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.
Download
The state of an ancient capital
Tiwanaku is the birthplace of a dominant civilisation. It contains examples of agricultural technology and stonework that modern experts still struggle to understand. However, it currently consists of a huddle of souvenir huts and unexplained ruins.
Arriving at the site, down a dusty road seemingly leading nowhere, there is a distinct sense of going through the motions. A tiny ticket office, two museums and a sign to the ruins greet you. A guide timidly asks if you want a tour.
The walk to the bus terminal completes the impression of Tiwanaku as a sleepy town still yet to be wakened by the shake of tourists. A couple of restaurants, some men sitting outside and run down houses constitute the town centre. As Jedu Sagarnaga, professor of archaeology at Universidad Mayor de San Andrés (UMSA), says, neither the authorities nor the local people care as long as the site brings in some level of tourism.
Only precious ruins remain from the advanced Tiwanaku civilisation, which influenced the surrounding 600,000 km of land from 400-900 AD. The site faces issues associated to the altitude, such as premature weathering and erosion of the stone. This has led to the diaspora of some of the site’s major attractions. Some were moved to museums for their protection while those of the Kalasasaya Temple have almost disappeared in the inclement conditions.
Tiwanaku has also fallen prey to stone robbers. A nearby railway bridge contains stones identified as belonging to the site. The famous Akapana Pyramid lacks its original stonework thanks to its use as a quarry for buildings in cities. Furthermore, efforts to reconstruct the site have also weakened its standing. The walls that stand around the Kalasasaya were built in the 1960s and bear little resemblance to their archaeological recreations.
It is stagnating in its present form. The Bolivian government has denied funds for any additional research into the 90% of the site still underground. The museums are 40 years old with no update in sight. Tiwanaku operates more as a cultural football than a national treasure. It has become a political stage for Morales and turns into a party centre for Aymara New Year in June, despite it having no connection to Aymaran culture. According to Prof. Sagarnaga, what ‘was the capital of a very important state is now used as a dancefloor’.
Photo: Michael Dunn Cáceres
Searching for the lost city at Pampa Allaguas
When people imagine the lost city of Atlantis, they don’t tend to picture an arid, shrubby landscape miles away from the ocean. They think instead of a sunken metropolis, barnacled yet still telling of former glory, or they envisage the paragon of cities first described in Plato’s Timaeus. The semi-desert of Pampa Aullagas, around three hours from Oruro, is far from either of these depictions, but many take it to be the site of this legendary city.
Pampa Aullagas’ main feature is a cactus-covered hill, a single undulation in the flat, sandy surroundings. Its closest body of water, Lago Poopó, dried up very recently, and is now little more than a vast expanse of dusty, cracked ground. If you look closely, however, there are several enigmatic features that mark this place as a unique destination. Pottery shards, telling of some kind of former civilisation, litter the barren ground; the rocks are black, red and white, as Plato suggested; and the former canals that snake around the hill are caked in aquatic fossils and marine sand. These canals correspond in number and form to those in Plato’s story.
The Atlantis tale was originally understood to be no more than a myth. It wasn’t until the 19th century that people started to take it seriously. In 1881, writer and politician Ignatius Donnelly famously argued that ancient cultures weren’t advanced enough to develop concepts like language and religion independently and that they must therefore have come from another unknown civilisation – Atlantis. Since then, the lines between myth and truth regarding Atlantis have become increasingly blurred. Nowadays, many explorers devote their lives to tracking down this potentially fictional city beneath the waves, guided by Plato’s description. Speculators have placed Atlantis in places as diverse as Greece, Cuba, Great Britain and, interestingly, here in Bolivia.
""The myth of Atlantis ‘connects us with a more satisfying and imaginative version of our origin. It is part of the mythological capacity of man to rewrite their history."" - Marcelo Valero
The British cartographer Jim Allen, for example, concludes that the city of Atlantis simply couldn’t be anywhere else. Following Plato’s directions, he has come to believe that the impressive island ‘opposite the Pillars of Hercules’ is synonymous with South America. According to Allen, there can be no sunken continent missing in the Atlantic, since we can perfectly piece Pangea back together. He argues that the expansive artificial lakes in Moxos and the enigmatic Nazca Lines in Peru are only some of the remnants of Atlantean civilization. For him, the so-called kingdom of Atlantis, described by Plato as a level, rectangular plain surrounded by mountains, is none other than the Bolivian altiplano.
Apart from these geographical links, there are uncanny connections between the story of Atlantis and Bolivian mythology. In Greek legend, Poisedon carved out the island city of Atlantis from the hill on which his wife Cleito lived. In Bolivian myth, Tunupa, also the God of the sea, created Pampa Aullagas in a similar context. Some argue that Plato used Bolivian legend to write the Timaeus and applied Greek names merely to appeal to his readers. The name Atlantis, after all, has a Latin American origin.
Likewise, the local legend of the Desaguadero depicts a scenario similar to the one Plato suggests swallowed up the city of Atlantis. The sea has now receded after these theoretical events, leaving sparse and often nondescript ruins around South America, including those at Pampa Aullagas. Regardless of its mythological origin, the story of Atlantis remains alive in the minds of many, as evidenced by the cavern like 'Atlantis Bolivia' shop in El Prado, which is adorned wall to wall with photographic evidence and Atlantis-inspired memorabilia.
In the midst of the intrigue, it’s easy to forget the glaring inconsistency in Allen’s theory, and all others that insist on Atlantis being a real place. It was most likely never meant to be so. It seems the stories surrounding Atlantis have proliferated due to our modern fascination with mystery. According to Marcelo Valero, a specialist in Andean culture, the myth of Atlantis ‘connects us with a more satisfying and imaginative version of our origin. It is part of the mythological capacity of man to rewrite their history.'
If we accept Allen’s interpretation of the Atlantis story, we also have to question widely-held theories about the age and origin of Andean civilization. This may seem illogical, but perhaps we should learn to embrace our curiosity and remind ourselves that conventional truths aren’t necessarily beyond contention.
Photo: Eduardo Montaño
When Bolivia's second largest lake dries up, what is left behind?
Photo: Kit Fretz
A dead vicuña lies on the cracked, parched ground formerly known as Lago Poopó. As we approach it, the sunshine reflects off of its mummified muscles, making them appear like a hunk of scrap metal. I’m reminded of the wreckage of the old planes that litter the El Alto airport we passed this morning. A banana peel, shrivelled and blackened from the sunlight, lays a few metres from the corpse. It’s the only sign of human life for miles.
When we find the second vicuña it is accompanied by another banana peel that all but confirms our suspicions: this is the work of a human. Its throat has been slit, making a perfect nest for thousands of maggots.
The third body puts it beyond doubt. As well as an open throat, it has a pair of bullet holes between its ribs. Enrique Richard, the biologist and environmental investigator who is showing me around Poopó, turns to me and says, ‘La catástrofe se transforma en tragedia cuando mataron este animal.’ (The catastrophe became a tragedy when they killed this animal).
‘Yet although we drive for miles, the water never gets any closer’
The reason for their deaths is clear: all three vicuñas have been skinned for their lana, an incredibly fine and warm wool that is highly prized the world over and is the cause of poaching across the Andes. A kilo of lana can sell for over US$500, making the windfall from three vicuñas a substantial amount of money for anyone living in this remote part of the altiplano. It is an especially large amount of money for a fisherman who no longer has any fish to catch.
Lago Poopó, Bolivia’s second largest lake after Lago Titicaca, has completely disappeared in the last two months. Surprisingly, a lake once over six times the size of the city of La Paz has vanished. There are many factors at play. The lake had an average depth of 1.4m, which made it absorb more heat than deeper bodies of water like Titicaca. At 3,686m, its altitude combined with rising global temperatures and the El Niño phenomenon, leading to higher rates of evaporation. Despite these environmental factors, it is believed that the lake would not be dry were it not for the impact of industry.
Since the 1980’s, Bolivia and Perú have either licensed or ignored the diversion of water from Poopó’s tributaries for the use of the agricultural and mining industries. Increasingly in the last decade, more than 300 mining companies (including Huanuni, the largest state owned tin mine) have taken water from the Desaguadero river and the lake’s other tributaries, often returning it to the source highly contaminated. Various metals and even arsenic have clogged the rivers with sediment and reduced the flow of incoming water. This high level of contamination began to claim the lives of some of Poopó’s wild animal life even before the lake’s disappearance.
Out in the distance, stretching across the horizon is a constant mirage. Initially I believe in my eyes, in the reflections of the islands that rise from the plain. Yet although we drive for miles, the water never gets any closer and it’s then that I understand the illusion. Enrique swerves his Jeep towards anything that breaks the monotony of the barren lakebed. Alongside the slaughtered vicuñas are the corpses of multiple bird species dotting the Poopó landscape. There are flamingos, geese and ducks from the Andean region, as well as keñolas, one of the species most affected by this disaster. Among the corpses walk herds of cows, sheep and vicuñas, though I never get near the latter, since they have an understandable fear of humans.
Tending his flock of sheep as they graze on plants that are growing on the former lakebed is Felix Augustopampa. ‘All of the lake is like this. There are no fish. This is all that’s left,’ he says bitterly, gesturing at the vast expanse of arid desert. The irony is that all of this could have been avoided.
‘The catastrophe became a tragedy when they killed this animal’
So the question remains, what can be done to save Lago Poopó? One of the most expensive yet most effective options would be to dredge the lake’s sediment of the contaminants and residues. Given that the lake is currently empty, it would be cheaper and easier to do this now. Alone, however, this would not be enough. The contamination of the water must be curtailed and the diversion of Poopó’s tributaries must be drastically reduced and regulated.
By taking these measures, the Estado Plurinacional could boost credibility and show the world that Bolivia is treating climate change as the serious threat we know it to be. As of yet, the government has only been accused of mismanagement. It received €14 million from the European Union and set aside a further 897 million Bolivianos to solve the problems of Poopó, but the lake still disappeared. President Evo Morales has sought to shift the blame away from the government, proposing the possibility that the lake could return. After returning from the UN climate change conference in Paris in December, he said, ‘My father told me about crossing the lake on a bicycle once when it dried up.’ While the lake has disappeared before – as recently as 1994 – and may return with the rains, the state needs to be more aggressive in confronting the reality of climate change.
On the other hand, Enrique forcefully stressed that the responsibility for this disaster and the potential recovery doesn’t only lie with the state and the mining and agricultural industries, but with each and every Bolivian citizen. According to him, both the state and the majority of the Bolivian population have faced the effects of climate change with apathy and inaction. ‘Bolivians will march for virtually anything,’ he states, ‘but when it comes to climate change, there’s nobody on the streets.’ Enrique sustains there is a need for greater environmental awareness in Bolivia, and that general studies on climate change should be included in the Bolivian curriculum. ‘You cannot conserve what you are not aware of,’ he says.
One can only hope that the next generation of Bolivians will be as well-informed as Enrique’s 9-year-old daughter who, surrounded by the barren desert that was once a lake, told me of her desire for ‘paz y tranquilidad, y justicia para la naturaleza’ (peace and tranquillity, and justice for nature).
Photo: Kit Fretz
