COVER ILLUSTRATION. Llamas carrying salt across the Bolivian Andes
Photographed by John Pilkington
Thirty years ago llama caravans would have been a common sight on the Altiplano, the high plains of the Bolivian Andes. But with the building of roads, this old-ashioned form of transport has steadily given way to lorries and jeeps. Except, that is, in the far south-west of the country, where in 1997 I came across a tradition dating back to Inca times.
On a windswept ridge, 40 of these woolly camelids were grazing while their two herders huddled round a camp fire. The men called me over and offered me tea in a tin cup. Avelino Quispe and David Flores were traders in one of Bolivia's great natural resources: salt. Every June, they would load the animals with 10-kilo blocks from the vast salt lake of Uyuni: two each, padded generously with straw. By the time the tea was finished they'd invited me on an 80-mile journey to the city of Tarija, where they planned to exchange their cargo for maize, honey, chillies and-this being South America-coca leaves.
I can honestly say I know a bit about llamas. I was first spat at by one in the 1970s, and since then I've had a sort of love-hate relationship with them. On a good day a llama is-well, grouchy. So I looked with some misgivings at the straggly bunch I'd just signed up to spend a week with. They gurgled petulantly back. I could see I'd have to watch out for flying saliva.
The journey soon settled into a pattern. Each morning in the still freezing air I helped Avelino and David scour the hillsides for the grazing animals. To my surprise, the daily marches were quite short, often no more than 10 miles, and by mid-afternoon we would already be unloading at the next campsite. These camping places, called
Bolivians see the llama as having a deeply spiritual soul, if not a direct line to the gods. For generations it has played a leading role in ceremonies, and this hasn't always been in the llama's best interests. For instance, when a house or factory is about to be built, they bring along a llama, washed, groomed and decorated with banknotes and coins to ensure prosperity. For an hour, they force-feed it on neat alcohol. Then, just as the poor thing is starting to enjoy itself, they make it kneel down facing the sun. Out comes a machete, and-end of llama. The corpse is buried in the foundations and its blood splashed round the footings. When an adult llama isn't available they use a fetal one instead.
I asked Avelino if he knew about this tradition. "Oh yes," he said. "It's a sacrifice to Pachamama-Mother Earth. When times are good she gets the whole llama; otherwise we eat it and give her the bones!"
John Pilkington
[Table of Contents]