Why Sucre is nicknamed ¨the white city¨ is quite obvious as soon as you walk through the centre of this stunning Bolivian city. I had read about Sucre before we got there and had promised Rich nice surroundings for our Spanish lessons but we were both amazed by how beautiful this place was/is!
But not only the architecture stunned us - so did the food, the people, the hostel and just about everything else. Not knowingly we had picked the perfect place for a 2 1/2 week study-break from our travels.
Michele, a Dutch girl who we had met in Patagonia, had helped us make this decision since she recommened a great private Spanish teacher: Claudia. So for the next two weeks we sat in a little study room a few hours a day with our profesora buena to go through the basics of present, past and future in this very complicated language. Muchas gracias para todo, Claudia!
Apart from daily amusing Claudia with our homework, we continued to entertain other South Americans around us. After one of our Spanish lessons, Rich confidently walked into a shop and asked for a female pig. Thanks to his infamous hand communication skills he managed to leave the shop with the guitar strings he had actually come for....
As mentioned another highlight of our time in Sucre was the food. After cooking in little hostel kitchens for the past 2 months we had arrived in food haven where everything is so good and cheap that hostels don´t even have kitchen for their guests! Great 2-course almuerzos (lunches) from Doña Franca for $1.50; mouth-watering Bratkartoffeln and papa rellena at the Kulturcafe Berlin; dirt-cheap veggie curries at the Tarabuco markets; massive fruit salads for $0.80 at the mercado central; 5-star 4-course lunches at the French restaurant La Taverne. I´ve never eaten better and writing this makes me want to jump onto the next bumpy bus to Sucre!
Many afternoons we spent at gringo hot spot Joy Ride in order to watch the European Cup. Seeing how Germany lost against Italy in the semi final was rather painful. The other semi final had been even worse though, but let´s hear what Rich has to say about this...
As I get older, I see less point in sport and even lesser the need to fervently support it. However, when it comes to Cristiano Ronaldo I feel it necessary, almost a duty, to do my best to discredit him from 12,000km away and on this day I was a Spaniard because Spain was playing Portugal at the European Cup. I fundamentally loathe this man. I despise his tactics and his reason for being. Like all other professional athletes I find him largely un-useful, especially for the attention and resources he attracts.
We were in a hellish gringo pub, called Joy Ride. Nothing Latin about it, nothing authentic - not even the nachos. The only positive attribute to this pub was its ability to shelter a culturally worn-out traveler and offer a respite to the, sometimes, hard-to-swallow realities occurring outside: for instance, screening the European football tournament.
We were late and thus informed by one of the barmen that it was too full for us to enter. (I thought again of how in-authentic this establishment was because he was talking about some quasi-rule.....in Bolivia?). Charly peeped her head in and saw space at the top of the stairs on the second tier. In we went. Inside was a big open-planned hall with a high ceiling. A narrow staircase, which hugged the wall near the entrance, led us up to a small area at the back of the hall (roughly 4m above the bottom floor), enough to fit only 10 people. From my perspective above, the floor below resembled a carpet of heads partially illuminated by the dim-projected image. Every two meters along the guard rail were lamp posts which had bulbous round glass lampshades, the size of a bowling ball, perched on top. The crowd was a mix of different nationalities. Beet-red British, drunk Irish, baseball loving Americans and very proper Germans. I over-heard one German complaining about Spain's recent success and their likelihood of winning the tournament. He said with an elitist tongue, "what would you rather have, the World Cup or a functioning economy?” What an interesting statement, I thought. I didn't think there was a choice. Three facts were emphasized by his statement.
#1) Indeed having a 20% unemployment rate does not constitute a good economy.
#2 )Spain plays better football than Germany.
#3) You are a dick.
But back to the match of the day. In reaction to the Spaniards doing something, I jumped with enthusiasm which involved a flamboyant flailing of limbs, one of which lightly brushed the lamp post in front of me. In Bolivia, they purely rely on balance and gravity rather than securing and fastening things down. No glue, no screws and no nails. I know this because I only slightly brushed that bastard lamp post and the bulbous (and probably very heavy) lampshade fell off, plummeting at plummet velocity to the crowd below. Confusion filled the immediate seconds after the smash: What the hell was that falling? What the hell was that sound? Where the hell is my lampshade?
Without looking, I briefly considered that it was in the realm of the 'too absurd' for the anvil-like object to fall to the crowd below. The smash of the lampshade was similar to a slamming bible in a boys´ school. All conversation and movement stopped and the search for guilt began. I automatically looked over the edge and witnessed one blond head between two brown heads that were looking at each other, presumably with questions. With no heart beat I ran downstairs to investigate and found a bone-white-blonde girl sitting between two Bolivian guys all covered in glass and ultimately confused. I blurted in three languages, "are you ok????” The bone-white-blonde girl answers cautiously, "I don't know". She bowed her head and I could see a rapidly expanding pool of blood right on the apex of her skull. (Curiously, the contrast of colors between her blonde hair and her blood made me think of Robert De Niro for some reason). I mentioned that it would be a good idea to come outside to get a better look. Outside, the barman had arrived with a first aid box which he slid to me, gesturing that he was not cool with blood. Opening the box revealed: 1 x compression bandage, 1 x half a pair scissors (like a knife?) and a box of toothpicks. (Paradoxically the lack of first aid supplies and the presence of toothpicks earned the establishment more authenticity for being Bolivian). Thankfully the gushing blood had stopped but a brief investigation made obvious that she would need stitches. Charly and Karim had now joined us and Charly was in more shock than both me and my victim (who was now known as Juliane). "Watch what you are doing", she lectured. I was numb to her semi-acusation. I said to Karim that he didn't have to come but he stated, "I don realie like sports". My love for this man deepened. A few moments later we were in a taxi and booming toward a hospital.
I was cutting a mean sweat trying to keep my anxiety in check. We were going to a Bolivian hospital. The one place I tried my hardest to avoid, with so far good fortune. I had however, never envisioned the prospect of visiting the emergency room with a strangers head injury that I inflicted. Most unusual... Rushing into the hospital at full tempo, I unleashed a barrage of poor Spanish, managing to slur all the vowels when they needed to be flicked, which prompted a calm-structured English response. Formalities aside, we moved further into the emergency department and were directed to sit in a doctor´s office. When waiting for the doctor, I got to know more about Juliane. I learned that she is German and that she had been working at the Goethe Institute in La Paz for several months. (Note; La Paz is a shit hole and well known for its dangerous reputation, especially towards gringos. Police rob people. Taxi drivers rob people. People rob people etc...). Having read and heard the normal danger rhetoric about La Paz, I asked if she had witnessed or had any misfortune during her time in La Paz. With an ironic sigh she said, "No, this is the first trouble". Holy blast crap, I contemplated. What are the odds of this odd occurrence? After a quick observation by the doctor, we were in an x-ray/broom closet. While we waited, I investigated the type of equipment they were using. Inside the room was a monstrous contraption with I think 'ACME' written on the side right next to it's production date: 1971. I thought, Jesus Christ, this thing was meant to blast the road runner not x-ray a skull. No fracture was detected and off to triage we went. I felt an overpowering sense of responsibility for this poor woman, so I accompanied Juliane to triage to monitor aseptic technique throughout the procedure, which in my humble opinion was fine. An over-use of hydrogen peroxide is better than under-use, I thought. I was also grateful that Juliane was already blonde. I was pleased to see that the autoclave had not gone out of fashion for more disposable implements - although I think that this is only out of necessity. Three things I witnessed through this ordeal: the unbelievable ability of Juliane to keep calm during this abstract afternoon. Julian's understanding and forgiving attitude and the professionalism of the emergency staff. Consultation, x-ray, stitches, given and additional medication all for $50. Astonishing, I thought. The equivalent scenario in Australia would mean: getting injured, hearing the price for the procedure and then negotiating whether you really need it or not. Cheap as it was to us, I wonder how cheap it would have been for the average unfortunate Bolivian.
All exhausted, we left emergency and dropped Juliane off at her hostel. In my mind, I had an apologetic CD skipping over and over but felt that any verbal apology over-used would be less meaningful. Less is more in this instance, I thought. Charly exchanged contact details and we arranged to meet for dinner.
The following night we all went back to Joyride to watch Germany loose against Italy. I noticed that the lampshades had been replaced but this time they were held in place with sticky tape. Not ideal but better than just gravity. The duty manager saw us and came over to offer his apologies. With a snap he told one of his bartenders to give us whatever we want (which we never got) as a symbol of solidarity. He then told me a story which did not fill the gap where security was missing. He said that a few months earlier they had a great big gringo party in the same hall we were currently in. Some people ordered shots that were designed to be set on fire (presumably for the dramatic effect and not rapid distillation). The bartender went upstairs, and on his way up he was bumped, ejecting the molotov cocktail out of his hand and into the crowd. Flames engulfed two American girls, one of which began screaming, "My clothes! My clothes! Get it off my clothes!". He concluded with, "crazy huh"....... I was in full agreeance.
In Bolivia nothing is guaranteed. Your safety, your health, your pride, your sanity. I entered the bar with the expectation to barrette the projected image of Cristiano Ronaldo until my throat hurt but ended up in playing my role in a bizarre situation. Often in situations like these ones, people try to find solace in a deeper meaning. In reality, there is no meaning other than U=mgh (potential energy), E=1/2 mv2 (kinetic energy) & F=mg (force). I'm sure Juliane's scalp will vouch for my argument.
Juliane I am again sorry for this rather vulgar-unfortunate disturbance in your trip. Luckily for me, karma does not exist..... Or does it?
Apart from studying. eating, unwillingly entertaining Bolivians and cracking heads we didn´t do much during our time in Sucre. Our only trip outside of town took us to the Tarabuco market and the main attraction of this trip wasn´t actually the market but the ride to it in a ´collectivo´.
Throughout South America, collectivos or micros are the main form of transport for the locals and they come in all shapes and sizes. We managed to jump onto a rather tall one where even non-Bolivians could stand upright. An important fact since the 20-seater gets filled with about 30-40 passengers. This time we were lucky though and scored some seats. Karim spent the 1 1/2 hour drive showing some Bolivian kids the wonders of Patagonia, while their older (hefty) sister placed her bottom comfortably on Ritchie´s shoulder. To my disappointment, not a single chicken travelled with us. Once we had arrived in Tarabuco, the boys helped unload a stove from the collectivo´s roof and then we were off to find some cheap food and coca leaves.
Most of our time in Sucre we spent with Karim, who we had been traveling with on-off for the past 6 weeks. After he had said many times that he would ¨just stay one more day¨, he finally left us behind to travel to Australia via Peru, USA, Hawaii,... It was a very sad goodbye and - even though Rich tried to substitute him with the hostel dog Balu - we still miss him and look forward to seeing him in Australia whenever we manage to make our way back there!
Sucre definitely surprised us and we could have stayed longer, but after Karim had left and our Spanish lessons were over it was time to travel further into Bolivia to see what else this actuallynotsodeadlybutquitebeautifulandfriendly country had to offer...
More photos here:
https://picasaweb.google.com/109362659982164453049/Sucre?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCKSMuJq56ZvyJg&feat=directlink
No comments:
Post a Comment