The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

People of Bolivia

Before leaving Bolivia I’d like to share my limited observations of my sense of the people I encountered. There are two distinct cultures. The first lives in the Altiplano (high plain). It's situated between the western and eastern range of the Andes. The elevation starts at 10,000 feet above sea level and goes up. This area is predominately indigenous, the Aymara and Quechua (known as Incas) tribes are the majority . The people in the capital, La Paz, are representative of these societies.

 La Paz at 14,000 feet above sea level is 

the "highest" capital in the world

Lake Titicaca in the Altiplano is the highest lake in the world at 11,000 feet

Reed boat cruising Lake Titicaca

These ethnic groups practice traditional customs, speak indigenous languages, and dress distinctly different from Europeans and North Americans. Women wear round, full petticoat dresses, Bower hats, and speak some Spanish, if at all. Men wear fedora hats, dark wool suits from the 1950’s, and speak conversational Spanish, but no English. These cultures are a closed society and not interested in interactions with foreigners. Can you blame them? Last time they accepted outsiders -- Spanish adventurers and conquistadors -- these civilizations were robbed of their lands, mineral wealth (gold and silver), their heritage, their religion and forced to change cultural practices. As much as I tried, I was unable to penetrate the stoic, reserved attitude, and fear of outsiders. In my attempts to converse, I was either ignored or answered in one word (No or Sí) or brief sentences. No one asked any questions or attempted to get to know me.

Indigenous woman dressed in typical clothing of the Altiplano

Since most men have moved to the city for wage employment
 in order to support families, the women do all the manual labor

The people of the Altiplano are very stoic and rarely smile

The second distinct culture is found in the lowlands of Amazonia, over the eastern slope of the Andes. People dress in modern clothing -- jeans (super tight for women), t-shirts, high heels, or athletic footwear. They are literate in western technology, cell phones and Ipods are everywhere. They listen to music from the USA, love watching Hollywood action movies, and follow the latest clothing fashions. They speak fluent Spanish, no indigenous languages, and are learning and speak some English. Generally, they were friendly towards me, talkative and curious about where I live, my travels, how I live in the USA, my work, whether I’m married, how many children I have (what do you mean you have no children? Why?), what type of car I own, and if they go to the USA, will they find work, and how much can they earn.

Juanita owner of Juanita's Hostal (recommended) in Villegrande  

shared stories, laughter, and fellowship

Youth in Santa Cruz (a lowland city) live in the modern world

Modern lowland city of Santa Cruz de la Sierra

People from Santa Cruz are affluent, dress in modern fashion,
and are enjoying a Jazz concert

The Good

Angel is a young man in his early 20’s. He is elegant, patient, kind, and deliberate in his interactions with foreign travelers (when I grow up I want to be like him). He works as the receptionist at Hostal Residencia Bolivar (highly recommend) in Santa Cruz de la Sierra. In addition to Spanish, he speaks conversational German and French. He is studying English, which he finds difficult to master. Angel aspires to work for himself as an independent tour guide, sharing the wonders of Bolivia with visitors. 

Angel an extraordinary young man demonstrating 

his love of Bolivia's rich wild life

I had the good fortune to spend time with him. He tutored and helped me with my Spanish, editing and correcting a short story I wrote in Spanish regarding the conquest of Peru. As we worked together, he encouraged my style of writing. He said it’s “very graphic, dramatic, puts one in the scene, and we're not use to reading this perspective in our language”. He corrected grammar, word usage, while complimenting and motivating me to keep writing in Spanish. Angel supported me  by saying, “your writing voice is very different because of your background as an English writer and North American.” He mentioned that, “some sentences have minor grammatical flaws that wouldn’t be written by a native Spanish writer. But, changing it would distract from your style, your emphasis, and weaken the story that puts the reader in the moment of action. I understood what you wrote and learned details of the conquest of Peru which I didn't know."

I reciprocated and helped him expand his English verbal descriptions and common phrases. When conducting tours, instead of telling an English speaker, “look at that bird”, he wanted to elaborate and give more details such as, “look at that beautiful red bird, with a long yellow beak, short blue legs, and a squawking chirp”. Upon returning to your home country, which description are you going to remember? Angel was conscious, sensitive and concerned that visitors have a positive, enriching experience. He is a young man with tremendous potential. I’m sure that one day he will realize his dream and manage his own tour agency that will be highly regarded.

The Bad

I’m on a semi-deserted street in Santa Cruz, Bolivia. It's the middle of the day and I'm waiting for a local transit bus to take me to the bus terminal to purchase a ticket to Argentina. A taxi pulls up in front of me. The back door opens. A squat, round, short, fat Bolivian, in his 40’s -- looked like a baboon with a beer gut -- wearing a cap with bright yellow letters spelling “Policía” (Police) sits in the back seat. He’s dressed in jeans, blue and red long sleeve plaid shirt, and not in a police uniform. In an aggressive tone he demands, “Did you just come from such and such hotel? Come here I want to talk to you.” He did not get out of the taxi. I tell him I don’t know the hotel. He responds in an angry tone of authority, “I didn’t ask you that. I asked if you came from that direction. Let me see your passport!” He said he was a policeman and quickly flashed an identification. Intuitively, I knew he was not a policeman. He was going to grab my passport, or worst rob me, and make his getaway. USA passports are a highly marketable commodity in the black market. I told him, “No sir, you’re not a policeman! I can’t help you. There comes my bus. I’ve got to go”. (essentially, Manny don’t play that game.) He got mad, shouted some insults and cuss words, slammed the door and speed away.

Authentic street police will always be in uniform

I shared this incident with Angel. He confirmed that police do not drive around in the back of cabs with just a cap saying Policía. Angel said the man was a thief with plans to get a hold of my passport and speed away. He apologized that a Bolivian would pull this scam on me, that it happens often enough, and that I did the right thing to walk away. Lesson learned: legitimate policeman wear uniforms, never approach a tourist asking to see their documents for no reason, are respectful and respond to inquiries in a courteous manner. If you’re ever approached in the above fashion, never, never hand over your documents or possessions. Immediately go to the police in uniform. In tourist areas they are always close by protecting visitors. Do not be intimidated by caps that say Police, identification, or tone of voice. 

The Ugly

Throughout Bolivia, and most countries in Latin America, especially in the Altiplano, I’m challenged by people living in poverty and begging for money. Recently, I gave some money to an indigenous woman who had six young kids ages one to six years old sitting around her on the street. They all looked hungry. When I walked away, she sent four of the children after me. They surrounded me, blocked my path, and pleaded for money: “Something for me”, “I’m hungry”, “Help me, give me some money”. Though I felt guilty, I told them I already gave to their mother. They continued with their appeals, “But not to me!”, “Give me something!” I had to push my way through them with my hand in pocket holding on to my money and camera saying, “No thank you. No thank you.” They continued to follow me for a block, begging the whole way. Bolivians on the street were indifferent and ignored the scene. 

The two Bolivian cultures clash: Indigenous woman

pleading with modern youth for money, they ignored her

At the bus station begging for money

The poverty is hard to witness, upsetting, and leaves one feeling helpless

I hurried down the street feeling frustrated, sad, angry, disappointed, and helpless. What more can I do? What more can my great country of abundance do? There is a limit to what I can afford to give. I finally had to say, “No!”, in a firm, almost angry tone. My final reaction tarnished any feelings of charity. Am I part of the problem by doing nothing more? Do I step up and become part of the solution? How?

One of the many ironies I face is that I have the funds to travel the world, eat well, and enjoy luxuries like clean water, three healthy meals a day, sometimes with dessert, and a secure home to live in. Yet the poor people I encounter in my travels only plead for money to eat one meal a day in order to survive. I’m very disturbed. I have no answers, only questions.

The mountain that eats people

Potosí, Bolivia

It ate me and spit me back out - skin too old, tough and salty. The silver mines of the “Cerro Rico” (rich mountain peak) of Potosí contained the largest and riches deposits ever discovered in the history of humanity. It was well-known by indigenous natives before the Spanish conquest of Bolivia. The Incas discovered it in the 1400’s. The conquistador’s unquenchable thirst and desire for silver created an era of exploitation and development that sent silver all the way to India and helped finance construction of the Taj Mahal. India’s royalty traded spices and silk with European countries for Potosí silver.

The Cerro Rico towers over the city of Potosí

Sixteenth century depiction of Cerro Rico & the growing city of Potosí

Elaborate items made from Potosí silver for those who made fortunes

Sixteenth century Potosí silver coins; they were once
round, but unscrupulous merchants shaved bits & pieces
of silver & resold the ore for a profit

In the 16th to 17th century, Potosí was the largest populated city in the world -- over 250,000 people. It was bigger than the biggest cities of the era, more inhabitants than London, Paris, Madrid, Beijing, and Mexico City. Even though it’s around 14,500 feet above sea level, with thin air to support life, where no agriculture can grow, it lured men and women from all over the world in hope of striking a fortune. It’s estimated that over 8 million (that’s eight million!) miners and workers sacrificed their lives over the course of 500 years in the struggle to pull silver from the bowels of the mountain.

Very little grows in the high plain between the eastern & 

western ranges of the Andes where Potosí is located

An indigenous village located on the way to Potosí;

the place is desolate, wind blown, and a harsh environment to live in

Today, it continues to be worked, with life expectancy of a typical indigenous miner being a little under 40 years old. The city of Potosí, located at the base of the mountain, suffers polluted water and contaminated air from mining operations. People continue to die at an alarming rate at an early age. The “Cerro’s” appetite for human lives will never be satiated.

 There are many indigenous widows in Potosí; their

husbands die in their 30's leaving them with few options for survival

There are fading hints that Potosí was once

one of the riches cities in the world

At night after 30 minutes of sleep I wake in despair and cry out: “I can’t breathe. I’m having a heart attack! It feels like 2 three hundred pound sumo wrestlers are sitting on my chest.” Without sufficient oxygen I can’t think, write, eat or even go to the bathroom. My head is pounding like I’m slamming it against a wall. I’m in bed lying lifeless, disoriented, lethargic, and lacking appetite for food or for living. I’m hyperventilating and can’t catch my normal breathing pattern. I need oxygen. I’m suffering from high altitude sickness. But, there is a cure! Relocate to a lower altitude and quickly before I suffer permanent brain damage. 

The mighty Andes surround Potosí

No matter where you are in the city, the Cerro Rico

forces its presence on you & dwarfs your existence

Even at night the Cerro Rico imposes its will

How could African slaves, indigenous people from low lands, and European indentured servants sustain employment without enough air to breathe? They didn’t! Many lasted between 6 to 9 months, collapsing to a painful death due to mine accidents, mercury poising (used to extract silver ore from rock), lack of oxygen, or just being exhausted from hard, laborious work, with little food and no rest. Without adequate oxygen a person cannot sleep or rest at night unless they’re acclimated. 

Indigenous laborer & African slave work to extract silver from ore

using mercury; this chamber would be filled with mercury fumes,

workers succumbed to an agonizing death after working 6 months

This image was made by a native artist & hangs in the main courtyard

of the Potosí mint; it's features are indigenous and its smirk seems to

be telling the Spanish overlords that it will outlast their dominance

I toured and explored the historical city of Potosí as much as my weakened body allowed, but had to leave earlier than planned. During my travels throughout the Americas, my experience in Potosí was the most distress, fear and risk to my well being that I encountered. I needed to leave in pursuit of the most basic things in life, things we all take for granted -- breathing, sleeping, eating, and having a bowel movement. I would give a year’s salary, no make that ten years, for just the opportunity to experience a full, unlabored breath of fresh, nurturing oxygen. I’m headed for the low lands and don’t care if the air is polluted, as long as I can breathe.

 Manny de rides the bus down to 9,000 feet in pursuit of more oxygen; 

his travel companion is an "Inca" miner suffering lung problems, 

he coughed most of the way until he fell asleep

Trees! That's a good sign, we're down to the tree line & I can feel 

the added oxygen coursing through my lungs 

(Public Health Disclaimer: do not attempt unless you’re in great health and it’s approved by your doctor. You can experience what I did, hold your breath for 45 seconds, then get up and walk rapidly until you count off another 45 seconds. Yes, it’s frightening.)

____________________

The following are a selection of fine textiles from the native people who live in the Andean villages around Potosí. Textiles were very important to Andean cultures. Beyond just a show of wealth and skill, they were made as offerings to the gods and goddesses. The motifs ranged from depictions of everyday scenes, animals, and practices to abstract concepts of cosmology, the supernatural, and an attempt to communicate and explain dreams.

I'm headed back to Santa Cruz de la Sierra in Bolivia. I'll stay one day and night to rest and on to Argentina . . . . . 

Ruta del Ché

Quebrada del Churo, In the mountains of Bolivia

My stomach rumbles with hunger like the sound of stampeding horses. I’m over heating and feel faint, out of water and desperate to quench my dry, cotton mouth and shriveled tongue. My thighs and calves feel like nails are being driven into them, and I still have an hour climb straight uphill before I get relief. I’ve hiked down to a ravine with a small stream flowing through it -- Quebrada del Churo - where Ernesto “Ché” Guevara, the Argentine/Cuban revolutionary, was wounded and captured by the Bolivian army special forces in October 1967. I’m searching the path of the final footsteps of Ché. He spearheaded the route through this remote part of Bolivia in his quest to stimulate a campesino (poor farm worker peasant) revolution of liberation from exploitation and oppression from rich land owning overlords.

Over the first mountain ridge & down to the ravine (Quebrada)

where Ché fought his last battle & was captured

Dusty narrow footpath leading along the mountain;

path traveled by Ché & his band when escaping Bolivian army

The "Quebrada" is the location of Che's last place as a free man

Rosie, indigenous woman campesina guide, leaving distressed Manny de
behind, unwilling to slow down as we climb out of the ravine

Ché had not eaten for three days before his capture. He suffered from an acute, violent asthma attack. He was thirsty, hot with fever, feet swollen from an unknown affliction, and desperate to escape. He was in a constant gun battle with US trained, supplied, and advised Bolivian soldiers. His two bands of guerilla fighters numbered around fifty, fighting a non stop battle against a force of close to five hundred. Ché had badly overestimated the support he would receive from local campesinos. The local, mostly indigenous people did not know who Ché was or that his intentions and ideals where to lift them out of their poverty and unfair treatment. All they saw was an unkept (Ché was notorious for only bathing once a week, less often in the bush), long hair (down passed his shoulders), bearded man, heavily armed, who “stole” their meager crops. Ché and his band of compañeros (brotherly comrades) paid for this raid of crops. But, with US dollars, a currency unknown to local people and therefore worthless to them. They only knew the money of Bolivia -- bolivianos. 

Rugged countryside where Bolivian special forces hunted

Ché in a non stop running gun battle; there was no escape

Photo of Ché "in front of the school as a prisoner and still alive"

Rosie wearing the trademark hat of the indigenous campesinos,

irregardless of my attempts at humor, Rosie never cracked a smile

Rosie, her mother, and Santos (my guide & Rosie's brother), 

a typical campesino family

The campesinos where uneducated, illiterate, and lived sheltered lives in the remote mountains. The government disseminated propaganda through the radio, only form of information in these rural areas at the time, that the foreigners where drug dealers with harmful designs toward the poor farmers. In addition, it was broadcasted that if anyone assisted or failed to notify authorities (police or army) of the movement of Che’s band, they would be punished, beaten and jailed. Their crops and meager shelters would be burned. Ché received little local support. Some campesinos fearing dire consequences informed the police whenever they spotted the compañeros. 

After a fierce gun battle at the Quebrada del Churo, where a number of Che’s band where killed, Ché and two remaining revolutionaries were captured. He was out of ammunition for his 22 caliber short barrel handgun. His rifle had jammed and was worthless, even though he still had bullets for it. He was bleeding red hot blood from leg wounds. He buried his hand gun, perhaps with the expectation that he might retrieve it later. Ché threw up his arms, limbed out from behind the boulder that gave him cover, and announced that he was claiming prisoner of war status, that he was Ché Guevara and “am worth more to Bolivia alive than died.”

Boulder from where Ché made his last stand 

& buried his pistol

Florentino, Santos' father, showing me the spot where 

one of Che's compañeros was killed, note the

bullet holes in the lower left corner

After Che’s capture, he was taken to the small isolated mountain peasant community of La Higuera. A place that today can only be reached after an arduous three hour journey over a dusty, dirt rode that twists through narrow passages clinging to the mountain side. He was strapped to a student’s chair in a rustic school house until Bolivian authorities decide with to do with him. 

La Higuera has less than 100 people, the white building

on the right is a museum and replica of the original school house, 

that has since deteriorated 

Old house similar in size and construction as the 

original school house 

Student chair where Ché was tied for 24 hours until his execution

Tributes erected to honor Ché at La Higuera

There are competing reports of what happened next. Some suggest that maybe the president of the US was consulted. The coded words coming back were: we don’t want Ché to leave Bolivia. The president of Bolivia radioed back to La Higuera to execute Ché, but make it look like he was killed in a gun battle. He was shot nine times in the torse, neck, arms and legs, by a soldier who volunteered to perform the “coup de grace”. Ché was told 30 minutes before his execution that he was to be killed. When the executioner entered the school house, Ché stood up, looked the man in the eyes with his piercing stare. The soldier hesitated, sweat beads formed on his forehead, and started shaking his aim. He felt intimidated that Ché was unrepentant, brave, and challenged him by saying: go ahead and shoot you coward, you’re only killing a man. The soldier fired four times wounding Ché in the lower body. Not crying out as he withered in pain on the floor, the soldier fired five more times, hitting the heart and neck. Ché was died . . . .

Che's dead body being displayed at the 

hospital laundry room at Villegrande

Close up of Che's face with his eyes opened, some people

from Villegrande who came to see the body claimed

his eyes followed you as you passed by

The current state of the laundry room is a sad, desperate place

The wash basin where Ché was displayed to the 

world in order to document his passing

Manny de smoking a cigar in an attempt to lift his spirits

and exercise negative energy from this gloomy, painful place

I had the fortune of having Santos Aguilar as my guide (cell number in Bolivia: 73665987, highly recommend using him as your guide). His father owns, and Santos lives at the Quebrada del Churo. He escorted me through the mountainous region and provided his younger sister (Santos claimed it was too much of a trek for him) to lead me to the place where Ché was taken prisoner. Santos’ father, Florentino, over thirty years ago was preparing the land to plant potatoes after the rains had started, when he discovered something shinny sticking out of the ground in the area where Ché had hid during the final gun battle. It was the long buried hand gun of Ché! Also found were the hoister, with large caliber rifle bullets. Florentino hid the gun for many years, fearing reprisal from the Bolivian government. Only recently, now that the current administration is sympathetic to the plight of poor campesinos, has Florentino started showing the gun to a selected few, trusted individuals. Santos and I had become friends during our romp through the mountains and he asked his father to show me the gun.

 Santos, exceptional guide, who saw Ché alive as he was

being taken prisoner; Santos believes that a little 

of Che's spirit is in him

Che's pistol, holster, and rifle cartridge 

Closer view of the handgun

Note the markings: CAL 22 CORTO (short), 

ARGENTINA (Ché entered Bolivia from Argentina)

Reverse side of the pistol, holster with rifle cartridges

Close up view of reverse side of the weapon

Manny de handling the inoperable pistol, wait!

Is that Che's phantasm seeping out of the barrel?

The pistol is very small & compact, easy to carry when

hiking long distances in mountain terrain 

Looking down the barrel of Che's gun

I handled and touched the last handgun of Ché and felt honored, excited, and humbled. It was last fired by Ché in defense of his life. How many men have been killed by it? It’s weathered, doesn’t work, but was a special, extraordinary moment in my journey. While Ché was feared when he was alive and stocked these mountains, today he is revered by local campesinos, almost to the point that some see him as a “saint”. When Santos, who is a practicing evangelical Catholic, and I began our drive on the dangerous, windy mountain rode, he crossed himself and said, “In the name of God and Ché, we trust you to protect us in our travels.” When we returned to Vallegrande after our expedition, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and gave Santos a modest tip for all his efforts. He did not expect it, was surprised and overjoyed with appreciation and again invoked this “santo” (saint), “Thank you, may God and Ché bless you for your kindness”. He made the sign of the cross, gave me a robust, warm, sweaty hug, and shook my hand.

Santos tells me at night he hears voices and gunfire coming from the Quebrada del Churo. He hears Che’s voice yelling, “This way boys! Over here! Up there are the soldiers. We need to go to higher ground.” Then the darkness is punctured by the sound of rapid gunfire, like machine guns, and returned shoots like from rifles and pistols. At other times, Santos hears, “Take your positions! No one fire until I give the order.” Then he hears the sounds of an exchange of gunfire, followed by screams and yells of people shot, crying out in pain, and laments and longings for dear mothers.

Quebrada where at night Santos claims to hear lingering sounds

of gun battles, men dying and crying out for their mothers

I’ve given some thought to whether I was being tricked into thinking that I was handling the actual handgun of Ché. Also, I’ve done some preliminary research on what happened to Che’s pistol. While many personal articles of Ché have been found, for example, his rifle, diary, pipe and tobacco, personal letters, no one has ever claimed they’ve discovered his pistol. It remains a mystery. The campesinos of the mountains are unsophisticated, simple, honest, poor people, who don’t have the knowledge to fabricate the story or means to access or acquire a handgun -- Bolivia has strong handgun control, with severe penalties if you’re caught with one.

Study the photos, do your research, make your own decision. I believe it is Che’s weapon.

Campesino market in Villegrande

Inside the market

Campesinos shopping for breakfast; they have bread, 

coffee, and vitamin infused juice as their morning meal

I needed protein; there are no restaurants open for breakfast

in Villegrande; an indigenous woman vendor at the market saved me

and graciously was willing to cook me these eggs to start my day.

It's time to leave Bolivia. Are you folks ready to explore Argentina? . . . So am I.