The President and the bell of the Admiral Graf Spee
Tarija, a region of the south west of Bolivia, called the “Bolivian Andalusia”, a land of flowers, Vineyards, palms, willows and with a huge river called Guadalquivir, It has not stopped surprising me even when I left. More than anything, because I had to turn around with my brand new BMW loaded to the brim at about 150 km from there on the way to Santa Cruz. A river overflowing with more than 10 meters wide cut the track (I have not even wanted to know the depth). So thanks to the rain I have returned to the hotel of the marriage of Monica and Christian (Los Ceibos, a magnificent four star) where they so kindly invited me to stay, doing it again. Now it's pouring out the room and the blue pool is going to overflow too, just like the river.
The good thing about this is that it gives me time to write and tell you what a visit to an illustrious president has been. Last night, I was invited to spend an afternoon with Jaime Paz Zamora, President of Bolivia of 1989 the 96.
A river overflowing with more than 10 meters wide cut the track
To get to Picacho, the beautiful house of the Paz family, you have to cross two small towns from Tarija. One of them has a curious story: most of its inhabitants are redheads. This is very strange here, where a dark complexion and black hair is the general trend. Some say it was the legacy of a Spanish priest (redhead?, I wonder while they tell me jokingly), others, They say they are the descendants of a group of Irishmen who fought alongside the Spanish more than 200 years, this theory, fits me more. After this whitewashed town we turn onto a paved path to the right. In the background a huge indigo blue door, perfectly cared for, closes our way. To his right a beautiful bronze sign with a bird that prays: The Picacho.
To enter, Rodrigo Paz (son of Jaime and current President of the Council of Tarija) park your BMW F800GS, push the door closed, nothing. He leans over the stone wall and hits a small log cabin, nothing. Phone home, after a few seconds of waiting, nothing.
End, he has to jump over the wall like a youngster sneaking into his beloved's house. The doors open and the two F800GS and my F700GS, Paca, we enter. The Portuguese-style cobblestone floor leads us between some white houses full of bougainvilleas exulting with violet and pink flowers to a small square. We stop the engines and get off. Two little boys welcome us, They are Rodrigo's stepbrothers, children of Jaime and his second wife, much younger than him. Instantly she comes out, brunette, fine, mother who scolds the children and makes them go. Beside him a man with a cane (they just did some infiltrations on his knee) with the burned face although they are already old scars. Smiling welcomes us, He offers us his hand and I give him two kisses, to the spanish. Invites us to go to one of the patios of the house.
The Portuguese-style cobblestone floor leads us between some white houses full of bougainvilleas exulting with violet and pink flowers to a small square.
This house, The Picacho, has a nice story. It is on the banks of the Guadalquivir and they bought it from some puppeteers who occupied it more than 30 years. In the restoration a beam was found with the inscription 1832 (I remember) what makes it old, much, over 200 years and although on the river bank, it's on stone, so it has remained almost intact, away from the humidity of the earth.
A one-piece solid wood table awaits us on the terrace, like others that occupy patios or rooms of the house, much appreciated by the President, as his first wife's assistant calls him, Carmen Pereira who also accompanies us. Woman who could write a thousand books, Galician, traveled, lived and loving, like me, of the good wines, activist in her young days, pretty and very intelligent. We connect the first day and I wait, see her again and enjoy her company and wisdom, she is a splendid woman who keeps a thousand stories.
While Andrés speaks I scrutinize that face, that of a person who has borne the responsibility of an entire country.
On the table, White wine, pan de soda, cheese and various juices: roasted barley, typical there and peach (peach). In Bolivia, as in almost all of South America, are fond of juices or juices, what do they call them. The conversation begins to flow and Jaime becomes interested in Andrés's visions, Chilean who travels by my side and mine, about your country. Listen carefully. While Andrés speaks I scrutinize that face, that of a person who has borne the responsibility of an entire country. I am interested in knowing the reason for her burns and Carmen, at a time when we get up to visit the beautiful house, tell me. He was the only survivor of a plane crash (the attack) in 1980 in which the previous vice president was traveling.
His look is serious, smart and information-hungry, although now already relaxed because of not having the power or the obligation to have it. Keep talking to us while we visit the rooms of the house with high ceilings and wooden beams in one piece, impressive. His office is in a wing, inside is covered with wood, it could be a cabin or a place to play poker in a clandestine way. A terrace at the top with beautiful views of the river complete this two-story place. Throughout the garden and patios there are poems and phrases that have something to do with where they are. The house is white, with bougainvillea and jasmine, flowers and palm trees with a farmland in the background for food for livestock and stables. Along the path of this Guadalquivir, Jaime tells that he brought all kinds of trees creating a magical walk of Canadian pines, japanese, poplars, abedules, even a Vatican laurel ...
Throughout the garden and patios there are poems and phrases that have something to do with where they are.
We continue walking around the perimeter of the house next to the river, the Picacho can be seen perfectly from here, it's a huge limestone, in midstream, curious red and white. There the guerrillas met when they dispersed after an attack or a raid in Tarija. That rock has contemplated the history of the struggles between Spaniards and indigenous people and later between Creoles and Spaniards.
We keep walking Andrés, Rodrigo and me, some cypress trees tell me that there may be a Cemetery there, I ask Rodrigo and he points out some crosses, so is. There the Paz Zamora family rests, dedicated since her great grandparents to politics and to the defense of her ideals. At the end of the walk near a gigantic tree with a poem at its feet, a small crypt with a cross made of long nails inside. It is the grave of Jaime's brother, Nestor. He was a guerrilla of the Army of National Liberation, killed in the guerrillas of Teoponte the year 1969. Died, according to his nephew, of starvation hidden in the jungles by being encircled by enemy soldiers.
The bell
Back at the table I ask about some bells in front of us hanging from some wood. Jaime tells me that they play them and that one, small, has a story: He bought it from a street stall in Belgium and when he went to clean it it turned out to be from an armored cruiser that served Nazi Germany during World War II. They baptized him with the name of Admiral Graf Spee, inter alia, intervened in the Spanish Civil War in 1936 and 37. After a bombardment with the British navy in the Battle of the Río de la Plata in the 39, made a stopover in Montevideo to fix its damage where, due to war reasons, was scuttled by his commander, scrapped in situ. Even today his remains can be seen on this coast, and his bell in the Picacho after having traveled again to Europe.
Sitting again at the large table in the main patio, Jaime invites us to visit the interior of the house: the walls are adorned with beautiful paintings by renowned painters and something that caught my eye, pieces of the tableware of Simón Bolívar (some lovely plates and platters from Limoge). Also an antique mirror, crystal decor, of those who had to bring on a donkey, as the host told me, making me imagine in this case, the responsibility of the one who carried the donkey and unloaded the precious object taken from the ship that arrived from Europe. Again we began a conversation in which the most impertinent questions on my part, are dodged with amazing naturalness and elegance.
How does it feel to be president?
Finally one in which it expands: How does it feel to be president?
Jaime answers that it is a great responsibility and that he realized it when he was traveling in his official car and saw the people who worked through the window, pulling a car, walking far away, then, says, It is when I realized that I was responsible for the welfare of these anonymous people and gave thanks for where he had been. He spoke proud that his mandate was quiet, no deaths, after many years of governments with attacks, drug trafficking and political accidents. We continue chatting and a question about the United States sneaks into the conversation. Jaime met Bush Sr., but the sentence ends there, does not want to continue. Carmen gets a trick and explains something about a spy .. nothing, Jaime changes the conversation.
It's gotten dark, it's after eight o'clock and the President's leg calls for rest. We say goodbye to the house, from Picacho, of the. It has been a pleasure to meet him closely, his ex-wife his son Rodrigo and his family.
Thanks for the kindness in the Picacho, I'll never forget it.
Comments (3)
Alfredo
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How good to read you here, Alicia. I am a faithful follower of yours and now I will devour this web
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Miguel Cuadra
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There are great stories of Nazi ships in South America. As always great what you give
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hernan
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Es fácil ver a la gente trabajando y hacerse cargo a lo lejos desde un carro y creer que todo esta bien por que no hay muertes mientras todos los privados se llevan los recursos de los hijos de bolivia, y me pregunto que hacen tantas cosas de tanto valor en la casa de un expresidente ¿por que no se encuentran en un museo?
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