The life domestic

Four years ago, I was fortunate to experience Christmas and New Year’s in the beautiful city of Sucre. As a result, the novel, The colours of our blood was born, which happens precisely in the majestic settings of this city. Now, the novel has been published in Spanish and has seen the light. As I come back to Sucre, I have been gifted with the thrilling opportunity of walking the scenes depicted in the narrative and encountering its characters as I walk the streets… 

Domingo de Palmas Iglesia de San Francisco, ciudad de Sucre, Bolivia
Palms Sunday           San Francisco Basilic, Sucre, Bolivia

My mother, Doña Clotilde Eloisa Algodoña, was graced in life, by being able to boast that she was a direct and legitimate descendent of the only officially recognized noble family in Bolivia’s modern history. What’s more, back in the first decades of the XIXth Century, at the end of the Independence Movements of the Latin American countries, all the noble titles and their subsequent benefits disappeared from the Constitutions of the newly emerging nations.

Día en el mercado ciudad de Sucre, Chuquisaca, Bolivia
A day at the market           Central Market, Sucre, Chuquisaca, Bolivia

Nevertheless, an exception occurred in Bolivia, when the Principality of The Glorieta was established, precisely in the city of Sucre. This Principality was created by a Papal Bull, proclaimed by Leon XIII, the Pope at the time. For this reason, it happened that a noble family could exist in the Independent Bolivian State. This was the same family from which my mother descended directly, for the glory or her Royal Self and the grief and sorrow of everyone else.

Plaza del Teatro Metropolitano ciudad de Sucre, Chuquisaca, Bolivia
At the plaza          Metropolitan Theatre Plaza, Sucre, Chuquisaca, Bolivia

My mother would explain this quite unusual situation to anybody within her reach, and also, to those unfortunate souls, whose inexperience allowed them to be caught. Even the four winds ceased to blow in Sucre’s surroundings, preferring the cold regions of the Potosi and the highlands. These miserable winds could be heard moaning, utterly fatigued by her relentless, repetitive speeches.

And… together with the hapless winds, the lamentations and wailing of the surprised, doomed individuals who had approached her, could also be heard in a bleak, sorrowful chorus. These were the miserable souls that had been caught in her web, beset and weighed down, lost in the faraway reaches of utter boredom, having to listen, once again and for one more time, to the interminable narrative of her most noble origins.

On the way to Bolivar Park           City streets, Sucre, Chuquisaca, Bolivia


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   ©  All photos by edudelcorral

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