Digging Deeper

It usually costs 20 pesos for a taxi out to Llapallapani when I visit the Urus. But feeling brave, this last time, I took a friend up on the offer of a bicycle to cross the few miles of dirt road. I wasn’t in a hurry, and only needed to finish an interview with the Jiliri and deliver the baptism pics I had taken a few weeks ago. The little trip was tougher than it looked. Beyond just a dirt road, its not uncommon for municipal projects to run out of funds before the fiscal year is up, meaning there are actually obstacle mounds of gravel and sand to get around. About half way to the village, I biked through The Station, Huari’s ghost town from when the railroad used to run through.
Completely abandoned, it was a bit more eerie on bike than in auto. I thought I was fine to take a rest there, since the day before I had confirmed with German I would be coming. Silly me, I don’t know why I keep thinking that confirmation is worth something down here. When I arrived at German’s I saw his 1975 Chevrolet truck out of its usual resting place. Funny, because I thought the orange monster – the only auto in the village - didn’t work at all. Once I got closer, I could see the whole family was standing behind, pushing the orange truck. I shouted, to ask if they needed any help, they kinda giggled and walked over to see what I was up to.

It was quickly made clear I wasn’t getting my interview that day because German and family were busy. They were taking the truck out to the lake and planned to be gone “working” most of the day. I didn’t really get what it was they would be doing, but understood there was “collecting” involved, and it was something that looked like rice, that gets put in chicken and pig feed. I was warned it would take most of the day, but invited to come along.

I loaded my bike in the back, just in case I needed to escape – hey it happens. And we all started to push, then hustled to hop in. We sailed through the fields, no road in sight, holding onto our hats, and I confess I was grinning ear to ear. I’ll never feel Uru, but in that moment I did feel part of the family. For just one day we had conquered some of the world’s useless boundaries: culture, class, color, country.

***

It turns out what we were looking for are these teeny tiny concha shells that are under the dirt and sand, not too far from the lake.

Here’s the method:
1. You walk around lightly stomping to feel for hollow ground.
2. When you think you’ve found something, ya give the earth a good kick with your shoe. (I was wishing I had worn my hiking boots, but German’s wife and daughters were in slip-on flats, so I couldn’t complain about my Keens.)
3. Then you just dig. With your hands that is. Sometimes you find a “joya” or hotspot full of the teeny, centimeter-long conchas.
4. After digging up the joya, you spread out the concha concentrated dirt, so that it can dry in the high-altitude sun.
5. Eventually you come back, sift the dirt through two sieves, and into the potato sack. When we finished I thought we had about 4 arrobas (25 lbs. each). In the fair where they planned to sell the shells they earn 35 Bolivianos per arroba. Which is about $5. So that means 6 adults working 6 hours to earn about $20 total (not per person). But when I said, I thought we had done good, Doña Maria smirked. We still lacked step 6.
6. Wash the shells; which means we lose half the weight. Meaning two arrobas = $10 for a full days work of 6 adults.

But I figure since I’ve got the grant and all, I wont take my cut.

Stupid world, makes no sense.

Beautiful People, thankful to know them.