Hugo and the inorganic farm

A few hours north of Cordoba is a place called San Marcos Sierra.

In September, we decided to spend two weeks working on an organic farm in an area of San Marcos Sierra, known as Rio Quilpo. We signed up through WWOOF Argentina ("Willing Workers on Organic Farms"), after trawling through about fifty possible farms, and we'd spoken to Hugo, the owner of the farm, a couple of times on the phone. I was excited at the prospect of doing some actual physical work - picking fruit, gardening, construction, cooking. I couldn't wait to get there.

We took a three hour bus to San Marcos Sierra, which broke down. We switched buses and continued on to where we were meant to meet Hugo, who wasn't there. We walked for four hours on the dusty road to get to his farm. I was very inappropriately dressed in jeans and jandals but at least we didn't have our bags, since we'd accidentally (but as it turns out, rather conveniently) left them on the other bus.

Eventually we got there. By this time I had fairly low expectations, but when we saw the place I was still overwhelmingly disappointed. It wasn't even a farm, let alone an organic farm - there were no plants, no garden, no greenery. It was a barren, dusty plot of land by a river. The only people there were Hugo, his 'woman', her son, and another guy called something like 'Hubano' who was helping out. The only animals were five mangy dogs.

Hugo was around his early 40's, with long, greasy gray hair, a beard, and a pot belly. When we turned up he was holding a bird with a broken wing. (I have no idea what he intended to do with it, because I highly doubt that he had any medical knowledge whatsoever that would have helped it). He showed us the room we were going to stay in. Suprisingly, there was an ensuite, though this was the one redeeming feature of the place. It had bunk beds with no sheets and no pillows, some scratchy blankets, and a fire out the back to heat the water for the shower.

Hugo was holding the dying bird the entire time he showed us around. "You can start work tomorrow", he said. "I have not organised anything yet. But we can do tomorrow". We asked him what we would be doing but he didn't seem quite sure. "Cleaning the river, cleaning up, that sort of thing", he said vaguely. "Is all natural here, because all day we clean, clean clean". I looked around. There was crap everywhere - bits of plastic containers, wire springs, broken chairs. He showed us the kitchen next, which was full of dirty dishes, random cooking implements and blatently non-organic food.

Hugo did feed us, I'll give him that. His 'woman' made an amazing pasta sauce, though we were the only three eating it which was slightly uncomfortable. Hugo sat there for a bit, fiddling with something on the table, then looked up and said that it was "time for marijuana". Of course. (I'm pretty sure, at this place, that it was always time for marijuana). I wondered whether he was expecting us all to get stoned together and how I could politely decline, but evidentally he just meant for himself. He lit up a joint on the gas stove and puffed away for about the next half hour, before announcing that he was heading off to a child's birthday party in the town and would see us at 8am the next morning.

That night I went to bed with all my clothes on, so that no part of me had to touch the mattress or the blankets. With hardly any deliberation at all we decided to leave the next day. When we told Hugo (at about midday - there was no way he was getting up at 8am), he seemed fairly okay with it. He just shrugged. "Is it because of Hubano?' his 'woman' asked suspiciously. (She, by the way, was beautiful. I have no idea why she was there on that farm with him). We assured them that it was nothing to do with Hubano (or whatever his name was), or with them; it was just because we wanted to work on an actual organic farm. They seemed pretty satisfied with this. They drove us back into town and wished us well.

Nicola

Salt, salt, everywhere...

After Potosí we took the bus to Uyuni, home of Salar de Uyuni. Salar de Uyuni is the massive stretch of white salt, an ancient dried-up lake, otherwise known as the salt desert. We just did a one day tour, which started at 10am with a trip to the train cemetery.


The train cemetery was originally a trainyard, where trains were loaded up with minerals from the salt desert and taken to Chile. Eventually all the minerals were used up, and the trains were abandoned. They've been sitting there now for about forty years.



From the train cemetery it was about an hour drive into the salt flats. I'd seen photos before, but it was still incredible to actually be there, and to see such a huge expanse of white with no horizon. Walking on the salt is almost like walking on cut glass; crunchy like snow but not cold, like sand but not soft.


While we were at the salt flats we also visited Isa del Pescado, an island of cacti in the middle of the desert, so named because the shape apparently resembles a fish. (It doesn't. They should have named it Isla del Cacti, but that's Bolivia for you). Some of the cacti on the island were 800 years old or more, including a few that were actually labelled with names and ages -'Old cactus, 900 years' and 'Deceased cactus, was 1200 years, died in 2008'.

Nicola

The Potosí silver mines

In our last couple of weeks in Bolivia we stopped in the mining town of Potosí. We were only in Potosí for one day, and we spent it in the silver mines.

The silver mines were found under the Cerro Rico mountain by the Spanish Conquistadors, when they first came to the area. Originally the Conquistadors brought in African slaves to work in the mines; later they used the local indigeous people. The Conquistadors told the mine workers that God had forsaken them, and while they were in the mines they were at the mercy of the Devil. For this reason the miners started worshipping the Devil and they still do to this day. They call him 'Tio', or 'Uncle Miner", and there's a statue of him at the entrance to the mines. It's covered in coca leaves, coloured paper and cigarettes - all offerings from the miners. The miners give him offerings on the first and last Friday of every month; in return they ask for protection and good minerals. Over two million people have died working in the mines.

Our tour guide, Juan, was an ex-miner. He'd worked in the mines for seven years. Juan told us about one incident that had happened when he was working with a friend on the fourth level down, and their job was to stick dynamite in holes in the rock. His friend didn't stick the dynamite down far enough. When the dynamite blew, he lost the entire lower half of his body. They took him to hospital, but there was nothing left of him from the waist down. He died later that day. "The miners live for the now", Juan told us, "because they never know when they might finish".

Before going into the actual mines we stopped at the miners' market to buy 'presents' for the miners. These presents were big bags of coca leaves, cartons of juice, sticks of dynamite and bottles of 97% alcohol. The 97% alcohol was because it was a Friday, and as part of the Friday ceremonies for the Devil where the miners ask for protection, they also (inexplicably) get drunk. The coca leaves and juice were for energy down in the mines. "Miners don't eat in the mines", explained Juan, "So they need to chew coca to keep them strong". It was true - every miner we saw had a massive wad of coca stuffed in his cheek. (At first I thought they all had mumps). We all tried chewing some coca leaves. I have to admit, I wouldn't be able to make it as a miner. The 97% alcohol wasn't too bad but coca leaves made me want to gag. I stood there for a while awkwardly chewing the bitter, gummy wad, trying to jam at all in to the side of my mouth without tasting it. Eventually my mouth went numb and I spat it out when nobody was looking.

Down the mines it was pitch black. We'd been kitted out with long pants, jackets, gumboot, helmets, headlamps and face masks to protect us, but I still felt horribly vulnerable. There was one entry point in and out. Most of the time we had to crouch through the narrow, low tunnels. The tunnels became warmer as we got deeper, which only added to my not-so-irrational fear that we would somehow get trapped in there. We heard dynamite go off below us. The tunnels were full of cloying chemical dust; at a few points the dust was so thick I couldn't take any photos. The dust was the reason we were wearing face masks, even though Juan assured us that one day in the mines wouldn't do us any harm. (For the miners, it does. They commonly die from silicious pneumonia within ten years of entering the mines). It was an unforgettable experience. On the other hand, I have never felt more happy to see sunlight than three hours later when we crawled out, blinking, gasping, sweaty and dust-covered.

Nicola