Located about 30 kilometers north of La Paz and nearly 5,500 meters up in the clouds, ghosts of a bygone era rest, old wooden relics of a past since past. Since the 1930’s, this mountain, known as Chakaltaya, was home to the world’s highest ski resort. This was the place where members of the Bolivian Andean Club and other visitors could cut through the powder at an altitude high above the flight paths of many airlines, gliding through the crisp, thin Andean air on top of glacial snows. But in 2009, this all came to an end.
Many scientists consider Bolivia a climate canary-in-a-coalmine, a country with a variety of ecosystems with considerable vulnerability to the effects of global carbon emissions and increasingly erratic El Nino weather patterns. One of the first and most glaring signs of this was the rapid melting of the glacier at Chakaltaya. Bolivians watched in disbelief as 80% of its cover vanished within 20 years. By the end of the first decade of the new century its melting rate had picked up pace, and in a relative instant, 18,000 years of snow and ice were gone.
The buildings that once housed the ski resort remain. On top of rocky, brown and black soil, the faded red and white lodge rests precariously along a ledge, its wind-worn siding fading and chipping, a shell of what was once there. Samuel Mendoza and his brother Adolfo, longtime members of the Bolivian Andean Club, still haunt the mountaintop, maintaining the property and serving as hosts to the trickle of tourists that come to this place every day to take in the views and to see for themselves the harsh truth about climate change in the Andes.
Recently, Bolivia has sadly entered the global spotlight yet again, this time marking the disappearance of the country’s second-largest body of water, Lake Poopó. Another drastic result of climate change having adverse effects in Bolivia’s ecosystems, it is more than unnerving to see another one of Bolivia’s natural wonders disappear. Yet again, Bolivia is facing an ecological crisis that is emptying this place of its natural majesty.
In this issue of Bolivian Express, we think about the significance of appearances and disappearances in a changing world. As things come and go, the transitory nature of our experiences come into clear focus, and we set out to see what these processes mean. In writing about the Lost City of Atlantis and the stories of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, we study the ephemeral nature of legends, and how people, and in fact entire cities, can vanish, leaving those who remain to theorise about if and when those who are no longer present may reveal themselves again. In visiting the ruins of Tiwanaku and the waters of the Amazonas, we share stories of Bolivia’s cultural and natural treasures, leaving one to wonder what else is hidden beneath Bolivia’s surface. We hunt ghosts and search for dying languages, and meditate on where tried-and-true, old-fashioned courtship techniques have gone.
In this moment in Bolivia, the latest disappearance of Lake Poopó is surely nothing but a loss, an ecological, economic and cultural catastrophe. But sometimes, disappearances can be seen as an opportunity for rebirth, an opening of spaces for something new to appear. While this may not be in the case with the lake, or the glacier at Chakalyaya, not all disappearances are disasters. Life is full of surprises. One never knows when the next notable thing of great beauty may appear.
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""My family will open a beer and pour it all over me. For my luck. For our luck.""
Illustration: Oscar Zalles
Finally the time has come. Today is my day. My family and I have to leave La Paz early. The drive to Copacabana takes around three hours and we will probably have to wait in a long queue. But that is fine because we will be waiting outside the beautiful Basílica de la Virgen de la Candelaria de Copacabana. Or maybe even by Lake Titicaca. The sun will reflect from the water like a sign from God. And it is all for me.
We cannot be late, I have been waiting too long for this. My new family need me to do this. They trust me and I cannot let them down. They will take time to wait with me, they will dress me in beautiful fresh flowers. It certainly will be a kantuta, the national flower of Bolivia, and gladiolus. They probably will be red and white in colour, but maybe my family will surprise me by adding some more!
I might even have ribbons tied all around me. There will be a picture of the Virgin of Copacabana that will always look after me, in every moment of my existence. When it will finally be my time, the priest will come and pray to the Virgin. For me, for my family. For our safety. So I can always protect my family, never put them in danger. So I will be healthy for a long time.
And the best part is, I will finally receive a name! I think it may be Santiago, but I could be wrong. I just heard my family mentioning it a few times while talking about me. I really like it. After Saint James. It will just add to my blessing and happiness.
Afterwards, my family will open a beer and pour it all over me. For my luck. For our luck.
This is a really big day for me. Even if the ceremony won’t last more than 15 minutes, whether we go straight back home or celebrate with a dinner. It will be the most important day for me, the day I’m born again, the day I emerge in my new life, as Santiago.
I will do everything to shield my family when they drive me. I will be the best car my family ever had.
Bolivia teems with the unique. From its wealth of pre-Colombian ruins to its haunting geography, from boundless lakes to vast salt plains, the country offers a wealth of the astounding. And upon the Yacuma River, at the headwaters of the Amazon in the country’s northwest, dwells one of Bolivia’s best examples of its tesoro único. Beneath the swirling brown waters that flow rapidly through the pampas which form a linchpin for the region's ecosystem and give life to countless organisms, live the delphines rosados – pink river dolphins. But their lives hang in a delicate equilibrium in which all things in Bolivia play a tense balancing act.
The local name for the pink river dolphin is bufeo. When I asked my guide Ovidio from which indigenous language the name derived, he only laughed. There is no one language that propagated the name, Ovidio said, for the name itself is phonetic – it is the sound of a dolphin clearing thick river water from its blowhole. And indeed the sound of a spouting dolphin is akin to a wet cough or sneeze – very much a bufeo.
These fresh-water dolphins look markedly different from their saltwater-dwelling cousins. Their eyes are small, for the river’s detritus prevents anything from seeing more than an inch ahead. Their fins are paddle-shaped, allowing for greater manoeuvrability in the tight waterways that are their homes. Their snouts are long and thin with a row of sharp fish-eating teeth. And these strange, chubby pink creatures are the apex predators of their waterways.
I went into the Amazonas in search of the bufeo. I had heard they were hard to find. Books listed them as endangered and anecdotes spoke of teams who had fruitlessly scoured the rivers for the elusive animal. My adventure was quite different. As we boarded our canoes at the port of Santa Rosa de Yacuma, at the frontier of Parque Pampas del Yacuma where the departments of Beni and La Paz meet, two of the off-pink cetaceans rolled into the bay. It appeared the conditions were perfect for dolphins. The rainfall was worryingly slight for the Amazonas' human inhabitants, whose crops this season had suffered terribly. But what little rain had fallen was perfect for raising the river without flooding the plains. The dolphins were not confined to isolated pools as they are in dry weather, and the waters were not so high that the dolphins could spread out across inundated fields. Instead, pods frolicked along the length of the rivers, hunted piranhas in turbulent rapids and followed our motorised canoe.
Farmers in Bolivia feel the effects of the world's changing climate more than in other countries. Here, life for all animals, humans or otherwise, revolves around a delicate environmental balance. In the agricultural regions of the desolate altiplano and steaming jungles, everything depends upon rain. Few in the Amazonas disbelieve global warming, and they blame the changing state of el Niño upon this environmental disaster. But as crops wilt, the dolphins frolic in full view of the tourists, and a different economy booms.
My doom-saying vision of searching the rivers for the 'critically' endangered animal had been undone. Ovidio explained the greatest worry locals have was not that the animal might go extinct, but that blooming populations upset the rivers’ delicate equilibrium, upon which all life in the pampas depends. Everything exists in a balance – all creatures, both predator and prey, exist in harmony in the pampas ecosystem, as do the granjeros of the surrounding grassland. And as the dolphins flourish – the hunting of them being illegal and locals understanding that the long-term gains of keeping the animals alive for tourism outweighs the short-term benefits of selling their skin and oil – the fear grows that other animals may begin to disappear.
Maybe the dolphin was not so much the endangered but the endangerer. However upon a later visit I found that pampas life does not hinge upon the dolphins, but all upon the river, and the river relies upon the climate. My second visit was deeper into the rainy season, the river was higher and the bufeos nowhere to be seen. The rains had at last come, to the relief of the jungle farmers, and the lower fields lay flooded.
Nature is wild and unpredictable. The dolphins can live in a surplus, or be dispersed, depending upon the weather. And whilst they are not aware of it, everything in the pampas depends upon the weather. The rains had come and the tourists had a far grimmer vision of dolphin life. The farmers were the ones who now frolicked amidst their watered crops, and they gave thanks to Pachamama. But if the climate continues to change, with the rains increasingly unpredictable, it can be surmised that soon both bufeos and granjeros will suffer together.
Illustration: Nikolaus Cox
The Missing Ghosts of Estadio Hernando Siles
""We emerge out onto the pitch and Topacio immediately hears footsteps.""
Photo: Kit Fretz
‘Ghosts?’ asks our taxi driver. ‘Go to Puente de Las Americas’. Unfortunately, we have just gone over it. It’s nearing 11 pm on a Monday night, and we’re crossing La Paz from Plaza Isabel la Catolica to the working-class neighborhood of Miraflores. We are looking for the city’s apparent supernatural centres and our next stop is the Estadio Hernando Siles. It is a building viewed by many as deeply haunted, after the viral video of an apparition and the testimony of an unnamed architect.
Huddled on the steps of Pollos Copacabana opposite La Paz’s principal football stadium, we wait an hour for Leao Armas and Topacio Falcon, the ghost hunting power couple of Santa Cruz. Finally, a taxi draws up and out they come.
The first thing one notices about Leao Armas is a thirst for credibility. Bundling out the cab with his wife, Topacio Falcon, he hauls two pieces of luggage. Topacio carries a dainty smaller one, containing $8,000 worth of top of the range, ghost-busting equipment. They present themselves replete with caps and shirts emblazoned with the logo from a certain Bill Murray film.
Quickly, Leao launches into a quasi-soliloquy and says he studied exorcism, lived around the Vatican for two years and did a job in New York, where they picked up their high range gear. He informs us it is a family business and that his youngest child has ‘the sense’. Then he offers a plan for the night and gives us a clear paranormal timetable, a lay of the land. Ghosts appear from midnight until 3 am, whilst demons appear from that point till sunrise. Mirrors are portals, we learn. Suicides make ghosts.
And, perhaps, they are not wrong. On our first night’s adventure, the stadium lies still, green blinds covering dark windows. No guard is in sight. Knocking on the iron bars of Gate 2 with his ring, Leao calls out. ‘Señor! Hola! Señor?’ A muffled thud replies. He tries again. ‘Señor! Hola! Senoooor?’ Again a muffled thud. Turning to us with eyes wide, he thrusts out his arm. ‘Look!’ Enthralled, we all do. Even in the half-darkness, goose bumps are clearly visible on his arm. ‘It’s not scientific,’ he says. ‘But its shows something is going on.’
At every iron-barred gate, Leao and Topacio stop and peer before Leao repeats his call. As we approach Gate 9, Topacio stops. She points out movements beyond the bars. Interest piqued, we all similarly stop and look. There is definitely something there, but what? We nervously reach the bars. Leao repeats his call, ‘Hola! Señor! Señor?’ Now, suddenly unsure of ourselves, we peer into the darkness. Some of us realise it is nothing more than our shadows moving, but Topacio is convinced. Gripping the bars, she shines a torch into the dark abyss. Only when we move off is she prepared to let go.
Unable to get in on our first night, we spend the interior of the next week trying. A few baffled officials and a plastic trophy-cum-thank-you-present later, we stand outside Gate 4 the following Friday. The mood is different; the couple says they have mentally prepared themselves for a big night. Leao, having called on the protection of both Pachamama and God, furiously chews coca leaves as we watch the silhouette of a caretaker limp into view. Topacio has previously filmed an introduction to the ghost hunt, in which Leao invites the camera to accompany us on our exploration.
Once inside, the guard leads us to one of the changing rooms before departing with a tired shrug. We descend to the tunnel and into semi-darkness. ‘It’s colder here,’ says Topacio, referring either to paranormal presences or atmospheric conditions 4,000m above sea level at midnight. We emerge out onto the pitch and Topacio immediately hears footsteps. She scans the empty stands with a torch, illuminating the Coca Cola signs, but nothing more.
Having set up the motion sensor and duly triggered it themselves, we embark on a lap of the stadium. We are promised a guide and meet a bleary-eyed Hector at Gate 9. He leads us back out onto the pitch and points out another stand but discredits Leao’s haunting theories. We walk through the concourses of the east stand and Leao’s EMF meter (a device that measures electro-magnetic fields and, according to ghost hunters, paranormal activity) starts to go wild. He runs ahead, searching nooks and crannies for any sign of an apparition.
""Even in the half-darkness, goose bumps are clearly visible on his arm""
As we walk back down to pitch level, Leao senses we are not alone. The EMF meter is going crazy, registering maximum readings on the arbitrary scale. Leao summons us into a circle and requests that the demons reveal themselves. The pair take photos, saying the camera might pick something up, but the supernatural seems to think it has done enough. The readings die. The rain begins. We trickle out of the stadium and leave the ghosts behind.
La Paz is an old city. It is rife with superstition and beliefs in the supernatural. We came to Estadio Hernando Siles hoping to create our own but left with little more than memories of a bleeping EMF detector and a moonlit walk through a deserted stadium.
