Tarabuco, Bolivia June 23-24, 1979

Tarabuco is a small town not far from Sucre, known primarily for it’s colourful people, still mostly wearing traditional clothes, and it’s weekly market.  We caught an early morning ride in a big fast camionetta over a gravel, but smooth and well-graded road, through an altiplano landscape of dry mud-brown plains and rolling hills.  It wasn’t as flat as I had expected, but much drier.  So very parched, you can almost smell the dryness.  Strawlike stubble growth (apparently alfalfa) in some fields; the withered stumps of potato plants in others.  Dirty cream-coloured sheep and small hers of llamas, looking for something to eat, rooting around in the dusty earth like pigs.  Houses scattered about but well camouflaged, made of the same mud-coloured adobe as the surrounding landscape, thatched with dun-coloured grasses, and encircled by low stone walls.  Set slightly apart from each adobe house is an adobe oven on a raised mud platform, like a large beehive with windows – one as a door for putting in and taking out the bread, and the other to allow for the cleaning out of ash.  Great ash ramps run up one side of the hive – an eon’s worth of ashes.  I wonder if these ovens are fired up every day, or just when enough wood or straw or dung(?) can be found to burn.  



 

After about two and a half hours or so of this lovely subdued landscape we topped a little summit from which we could see Tarabuco, all adobe and thatch, with a little white adobe church.  We were greeted fresh off the bus by an absolutely beautiful gleaming-eyed little girl with a trayful of golden brown saltenas de queso.  Perfecto!  I’ll have two!  Found a ‘hotel’ nearby run by a friendly woman who obviously knows how to take advantage of a captive market (she’s got one of the only places in town where one can stay).  Very clean white-washed room with two beds and two chairs; outdoor hole-in-the-ground privy, and a central cold-water tap and barrel for hand, dish or clothes washing.  Our duena also owns a grinding machine, which sits in yard behind the hotel; a fair number of locals come to get their grains ground.  There are several beautifully woven striped llama wool sacs, filled with either grain to be ground, or flour.

 

We found a quiet spot in the sun, enjoyed a fresh cup of coffee and watched the family as they went about their chores – peeling potatoes, preparing food, doing dishes.  All very tranquillo.  Very tranquillo.

 

Then took an afternoon walk into the campo outside of town.  So dry.  And so tranquillo.  Almost no cars on the road.  No sounds but the intermittent bleating of sheep.  A clear, clear brilliant blue sky.  We were visited by a wandering shepherd who sat down to chat.  He lives in the pueblo here, but says he owns a fair bit of land around, in bits and pieces.  The peasants from ‘mas alla’ (further away) come to work it for him.  His references to them clearly indicated he thought them an inferior people, though he described their costumes quite proudly.  It feels like the Indian campesinos are more exploited here than in Peru, but it’s hard to tell.  We see, hear and know just a tiny fraction of what may be going on.  We talked a bit about farming methods.  He said they don’t use chemical fertilizers or machinery here (we haven’t seen any tractors).  He was quite definitive in his opposition to chemical fertilizers, which he knew caused soil depletion, and he wasn’t keen on the use of machinery.  He said they grow alfalfa to feed pigs, sheep and cows, and some potatoes.  All fruit and vegetables come from other regions.  We asked him whether the people knew about sprouting alfalfa seeds for greens.  He didn’t, and didn’t seem too interested.  [Note: a few years later, alfalfa sprouts became a thing throughout the altiplano, and other areas, of Bolivia and Peru.]  He left us to take his sheep to water.

 

A little later Sue headed back into town while I sat on a hilltop relaxing, reading, writing and just enjoying the sunny day.   I was munching on some carrots when I spied two little girls tending a little flock of sheep.  One came a little closer while the other, smaller one, half-hid behind the sheep.  I held out some carrots, said ‘hola!’, and asked the older girl, ‘Quieres algunas carrotes?’  Did she want some carrots?  And I gestured to her little sister, ‘Y ella, ella quiere algunas carrotes tambien?’   Would she like some too?  

 

As I was talking I could see the wheels turning, the recognition dawning: ‘I can understand what this person is saying!’  I could feel, mixed in with her sense of wonder, an equal measure of bewilderment and trepidation.  She hid her mouth with her little brown hand.  Her eyes darted between me, and the carrots, and back to her little sister, there behind the sheep.  I imagined she was wondering who I was and where I came from.  But in truth I was and am just a poor little rich girl with only one skirt, only one layer to keep me safe and warm, here under the no-hiding-from-them rays of the Andean sun.  And she, like me, had only one skirt.  And that really just a rag.  Topped by a ragged shirt.  And no shoes, but barefoot in the soft dry muchness of the mountain soil.

 

I could tell she was sizing up the risks – were the carrots worth the risk?  I could also tell she was curious, and that a part of her wanted to communicate, to reach out.  And wanted some of those carrots.  She stepped a little closer.  I smiled, and didn’t move, just held the carrots in my outstretched hand, like I trying to entice some nervous wild animal.  Slowly her little hand reached out.  I gave her the four or five carrots – and then watched as she skipped off over the ridges, the old corn-rows, in which the sheep were rooting, literally, for roots, to give some to her little sister.  

 

I had no idea if she would come back, or stay with her little sister, eating the carrots she had procured through bravery and daring.  But she came dancing back, no longer fearful, or even shy, although her little sister still choose the safety of the fold of sheep.  And so we got to talkin’, this little bare-foot Andean girl-gnome and me.  Gnawing at the carrots, nibble crunch, nibble crack, crackle-crunching carrots, she and I.

 

We exchanged names – Julia and Anna – and she asked me where I lived and what I was doing here.  I tried my best to explain the just how far away my ‘home’ was, and how I’d come on a plane, that flew through the sky (she’d seen them in the sky, but had no idea that they carried people in them – probably no idea really what they were at all...).  How I’d traveled by bus and truck and train, conveyances she could more readily understand, to get here.  Her eyes were wide with wonder.  What about my family, she wanted to know.  Did I have children?  How old was I?  And then it was my turn.  I asked her where she lived – not far away, in ‘el campo’ (the countryside) near Tarabuco.  And how old were she and her little sister – she was 10 and her sister was 8.  Was she in school?  Yes, but not today.  Today was a holiday, so she and her little sister were tending the sheep and gathering firewood for the fires that would be lit tomorrow, in all the streets in town, to celebrate the festival of St. John the Baptist.  

 

As the sun was beginning to sink behind the mountains, and the air was cooling, it seemed like it was time for both of us to head back home.  Before we parted I asked her if I’d see her, maybe with her mother, at the market.  Maybe selling potatoes – the wonderful many coloured potatoes they have here i- or perhaps a sheep or two.  ‘No’, she said, ‘voy a estar ici’.  I’ll be here.  Ah, I replied, ‘vas a trabajar ici manana.’  You’ll be coming here back here to work tomorrow.  ‘No’, she responded, ‘voy a cuidar a los ovejas’.  I am coming to tend the sheep.  Apparently there is no word for ‘work’ in Quechua.  

 

My time with this young girl reminded me of all the wonderful experiences I’ve had with children on this trip: all the little hotel waifs and shoe-shine boys and candy and chess-set sellers; the little girl with the popcorn in Mexico; the photo-girl in Quito; the young boy in the town outside of Pisac; the donut restaurant girl in La Paz; the marvelous marble boy in La Paz; and oh the little herb-stand girl in the LaPaz market!  So many precious moments.   

 

The people here are charming.  The campesinos are shy and quiet; the townspeople, who are more accustomed to gringos, are a little more friendly, but our discourse with them is limited as many don’t speak much Spanish, and we speak only enough Quechua to say hello, please and thank-you.  Conversation was also limited, especially with the men, by the great wads of coca leaves in their mouths… .  


The next morning we woke earlyish to the cold air of a very overcast, misty grey morning, which cast a beautiful subdued light over the tan and rust.  



Early morning walk to the market through a very quiet town.


One of my rare photos of locals.

 

We headed up to the square for the mercado, only to find that no one else had arrived.  Last night’s festivities appeared to have slowed people down.  On the street, a few women from town were selling spices, pins and needles and other odds and ends; and a few of the local stores had laid out their more saleable goods: noodles, soap, toilet paper and millions upon millions of ‘home-rolled’ cigarettes, undoubtedly for the campesinos on their way to market.  There were several outdoor stands with nothing but their canvas canopies up, a few wooden boxes at the ready, but nothing for sale.


So we drank a hot ‘api’ – boiled corn flour (purple corn which makes the whole drink purple) with sugar, lemon and cinnamon, almost like porridge – very warming and filling.  Bought some more cheese saltenas from our favourite little girl, and then sat and sipped at a coffee as we waited for the market to get into gear.  It seemed like that might take a while, so decided to go for a bit of a walk, mostly to keep warm.  

We went up to the ‘other side’ of town, where the railway station is located, and from where we could look back on the rest of town, very sleepy looking in the heavy morning mist.  




Walking back we were accosted by two families of manta-sellers, neither of whom had much of interest, but we bought a couple of striped mantitas from one and some hair tassels from the other.  


By the time we got back to the square there was a little more activity.  There were many very colourful Tarabuquenos in their red, black and orange stiped mantas, their hand-spun, hand-woven black knee-length pants, and their incredible black helmet-hats  (apparently a take-off on Spanish soldiers’ hats), with the sequins and baubles around the edge, making a halo of colour around their dark, but bright-eyed faces.  Some women were in very tradtional dress, including black aprons with coloured woven borders around the bottom, but mostly covered by their black mantas.  Many wore the little mantitas over their shoulders, mostly in the day-glo synthetic colours they seem to favour (or perhaps the synthetic fibres are just cheaper and in greater supply).  As usual, many women had babies on their backs, tucked securely in the mantas, and often sleeping or happily watching the action.  The women’s hats were even more outrageous than the men’s: their black besequinned dish-shaped hats were balanced precariously on their heads.  Both men and women have long black braids, often tied with colourful ribbons, and thrown over their shoulders.






We looked at some of the mantas (here called awayus) and chulpas – the small coca bags – that the men had brought in to sell.  Here the women are not involved in the selling of the mantas and woven products – the women are located in an enclosed court-yard area about a block away from the main plaza, where they sell fruit, vegetables and coca leaves.




 

At one point I spotted an older man, just coming down a trail from the campesino to the market, with a rolled up mantita under his arm.  It caught my eye, and turned out to be a very finely woven, intricately designed, and somewhat older, mantita.  I bought it, but later felt the guilt that comes with knowing that we gringos are buying up these precious items, these pieces of rich cultural history, and taking them out of the country.  We have met several commercial buyers, from England, Europe and the US, who come here and buy mantas and other weavings by the hundreds.  

 

The vendadores started packing up around noon, so we did too, and jumped in the back of a pick-up headed for Sucre with about a dozen Tarabuquenos, all in full regalia.  I was shoulder-to-shoulder, almost cheek-to-cheek, with one young man who, after amusing his friends by falling asleep almost on top of me, woke up and began to tease a little, putting his arm around me.  At one point his hat fell off in the wind, and he picked it up and flipped in onto my head, much to the hilarity of everyone.  The Tarabuquenos remind me a lot of the Otovalenos of Ecuador – a very intact culture, apparently with much pride, and a tremendous sense of humour, and a wonderful lightness of heart.  Lovely, lovely people.  They got off the truck in Padilla, and we carried on, in the dust, and now without our merry entertainment, back to Sucre.


These three images are from post-cards I bought in La Paz.

(I am not comfortable taking such close-up photos of locals.)






For some great, more recent, photos of Tarabuco market go to:  https://www.alongdustyroads.com/posts/2017/1/16/tarabuco-market-sucre-bolivia

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