At the heart of the storm, there appeared a division between morales as an indigenous leader and a socialist leader.

For the last few months in Bolivia, tipnis has been on everybody’s tongues. It has come to represent the centuries old fight for indigenous recognition and rights. For two months, people from indigenous communities – be they pregnant, children, infirm or old – have been marching from their protected homelands to the seat of power in La Paz. 500 kilometers away and 4000 meters up.

In August, the government announced a plan to build an industrial highway right through the middle of the Isiboro Sécure National Park and Indigenous Territory, known by its Spanish acronym TIPNIS. To be financed by Brazil, the highway was central to Morales' 'proceso de cambio', a concept used widely by the government and its supporters, and which amalgamated a new approach to economic and social development through nationalisation, industrialisation and the protection of indigenous ways of life. The government argued the road would boost Bolivia's economy by connecting agricultural and commercial areas whilst also improving public services for inhabitants of the park. As the first indigenous president, Morales has made an interesting figure on both the national and international stage, producing both smiles and scowls from different quarters. While his promotion of coca production, nationalisation of natural resources and opposition to transnational corporations have provoked unfavourable reactions from the US and business elites, his unique approach to climate change and development has won him the title of 'World Hero of Mother Earth' by the UN General Assembly, and he is recognised as a celebrated protector of indigenous rights at home.

In the last few months, however, the tenuous balance between rights, environmentalism and development has come close to collapse, rocking the entire nation and exposing Morales' often contradictory policies. In fear of increased drug trafficking, deforestation and damage to their flora and fauna, over one thousand people from the TIPNIS area set off in mid-August to protect not only their way of life but their very survival. Once the spectre of police repression raised its ugly head in late September, the marchistas found overwhelming support from the Bolivian public, 45% of whom sabotaged their ballots in defence of the TIPNIS during the judicial elections in mid-October. At the heart of the storm, there appeared to be a schizm between Morales as an indigenous leader and socialist leader. Part of the controversy over TIPNIS has been the 'colonisation' of the area by working class cocaleros who make up a significant proportion of Morales' support-base. Speculation in the media ranged from claims of the existence of oil reserves in the region, to debates around Brazil's manipulation of the situation, and allegations that the road would disproportionately benefit coca commerce.

A week before the arrival of the marchistas, pro-government movements came out in support of the highway and the 'process of change', bringing the two factions close to conflict as La Paz teetered on the brink of chaos. However, public support was overwhelmingly in favour of the TIPNIS communities, which soon became a national symbol, forcing Morales to defend his environmental credentials in the face of overwhelming pressure. By the time they arrived in La Paz, tens of thousands of protesters from all sections of Bolivian society poured out onto the streets to greet the weary marchistas like heroes. At the welcome ceremony in the Plaza de San Francisco, the leaders referred back to the landmark indigenous march in 1990 which secured rights for their communities for the first time. Many claimed this was only their second-ever march, this time demanding that the rights they had already won be respected.

One leader of the march, Fernando Vargas, held up Bolivia's emerging solidarity for environmental concern. He told me that even if their own President was going to go back on his word, they would not be ""accomplices of world destruction"". When asked what this issue really meant to one marcher, Jose Sadivav of CONAMAQ replied: ""TIPNIS means history. From ancestry, we have chosen to live with Mother Earth. It is who we are"". He acknowledged the impact of the marchistas' bravery on environmentalists and minority cultures alike all over the world. ""I think we have set an example. This will always be worth fighting for.""

The gente del TIPNIS have successful challenged the government to stand by his commitment to the 'suma qamaña', known in Spanish as 'Vivir Bien', or to 'live well' in English– a concept that Morales himself has proposed to the UN. It gives Mother Nature, life, consensus and respect for differences a priority and most of all, seeks to discover a balance, standing in opposition to the 'live better' philosophies of capitalism. As the marchistas return home, the people of La Paz thanked them for their courage and bravery. They have ensured that Bolivia remains to set an example.

Bolivia does exist, but it’s a nation divided along invisible lines: East and West; loose borders that separate one ancestral community from the next; and perhaps most strongly, the breach between the tropical lowlands and the cold and blustery highlands.

There's a certain legend here that goes ""Bolivia doesn't exist"". It's a fantastical story which I've heard several times, but never told in quite the same way. But more or less it goes like this: after a drunken state affair turned sour, President Malgarejo, one of Bolivia's most notorious dictators, paraded the English Ambassador around the main square in La Paz on a donkey and then threw him out of the country. Upon hearing the news, with one fell stroke of her royal pen an enraged Queen Victoria scratched Bolivia from the world map forever. Many Bolivians believe this amazing story to be true. Speak to them and they will swear that Bolivia is still languishing from that one indiscretion to this day. Nevertheless, talk to most Bolivians and you'll most likely hear that the country's purported non-existence takes a different, more subtle form. ""Bolivia isn't unified. Firstly, because its many indigenous peoples, who actually make up the majority, were excluded and marginalized for years,"" said Gonzalo Colque, the director of Fundación Tierra in La Paz.

""Secondly, because there's a lot of historical social conflicts. The relationship between Bolivia's different native communities has always been complex and strained,"" he added. Officially, Bolivia is made up of 36 separate indigenous communities. In 2009, President Evo Morales completely rewrote the constitution and rechristened the country the 'Plurinational State' to embrace them all. Despite this show of oneness, many Bolivians still don't believe the country pulls together as a whole. Many don't even accept the term 'Bolivian'. Bolivia does exist, but it's a nation divided along invisible lines: east and west; loose borders that separate one ancestral community from the next; and perhaps most strongly, the breach between the tropical lowlands and the cold and blustery highlands.

However, a recent indigenous antiroad march that trekked the 500km from the heart of Bolivia's Amazon basin to its capital high in the Andean mountains challenged both the government and these age-old perceptions. The march was successful: Evo Morales' government was forced to U-turn and cancel a planned highway through the Isiboro Sécure Indigenous Territory and National Park (TIPNIS), the protestors' ancestral home. But it also had an important by-product as well– it united Bolivians in a sense of joint purpose. On the 25 September, about five weeks after they set out, the marchers' way was blocked by 500 police officers and they were gagged, beaten and bound.That was a Sunday. By the Monday a nationwide strike had been called in outrage at their treatment. Great swathes of the country were galvanized overnight. Despite their differences, one thing that unquestionably binds Bolivians is their intolerance of violence against their own. Stay here long enough and you'll discover that no-one needs to die for them to cry massacre, as they have done in this case. The TIPNIS cause has turned into more than just a defence of the environment, it's become a rallying point for disparate groupsacross the length and breadth of the country who demand self-determination and greater respect from the government. When the marchers finally arrived in La Paz after 65 long days tens of thousands of jubilant Bolivians welcomed them into the city as heroes. Citizens gathered into a long, snaking human corridor guiding the weary men, women and children all the way to the President's doorstep. It's a day that will stay with me for many years. I suspect it'll stay with the marchers for the rest of their lives. In the middle of the cheering crowds I asked one of them, Javier Collar, how he felt. The black flag he'd carried the whole way in honour of his leader who'd died in a plane crash at the beginning of the march still sat heavy on his shoulder.

""Many of us did probably think that we were divided. But what we go through in the lowlands is the same as they go through here in the highlands. The virtue of this march has been that it's reminded us of that reality, that Bolivia is one Bolivia, one heart,"" he said, smiling through the tears building in his eyes.

Nazareth Flores Cabao is the Vice president of CEPIB, Central de pueblos indigenas de Beni. She is of Italoma heritage and comes from Magdalena, a town in Beni near the Brazilian border. She recently arrived in La Paz with the TIPNIS marchers. Here she tells us her story.

We began planning the march in April. As soon as we found out that they were going to build the road we began our community meetings to figure out how we could stop it. No one paid any attention to us. So we organised our meetings and soon signed our first document: a declaration that the highway should not cross the TIPNIS.
The TIPNIS is the last green lung in the world left to us. It's not that as indigenous communities we don't want roads or communication. We do. We've been waiting for years to become better connected to the outside world. But building that road would be like breaking the heart of the TIPNIS in two.

I left my family behind to march, and that caused my mother a lot of pain. She's diabetic, and during the march she had to be hospitalised. She was so upset, she called me up in tears and wanted me to come home…but how could I when I'm one of the main leaders? I had to be here.

I don't have any children, but I was going to have my first baby during the course of the march. I lost him.

I think things first started going badly for my pregnancy when the police clamped down on us. It was at the beginning of the march: they grabbed everyone, and made no allowances for the old, women, children, no one. They said horrible things to us. If we didn't give in we were beaten, but as the leaders we had to defend what we were doing. We shouted that we weren't going quietly, our march was peaceful, and they were violating our constitutional right.

They grabbed me. They knew I was one of the leaders because they ordered me to be taken first. First they took away our mobile phones, then I was taken to the roadside and told to sit down. When I didn't listen they kicked me in the stomach. There were other people lying there, and the police were standing over them with their boots on their necks. After that they picked us up and threw us into the van. We were tied-up like animals, and fell in there on top of each other. It was terrible: there were children separated from their families and crying for their mothers. They said you could hear the sobbing from far. It was after that fear and stress that I began to feel the first pains in my stomach. But we continued our march.

I realised I was going to lose my baby when we got to Chuspipata. They were supposed to take me in an ambulance, but there was a whole group of sick women and children there, so I said I'd let them go instead. But when we got to Chuspipata I fainted. After that I can't remember much more, I think it was foggy, and raining. I couldn't go to the doctor because there were so many sick people already….then I had this meeting I had to go to. Finally it was three in the morning, I was alone in my tent, and I realised I was suffering a haemorrhage. But there was nothing I could do.

All I could think was that my baby definitely wasn't there, because of the amount of blood everywhere. There are no words for what I felt then. Losing your baby is a terrible thing. I hope that this sacrifice I made as a human being, and as a woman, will come to something.

I decided to carry on marching, and did not relinquish my position. The public were very benevolent to us on the march, but even that could be problematic, because then we had to transport what they gave us. Caritas helped us out with transport for some time, but there were so many of us that it was never going to be enough. And the people were often dissatisfied despite the fact that the committee was trying our hardest. But they had no idea what we were doing, and what had to be done in order to get the bare minimum of support. We were running around all the time trying to get things done. During the day we never got any rest because donations would arrive until late in the night. Then we'd often had to be up at five or six in the morning to sort out logistics and share out what food we had.

Once I had to stay behind with a woman whose arm had been broken. We managed to find some transport and eventually caught up again. When we reached the other marchers we saw that there was no water. But everyone was crying out for water. So when we got the next camp I had to direct the leaders to get water immediately, and we went and found some to give out. It was such a painful experience for me, seeing all my companions marching on and crying out for water. I think that the reception we received in La Paz was like a consolation for all the suffering we'd had on the road, the hunger, the thirst. I'd heard that Paceños are all masistas, that people wouldn't receive us well here. But I think that people were outraged at what had had been done to us en route, to practically defenceless marchers.

From this experience, I've learnt that you have to fight for your rights. The indigenous people are conservationists. We won't tolerate colonisers or anyone else coming in here to tear down our forests. Otherwise we'd have nothing left. If necessary I would do it again. And I'd say to anyone else whose human rights are being violated that you have to fight. As human beings we have to fight for a heritagethat's not just about us Bolivians, but about the inheritance of the earth.