#53 A Taste of Slave Labour in Bolivia

Turns out that February/March is the end of the rainy season in Bolivia - not the best time to be travelling dirt roads on a motorbike. So to pass the time we had arranged a 'workaway' at a hacienda outside Sucre - a programme through which workers are provided food and accomodation in exchange for a few hours labour a day. Our first thought on arrivial - no matter what the work, at least we would be living in luxury. The property was set on a 10.5 acre piece of land high up in the outskirts of Sucre, mountains visible from every direction you turned. The house was shaped as a cylinder constructed enitrely of local materials, mainly adobe and terracotta tiles, overlooking a 17m pool and mosaic jacuzzi. But it wasn't long until we were being read the Riot Act, so to speak.

As we were sat down by owners Ed and June to here 'the rules' my fears that the workaway programme was simply a ruse for slave labour returned. Rule Number One: no entering the property without permission (this included the outside areas and the pool). Rule Number Two: dinner and breakfast were to be obtained (and it turned out rationed) from June.  Rule Number Three: working hours were between 8.30-12 and 2-4, with a 15-20 minute break at 10 (this we pushed our to 30 minutes knowing the workaway programme only required 5 hours labour a day). Rule Number Four: we were to clean our living space every Friday afternoon after work. While we were told we were welcome to stay over the weekend (although no food would be provided), it was pointed out that most people head in to Sucre.

Though this all seemed reasonable it wasn't long before a division grew between 'us' and 'them'. We were shown our bedroom-cum-dining room which was located behind the house and consisted of a converted concrete shed; the beds foam mattresses placed over straw beds. We felt fortunate to be the first to arrive as a lack of space meant any others would be camping. Our quarters included a small bathroom and kitchen containing a gas camping stove and sink which doubled as the bathroom wash basin.

Carmello the Caretaker

The first week went pretty smoothly with only four of us working at the time. Reece and Nick, an American from Colorado, were busy constructing a grey water marsh for harvesting reusable water which I gather essentially meant hauling a lot of gravel. The task for the girls, Canadian Keenan and I, was to plant grass with the property's caretaker Carmello. The first day that meant manually hoeing the ground and removing the many rocks beneath. After preparing a small area for planting we were asked to accompany Carmello to pick up the grass. We brought along our wallets along thinking their might be an opportunity to purchase some supplies only to end up at another farm 15 minutes down the road. Turns out the grass we were to pick up was still in the ground and had to be removed. Grass planting was not as I had expected. Rather than spreading seeds, each root had to be separated and individually planted. Not surprisingly, progress was slow!

The girls at work

For the next three weeks our only escape from the tedium was the rain, which had an uncanny knack of falling heavily all through the night only to end by worktime. It was a blessing in disguise anyway as when we weren't grass planting we were polishing the floors inside the main house. After a night of one-too-many aniseed shots in the barracks I let my frustrations out, dropping a piece of grass after getting mixed reports from Ed and Carmello on what constituted a dead piece of grass. Serious stuff, right? Well it earned me a talk on attitude from Ed.

Nick crossing the river

While the work may have been dull the company of Carmello our fellow workawayers, including two couples who joined us for our final week, made up for it. The first day, my birthday, Keenan suggested we head down to the local tiendas to celebrate. The walk involved passing a pig sty, walking down a valley of thorn bushes, passing a couple of cows and crossing a dry river bed. Only problem was it had rained that afternoon and the river was far from dry. One cannot be kept from one's beer so off came the shoes, up went the pants and across we went - if the locals could do it so could we.

But maybe we stayed one week too long. At one point during our final week there was seven of us squished around our 1.5m dining table, trying to concoct a dinner from not much more food than four of us had been given. Much of the conversation recounting the ridiculous events of the day. Two examples: a complaint from June about how fast we were using toilet paper to which we explained there were a number of us sick in the group. Her response, well she was not responsible for providing the group kleenex! Another time, we were asked not to hang our wet clothes on the line, but rather the fence to the dog pen as since they weren't spun they were wetting June's clothes. Sorry June, our kitchen sink doubling as a wash basin doesn't come with a spin function!

That said, the workaway experience gave me plenty of time to practice Spanish with Carmello, and we made some good friends, with whom we had many fun dinners (assisted by a 1L bottle of 40% vodka costing NZ$4.50) both in Sucre and at the hacienda (usually followed by some raucous card games). Best of all staying three weeks in one place undertaking manual labour was just what we needed to reignite the flame for more travel. 

•  If you think my account was negative check out our fellow workawayers reinditions at http://adventurewithacolautti.wordpress.com/2012/03/11/class-struggles-in-sucre/#comments and http://elmundoasorbitos.blogspot.com/2012/03/en-la-hacienda.html