Coca...Si, Garlic...No.

It's our sixth Bolivian crossing and each one has had it's own unique character. Paso Changara is no different. For land locked Bolivia, this exit to the commercially significant Pacific coast, is a major arterial highway. At our previous crossings, much of the imports were man or woman handled across the frontera in wheelbarrows and trolley carts; on this high altitude entry it's all articulated lorries, all of them US, Scandic or European cast-offs. There's a three kilometre queue of fuel tankers, car transporters and Maersk containers. All waiting to clear Chilean customs, all with there engines ticking over, sitting stationary beside a pristine lake, Lago Changara, that's replicating volcanic reflections and a river of discarded soda bottles and dumped bags of coca leaf. Those at the rear will wait all day, those at the front already have. I can't help but think if the engines remained silent, one tanker full that's been hauled up 15,000ft on Andean mountain might have been saved.

All frontiers herald change, irrespective of phisical location. Be it cultural or political, climatological or financial. Some are subtle, some are emphatic. In Canada, crossing between the Yukon and the NWT, it was the sudden change between arboreal stunted black pine and glory of the flowering tundra. Between New Zealand and Australia It was the assault of dry over wet, brown over green. Even within Britain, there's the sudden accent shift between Scotland's Ayton and England's Berwick.

This transfer from Bolivia to Chile is similar and equally sudden. There's what every cyclist would note: the change of road conditions, from a friendly, wide smooth shouldered asphalt to a cracked, potholed route, hemmed in by a gravel berm that's used to replace barriers. And people tell you that this is the Switzerland of South America. Interesting and understandable, the vast majority of the traffic is heavy goods Bolivian. Why should the host country invest on behalf of it's neighbour? And that on a strip of territory that Bolivia lost in a 19th century war, and would like to reclaim.

Politically we're introduced to stricter zoological controls. I knew that Chile, in common with all southern South American countries have strict controls, the difference is, they enforce them. The posters and hoardings, the roadside detritus emphasise the point. "Please Declare. No fruit, No vegetable, No meat. You might be carrying plagues or bugs. Please ask for advice". The increasing scatter of sucked mango nuts, withering banana skins and the luminous green bagged coca leaf along the verge was verifications. Yet, there's still a surprise to be discovered at any of these crossings. This one came when our bags are X-rayed and we're queried about our food bag. We'd already isolated all the consumables into one carrier bag, knowing the Chilean rules. Happy to present for inspection, for the nessesity to discard some items, but hoping that they will allow the oats and pasta through. We had already left the the potential baddies back in an accommodation's drawer, and sat on the border and eaten all the banana pieces. The surprise comes when customs asks if we have any ajo. "No garlic, not even coca", "Oh I'm not worried about the coca", odd as I've yet to see the bulb in any local market. Maybe he's looking for something to ginger up his tea tonight, or he's just a wad chewing Francophobe.

All fronteras herald change, the most obvious being currency. We're entering a new country, and not carrying any leftover coinage from a previous trip. We anticipated the potential problem and attempted to cure the situation before crossing, down at the main road junction. Only the 'rent-a-cops' outside each bank were not keen to let us in. So we then reasoned that there was bound to be a 'cambio' up at the border. Every other crossing has been plagued with touts desperate to gives us their worst rate. Not this time. So it will now have to be the first town down the road. Only the 'caja automatico', doesn't take Visa, of course it's the weekend and the bank is closed. Pesoless in Chile. We might be swabbing out rooms if we can't find some plata. Eventually the Forager tracks down a den of usury, the smartest hotel in town, and suffers the extortionate commission on a dollar exchange. Monday, and the bank opens and all is back to normal. We ha' meat, an' we can eat and say The Lord be Thankit. Or at least 'la duena ' thanks us for paying for the night's lodging.

Wecan also thank our guardians that we're able to cross borders with such ease. The Aymarra language and the indigenous national flag transcend the border, yet the associated uniform, the phisical presence of the Bolivian Andina is held fast within the state. Restrained by five neighbours and no seaboard, by five economies that historically have been stronger. Even Peru to the north is in an accendancy, it's status with the EU revised and emigration restrictions rescinded. The panpipe players of Rose Street might not be going home soon, but new recruits are not expected anytime either.

The more subtle change, one that was initially noticeable but took time to comprehend and conclude, was the shift in the quality of the light. The sky now a darker sharper blue, the sand mountains now stark hard edged. We've stepped over a watershed, as well as a border, the flat light of the interior is behind us and the polluted mists of the coast are way below. It's the clarity of crystal cut volcanoes and the near proximity of distant views, the stalking strut of flamingoes and the fleeting glimpse of chinchillas. A short lived newness that will only last a short while up in the rarefied, heart thumping, frozen mornings of Paso Changara.

 

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Inverting Terminology.

I first saw it above the entrance to a broasteria that sells chicken and chips, and thought it unusual. Further along the street, a similar request, this time in the window of a shop selling computers and nappies. There after, with an acclimatised eye, the same inquiry appears everywhere. It seemed odd, the hinted distinction, the implied racialism. Defiantly non euro political correctness.

"Chollita", as a word, was composed as a derogatory term by the colonising Latino Spanish, in the same way as "nigger" and "boy" was or is in the southern states of the US. Used wrongly, it has the same connotations, the same results, and some guidebooks even recommend its usage with circumspect care. And yet the Andean culture has taken this negative description and turned it back in on itself and it's perpetrators. It's a badge worn with pride, to stand along side its uniform. The pollera skirt, the bowler hat, the braided plaits.

As a term I have used it with intended respect, previously in these missives, not entirely sure if I'm not being disrespectful. Now I have some physical evidence, although I suspect the word order is significant.

"Wanted......A Cholita or Señora to work in the kitchen"

 

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