FLYING WOMEN of Totora.

• Author: Stuparich, Ricardo Carrasco

My fellow passengers on the bus from Cochabamba were gaily dressed and spoke Quechua animatedly among themselves. We were on our way to Totora for the festival of the Swings of San Andres, perhaps the most original tradition in Bolivia. Once a year, town inhabitants and their neighbors bid farewell to the wandering souls of their departed relatives that have come down from the mountains and, at the same time, honor their marriageable young women. Gigantic swings are hung over the cobblestone streets and adorned with hand-woven sashes, flags, and paper streamers. The fiesta lasts for several days, accompanied by much corn liquor and popular songs.

Although I could understand a little of the conversations about me, the landscape outside my small window was distracting. Arid and earthen colored, with small adobe houses scattered across gentle hills, it was covered by sparse eucalyptus forests and cacti, reminding me of the countryside at home in Chile. Abruptly, the road became a rough cobbled trail, jerking us from one side to the other. Baskets, hens, and sacks of rice and flour set in the aisle heaved back and forth, and passengers complained loudly. Such trails are actually quite impressive--millions of paving stones carefully arranged one after the other, stretching many miles throughout much of the department. Finally, five jolting hours later that afternoon, we arrived at the small village of Totora.

As I disembarked, I noticed that the colonial houses around me were held in place by wooden beams extending across the streets. The ancient houses leaned against them, like very old people struggling to stay on their feet despite the passage of time and trying in vain to preserve their glory years. I walked along a narrow street that led to the town's main square, Carrasco Plaza. There, overlooking a mountain of merchandise, shop owner Olimpia Alba kindly offered me a very hot trimate, an unusual but pleasant mixture of three local herbs. Fortunately, she was fluent in Spanish and chatted away as if she had always known me.

"This is fiesta time, and you've come just in time for the celebration, the day of the Swings of our San Andres," she said as she made the sign of the cross and straightened the woolen hat above her two long black braids. "You'll be lucky to find a place to stay now. It's the same every year. People come from Cochabamba and the towns near La Soledad. But when they can't find any place to spend the night, they go home...