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Although the last stop on our journey, Santa Ana de Chipaya - a remote indian town in the Department of Oruro, is located north of Coquesa, our route there took us first west almost to the Chilean border to the town of LLica. We spent a night in LLica. Like many towns and villages on the Altiplano, LLica is dry, beige, and dusty. Its main claims to fame are the rural teacher's college and the army base located there. A small service industry - stores, restaurants, bars, and hotels - should have grown up around such institutions. Wrong, there are few facilities for visitors. It is as if the inhabitants have gone out of their way to make LLica as non-descript and unappealing as possible. There are only two places to stay; we stayed in a grubby room behind the mayor's office. As Maria was ill, we looked around for a restaurant only to finally give up and return to our digs to scarf up the meal she'd prepared knowing full well we'd be back.

Our walk had convinced us that there was not much to see or - we went to bed early and left early the next morning. We headed north, once again skirting the Chilean border. After crossing some low lying hills we came to the Salar de Coipasa. Although smaller than the Salar de Uyuni, the Salar de Coipasa is another flat, crystalline-white plain that stretches off past the horizon. It is about 35 miles in diameter and has a large volcano poking up out of its center. Because much of the salar was flooded we headed north along its western edge rather than crossing it. The lands to the south were empty lands but there was an appealing, park-like quality to them. We were now traveling through terrain was more desolate and forbidding than anything we'd seen before...and yet, even here, highland Indians found a way to scratch out a living. Although the land seemed devoid of people, we passed fields - not green fields, mind you, but dry, sandy plots extending right to the edge of the salar. Could anything grow here? Our guide assured us that they had been planted with quinoa - perhaps though, it was going to be a bad year.

We continued north - seemingly feeling our way. At times we crossed the Chilean frontier - there was nothing save a marker to signal this crossing...and surprisingly, mine fields. Yes, mine fields; tension has existed between Chile and Bolivia since Chile took Bolivia's coastal province in the War of the Pacific (1880). In fact, Bolivian access to the sea was one of the major issues between the two countries when I lived here in the 1960s, and lo, it is one of the major issues today. However, it is hard to imagine Bolivian troops racing across this frontier attempting to retake Antofagasta, and it is equally difficult to believe the mine fields would stop them if they did (the mine fields, Chilean, were neatly fenced off and displayed warnings.)

As we continued north, we reached a region where sand, salt, and dirty scrublands merged into a desolate, uninhabitable jumble. Surprise...families of rheas (large, flightless birds) startled by our jeep, ran off toward the horizon - father and mother raced ahead in a wobbling but rapid gait, their chicks doing the best they could behind them. It's hard to imagine how they survived here?


The Salar de Coipasa, Bolivia's second largest salar. The volcano at its center can be seen in the two photos on the left. The water on the salar can be seen in the center photo. To the right, a Quinoa field.
	To the left: The Chilean/Bolivian frontier is marked by the orange tower. Anne and Fidel are standing in a quinoa field. To the right: The northwest corner of the Salar de Coipasa.
	To the left: Maria and Fidel. Fidel was the oldest of our guides - he turned out to be a jokester, who found most things, and particularly gringoes, amusing. To the right: A Rhea. This was taken at the Isla de los Pescadores where rheas are accustomed to people. Out on the saltflats, rheas panic at the sight of jeeps and people.

We continued skirting the salar. We were now heading east along its northern flanks. President Quiroga had initiated a project that would pave the road (yes, there actually was a dirt road) that we were now taking, but as yet, it had had no effect on the region. There were a few small towns and some had stores and restaurants that catered to the infrequent trucks that grunted their way along this route. When the road is paved, it will connect Oruro with Chile.

Once to the northeast of the salar, we veered south off the "highway" out onto a vast dry plain. We were now approaching Santa Ana. Fidel and Maria had never liked the idea of visiting the Chipaya. Upon arriving it would be necessary to visit the mayor to get permission to stay. A small gift to the community would also be negotiated. It was uncertain that Fidel and Maria would be successful in these negotiations and the Chipaya strictly enforced the rules. If the mayor didn't like you, you had to leave. Once a member of the Chipaya brought a friend (scientist) for a visit and he was evicted because he failed to visit the mayor. Fidel and Maria were clearly afraid of the Chipaya and dreaded the task at hand - the usually-amused Fidel grew more somber as we approached Santa Ana.


A small town near the Salar de Coipasa.	Shortly after turning off the highway we stopped for lunch - not much shade out here. Our stop was near the abandoned structure in the photo on the right. One often finds abandoned, half-built structures in the most unlikely places in rural Bolivia.

Although we assumed Santa Ana was close once we turned off the highway, we crossed the plain for hours - as the hills diminished toward the horizon, all vegetation disappeared except for a ground-hugging, moss-like grass that seemed no more than green paint on the land. Finally, igloo shaped structures, Chipaya homesteads, began to appear scattered off in the distance. Unlike most campesinos, the rural Chipaya live in these round structures. They are made of sod rather than the ubiquitous adobe. Thus, the grass that coated the landscape plays an important role in the lives of these people; it is cut out of the earth in rectangular blocks to make homes and enclosures for livestock.

Finally, Santa Ana appeared on the horizon, identifiable by a cluster of buildings and steeples. We wheeled into the small town. Fidel had only been here twice before but found his way to the central plaza. As he left us to find the mayor, the unfriendly Chipaya began to appear. The very shy women and children began to crowd around the car asking us loads of questions. We had parked near the plaza which was crowded with people and from which emanated the shrill, incessant bleating of indigenous flute-like instrument called a tarka. We had arrived during a fiesta, the Chipaya were celebrating the receipt of aid to rebuild from a disastrous flood that had occurred the year before. Flood? Out here!

We huddled around the car for a few moments unsure of the protocol. Then we cautiously made our way out to the plaza and hunkered inconspicuously against a wall fearful that we were overstepping some invisible boundary that would offend these standoffish people. Such boundaries were all the more mysterious because everyone seemed so friendly.

It is unclear exactly what happened - maybe it was because there was a celebration and everyone was drunk, because the Chipaya thought we were strangers bearing gifts, because we were such nice people, or because the unfriendliness is a put-on or a myth. Whatever, we had a great time and were warmly welcomed.

Santa Ana is a legitimate small town - its plaza is the usual barren square surrounded by buildings - a city hall, stores, an Entel (telephone) office. Unlike the round rural structures, the buildings in town are square. There is a beautiful old Catholic Church and an ugly new Catholic Church. Nuns from Canada are stationed here and seem to be an important part of the community. We met a young woman whose baby had been sent to the USA by the nuns to receive an operation. The baby was to return to Bolivia in a few days and the woman was upset because she didn't have the money to go to La Paz to meet her - we gave her some money. There is also a small Evangelical Christian Church and we were told by someone that the Chipaya are now 80% Evangelical Christian. Electricity is limited and there is no running water. Public toilets consist of 4 pits just out of town, one in each cardinal direction from the plaza.


Santa Ana de Chipaya		The modern, brick school seems out of place in Santa Ana.
The old Catholic Church.	The Evangelical Church	The Entel Office, from this building you can call anywhere on earth.

When we arrived, a native band was playing at each corner of the plaza. Each band represented one of the Chipaya's 4 allyus (or communities) which are located as far away from Santa Ana as a 3-hour walk. I had assumed that the Chipaya were in decline. However, I was told that the original allyu had divided into 4 because of population growth. It is hard to imagine why there is population growth in such a sparse region.

Each band played bleating tarkas to the strong cadence set by the banging of a drum. All bands played the same, repetitious music. While playing, the bands danced in a circle before a table of allyu dignitaries.

This scene is typical of the rural highland celebrations. Although the music differs from region to region, bands from the same region all use the same instruments to play the same single tune over and over while doing the same dance. The only variation comes about as band members fade out or drop out due to the prodigious amounts of alcohol consumed.

Felix with his Tarka. Tarkas are common highland instruments and are the mainstays of Chipaya music.

We talked to people as we circulated from allyu to allyu around the square, Paulette passed out candy and cigarettes. A couple of hours after we arrived the public celebration ended - the allyus filed out of the plaza. Fidel had met the mayor - we had a room in the city hall; given the chaos of the day, our donation would be determined tomorrow. It was not a great room and came with no modern conveniences - it was the Ritz compared to our room at LLica. Then near disaster struck.

We had eaten and celebrated another day with a round of Frangelico (we'd nursed this bottle all the way from Uyuni.) It was getting dark; Paulette and Anne left looking for the pit to the east of town. Then I left too, and when I did, I closed the door. Oh oh, I thought immediately. I tried the door - sure enough, it was locked. Did we have a key? I visited Fidel and Maria - no, we didn't have a key, we were locked out!

It seemed a simple matter - Fidel needed to find the mayor and get the key. He didn't know where the mayor was. We asked and was told he was in a hall down the street. However, Fidel balked again. He was afraid of the Chipaya. Finally, he and Maria left. They returned a short time later, making some excuse about the lack of success. I decided I'd have to find the mayor, Marie and Fidel decided they'd go with me. We headed for the hall. There was a party inside. Here the music was non-traditional; the hall was stuffed with people talking, dancing, drinking, and smoking. When we asked about the mayor, we were told he was inside...Fidel and Maria refused to enter. We asked someone to get the mayor - no one seemed capable of carrying out this task due to alcohol-diminished attention spans.

Not having a clue of what the mayor looked like, I finally plunged into the smoke-filled room. This too, turned out to be typical of rural highland fiestas; when a gringo goes to a party, he not only attracts attention but also becomes the guest of honor. My requests to speak to the mayor went largely ignored. Instead, a drink appeared in my hand...and another and another. A ancient old woman came up and danced with me. This was reminiscent of Peace Corps days - you could be innocently walking along minding your own business one minute - the next, be trapped in a knock'm-down-drag'm-out, drunken, all-night brawl. The trick was to extricate yourself before you were too blotto to try, and to do so without offending anyone. Things hadn't changed a bit.

Success! I escaped with someone who identified himself as the Corrigador of Santa Ana, an allyu official rather than the mayor. He was drunk, clingy, belligerent, and insisted on helping us. We returned to the city hall, he fumbled with a bunch of keys - some fit the lock but would not turn it. This made him angry and insistent. Finally, he he gave up and wandered off.

Fidel and Maria offered us their room, they would stay in the jeep. No, no, I said, we'll stay in the jeep, body heat will keep us warm. I'm not sure Anne or Paulette appreciated my generosity, and I know they didn't appreciate my locking the door; it was very windy, and with the sun now down, getting very cold. We stopped a kid and explained our problem - we asked him to find the person with the key. After explaining where he thought the person lived, he headed off on his task.

Time passed. Nothing happened. The jeep looked increasingly cold and uninviting. Anne and I headed off looking for the key. No luck.

Upon returning, we found the door open, two women stood in the doorway to our room and the mayor and two others were smoking cigarettes with Paulette. Whew! So anyway, we ended up sleeping in our room. The next morning, the mayor was not to be found; he was busy sleeping off yesterday's celebration. We left something with another official and headed northeast across the Altiplano. Six hours later we arrived in Oruro.


The mayor of Santa Ana de Chipaya (right.)	Paulette with three Chipayas (second from right.)	Anne and Chipaya woman.


These are Chipaya homesteads. Later, we saw similar structures on our way to Oruro.

Bolivia, 2001