Making the Most of a Disappearing Water Source

Loose rock and snow crumble beneath my feet as I struggle to keep up with David, my leader, who is gliding effortlessly up the mountain ahead of me. I’m wheezing for air, my lungs cry out for oxygen. My body craves that vital molecule, which is scarce up here at over 5,000 meters above sea level.

My snowboard, which is loosely strapped to my backpack, constantly slides to the right. This shift in weight causes me awkwardly to teeter in that direction, like a poorly-manufactured doll that refuses to stand upright.

I glance up and reassess our destination. I swear it is moving away from us! My eyes dart over to the peak, which juts sharply from the snow and towers proudly at 5,400 metres. 'Ah yes', it appears to say, 'you really should see the view from here. It’s lovely, simply lovely. Tea anyone?' David shouts back at me with words of encouragement and I use them, as well as the mental image of a steaming cup of chai, to muster the resolve and keep moving.

I am hiking up Charquini, a glacier located in the Andes between the Chacaltaya and Huayna Potosi mountains; about an hour’s drive from La Paz. My source of transport, a rickety mini-bus filled to the brim with young Bolivians, somehow managed to surmount bumpy dirt roads and gushing creek bed crossings during our tumultuous journey here.

Today’s excursion was organized by Addiction Xtreme Bolivia, a relatively new snow-sports adventure tour company based in La Paz. On weekends, Addiction takes a group of ambitious participants to one of the many glaciers that surround La Paz for a day of skiing and snowboarding. Charquini, however, has been Addiction’s choice hot-spot for these outings. This is primarily due to its proximity to the city, as well as the accessibility of the terrain to individuals of all fitness levels. As I’ve come to find, all it takes is a rickety vehicle, your own two legs, and some determination. A ham and cheese sandwich might be advisable as well.

Just a few miles south of Charquini, however, is the Chacaltaya glacier, which happens to host a ski lodge, a chair lift, as well as the longest ski run in South America. So why bother setting my lungs on fire laboring up Charquini when all of the facilities of a ski resort are right next door, and with a parking lot no less? We would most likely be there, of course, were it not for one small detail, one missing factor in the recipe: snow.

Let’s rewind, shall we, to thirty years back to when the Chacaltaya glacier was in its hey-day. It was a weekend haven for Paceños to escape the congestion of city life and regain peace-of-mind by carving turns in snow high above the clouds. It was a time when tens of thousands of peripatetic souls would migrate from far and wide for the bragging rights of having skied the highest ski resort in the world.

Things have changed since, and significantly so. In 1998 Dr. Edison Ramirez, head of an international team of glaciologists that focused on Chacaltaya, predicted that the glacier would disappear by 2015. He was much too optimistic. According to the World Glacier Monitoring Service, the 18,000 year old glacier was officially pronounced ‘dead’ in 2009, six years before its projected demise.

A threefold increase in the rate of thawing among Andean glaciers appears to be the culprit of the glacier’s death, with the majority of fingers pointing blame to the usual suspect: global warming. In fact, according to the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, which scientifically tracks and reports human-induced changes on the environment, climate change could melt away most of Latin America’s tropical glaciers between 2020 and 2030.

So what exactly are the implications of our glaciers’ rapid disappearance? The most immediate problem is that the thaw is putting a vital source fresh water at risk. Eighty percent of the drinking water supplied to the 2 million-plus population that live in El Alto and neighboring La Paz is provided by a reservoir under the Tuni Condoriri range. What portion of that reservoir water is glacial melt responsible for? The majority: 60 percent. It doesn’t end there. This epidemic also jeopardizes the future generation of hydropower, which Bolivia depends on for half its electricity. Not a quarter, not a third: half. That’s a big chunk and a stark reality.

When we finally reach the summit the view is breathtaking, not that I have much breath to give at that point. I will admit, the somewhat desperate scramble to get here was well worth it. I haven’t felt this accomplished since I resisted the red velvet cake at my friends wedding last year.

As I take in the stunning panorama of wispy clouds caressing snowcapped mountains, I can’t help but feel a slight tinge of sadness that this might all be gone within my lifetime. It’s a disturbing thought. Then I bring my mind back around to the present. I am right here, right now, on this beautiful glacier. I will focus on appreciating it while I am able to do so.

So we strap in. Within a few moments we are sailing down the untouched terrain, making fresh tracks 5,200 meters above sea level. Now, how many people can say they’ve ever done that?

What can we do about our melting glaciers in the meantime? Addiction Xtreme seems to have the right idea. 'There’s really not much we can do [about the melting glaciers], except for enjoy and take care of them while we can', says David, who manages Addiction’s photography.

As we approach the group, I pan my view to take in the smiling faces and the chorus of laughter being shared by all. I agree with David. Sometimes, one must simply make the most with what is available and enjoy it while we can. That is exactly what we are all doing here. And I’m glad - glad to have the opportunity to be a part of it.

Eduardo Abaroa: Man and Myth

In the centre of the main square of the Sopocachi district of La Paz there sits a man. Perched on top of his plinth, he is a Bolivian hero, a symbol of national pride and patriotic self-sacrifice. But this is no Horatio Nelson brandishing his sword, nor Simón Bolívar astride his charger. This is Eduardo Abaroa, the landowner and engineer who died in defence of a strip of coastline that Bolivia lost in the War of the Pacific in 1879, the sea that people here are still taught to believe is theirs.

Every nation has its military heroes and Bolivia is no exception. And yet in some ways the glorification, the idolisation, the hero-worship of Abaroa is more excessive and inexplicable than that of other warriors. As François Schollaert, a historian specialising in this war, explains, ‘Abaroa had extensive lands in Antofagasta, and that is why he volunteered for the War of the Pacific, to defend his property’. In a country with a largely indigenous population and high rates of poverty and illiteracy, the image of this wealthy, well-educated landowner as a national hero somehow rings false. Stranger still, Abaroa did not die on the beaches. Instead, he died 200 km inland, something Alexis Pérez of the Universidad Católica Boliviana describes as a ‘tragic paradox’.

And yet Abaroa is, as the plaque on his eponymous square describes him, a ‘symbol of the return of the sea’: intimately associated with the struggle to defend the Bolivian coastline and its ultimate loss. The anniversary of his death, the 23rd March, is the Bolivian Day of the Sea. It is commemorated with a military parade, a show of defiance and celebration of the maritime history and culture of this landlocked nation.

In many ways, the story of what happened on that 23rd March is the stuff of a perfect myth. As a history book designed for Bolivian schoolchildren puts it, the Chilean army had swept away all resistance as far as the Carvajal pass across the river Loa. Abaroa (who, Pérez reminds me, was a civilian, with no military training) and his men ‘not only didn’t let the enemy across the bridge, but drove them back three times and forced them to use their artillery’. With all of his men killed and wounded himself, Abaroa was ordered to surrender, to which he replied with the immortal words:

‘¿Rendirme yo? Que se rinda su abuela… ¡Carajo!’ (‘Surrender? It’s your grandmother that should surrender… you bastard!’)

These words have been repeated and reprinted and embedded into the Bolivian consciousness ever since; appearing in books, on a set of commemorative stamps (minus the expletive), on statues across the country and on postcards, posters and portraits of the hero himself. For many Bolivians, this simple phrase sums up the attitude of their nation towards its powerful neighbours: you may be stronger than us, you may subjugate us, but we will never respect you. A defeated man, but not a defeated spirit.

As is the case with all stories of this kind, however, there is another side to it. Abaroa’s opponents remember history rather differently. According to Chileans, the valiant Bolivian warrior, the heroic defender facing up to certain death, simply replied to the order to surrender with ‘What, me?’. There cannot, of course, be any definitive proof of what Abaroa’s final words actually were.The Bolivians have their martyr and for Chile he was simply another man who died in the war, a precursor to their ultimate triumph.

According to Pérez, Abaroa was not considered a national hero until ‘many years after the events of the War of the Pacific’. The historian argues that the creation of this quasi-mythical figure was simply a way of binding together the population. A nation needs heroes and it needs enemies, and the story of Abaroa and the loss of the coastline fulfils both. In a similar way, the underlying causes of Bolivia’s defeat - its weak economy and lack of industrialisation, its low population and poor communications systems - are turned from faults to unfortunate circumstances, making Bolivia the underdog up against a more powerful rival, Chile.

From whichever side you look at it, whether Bolivia’s accusation that its people were victims of an aggressive invasion or form Chile’s claim that they were simply responding to an unjust tax raise enforced by their neighbours, this was a war about greed. Though only few could actually benefit from any possible outcome, many died. And perhaps it is because of the senseless nature of the slaughter, of a warring set of neighbouring nations killing one another’s young men, that this conflict is remembered as much for the fallen as for the victors.

In now-Chilean Iquique, it is Arturo Prat, shot dead on the sinking warship Esmeralda , who is remembered and celebrated for his defiance; not his compatriot Condell who won a great victory on the same day. The remembered patron of the Peruvian army is Francisco Bolognesi, who declared his intention to defend Arica ‘hasta quemar el último cartucho’ (‘until the last bullet has been fired’) against a Chilean opponent who outnumbered his forces by a ratio of 3:1. Bolognesi, of course, was defeated. Turns out Eduardo Abaroa is not the only celebrated loser.

THWACK!

I knew the minute I felt it hit my backside. I has just experienced my first globo attack. I spun around to find myself face to face with a grinning boy, no older than ten years of age, clutching an oversized water gun in one hand, a bag of globos in the other, and exuding an almost disturbing level of pride with regard to his latest aquatic conquest. Unequipped to return fire as I was, I instead sprinted to the nearest stand with the intention of investing in the finest and most valuable of Carnaval weaponry: water.

Water is the most common form of ammunition during the sopping wet days of Carnaval. It would be impossible to take a stroll down El Prado and not encounter the classic array of water war artillery: oversized water guns, water-filled bags which, with a carefully cut corner, shoot water at impressive distances, and, of course, the most lethal of them all: globos. These makeshift grenades have managed to turn a seemingly harmless and rudimentary substance, water, into an effective firearm.

But how exactly did these water wars become such a ubiquitous aspect of Carnaval tradition?
According to a local Paceña woman I spoke with, the tradition dates farther back than most presume. Think Pre-Andean times, long before the 16th century arrival of Spanish colonizers. During this time cultural communities would celebrate between potato harvests with song, dance, food, and, of course, plenty of water. But they were not alone in their festivities.

The indigenous people believed that when pulling their potatoes from the soil, spirits were released from the ground. During their time of liberation, the spirits were free to join in on the debauchery. And so began the fun and merriment, during which rituals were performed with the intent to give back to the fertility goddess, Pachamama, who essentially governed the quality of the forthcoming harvest.

Once the festivities were over, however, it was important to ensure the spirits returned to the soil. The method of doing this was to throw water. Where? How? Using what? She couldn’t say, but water was thrown, thus inciting spirits to return to their usual business. The business, that is, of producing a plentiful harvest.

Interesting. I don’t suppose all of those engaged in Carnaval water play today -from the youngsters with their duck-shaped water pistols to the villainous teenagers powerfully throwing globos- realise they are actually performing a noble act worthy of their ancestors. With the abundance of water that flies around nowadays, I couldn’t imagine a single spirit overlooking the memo to return to the ground.

Since that time, and with the cultural influence brought about by Catholicism, the water traditions have continued to evolve. From eggs filled with perfume or coloured water, to water buckets being poured from balconies, to globos and water guns, anything goes during the Carnaval water wars!

It’s not always fun and games, however. The evolution of water artillery also brought with it more aggressive forms of participation. Individuals have become increasingly vicious in their balloon tossing tactics, opting to freeze the globos, or filling them with very little water so as to create smaller projectiles which travel farther and inflict greater pain on impact. The choice of weapons is also plentiful: the pear-shaped Payaso-brand balloons are known to be softer and larger compared to the pepino variety which creates small, hard and almost-perfectly spherical projectiles: perfect for bruising at a distance. Chemical warfare takes place here too, with Rey Momo foam used by carnival guerrilla fighters to blind victims and mark them with a white viscous fluid, making them ripe targets for further attacks. Skin rashes are frequent side effects.

Because these weapons have become so destructive, the Mayor of La Paz created a city ordinance that bans any and all sales of the liquid missiles. According to the Commander of the Municipal Guard, Miguel Zambrana, “[We] will not allow water balloons to be sold during the period of Carnaval. If found, we will proceed with their destruction”.

He wasn’t kidding. As I set out on the first Friday of Carnaval to observe water fights on El Prado, I was taken aback by the scores of officers present on the scene. How many officers does it take to keep a street full of teenagers in line?

A lot, apparently. Everywhere I turned, there was a cluster of uniformed men and women, all of whom were either speaking heatedly into their two-way radios or confiscating water-filled contraband. Confiscation, in this case, involves seizing the bag of globos and then squashing them one by one in front of the young, and usually wide-eyed, offender. Water balloons, a gateway weapon. Best nip that in the bud before it spirals out of control.

We stopped to ask the officers some questions, and were met with reluctance and vague responses. Not even two minutes passed before they suddenly took off on an ‘urgent call’. I saw them moments later tackling some very serious business: the confiscation of more globos. Duty calls.

A few days later I managed to find a woman in possession of two large bags filled to the brim with water balloons. My assumption was, of course, that she was involved in the black market for water weapons. I ought to handle the situation delicately, I thought, since by that stage I was only too aware that the sale of globos during Carnaval is prohibited. 

I approached her and asked for the price for three water balloons. She shot me a confused and slightly disturbed look, and then informed me that they were not for sale. Approximately a half hour later I spotted her again, albeit in a more discrete area, selling a batch of globos to an eager trio of boys. I suppose I don’t blame her. In hindsight, I wouldn’t have trusted me either. A grown woman requesting globos without donning a poncho would give me reason to suspect.

Once the madness of Carnaval had dissolved away, I was surprised to find myself overcome with relief. Don’t get me wrong, I had a great time - but I can only indulge in my heathen ways for so long. In fact, I’ve never been more eager to return to my structured life. And who knew there would come a day I looked forward to going back to work - good, hard, honest work! By the depleted-yet-relieved looks on people’s faces as they returned to their routine Wednesday morning, it appeared I was in good company.

I think the Andeans had the right idea when they introduced this cathartic form of celebration. Take four days to shed your inhibitions and unleash that repressed need to attack strangers with water, and you will be rejuvenated for another round of structured life and hard work. That is, until next year - when tradition beckons for another round.

The Evolution of War

The past 25 years have seen the gradual appearance of expensive imported water guns boasting oversized water reservoirs and borderline-legal blast potency. With some ‘Super Soakers’ costing over $100 (half the minimum national wage), water wars have also evolved to reflect the deep socioeconomic rifts across society. Yet the poorer sectors of society were not to be left behind. Up until the turn of the millenium it was still possible to buy bombas for under Bs 30 ($4-$5). These makeshift water pumps were made by hojalateros using old milk cans, rubber recycled from car tyres, and a good dose of craftsmanship. With some skill and practice it was possible to shoot water at high power from these machines: the force of the blast was relative to the strength of the person operating them. Sadly they are no longer on sale, as BX Reporter Claudia Mendez learned when she visited the row of shops on Chorolque and Av. Buenos Aires. Doña Berta explained that they no longer offered them as they have been pushed out of the market by plastic imports. Now Super Soakers are left to compete with their cheaper imported Chinese counterparts.