Bolivia

Samaipata, Sucre

Kruse Leave a comment

Woke up early enough on 16 July to discover that the hostel provides breakfast.  Free, I think.  Scoff down some fruit – solid & liquid – then pack my stuff and check out.  As I’m leaving, a canadian is coming back.  He’d been to bus station, but road to Cochabamba is blocked by coca-growers protesting.  I check with lady at hostel, and she assures me road to Samaipata is fine.  So – I walk to where the colectivo taxis for Samaipata leave.  (Taxis that do a certain route, and wait until they’re full before leaving).  I was the fourth person to arrive wanting to go, so was immediately pushed into the dodgy old stationwagon, and off we went.  Dirt road as soon as we left the city, with quite a few landslides.  And awesome tiny villages with thatched huts – I really wanted to stop the taxi and just get out to stay a night in one of these places, but wasn’t too sure about the practicality of it, and didn’t want to waste the couple of NZ$ I’d paid for a 2 or 3 hour taxi ride.  Got to Samaipata, and decided to use the hostel with whose pamphlet I had figured out how to get here.  A hostel which provides useful info deserves my money.  Get there, and it’s rather busy.  But – room available once other people check out.  So – leave my bags there, and go look for food.  Turns out to be rather difficult, but eventually find very cheap place, with very bad food.  Then, decide to walk the 9km to El Fuerte – the largest stone carving IN THE WORLD!  First 4km, easy – fairly flat along the main ‘road’.  Then, a dirt track up a hill.  Was expecting this, and not too bad.  Then, down the other side.  Then, up a hill again.  A bloody long hill which got steeper and steeper.  Absolutely buggered by the time I got to the top.  Chopped back a quick lemonade, then did some more walking up and down hills around this big rock with carvings all over it, and some Inca ruins.  (Pen & Ben – we can probably cancel Macchu Picchu.  I’ve seen Inca ruins now, and they aren’t that great.)  The carved rock was pretty impressive, but you couldn’t get the bird’s-eye view that is really needed to fully appreciate it.  I was pretty disappointed, especially after that awful walk here.  Which I could have avoided with a NZ$8 taxi ride (for ride up, driver to wait for up to two hours, then drive back).  I really need to remember how stupidly cheap taxis are in this country.  But, walked around the big stone, saw some ruins, and started the walk back.  Wasn’t too upset about having to walk back, as knew the only uphill bit wasn’t too bad. Then, on the final downhill, a minibus stopped and offered me a ride.  Full of schoolgirls.  Giggling schoolgirls, as soon as I got onboard.  A couple of them found the courage to ask for photos with me, and I of course obliged.  Didn’t have time to get my own photos with them before we arrived at the main road, and I had to get off, as they were going in another direction.  A local fellow who’d also been offered a ride got off too, and we strolled back to town together.  He started chatting rugby as soon as he knew I was from NZ.  Thought I was a professional player.  Everybody on this continent confuses my size as to being strong, rather than just too much cerveza.  Anyway, he explained that rugby is growing quite quickly in Bolivia, and a lot of his friends are playing it.  Look out All Blacks.

Got back to hostel eventually, and met an australian couple.  Very nice, the guy had just shaved a beard comparable to my China beard off – leaving the moustache.  A rather fine moustache.  They informed me that they’d been travelling with two kiwis they’d met, and who’d just left yesterday.  Also, there was a group of 4 other kiwis in the hostel.  Later in the evening, I met the group of 4 – immediately doubling the number of New Zealanders I’ve met on this trip.   Went to bed very tired, and was woken up by the English girl in another bed – asking me to roll onto my side, as I was snoring rather loudly.

17 July – Woke up too late for breakfast at the hostel, and then wandered up to an organic restaurant – where I came across the aussie couple and the Kiwi4.  Sat around chatting, watching hummingbirds fly around (hummingbirds are cool), drinking fresh juice and eating fresh food.  Then, walked up the hill at the back of the cafe/garden – where the owners had set up a ‘throne’ with a rather good view of the town and surrounding hills.  Back to the hostel, and I drank some cerveza while the aussies and english girl packed, then caught the night bus to Sucre.  Two kiwi girls arrived, and soon there was a group of 7 kiwis, and one canadian (the guy from Santa Cruz who couldn’t make it to Cochabamba – instead arrived here today) playing cards, and drinking.  One kiwi girl was rather drunk rather quickly, and became the perfect example of the embarassing kiwi traveller.  When asked to go downstairs to the lounge, not many people understood why (rather sensitive neighbour).  But, I managed to convince everybody, then cleaned up after them.  Unfortunately, a girl who is working at the hostel voluntarily (well – free board I assume) sleeps in a room adjoining the lounge.  While I was upstairs cleaning, I gather she hinted that it would be nice if people were fairly quiet.  And that smoking wasn’t allowed inside.  When I got down there, it was rather obvious that this was being ignored.  And when I tried to convince them that it was a good idea to be quiet, it turned into an argument which was even louder.  Eventually, at 1am, everybody went to bed.

So, I wake up on 18 July, feeling rather seedy, and intending to apologise to the volunteer.  Apparently, though, she’s already left for ‘The City’ – and won’t be back until tomorrow.  I do find, however, a note in the kitchen from her to the owner, complaining about last night.  Dumb.  I get the hostel owner to book me a ticket on tonights bus to Sucre, and ask him to apologise to the volunteer for me.  Then, walk up to the organic cafe with the Kiwi4, where they get some packed lunches for a walk up a hill, and I settle in with a jug of juice, a book, and the menu.  Soon hear a thump, and look around to see a hummingbird fall to the ground after flying into a window.  Pick it up, and place it on a table so that the dogs won’t hassle it – and hopefully it can recover.  An hour or two later it’s gone – so hopefully did it on it’s own steam.  I’ve said it before, but hummingbirds are cool.  Eventually finish the book, and return to hostel.  Buy a cerveza, and hostel owner confirms that I have a ticket.  Luckily, as the buses were booked out, but there was a cancellation.  Kiwi4 were also hoping to leave, but only one cancellation.  I ask what time the bus is (have heard that they are usually around 9pm) – and the hostel owner suddenly remembers that this one is much earlier, and that I should head down immediately.  Leave my cerveza with an elderly lady who had asked me earlier if they sell cerveza at the hostel – and catch taxi with owner who has to restock the cerveza.  Get to a roadblock where all vehicles have to pay a toll, and wait.  And wait.  Buses come through, but I can’t remember the company name I’m supposed to be on.  And apparently the driver has my ticket.  I know my seat number though, so ask the guys jumping off the buses to pay the toll, and sneaking a look at their passenger lists.  Nope, nope, nope.  Three hours later, in very very cold night, the guys at the tollbooth (after doublechecking all the passenger lists several times earlier for me), tell me there won’t be any more buses coming through.  I walk back to hostel – where luckily there is one bed free.  It happens to be mine, which they haven’t stripped or remade since I left.  Drop off my stuff, check the thermostat which is bang on zero, buy a bottle of wine, and head down to the lounge where a few people are watching a movie.  They head off, I watch an awful action movie while I finish the wine.

Get up on 19 July, and come out to breakfast – to the surprise of the owner, of course.   He asks what happened, and I explain.  He books me another ticket, this time with the company they usually use.  Doesn’t want me to pay for the second one, but we settle on me paying for half the second.  Then, I head to the museum about El Fuerte, which I’d forgotten to visit earlier.  Not too interesting, but had scale model of the big rock, so could see the full extent of the carvings.  Don’t do too much else.  Back to hostel, and have a few cervezas.  Kiwi4 are also booked on this bus, so we wait together.  I ignore the warning of the hostel owner that there is no toilet on the bus.  Several cervezas.  Volunteer has returned from The City, so I apologise in person.  Not sure if it goes down well while also buying more cerveza.  Eventually walk down to main road (different place from last night – has a little shop and seats to sit on while waiting).  Bus arrives on time, and we get on board.  Much better than last night.  Kiwi4 get on and laugh and complain about the lack of legroom.  I, the older and wizened traveller, get on, sit down, and prepare for an umcomfortable sleep.  Would have been much less uncomfortable if I’d heeded the warning about no toilets.  Wake up in the middle of the night, and try to tie my internals into a knot.  Succeed, I think, as when the bus finally stops, and I jump off for some quick relief, the pain in my gut continues until well into the next morning.

20 July – Arrive in Sucre.   Theoretically still the capital of Bolivia, although it now has only the Supreme Court, and everything else is in La Paz.  Civil war you see, which La Paz won, but to appease Sucre – allowed it to remain the capital, kind of.  Kiwi4 get off with me, and one offers to share a taxi.  I watch them load their packs into the boot of a taxi (boot is open, packs standing up on end poking out of it), and tell them I might see them in town.  They take the taxi, and I take a walk.  A fairly easy twenty minutes, and I reach the street with multiple hostels on it.  Ask at a couple which are full, then discover one with space.  Get myself a room, and drop my stuff off in it.  On the wall, written in biro, is “WARNING: this place is a shithole.”  Charming.  I’m not sure if the author is referring to the hostel, or the city.  So – go for a walk in the city to see if I can figure it out.  A market is across the road, where I buy a couple of saltenas.  Bolivian specialty (espcially in Sucre, with the reputation for the best saltenas in the country) – pretty much a pastry filled with chicken or beef, diced potato, and a sweet sultana sauce.  Pretty tasty, and very cheap.  Also, freshly squeezed juice – I opt for grapefruit.  Two large glasses for less thatn 50 NZ cents.  Sweet.  Walk around town – another immaculately maintained central plaza.  Discover an old train sitting by itself in a compound, and can’t remember if I read that the last train ever robbed by Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid was in Sucre, or somewhere else in the area.  Anyway, an army-type chap stops me from entering.  So, walk back to hostel for a siesta.

Get up in time for lunch.  Another bolivian specialty, this time not so good.  Greasy sausages served on a hamburger bun.  Then, check out a museum.  Not bad – housed in the house where Bolivian Independence was signed up.  See the treaty of independence, and other stuff dedicated to the War of Independence, among the several other wars Bolivia has fought.  (I think Independence was the only one they’ve won.)

Then, find a restaurant with a balcony overlooking the plaza, and have a couple of cervezas.  Starts to get very cold as the sun drops, so head back to hostel, put on some more clothing, and return to the restaurant with balcony.  This time, order yet another bolivian specialty.  This time, delicious.   Diced chicken, beef, and maybe llama, with vegetables, in a spicy onion sauce.  I order the half-plate, and eat maybe half of that.

Santa Cruz (translated: Saint Kruse)

Kruse Leave a comment

12 July

Did I mention my hotel room here has no blankets?  Lots of places in the far north didn’t – but that was where it was warm, and they provided a topsheet instead, which was enough.  Here – nothing.  And cold.  So – use my sleeping bag for the first time.  Turns out to be stupidly warm – just used as a blanket.  Get out from underneath it, and it’s freezing.  Anyway – today checked out museum.  Not too interesting.  But they had caught one of every creature in the area, and stuffed it.  Hundreds of birds, weird mammals, frogs, snakes, insects, etc.  Then – go to tourist office type place to ask about bus to Bolivia.  200 Guaranis.  Luckily, they also mention a bank next door (disguised as a non-bank), where I change all my seppo & brasilian currency.  Now have enough for the bus, and some extra.  As long as I can pay for hotel with Visa.

13 July

Get up early for my 6am bus.  Wait for bus, next to tourism-type shop.  About 7am, the lady who’d given me information arrives.  Looks confused at seeing me.  After a while, I figure out she meant 6pm last night.  Not 6am this morning.  Dumb.  But – she reckons there’s another one at 10am.  So – hang around, meet three seppo girls – give them some advice on the town.  Then, I sit at ‘bus-stop’.  (Side of road next to tourism shop & my ‘local’ ‘bar’.  Wait, and wait.  At noon I decide I’ve earnt some food and cerveza.  Chap talks to me, doesn’t like it when I don’t understand spanish very well.  I think he tells me I should leave Parguay ‘rapido’ in that case.  Lucky I didn’t say I didn’t understand drunk mumbling spanish very well.  But, after a while of him talking to others, I overhear “aleman”.  I jut in, and say I am NOT German.  Everybody becomes a lot friendlier.  I don’t think the local population is too happy with the german mennonites.  We talk about money, which I’m never too comfortable with.  In Uruguay, when I was forced to tell my annual wage in US$, the guy thought I was getting my zeros mixed up – thought I’d put two too many on the number.  I reassured him I was right, much later I realised I’d admitted to being a double-millionaire by his standards.  Here – I’m a half-billionaire.

Old man starts talking to me.  All friendly-like, a little creepy.  Says there’s definitely a bus at 4, and until then – he knows a cheaper place to drink.  So – we go.  He offers to take my small bag as we walk in the narrow doorway.  Fair enough.  Puts it down beside him, under the table opposite me.  I feel a little uneasy.  We chat.  I notice his hand under the table, obviously moving, as if itching his ankle.  Uneasiness grows.  He asks me to see the brasilian & uruguayan coins I’d shown some guys earlier.  Mistake on his part – as they’re in my small bag.  As soon as I make a move for it, he realises, and pulls it out for me.  In the process, I distinctly hear the zip being done back up.  Shit.  I get the coins out – put them on table for him to look at.  While he’s doing that, I check my stuff.  Obviously has been gone through.  Only thing missing I can identify is my Leatherman.  Not happy.  I ask him if he has something, about ‘this size’.  He reckons ‘no’.  I tell him goodbye, and storm out.  Soon regret it, and think I should have forced him to give me it back, but by now he (if smart) would have stashed the swag.  Go back to my local, get a cerveza, and fume.  One guy I’d talked to the last two days turns up, and we chat.  I don’t mention anything, but somehow have remembered the thief’s name.  Ask my friend about him – and he says he’s ‘no good’.  After a while, the thief sheepishly comes back, and sidles onto the bench seat next to me.  He’s holding one side of his face, and hands me back the Leatherman.  Tells me a Paraguayan hit him?  I’m a little confused, as I hadn’t told anybody.  Maybe the bargirl at the other bar had guessed what had happened?  Anyway – I get it back, and he asks for a beer.  Cheek deserves a beer, I guessed – so pour him half a glass, and tell him that’s the last one.  My more trustworthy friend, not knowing what has happened, cautions me to move all my bags away from the thief.  Later, the thief asks me for money as well.  No chance.  Tries the sympathy vote because he’s been hit.  For thieving from me.  Demonstrates by hitting me.  Very softly, but still – bad strategy.

Chat to some more locals, including a ladies man.  Getting a little antsy about the bus by this point, but my new amigos notice – and reassure me.  Eventually a bus arrives.  My amigos say it’s not my one, but I rush over to check.  It turns out it is.  So – hurried goodbyes, and I get on a bus where the aisle is too thin for me to carry my small backpack down.  Bus eventually gets to Mariscal E-something, the military settlement.  I get off near the edge of town – where I see a hotel sign.  Is now fairly late at night – so figure I’m going to have to catch the bus to Bolivia tomorrow.  Go to hotel, get a room.  Have to pay in advance – not usual.  Then – go to local bar.  Largest man I’ve ever seen in real life – large enough that I am genuinely surprised when he gets out of his seat to get me a burger/beer.  I actually expected him to ring a bell, and for somebody else to come out and do his bidding.  But, we watch some Jean Claude Van Damme together, and I discover that the only bus to Bolivia passes through at 3am each morning, and is 240 Guaranis.  I now have approximately 265 – luckily have already paid for burger/cerveza and hotel.  I go back to hotel, and hòpe I can wake up at 2am.  Am very very tired, but am stuck here for a full day with no money, and no way of getting money, if I don’t.

14 July

Hooray – managed to get up.  Leave my key in my door, in case I miss the bus and need more sleep.  Walk to the migration station, and arrive there just as a bus arrives.  Busman (guy not driving, but kind of sidekick) – very keen to get me onboard.  Sure.  250 Guaranis.  Hand him my pack, and he rushes me towards the queue for exit stamps.  Where there’s a dozen people in front of me, and I wait for some time in cold, making friends with the police dogs.  Get stamped out, then get on bus.  Very very little legroom.  Fall asleep for several hours, and then woken at 8am for the Bolivian migration checkpoint.  Awesome – Bolivia.  As soon as I get off the bus, it strikes me as being everything one expects and wants from South America.  Tiny village on a dirt road, wooden huts, roaming chickens and pigs, army base.  Get my entry form, and change my Guaranis into Bolivianos.  Buy an orange juice.  Fill out my form, then remember seeing a poster on the wall in the migration ’shack’ that looked to be a list of prices for various nationalities.  Lowest price was 15Bs, I now have 12.50.  And I can’t go back to Paraguay.  Dumb.  But, get to the front, a bit of delay when he can’t find my Paraguay exit stamp, and won’t let me find it for him – but doesn’t ask for money.  Sweet.  Back on bus, where I give my seat to the wife of an army guy, with two kids.  BusMan not happy, and insists I sit down – finds a seat for me further up the front.  Breakfast is served – biscuits and chocolate milk.  Any liquid is appreciated by now, dry biscuits are not.  But I force them down.  Several hours later – lunch is served.  A choice – the better of which (according to guy sitting opposite me, whose taste I respect after he booed the BusMan for putting Rambo II on the TV) – is the cold piece of chicken with a chunk of mandioca.  And a bottle of soft drink.  I eat as much of the food as I can before soft drink is gone.  Impossible to swallow without liquid to wash it down.

Eventually get to Santa Cruz, Bolivia.  Bolivia is cool.  On way in, drive past a grass airstrip.  Complete with abandoned fuselage of an aircraft.  Didn’t get close enough to see the bulletholes, but I assume they’re there.  The traces of the last shipment of cocaine is bound to be long gone though.  Bus doesn’t go to terminal, so I have no idea of where I am.  Except in a small walled compound with barbed wire.  BusMan is keen to get me a taxi (rather eager to please overall, the BusMan) – and does so.  Insists on an address – so I pick first hostel from guide book.  Get there, and hostel is full – so original plan of walking around looking for somewhere is not ruined after all.  Original plan turns out to be bad though – as next three hotels are all full also.  Find a restaurant, and order a jug of lemon juice, and food.  Lemon juice fills me up, so can’t finish my food.  Much food, for little money though.  I do manage to finish my cerveza.

Decide to head towards bus terminal.  There are several hostels there, and worst case – can get on the next bus to somewhere.  Pass one last hostel in central city – listed in the guidebook as being very popular, and bookings much recommended.  Not much hope – but they have room.  Sweet.  Joy fades as I walk into the courtyard, and hear very american accents.  Having a very seppo conversation.  Decide very quickly I won’t be joining in their conversation.  Ever.  Drop my stuff off, and leave to look for small local bar.  Can’t find one – end up settling for a bar in a shopping mall where some locals are playing backgammon.  Looks to be the best I can expect in the central city.  Back to hotel, and wait for seppo and canidiot in my dormroom to finish talking about seppo sports before I can go to sleep.  In my book-o-notes I actually wrote that the bus journey was 36 hours.  That’s how long this day has seemed.

15 July

Woken up by loud seppos having an early breakfast, just as I’d overheard them promise last night.  But – get back to sleep.  Other people in dorm slip out quietly.  Then, seppo below me gets up.  Turns on light, packs loudly and lengthily, and then leaves – leaving light on.  So I get up also – but too late to explain certain things to Uncle Sam.  I go for a walk.  Town is dead, as it is Sunday.  Another country where they still hold Sunday as a family day type deal.  The central plaza, however, is fairly busy.  And pretty cool.  Perfectly maintained gardens, trees, etc.  Most other south american plazas – more concrete.  Here – beautiful.  Still, of course, containing the statue of some fellow – almost always a military chap.  Apparently there are some sloths living in the trees here, but I don’t see any.  Don’t look too hard either though – rather hungry.  Eventually find a place for food.  Interpret one menu entry as being something-of-duck soup.  Very cheap.  Sweet – order that.  Get some soup and bread.  Has offal in it – I think I eat the heart, but can’t manage the kidney.  Seems to be far too large for duck-bits.  Still a little hungry, considering a sandwich or burger from a street stall.  Then – the second course arrives.  Menu item was actually the soup of the day, and then fried rice with shredded duck.  Far far too much for me to eat, for a little over NZ$2.  Sweet.

Back to the hostel.  See a toucan on the roof.  Sweet – take a photo.  Then, it flies down onto table in the courtyard.  Sweet – photo.  Then, jumps onto arm of chair.  Photo.  Then, it starts eating my shirt.  Okay – photo, then run away, as it has a very long beak, and dangerously close to the groin.  Then, it jumps onto ground, and chases me.  While I’m wearing jandals.  I think it got annoyed when I tried to give it a jandal to eat.  And has short-man syndrome.

Go for another walk.  Don’t get very far before a local asks me the time.  Then uses that as an opening for a chat.  I understand very little, but manage to bluff my way through.  Much talk about how cold it is.  He seems interested in how many layers of clothing I’m wearing.  I show him my Icebreaker is made of wool – so warm, and he grabs it to see what’s underneath.  Odd.  Then, after finding I’m from New Zealand, I think he starts talking about New Zealanders having large penises.  Odd.  Goes on and on about it.  Then, about nudist beaches, I think?  About being naked anyway – pretty sure I got that bit right.  And goes on about that.  And then a cycle of those two topics, with it being cold thrown in occasionally.  When he pauses for breath after a while, I use my perfect knowledge of how to say “I have to go now, goodbye” to great effect.  Find a cuban cafe, and order a bottle of wine.  Sit there for a while, reading the graffiti all over the walls.  Notice one piece on the ceiling.  A map of New Zealand with “New Zealand    Aotearoa    Viva la revolucion   Bro”.   Awesome.  Am most pleased.  Then I notice the date on it – only two days ago.  Sweet.

Back to hostel – and drink some yerba mate while watching the Copa America final.  Then, am forced into going to “Irish Pub” for dinner.  No Guinness.  But, order irish stew & a bottle of red wine, and watch cars driving around the plaza with brasilian flags.  Rather happy, and loud, brasilians.  Back to hostel, and drink some more mate.