My quest for the origin of the most striking ethnic costumes I encountered at the Oruro Carnival in Bolivia, and for some of the highest quality weavings in the world, lead me to the lovely colonial city of Sucre and the nearby Andean villages of Tarabuco and Candalaria. While in this area I hoped to gain some insight into a lifestyle that prompted such a wealth of creativity and at the same time learn about these weavings. In addition I hoped to purchase some directly from the artesan.
The eight-hour night bus ride from Cochabamba to Sucre on unpaved mountain roads set the scene for my village experiences I was about to have but not for the stunning city I encountered on arrival.
Sucre, the 'Cultural Capital of Bolivia', is situated in a valley at an altitude of 2790 metres. Throughout its history, the city has served as the administrative, legal, religious, cultural and educational centre of the easternmost Spanish territories, hence the reason for its wealth of churches, museums and ancient mansions, all of which are bathed in white. An expansive cathedral with a towering clock and bell tower dominates the tree-studded main square, a favourite hangout in the evenings for hundreds of the university students who flock to this present-day educational centre of Bolivia. As one traveller I met put it well, 'Travelling in Bolivia is potluck. You never know what you'll find at the end of a dirt road.'
The traditional weavings that were sold on the streets by numerous roving 'campesinos', people of pure Indian stock, and the 'artesania' shops which were packed with the same, gave me an immediate indication I was approaching my goal of finding the source of Bolivia's exquisite weavings. It was a visit to the renowned Museo Textil Etnografico (textile museum) that convinced me that the village of Candelaria was where I wanted to spend a couple of days before heading for Tarabuco's popular Sunday market. Little did I know at the time that my main mode of transportation to and from these villages was to be in the back of a 'camion', a flat bed truck, along with the locals, their luggage, and their cargo which included sheep and mules.
The best part of riding in the back of a camion is the view, both inside and out. During the two-hour bumpy ride to Candelaria, inside the open-air vehicle indigenous women were sitting on sacks of cargo while nursing their babies, children huddled around one or both of their parents trying to keep warm, and men chewed on coca leaves. Outside a miniature sculptured canyon with walls that looked like strings of stalactites was in constant view against a blue sky. The road had rivers running over it. The most difficult part of the ride was keeping my balance while standing. Whenever the truck slowed to a crawl I knew it was time to lower my centre of gravity.
It was late afternoon when the driver deposited me on the dirt road and pointed me in the direction of a tiny village nestled on a hillside on the other side of a deep riverbed. I felt a bit of trepidation as the truck disappeared and I was left alone in this strange frontier, not sure of whether or not I would find decent accommodations that night. It was one of those not-so-frequent times that I asked myself, "What am I doing here?"
As I approached the village I heard the rhythmic sounds of chains (inspired by the harsh treatment of slaves in the mines) that had haunted me when I first heard the Tarabuco dancers at the Oruro Carnival a couple of weeks before. Being the only thing of familiarity in my experience at the moment, I felt a sudden sense of relief as it was as if the people of the village were welcoming me. As I followed these sounds, soon the high pitched tone of the flute and a steady drumbeat added to the rhythm. Eventually I reached a schoolyard where twenty men in colourful traditional dress, surrounded by an endearing audience, were gyrating to the music. Their beaded, snug, felt hat, similar to that of the Spanish conquistadores' helmets, their flowing embroidered fabrics cascading down their backs and their high wooden sandals made them stand out among the more conservatively traditionally dressed people. They were celebrating the opening of the new accommodations for the school's teachers.
Within moments I was noticed. This was not surprising as I looked out of place in my gringo clothing and was a head taller than most. Under protest I was immediately ushered by a small boy to a centre seat. All wanted to know why I was there. It was a perfect opening for me to let them know I was in town to buy some weavings and needed a place to sleep that night. From that moment on I was well taken care of.
I was directed down a road that led out of the village to what appeared to be an ancient monastery in disrepair. Once inside a hunched, elderly Mestizo lady escorted me to a spacious double room with private bath which opened to the main courtyard. Would I accept this room with dinner and breakfast for $5? I think so! An acknowledgment on my part was followed shortly by an invitation to the communal kitchen.
Enter the dark ages...a wood burning stove, huge black steaming pots, a smoke-filled room, one light bulb, two old ladies shuffling as they prepared the meal, respectful male employees in colourful ponchos squatting outside the door waiting to be called at the appropriate moment. We all enjoyed steaming vegetable soup and pasta eaten out of hand-crafted ceramic bowls. After dinner she presented me with stacks of traditional weavings for me to consider buying, all of which were made by local villagers. At midnight I could still hear the faint sounds of what seemed like chains in the distance.
The next morning it was an English-speaking visitor who helped me understand that I was staying in a hacienda that had been owned by the Jesuits in the 1600's but was now owned by a private family. This explained the small chapel with the bell tower in the courtyard, the extensive adobe walls that surrounded the complex, and the presence of a horse (along with dogs, cats, donkeys, cows and chickens). Forty hectares was all that was left following land reform years ago.
Word was now out around Candelaria that I was looking to buy. As I roamed the dusty lanes I was constantly invited into the courtyards of adobe houses and presented with traditional woven items ranging from ponchos to coca pouches, some of which were made by children. One family invited me to stay that night in their home. I was intrigued with the idea realizing this would give me a deeper understanding of village life. After confirming that giving me a private room wouldn't inconvenience them too much, and learning that the 'bano' (toilet) was outside the house, I accepted their offer of $2 for the night, including dinner and breakfast.
The Gonzales family seemed like an average Candelarian family having four children including one constantly strapped to its mother's back. Luciano and Sustina's dirt courtyard, which contained little more than a water faucet, had two sheepskins hanging to dry. It was surrounded by four rooms in the kitchen where they sat on the floor while smoke poured out high over their heads, the weaving room, the bedroom and the storage room. Outside were their adobe oven, chicken coup, doorless bano, and a walled area where their two mules resided. Everything in this efficient complex always seemed in its proper place, even the two foot square door that opened from their courtyard to the large vegetable garden. I never noticed this door until a chicken managed to climb the wall and one of the children climbed through the opening to fetch it.
That evening I surprised them with a brief recording of the festivities which had taken place in the schoolyard the day before which I had taped on my miniature tape recorder. Sleeping was not difficult, despite the hard, wooden bed. The most trying experience was when the dog barked as I exited the house to use the bano in the middle of the night. This set off a chain reaction with all the other dogs in the village. I was later told that these dogs only bark at gringos. Terrific, I thought...that means that the entire village knew when I used the bano that night!
The next morning at 6:30 I said goodbye to Sustina, the baby and one child as they set out for their other one-room house and land a kilometre away to work the fields. Luciano's mother
arrived shortly thereafter with a large gourd full of small potatoes and started preparing them for the afternoon meal.
I revisited a family where I had found a beautifully patterned poncho the day before. I will never forget the look of awe on the face of the villager when I handed him 250 Bolivianos ($40) in exchange for his wife's handiwork. It made me wonder if he had ever seen so much money at one time before. I left for Tarabuco that morning with a feeling that I had contributed in some small way to the well being of his family.
Because Tarabuco was hosting a local carnival (the music and dress were similar to what I had encountered on my arrival at Candelaria) and was engulfed in a Sunday market, it was crawling with traditionally dressed villagers from the surrounding area plus many foreigners. I had little reaction when I encountered the locals. But when I set eyes upon the first foreigner, my startled response to this unfamiliar encounter made me realize just how immersed I had been in the indigenous culture the previous couple of days.
Near the end of the day when I was searching for a means of transportation to make my way back to Sucre, I ran into Kathy, an American woman I had met in Sucre a couple of days before. She was part of a tour group and invited me to ride in their luxury bus back to the city. I accepted with gratitude realizing that I was not looking forward to another camion ride. The group consisted of Americans currently living in Bolivia who were on a 'textile tour'. For the next two hours I studied the numerous items they had purchased in the market and from off the backs of people, and learned about them from their tour guide from Sucre, Elizabeth. She turned out to own the hacienda I had stayed at in Candelaria. Elizabeth analyzed the decorative felt hats of the women, some topped with coins, and discussed the origination and quality of patterned cloth, some with zoomorphic designs.
I laughed when Anita, who has bought textiles around the world, told of her experience of negotiating with the Campesinos in the street who speak only Quechua, a language she doesn't know, and who don't understand a calculator. Since she was buying lot in a short period of time and communication was next to impossible, she got to a point where she held out a handful of money and let them take what they wanted (the prices were so reasonable she wasn't worried).
It was as if my three-day journey into the world of Bolivia's textile communities ended in a classroom. I was blessed.
They invited me to join them for dinner in a lovely restaurant that night as their guest. It was the perfect ending to a treasured experience of searching for, and learning about Bolivia's world-renowned weavings.
Reprinted from Merrilee's South American Travel Odyssey available at http://www.iatravel.com/tipssamerica.htm
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