Tuesday — ties in with Shrove Tuesday and Mardi Gras), which is basically a big blow-out for Pachamama (Mother Earth), and not an inconsiderable boost for the retailers who supply all the kit.

Already in full essential Carnaval supply mode, they provide the happy revellers with novelty items such as spray-string and snow to squirt each other with, streamers, balloons (just add water and throw at someone), fireworks, and not forgetting the turbo-charged super-soaker water pistols (believe me size matters), and the plastic coveralls for self protection.

This decorated llama foetus was added to the Challa — composed of the usual mix of incense, sugar tablets with symbols of the things you want favouring with in return for your offerings — and was a special treat for Pachamama. 

As the little corpse turned to carbon, I couldn´t help noticing that a plume of smoke was billowing from its backside, so what ever the sacrificer wishes in turn for their offerings — good luck, money, love etc — the sacrificee may have a slightly different perspective on the whole matter.

Beam me up Scotty... Reflexions on a Theme #1

I boldly walk through the grid-pattern of city streets, where the Colonial façades are, in some places, literally crumbling — debris of fallen masonry scattered over the pavement by Teatro Ache (luckily no blood) — so, this is no New Frontier.

Perhaps a more appropriate mode of transport in which to arrive in Cochabamba would be Dr Who´s Tardis, because I often experience a sense of having travelled back in time here (to an alternative nineteen-fifties perhaps). Step off the busy pavements into one of the many terrazzo-floored arcades, and as the noise from the traffic recedes behind you, so does any connection with reality that you might have become accustomed to.

The Prado Coca Cola

The elaborately costumed dancers may be in full swing in Oruro, but here in Cochabamba the preparations are still underway and the city is curiously quite - except for the guys patrolling the streets throwing water bombs from their cars, and the kids (mainly boys) with their turbo super-soaker water guns, who patrol the pavements, mischievous grins on faces all. 

Meanwhile, Simón José Antonio de la Santísima Trinidad Bolívar y Palacios Ponte y Blanco, or just plain old Símon Bolívar to you and me, stands, arms folded, on top of his plinth amongst the empty stands which line the Prado. He looks on dispassionately, despite being confronted by a large red banner, a potent symbol of the Imperial west, stretched between the palm trees in front of him.

Dried llama feotus anyone?

First Friday of the month (again-already), so it´s time to get down to the Cancha to get your essential supplies for the ritual monthly burnt offering(s).

You could make your own of course (in fact they look a bit like something Blue Peter could have come up with), but this is convenience shopping for city-dwelling Bolivians, who nevertheless still want to pay their respects to Pachamama. 

The rectangular tablets are made of sugar and have symbols in relief. Love, money, cars, houses etc. The basic ¨Here´s one I made earlier¨ kit will suffice, but, a bit like a pizza you can add your favourite toppings... ¨Err, I´ll have a condor, por favour (strength, power, endurance),... some ants (warriors - keepers of the earth)... a turtle (good luck)... a snake (male virility) err... you haven´t got a larger one of those by any chance?... some hearts (love of course)... and better have some $$$$ too.¨
¨Pepper señor?¨ 
¨No better not, might make Pachamama sneeze, then we´d all be in trouble.¨

If you really want to give Pachamama a special treat you might want to add a llama foetus to the challa. Considered sacred by many Bolivians, the llama foetus is the premier good luck charm - buried in the foundations of most houses, given as a gift for a house warming and other special occasions, and also cremated so the smoke will inhabit the house and garden, shop premises, cafe, bar, petrol station, and keep away evil spirits.

Question: ¨What do you do for a living?¨
Answer: ¨Actually, I deal in dried Llama foetuses,¨ - has got to be one of the more unusual dinner party conversation openers, and one I am temped to use when next asked this banal question.

Hey Gringo!

I go to the bus terminal to enquire about buses to Oruro for the famous Carnaval parade the following day, and the answer is ¨Mañana, mañana.¨ It's not possible to purchase a ticket in advance of your proposed journey, only for buses leaving today. 

Outside the terminal, which is not situated in one of the better parts of town, there are plenty of shady-looking characters in the shade (and some are so drunk they are sleeping it off in the shade). 

A guy eyeballs me and in passing says, ¨Hey Gringo!¨ and by the way he says it I do not understand this to be a friendly greeting to a foreigner visiting his country, or a preamble to going for a drink together to discuss commonalities.

So, are we talking stereotypes? It´s certainly true that (at least here in Bolivia), the word mañana does crop up quite a lot, but (I like to think that) most people are far too caught up in the moment to possibly want to do anything other than what they are currently doing (although that may appear to be very little), and tomorrow will obviously be the best time in which to deal with whatever you might want doing now, despite any urgency expressed to the contrary.

As for ¨Hey Gringo!¨ in my six months in South America I have so far experienced very little in the way of aggression (not counting drivers, who seem to have the same problem the world over), overt aggression, or the background variety that has become the norm in the UK. 

I´m not saying it doesn´t exist, and if you were to read the papers, or even the Foreign Office advice to travellers, you would most probably not even be here in the first place. 

In general I have found people to be polite and courteous, and are not usually in so much of a hurry that they can´t stop and chat for a while. Even the security guard outside the bank, in his green military-style uniform, complete with bullet-proof vest, handgun in holster, menacing wrap-around mirror shades, and clutching a pump-action shot gun across his chest, greets me with a friendly ¨Buenos dias señor.¨