Phujllay Festival
I broke a bed. It collapsed right under me flat as a pancake. And oh, how I wish I had a juicier story to tell about it, but this will have to do.
I spent the weekend in Candelaria and Tarabuco, two little towns outside of Sucre. We stayed at a colonial hacienda in Candelaria owned by a family who now runs a travel agency but has had this hacienda in the family for five generations. The family is well-educated, from the landowning class, and seemed to have stepped straight out of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel-- the old gun toting granny who defends her hacienda from the milicianos trying to institute land reform, the benevolent landowners who learn the indigenous language (Quechua) and help their indigenous neighbors who in turn defend their right to keep the hacienda, the grandfather who was the first Bolivian to graduate from Harvard University, his spunky first wife who dies from typhoid, the underage second wife intended to be a nun who falls in love with him at first sight... Ah, the drama!
We went with three generations of women from the family, from granny on down, and it was like being invited to someone´s house for the weekend. We visited the houses of the indigenous weavers in Candelaria, all of whom had grown up with our guide (the daughter) and had known her family for generations.
We were fed home-cooked food by Mom, while granny looked on, and the daughter regaled us with family stories and talk of politics and history late into the night. Even though I had no running water and my tired bed collapsed under me, it was an amazing weekend.
The second part of the weekend was spent in Tarabuco where there is a weekly Sunday market. This Sunday was also special becuase it was one of the biggest festivals in Bolivia called Phujllay. It commemorates the 1816 Battle of Jumati, in which the villagers of Tarabuco defended themselves and liberated the town from Spanish forces. Folks from over 60 surrounding communities dress up in their finest and take part in this big celebration under the Pukhara, which was kind of a thanksgiving tower with food and drinks tied to it.
It was so colorful, with most of the indigenous people in their traditional dress, dancing, drinking, and singing. There were rumours circulating that Evo Morales was going to make an appearance, but in the end, only the Vice President showed up to dance around the Pukhara.
Tonight I´m headed on a 12-hour overnight bus ride to Samaipata, where I hope to do some trekking in the nearby national park. Every bus ride is a little nerve wracking because it´s well known that bus drivers here sometimes drive drunk (they´re trying to pass a law outlawing that now) and there are no laws controlling how long a driver´s shift is. Asi es la vida...
And yes, I realize that some of the photos are not oriented properly. I can´t be bothered now to fix them because it has taken me forever to download just a few photos. The internet in Bolivia is very slow!
I spent the weekend in Candelaria and Tarabuco, two little towns outside of Sucre. We stayed at a colonial hacienda in Candelaria owned by a family who now runs a travel agency but has had this hacienda in the family for five generations. The family is well-educated, from the landowning class, and seemed to have stepped straight out of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel-- the old gun toting granny who defends her hacienda from the milicianos trying to institute land reform, the benevolent landowners who learn the indigenous language (Quechua) and help their indigenous neighbors who in turn defend their right to keep the hacienda, the grandfather who was the first Bolivian to graduate from Harvard University, his spunky first wife who dies from typhoid, the underage second wife intended to be a nun who falls in love with him at first sight... Ah, the drama!
We went with three generations of women from the family, from granny on down, and it was like being invited to someone´s house for the weekend. We visited the houses of the indigenous weavers in Candelaria, all of whom had grown up with our guide (the daughter) and had known her family for generations.
We were fed home-cooked food by Mom, while granny looked on, and the daughter regaled us with family stories and talk of politics and history late into the night. Even though I had no running water and my tired bed collapsed under me, it was an amazing weekend.
The second part of the weekend was spent in Tarabuco where there is a weekly Sunday market. This Sunday was also special becuase it was one of the biggest festivals in Bolivia called Phujllay. It commemorates the 1816 Battle of Jumati, in which the villagers of Tarabuco defended themselves and liberated the town from Spanish forces. Folks from over 60 surrounding communities dress up in their finest and take part in this big celebration under the Pukhara, which was kind of a thanksgiving tower with food and drinks tied to it.
It was so colorful, with most of the indigenous people in their traditional dress, dancing, drinking, and singing. There were rumours circulating that Evo Morales was going to make an appearance, but in the end, only the Vice President showed up to dance around the Pukhara.
Tonight I´m headed on a 12-hour overnight bus ride to Samaipata, where I hope to do some trekking in the nearby national park. Every bus ride is a little nerve wracking because it´s well known that bus drivers here sometimes drive drunk (they´re trying to pass a law outlawing that now) and there are no laws controlling how long a driver´s shift is. Asi es la vida...
And yes, I realize that some of the photos are not oriented properly. I can´t be bothered now to fix them because it has taken me forever to download just a few photos. The internet in Bolivia is very slow!
Love the narrative. Please keep copious notes for the eventual telenovella. Also, I think it's time you do an "invite only" One Sprout Goes South After Dark so a select few can read the real story of that bed.
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