Drinking Barbera wine in Camargo

The rooster's somewhat hoarse voice sounded for the first time at 4:45 this morning, part of the din surrrounding the arrival of the first bus of the day here in Camargo. The quiet rumbling of the engine, people talking, and, even this early, a woman advertising something to eat for sale to the passengers of the bus. A few minutes later all was quiet again, only to be repeated for the next bus, and the next, a while later. It's astonishing at which noise level one can go back to sleep.

We had chosen Camargo as a stopping point between Tarija and Potosí because it was about at the half-way mark and it sounded like a nice place to stop, information that was confirmed by the (English speaking) tourist office employee in Tarija. Much smaller, at only about 10,000 people, it is one of the major wine centres in Bolivia as well. Here, high altitude wines are produced at 2,400 m elevation.

The sun was shining when the taxi dropped us off at the bus terminal in Tarija yesterday just after noon, and I almost didn't recognize the place. Compared to the chaos of our arrival it was peaceful and quiet and looked almost deserted. Our arrival must have coincided with one of the main arrival or departure times. Now, the wooden benches were half empty. A few people had stretched out to sleep, two little boys played tag while their mother watched, smiling. It was the typical mix of many crowds in Bolivia: young people in tight jeans and t-shirts, elegantly dressed women in platform shoes (though these are not quite as prominent as in Argentina where they can take incredibly daring heights), older men in suits – all this could be anywhere. But then there are also the women in traditional dress of different areas, wearing their hats, aprons over wool sweaters and skirts, carrying huge packs wrapped in colourful blankets on their backs and often a bag in each hand. What really stands out, however, are women dressed in their finery, like the young woman in a beautiful satiny dress made with small pink squares like patchwork over several layers of lacy petitcoats, her clear dark complexion and shiny black braids set off to greatest advantage by the colour of the dress and matching fringed satin scarf with intricate beadwork. Like a bird of paradise in a yardful of drab grey pigeons – I couldn't help watching her, so obviously unaware of the effect she was creating. She slipped off her blanket pack and walked up to one of the kiosks to buy something, and a moment later I watched her scratch a couple of lottery tickets, pull out her cell phone and make a call. It still seems like such a contrast to me, even if I should , by now, be used to the fact that everybody, even the most wrinkled, bent little old woman, carries a cell phone and uses it often, from checking the time to making calls, though I don't think I've seen too many of the old people use it for texting yet.

The bus we boarded shortly before one was laid out much like the one before, but this time it was much fuller, filled with much the same mix of people that had occupied the waiting area, including the pink beauty. The bus was scheduled to go all the way to La Paz – a long way. Johann, who had looked through the driver's window, found that the bus driver was well prepared to go the distance: two bags of coca leaves were awaiting consumption. Hopefully they weren't the only thing to keep him awake during the twelve or fourteen hour trip. A second driver or even assistant was nowhere in sight, in any case.

Once everyone had settled in their places and the engine had rumbled to life, though the bus was still waiting, a young, somewhat shabby looking man made a plea for something I didn't understand, without much success, it seemed. He was followed by another one distributing tooth brushes and extolling their virtues – he, too, collected most, if not all of them without making a sale. The next one took more time, and by now we were on the move already. An ointment consisting of six different herbs – coca leaves among them, of course – was supposed to cure any ill from sore muscles to sore throats: one for thirteen pesos, three for twenty. He was more successful than the last two. He just had time to get out at the stop for the police control at the edge of town before he would have been overrun by a crowd of women entering the bus, about fifteen of them. They sold ice cream and plastic cups filled with different coloured jello topped with cream, flat breads and sweetmeats, water and coke, each trying to drown out the next with her calls. Once they, too, had exited we were finally on our way. Again the landscape was stunning, again the road curvy, ascending and descending, again the bus driver was not losing any time – but this time the road was a good, wide, paved road, and not once did we feel even remotely in danger. 

For quite a while we drove through another valley, green and lush where a small river sustained trees, shrubs and agriculture with colourful rock walls on both sides of the road. More and more often small vineyards were part of the picture, and after three hours of travel we arrived in Camargo. We hadn't been able to find out much information about the place, but it did seem as if there was plenty of accommodation. Right beside the shady little plaza where the buses stopped the Hostal Cruz Huasa looked very inviting with its front yard covered with clusters of dark pink bougainvilleas, and it was no problem to get a double room with private bathroom. Even the internet was working, much faster than in the three-star Hostal El Sol in Tarija. 

 

Surrounded by red, partly horizontally, partly vertically folded mountains Camargo is a quiet little town with pretty much no tourist traffic at all. A walk through town seemed to suggest that people either lived from selling wine or from selling things to each other. A multitude of little shops and restaurants was complemented by a huge market area extending into tiny lanes with a great choice of fruit (we had some very tasty apricots) and all kinds of merchandise, seemingly more than a community of that size could ever use. Tourists must be a great rarity here because people kept turning their heads, staring at us. 

 

Our host, too, didn't speak a word of English, but he managed to convey that he made the wine he sold himself, two kinds of red, a Carmenere, which originates in Chile, and a Barbera of Italian origin, plus a white. His label showed two white and a black sheep, and it is appropriately called 'Oveja Negra', Black Sheep. We tasted the Barbera later in the evening and found it excellent. To our great surprise we also found someone who spoke excellent English, a friend of the hotel owner/wine maker who turned out to be a Japanese-Algerian now living right here in Camargo. He, too, had entered the wine making business and was able to answer many of our questions. He said that he as well as our host, and many other of the people selling wine here, bought their grapes from the vineyards in the valley. Our host is the only one to make Barbera wine, from less than one hectar of grapes. We bought one percent of his whole production of 200 bottles per year last night and will enjoy the rest of the second bottle tonight in Potosí.

 

Waiting for another bus to leave