Malingering / Convalescing

Having been in Bolivia since the beginning of the month, the playing of folk instruments has been curiously absent. This morning, however, I was awoken by the loud playing of pan pipes and the beating of a drum at some time before 6am. Cochabamba is certainly not a quiet city, and there is the almost constant noise of traffic and the honking of horns outside our window at all hours of the day. Despite the rude awakening, it didn't change the fact that I felt remarkably better after yesterday's bout of illness. Nevertheless, K insisted that I spend the day recovering strength and so a regime of rest was enforced.

We started the day with fresh fruit and yoghurt, in order to take on some vitamins.

Two litres of yoghurt may be a bit much

Lunch was a similarly healthy affair of spicy tomato and quinoa soup, by which time I was itching to get out for some air.

Quinoa soup

To complement this morning's serenade, a brass band fired up every now and then throughout the day. I presume some manner of event was taking place during the silences, but convalescence did not allow for leaving the confines of the flat.

By the evening, I persuaded K that we should break with the healthy regime and indulged in a vegetarian version of the Cochabamba classic, pique macho. This typically involves bits of beef (here replaced with fake meat), on top of fried potatoes, with onions, bell pepper, spicy locoto pepper, and hardboiled eggs. It also comes in portions large enough that to finish one is considered 'macho'.

Decidedly un-macho vegetarian pique

Ours was considerably smaller and a glass of purely medicinal red wine went rather well with it.

Feeling Poorly

I awoke this morning with a headache, and a stiff neck and jaw. I had slept badly, but the symptoms suggested something more. This is unusual, as I have been healthier on this trip than at home. Whereas I normally succumb to at least a few sore throats, colds and bouts of flu throughout the year in England, especially as the weather turns dark and cold come October, I have been hale and hearty as we have travelled about the world. This particular affliction defied diagnosis, not being flu (no sore throat), nor altitude sickness (we have been above 2,500m for weeks now), nor a stomach bug (thankfully no awful symptoms associated with such sickness).

However, diet plays a big role in health and I feel that our diet in South America has been poor. My first craving this morning was for fresh fruit and vegetables, which is often missing from carb-heavy dishes here. Chile and Bolivia have been heavily bread-focussed, as well as dishing up heaving plates of rice, potatoes, and pasta (or sometimes all three).

I ventured out to the market while I still could and procured fresh ingredients for a salad, as well as some papaya, bananas and pineapple, which are plentiful on every street corner.

Much-needed salad

I languished for the rest of the day on the sofa, before finally succumbing and going to bed.

Mestizo

K prepared us a ridiculously large breakfast this morning, whose size was dictated by the steering-wheel diameter of the bread we picked up at the market.

Breakfast pizza

Set atop the disc of bread were guacamole, salsa, fresh cheese, and a fried egg. It was like a weird pizza-burrito hybrid. With this odd combination of foods, we set the trend for the day of mixing cultures in ways that sometimes clash, other times blend, and frequently dominate.

We set course on foot for north of the river, Río Rocha. The area around and just south of our apartment on Avenida Aroma has the look of somewhere a bit deprived. However, outside of the plush hotels, we these streets fit exactly into our preconception of Bolivia - colourful, vibrant, poor, indigenous, cheerful and bustling. Coming from relatively affluent Chile and knowing of Bolivia's successive loss of land to its neighbours, the impression we had on arriving here did not jar. We have spent the whole of the first week in Cochabamba rubbing shoulders with indigenous-looking people, who wear traditional clothes, and shopping on the same markets as they do.

Bolivianas at the heladería

The Cochabamba north of the river was a shock to us. Over the river, luxury apartments sit between pricey restaurants, gyms, hypermarkets and malls. The advertising has all the subtlety of the North American chains. We reeled but succumbed to the modern café experience that seemed to completely out of place in Bolivia.

The river is not a dividing line, as the roads become less hectic and more salubrious even towards the north of the centre of town, but it is clear that this area is one of the richest. The reason for this soon became apparent when we visited the Palacio Portalis.

European grandeur

In amongst the affluent streets of northern Cochabamba is the pinnacle of opulence, the yellow Palacio Portalis. Set among magnificent grounds, this house, built by a Bolivian tin magnate but never used by the family, was once on the outskirts of the city amid rolling fields. The neighbourhood grew up around it and its splendour influenced all around.

Palacio entrance

Sadly no photographs are allowed inside the 'palace' but suffice it to say that the interior decoration far surpasses the outside in magnificence. All but the structure was brought over from Europe during the 1920s - an age in which it appears that all the world was in thrall to the Italian style. High ceilings, silk wallpaper, imported marble, crystal chandeliers, paintings in the neoclassical style - everything was carefully designed and assembled to mimic the decadence of European palaces. Artists arrived from Europe to adorn the walls and ceilings with their works.

Owing to circumstances, the family did not use the house, which was kept empty for forty years. This fallow period, coupled with the dry environment in Cochabamba, mean that the insides are in pristine condition. Nowadays, the building has been repurposed as a cultural centre and, aside from guided tours, concerts and performances can be held inside or in the open-air garden theatre for free.

On leaving the house, our next port of call was another European import - Kropls Bierhaus. Modelled on a German beer hall, this is a brewpub in the modern Recoleta Boulevard serving up a range of typical styles, including a dunkel and a stout. Given the quality of these styles of beers available in Europe, these could hardly compete and were largely over sweet, which might have something to do with domestic tastes. Finding that we are from the UK, the owner lamented the lack of quality ingredients in Bolivia - the cost of hops is 70USD per kilo and there is little in the way of good malt in the country. I commiserated and noted (internally) that the pub was empty aside from us. This, the landlord assured us, was not due to the quality of the beer. There is a music festival in town and all of Cochabamba will be there.

Hearing the news of a fiesta de música, we headed directly to Plazuela de Granada, immediately outside the Spanish convent. This was only one of the town squares in which a stage had been erected for the three-day event.

The crowd on Plaza de Granada

Each square had a particular musical focus - some playing host to rock and metal, while Plaza de Granada had a jazz-blues vibe. Oddly, looking at the programme, there was to be no 'traditional' Bolivian music - nor anything that I would describe as Latin American. Was this a result of European/North American musical hegemony or simply an expression of the collective musical tastes of the Cochabambinos? I looked around at the crowd and didn't see a single indigenous face. While our first impression of the city bore out the almost 90% ethnic (Quechua and Aymara) population statistic, the mix of the crowds attending cultural events such as this or the play we saw yesterday is almost exclusively mestizo. Mestizo is the word used by the Spanish to describe those of mixed European and indigenous (Amerindian) descent.

Jazz on the square

Having performed on stage, some of the acts were to splinter off into isolated venues - cafés and bars - to continue their set. We repaired to Mocafé for some food and to wait for the Pepe Padilla Ensemble to arrive. We snacked on nachos and quesadilla and awaited the band.

Bolivia were playing Chile in the Copa América, which was naturally being broadcast to all TV sets in the country, including the one in the café. Eventually the band arrived with gear, struck up for one tune then broke off to gather around one table and watch the end of the match. Bolivia suffered a humiliating 5-0 defeat. The band left the café and their instruments.

No hay banda

With no sign of their returning any time soon, we paid and made to leave as well. The festival was still in full flow, but the night was cold and the music moved on beyond our tastes, so we ventured home.

It was strange day of cultural expectations being overturned and of the juxtaposition of familiar aspects with what is unarguably a country of unique customs and people. Bolivia is at once exactly as we expected it to be - full of traditional dress, astonishing landscapes, and bustling marketplaces - and also disconcertingly familiar - with its Renaissance palaces, 'western' malls, European music, and Iberian looks. The familiarity trips us up sometimes.

Absurdist Nonsense

This morning we decided to visit the botanic garden in Cochabamba, towards the north of centre. The Martín Cárdenas gardens, named after the Bolivian botanist born just before the turn of the 20th century, is a peaceful and well-kept green space in the city.

Despite the tranquilo atmosphere, there was plenty of work going on in the gardens. Gardeners tended to the plants, while work continued on the construction of greenhouses for more varieties. A large range of cacti dominates one end of the gardens, while the beneficent face of the Cristo de la Concordia looks down over this and the rest of the city.

Martín Cárdenas botanic gardens

Re-entering the bustling centre of town, we stopped at Gopal's vegetarian restaurant for lunch at another quiet spot in a delightful secluded courtyard tucked away off Calle España. Only open for lunch, Gopal's offers a buffet for 20bs. A smiley lady gave me a school dinners-style tray and a bowl which I filled with wholemeal bread, cream of vegetable soup, a mix of many delicious salads, wholegrain rice and a skewer (brocheta) of fake meat with peppers and banana in salsa de maní (peanut sauce). We sat and enjoyed the healthy, filling and tasty feast.

Veggie feast

Afters

In the evening we made our way to mARTadero - the nearby arts and performance space - for the first night in a three-day run of La Cantante Calva. While we were keen to experience some theatre and equally in need of improving our Spanish, we were concerned that our limited abilities would preclude deriving substantial edification from the piece. We need not worry, said the man at the box office, it is an absurdist piece, so.it probably won't make sense anyway. It turned out to be a Spanish rendering of The Bald Soprano by noted avant-gardist Eugène Ionesco.

Sample dialogue:

SRA. MARTIN: Puedo comprar un cuchillo de bolsillo para mi hermano, pero ustedes no pueden comprar Irlanda para su abuelo.
SR. SMITH: Se camina con los pies, pero se calienta mediante la electricidad o el carbón.
SR. MARTIN: El que compra hoy un buey tendrá mañana un huevo.
SRA. SMITH: En la vida hay que mirar por la ventana.
SRA. MARTIN: Se puede sentar en la silla, mientras que la silla no puede hacerlo.
SR. SMITH: Siempre hay que pensar en todo.
SR. MARTIN:
El techo está arriba y el piso está abajo. . .
SRA. SMITH: Cuando digo que sí es una manera de hablar.
SRA. MARTIN: A cada uno su destino.
SR. SMITH: Tomen un círculo, acarícienlo, y se hará un círculo vicioso.

Which of course translates as:

MRS. MARTIN: I can buy a pocketknife for my brother, but you can't buy Ireland for your grandfather.
MR. SMITH: One walks on his feet, but one heats with electricity or coal.
MR. MARTIN: He who sells an ox today, will have an egg tomorrow.
MRS. SMITH: In real life, one must look out of the window.
MRS. MARTIN: One can sit down on a chair, when the chair doesn't have any.
MR. SMITH: One must always think of everything.
MR. MARTIN: The ceiling is above, the floor is below.
MRS. SMITH: When I say yes, it's only a manner of speaking.
MRS. MARTIN: To each his own.
MR. SMITH: Take a circle, caress it, and it will turn vicious.

Improve our Spanish, needless to say, it most certainly did not. However, we found that we grasped much of the dialogue at face value, but discounted our understanding as wrong, since the conversations are full of contradictions and non sequiturs.

The play arose through Ionesco's own battle with a foreign language. He attempted to learn English with the aid of the textbook L'anglais sans peine, the contents of which would form the basis of his first play satirising the banality of bourgeois conversation. The book illustrated the language to him by way of phrases uttered between the aforementioned couples (the Martins and the Smiths), but which  were ultimately as empty and meaningless as the absurdist and disjointed back-and-forth between the characters as parodied in La Cantante Calva. Ionesco played on this idea of discussion without meaning by having the characters simply announce and affirm obvious truths as though to highlight the pointless way in which language is often used to fill the days between birth and death without significant analysis or insight. It almost makes one wonder why one bothers drawing breath to share such mundane inanities. Or inane mundanities. Whatever. The ceiling is above, the floor is below. Now let that be an end to it.

Get Thee to the Nunnery

K prepared us a hearty dish of Spanish omelette and bread for breakfast this morning.

Eggy goodness

Taking a walk around town, we attempted to visit some of the smaller museums and cultural spaces, but found ourselves thwarted by inexplicably closed doors or imprecise directions.

Waiting for the afternoon tour at the Convent of Santa Teresa, we settled in at Mocafé in a charming hidden courtyard off Calle España.

Cream with everything

The convent is a nunnery of the Carmelite order and is essentially a church within a church, as the first building was never completed - most notably its roof - and the original architects absconded with the plans, so a second building was constructed around the first. The convent currently houses six nuns, significantly less than the decreed maximum of 21.

Convento Santa Teresa

Little is known about the early days of the convent, so our guide conjectured about a number of things, although could not offer a reason for the curious sight of six Marias, one of which is blindfolded. However, a passageway where marks from fingernails were found is assumed to have been blocked off for incarceration and punishment of the sisters.

A hierarchy was developed within the convent - some sisters had to pay for entry (a dowry), while some received rooms twice the size as others, as well as other privileges, depending on their family's social status. The hierarchy was apparent by the sisters' dress, some of whom wore black veils, while others wore white.

For a long while since the convent's inauguration in 1760, it was common for families to send their second daughter to the convent. It was a great privilege for the family left behind, but I'm not sure about for those inside.

Absolutely no contact with the outside world was permitted. When hearing mass or singing in the choir, the sisters would sit in a separate room, veiled off from the public space and the priests. Confession and communion would be taken in a similarly segregated fashion. A small revolving door in the wall of the convent would allow the nuns to exchange goods and money with the outside world, whether buying or selling. When talking to visitors, such as family, no visual contact was allowed and a "listening nun" would eavesdrop on all conversations and report back to the Mother Superior. Only in extreme cases would a doctor be allowed to see and treat to a nun.

Nowadays, the nuns can choose whether to cloister themselves away or to make their own way through the streets of Cochabamba. Despite the other restrictions, I almost envied the nuns as we made our way to the marketplace today, which seemed especially busy and chaotic today, as it straddles two sides of a main road that was clogged with people, cars and an endless stream of micros - shared minivan buses advertising their destination in the front window.

Having stocked up, dinner was a spicy rice soup made with mote blanco (a supersized, chewy corn), tomatoes and green beans. Some ají amarillo (yellow pepper) sauce we bought from the market gave a Tabasco-like flavour to the soup but was disappointingly mild. A dose of red locoto pepper (much like a Scotch bonnet) soon upped the Scovilles.

A pair of Stiers

The soup went well with beers from Stier brewery bought at the Spitting Llama bookshop and outfitters (and purveyors of craft beer). Stier is apparently an enterprise of three enterprising ex-pats now married to Cochabambinas. The more interesting labels are also designed locally by Arte Urquidi. Their honey beer tasted more like a wheat beer, but was incredibly moreish, while the strong ale (7.5%) lacked the richness of the Belgian style, instead favouring a vinous taste.

Christ of the Concords

Inspired by the sight of people on the street tucking into mid-morning bowls of quinoa, we made our own breakfast of the 'ancient grain' topped with a soft boiled egg, served with avocado and bread.

Superbreakfast

This meal set us up for a walk to the east end of town to the hill Cerro San Pedro, which is surmounted by a large statue of Jesus Christ, his arms outstretched over the city, mimicking the pose of Christ the Redeemer, the statue in Rio de Janeiro. This statue is 34.2 metres tall, outstripping the 30m Brazilian version.

Cristo de la Concordia

A teleférico (cable car) took us to the top of the hill because, as many signs around the base were at pains to warn us of the potentially dangerous 'delinquents' that apparently loiter around the steps that climb the hillside.

Tourism. This is how it's done

On Sundays there is a mass held at the base of the statue, but the top of the hill seemed to be a draw for locals and tourists alike every day of the week.

Taking in the view

Despite the grave warnings, we took a walk along the Circuito de Bolivia around the base of the hill, as far as the open-air theatre and Laguna Alalay.

Laguna Alalay

Special areas of town seem to be dedicated to certain things. Near our apartment, there is an area in which every shop is a car mechanic's. In town, watch repairmen line the pavement of a particular street, apparently unaware of each other. Where we walked today seemed to have a high concentration of ice cream and cake vendors. Having no need of car or watch repair, we indulged in some most welcome ice cream at the hottest part of the day.

Wearing bowler hats. How Bolivians roll

Close to our apartment is the former matadero, or slaughterhouse, which has thankfully been repurposed as an arts and cultural space, punningly named mARTadero. As with many such cultural spaces, their influence bleeds into the surrounding neighbourhood and we passed many colourful murals.

Bolivian motifs

We dropped by to enquire about an upcoming theatre event - a disconcertingly Spanish absurdist performance - but ended up enjoying a selection of weird, sardonic and philosophical comics from South American countries.

Dinner was 'berenjena rellena' - a favourite of mine when aubergines are abundant - stuffed with cheese, onion, tomato and coriander, served alongside rice.

Is there nothing that cannot be stuffed inside an aubergine? 

At the Cocha, Cochabamba

Today was orientation time in the Bolivian town of Cochabamba. It is great to be in our own flat again and to have control over space and meals. Breakfast was fried egg, avocado and bread, with some puffy cereals that everyone everywhere in Cochabamba seems to sell.

Breakfast 'Bolivian' style

We walked the few blocks into the centre of town - the city is mostly based on a grid system, which occasionally gives room for a grand square or two.

Plaza de 14 Septiembre

To help our orientation, we searched for tourist information centres indicated on the map. However, our search was in vain as most were nonexistent or turned out to be a small booth, which was closed.

Fruit and juice for sale

Most people seem to sell things from carts or stalls on the side of the street or at the marketplace. However, as we progressed north of the centre, into the more well-off area of town, the small tiendas give way to boutiques and supermarkets.

Plaza Colón

We dropped in to Hipermaxi supermarket to pick up a few items more difficult to find on the street. We soon discovered that everything is at least double the price on the shelf and fancy imported items are extravagantly priced. Nevertheless, we bought a few things and tried to pay on credit card, but also discovered that the Bolivian anti-money laundering system requires identification. Without a passport, we paid using effectivo and went to the market for some reasonably priced items.

Flowers for sale

At the market, we had some friendly conversations with the (exclusively female) stallholders, who did not seem accustomed to gringo faces poking about the produce. Dealing with transactions is now a lot easier since we left Chile and the prices have dropped by two orders of magnitude, from approximately 1000 pesos for every pound sterling to 10 bolivianos. Also, Bolivian Bolivianos are known as BOBs, which amuses me greatly.

Hats

From one seller near our house, we got a couple of cups of mocochinchi. This is a drink made from dried peach (a lot like mote con huesillo) spiced with cinnamon. This version also had half a pear floating in it, which went superbly with the warming spice. Apparently the Bolivian people have been encouraged to drink this and other traditional beverages in an effort to rid the country of Coca-Cola. This is a slight failure, as Coke and its branding are everywhere, even supplying much of the bottled water consumed here. It might also be a good idea to wage war on Nescafé, whose café instantáneo is pervasive, while Bolivian-grown coffee beans are nowhere to be found.

Avenida Aroma, on which we are staying, lies on the boundary between the town centre to the north and a distinctly sketchy looking area to the south around the bus station. We have been sensible and safe thus far but decided to head north when agreeing to meet up with some friends we had met in San Pedro.

The couple happened to be in Cochabamba before moving on to La Paz tomorrow, so we met for dinner. None of us knowing any better alternative - and knowing that much of Bolivian cuisine is centred on meat - we suggested going to Tulasi vegetarian restaurant, which we had passed earlier in the day.

Tulasi is a Hare Krishna restaurant, in the mould that we have come quite familiar with by now - bright lighting, simple tables, and posters extolling the virtues of a vegan diet and the ills of the meat industry. As is also typical, the place was empty and the owners were idiosyncratic.  The reception was odd and the owners seemed positively baffled that we might choose this place over all the other more tourist-friendly venues.

Even after our friends had arrived, whose Spanish is a little better than ours, we struggled to make ourselves understood and concluded that the waitress may only speak Quechua, the indigenous language. To keep things simple, we all ordered silpancho - originally a Quechua dish from Cochabamba that is, as seems to be the Bolivian predilection, high in carbohydrates. In the meaty version, silpancho is a plate of rice layered with sliced boiled and fried potatoes that are then covered with an enormous patty of minced beef mixed with breadcrumbs, topped with a fried egg (or two) and a 'salad' of cubed tomatoes and onion. This vegan version sadly omitted the eggs and came with cold rice, one cold potato, an admittedly tasty lentil patty standing in for the beef, and a few scraps of tomato - even in the original, the vegetables play second fiddle. Still, we couldn't complain, as, with soup, we paid the princely sum of 10 BOBs each. This left us with enough cash to go a few doors down to Café Paris on Plaza 14 de Septiembre, which seems to occupy the same world as the locations in the film Amélie. Despite feeling completely at odds with the surrounding Bolivian culture, we indulged in their long menu of fancy coffees and tempting crêpes.