Chewing Coca Leaves in Bolivia

We are in Bolivia, with a golf ball sized mashes of coca leaves in our mouths. Our technique of patiently macerating leaves in our checks is wrong. But we have the right plant ash too add and it barely matters at over 10,000 feet. The effects of coca leaves are still mild.

Nuestro peublo de Tupiza es fuerte con Bolivianos y  pocho viajars. It is a mass majority of local people, which is what we hope for. But it is not Botswana where a white person is a rare or unexpected site.
I have bought clothes for an occasion to be determined. A tea cup felt hat, an oversized poncho and a beautiful blanket. Nothing has cost more than 50 Bolvianos ($7). But the clothes that I buy or wear could not ease the transition. The dress here is thoroughly divided between traditional and western. A common sight is an older Bolivian women in full traditional dress, carrying a huge load on her arched pack. That being said, the traditional dress seems to be heavily influenced by colonial Spanish. The patterns and dress are typically functional blue crossed patterns.

The life here is equitable in its own way. The currency is of low value but all the towns seem fully functioning within it.  There are viable economies based on lower value goods, textiles and food. It reminds me of a fishermen  I was speaking with in Punta del Diablo, Uruguay.  In short, I described overfishing in Canada and he said he typically caught what could be sold locally. It was enough for him and enough for the surrounding community.

It illuminates the industry that we have in Canada. We have embraced intensive farming so that our economy can expand and diversify. We’ve gained a huge amount. The wealth and currency for people like me and Jackson to travel.
What have we lost? Sustainability and a connection to what is essential. In the end, we are luck but are clearly overusing our piece of the pie.

Canadians are foreign creatures in Bolivia. Our seasonal temperatures, location and size are beyond common understanding here. If you ever want to win a bet with a South American, purpose that Canada is bigger than Argentina or even more unbelievable Brazil.

It has been a stark but welcome change from Argentina. The land is rugged and the altitude so much higher (normally over 10,000 ft). The drop in living cost is marked with full meals on the street costing $1.50 or less. We’re hoping to stay in Bolivia for a while, hoping that we’ll get used to the thin air and simple forms of eating and sleeping.

Leaving Argentina

I was startled this morning by a man offering café con leche. It was light outside our bus and the surrounding station was active. My question awoke before I did, ‘Donde estamos?’. The man laughed before he moved on, ‘Jujuy, San Salvador de Jujuy’.
I woke Jackson and we scrambled of the bus, the last to claim our mochilas before our bus departed en route to Bolivia.

We passed through a busy market, not fully awake or receptive. I was wearing colorfully striped pants, slippers on my feet and a headband suspending my hair up and back.

The city we awoke in was too foreign. The faces of the people around us darker and longer than what we were used too. I had read that Jujuy was where Argentina begins to become Bolivia. I felt the transition as a shock, early in the morning.

We attempted to catch a bus to camping out of town. A vendor brought coca leaves to a bus driver, who in turn stuffed the leaves in the side of his mouth. On all streets a small mudslide was being cleaned. Walking over and around the mess, a small part of what has happened all over Peru and Bolivia became reality for us.

The only news which that had made it internationally is the stranding of tourists at Maccu Piccu. Thousands very safely stranded. I was wondering how long is would take the story to surpass Haiti on BBC news. It took less than a day.

We headed out of the busy, muddy city center to find a place to camp.  ‘Today is hippy hang-out day. Everyday is hippy hang-out day.’ is what we started saying in El Bolson. It endures as we continue to camp, wear colorful, dirty clothes and hang out with traveling minstrels.  That day we hiked 16 km in sandals along a riverbed and felt more and more like we were entering the jungle.

We hitchhiked successfully out of Jujuy, sitting in the front of a truck with a garlic farmer. He had indigenous blood, was jovial and loved all the music he played for us. Every few minutes he would change the song and explain to us each of the instruments.
He would let go of the wheel and mimic playing his own instrument, a small guitar with 10 strings.

The buildings are more basic now. Made out of mud bricks and corrugated metal. Surrounding all the existing town are the remains of older Quechan villages.  We are speaking more Spanish with more people, predominantly girls and women. Who knows why it works out like that.

Hippy Paradise, El Bolson

The recommendations to hit up El Bolson came from Woofers and other dirty travelers. We heard it was a hippy community with where everything is homegrown: food, organic products and more.
Juanito (Jackson)  and I arrived in true hippy fashion. We hopped out of the back of a small truck in the middle of town. He was wearing ripped jeans and sandals, I was wearing shorts and slippers. I was sporting a rasta fedora and he just looked dirty. Por supesto, nobody blinked and we eased into the crowd sitting in the park.
The town center is a market and the small park it surrounds. The youth are all bohemian, often with little bohemian babies in tow. We saw 2 large market days. Both times the market was full of wood, leather, metal and other handmade goods. The highlight for us was the food: waffles, baked goods, milanesas, papa fritas, fruit juices and organic beers.
The park in the center was filled with people searching for shade. The main informal event on Saturday was a clown with a trained dog. There was a great ska band Saturday evening. The people skanking had such an intense style. Guys and girls with shaved heads on the side and dreads on the back.

The three Americans that had snubbed us before hitchhiking were at the same campsite as us. We held a grudge as long as we could. The rest of the time we relaxed with them and had several hippy hangout days.