Anxiety, dancing and wrestling in La Paz (21-24 July 2012)

We usually don’t really like big, busy cities and La Paz was no different. The altitude and especially all the stories about robberies that we had heard before we got to La Paz probably didn’t help. Situations such as catching a taxi or walking past police had us sweating. In the end, nothing happened to us and we never had a reason to feel unsafe, but unfortunately the bad experiences that unlucky travelers had shared with us beforehand, affected our time in this jam-packed city, which spreads over the hills at an altitude of nearly 4000m.

Apart from our anxiety, we managed to enjoy not only the view of La Paz from the higher suburbs but also some cultural highlights.

Bolivia loves a good fiesta and La Paz was full of them. No matter where we went, there was always some music and dancing around.

Hunting for lunch, we ran into a carnival-like parade of Bolivia's different Indigenous groups. The main street through the city was closed for the parade, which went on for hours and hours. All groups had their own band/orchestra, a special dance and a theme to which they were dressed.

The next day we caught a bus up to the suburb El Alto for a special cultural treat: The Cholitas Wrestling.

 

The Cholitas are Indigenous women and as the name suggests, they wrestle! I've never liked this sport/form of entertainment but the Cholitas in their traditional dresses, the bad acting skills of the wrestlers, and the over-exited crowd throwing oranges at wrestlers (and random gringos) definitely made for an interesting show.

After the Cholitas had whipped some arse, we had another chance to enjoy La Paz from above before we would make our way to greener pastures the next day...

More photos of fiestas and wrestlers here:
https://picasaweb.google.com/109362659982164453049/LaPaz?authuser=0&feat=directlink

Che Guevara & other hairy creatures in and around Samaipata (13-20 July 2012)

We spent a week in and around the tiny town of Samaipata in order to relax after the eventful bus ride that had dropped us here and to follow the Ruta del Che, which would take us to the most significant places that saw Che Guevara in 1967. 

Samaipata was a welcome change with its lush green hills after the rather barren landscapes of the altiplano, and with its very laid back village-life after the hectic streets of Sucre. Life is good and time goes slow in Samaipata. Crime and violence haven't really reached this part of Bolivia - apart from a fight between two expat Germans a couple of years ago, which left one of them with a bullet hole in his bottom. We had lunch at his restaurant one day, unfortunately we only found out about his bottom afterwards...

We spent a fair bit of time at the animal refuge just a short walk out of town, where all sorts of furry and un-furry creatures have found a new home and mostly roam free. Apart from some curious turtles, the monkeys were definitely our favourites and they seemed to return the love.

 

Samaipata is not on the typical gringo-trail and gets mainly visited by socialists with beards and an interest in history.  Due to the lack of fellow travellers, we ended up befriending a taxi driver who took us on a little drive and bushwalk to the Laguna Volcan: A beautiful lake surrounded by mountains which you can access by walking over the stunning golf course of a 5-star hotel. Bolivia again surprised us!

We followed the Ruta del Che with Napo but I leave this story up to the bearded socialist. A warning: Rich might have had a rum too many for this and doesn´t remember much...

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY

This story is, paradoxically, about Che Guevara and a masturbating spider monkey: called Simón. How they are relevant towards one and other, I don't know yet. I suppose, I should write an educational prelude, about Ché and his plight to bring you ugly beasts up to speed and then slam it sideways, drop the punch line and reveal: There is in fact no masturbating monkey but just lonely, heinous analogy of a ranting Fidel Castro. No. I'm not going to do it, even though the urge to is clawing a hole in my chest. A story like Ché and Simón's has to be told bullet fast with passion. Otherwise the mystique and relevance, of both, may be lost in the text.  

Our hunger for socialism led us to La Higuera, high in the Bolivian mountains, to visit the site where Ché Guevara met his fantastically bloody end at the hands of a vial, puppet tyrant. Our guide, Napo, was a beautiful man. Not just aesthetically, but beautiful in the way he cared for our poor Spanish. He had to ... He was well aware, as were we,  that our journey took two full days in a tiny 4x4, and that any breakdown in communication could potentially have a grim outcome.

A mental .wav File is etched into my memory of how he spoke. Reguardless of the question asked, the pitch and tone of his answers were always consistent. Enthusiasm mixed with urgency, demonstrating a bizzar tendency to squeel his trailing vowels. Out of excitement? Out of a displaced diaphragm? I didn’t know.  Napo is that a cactus? (momentary pause and gulp of air) "Siiiiiiii," he squealed.

As mentioned Ché was assassinated in the tiny village of La Higuera, home to the usual cross-section of life: a small number of Bolivians, an assortment of various pack animals and dirty hippies. All looking rather bored. The hut, in which Ché was slaughtered in, had been pulled down and a modest museum erected in its place - displaying various Ché paraphernalia.

Our accommodation for the night was highly recommended by a Texan in Samaipata. Run by two 60-something French ex-heroin addicts who fled France a few years ago because the price of heroin was too steep and they could no longer smoke in restaurants. Well, they found their nirvana high in the hills of Bolivia where they could do both unchallenged. The man looked like a cross between the Count of Monte Cristo and Willy Nelson, well spoken, suave and calm which was surprising because the woman had the disposition of a wet Persian cat being continuously startled by firecrackers. I suspected she was in the early stages of withdrawal - forced withdrawal I thought, because the local product was just not as good as the Parisian brown sugar.  Her chain-smoking while chewing a fist-size mound of coca leaves told me that it was only a matter of time before she would resort to more disturbing means of killing the dependent beast.

Later that night all the dirty hippies, from the village, walked through the front door of the bar because the heroin junkies ran their generators past 9pm - providing the only light in the village. I couldn't help but stare at these wondering monstrosities. Man I hate dreadlocks. A vulgar attempt at individuality by either: personality oppressed teens or personality void adults. Either way, by design it’s the most prominent thing I see and it speaks more about you than your mouth ever will. Within moments, everyone (except Charly, Napo and myself) started to chain smoke in unison. The saturated Persian cat seemed to be encouraged by the festiveness of communal hypoxia and accelerated her consumption of stimulants. (Progressive anti-smoking laws had not reached La Higuera. If there will ever be a lobby for it, I will fervently support it.) I retreated to bed - to fresh air. Until that night, I had never heard the sound of mortal combat between a pig and dog. Terrifying sounds of growling and screeching tore out of the darkness. . . I'll never know who won.

Yesterday we had first visited the place where Che´s bones were found in 1997,...

...then the laundry where his body was spread out in Vallegrande,...

...to then drive to La Higuera where he was shot in a school. 

The next morning, we woke early to visit the site of where Ché was captured. A weird, chronologically backwards tour of events in the life of Ché. 

Soon we'll reach the site of conception of Ernesto Guevara, I joked. "Siiiiiiii", Napo squealed. Charly didn't laugh. Breakfast was served right on time. Amazing, I though...considering. Suddenly, the wet Persian cat blasted through the bamboo-bead curtain, right next to me, prancing sideways carrying Charly's breakfast. "Jesus Christ!", I blurted. I wasn't prepared for her presence. She looked like she had been awake since last Tuesday and I thought there would have been a cold chance in hell that she survived the night, but then I realized. . . She's figures it out. . . Immortality. . .  to a certain extent. A person like that will never die memorably in a bar fight or a flaming wreckage or even suffer from a rare leukemia. No. She dotted her "i's" and crossed her 't's" when it came to personal abuse - Reaching a new level of efficiency in self damage. Her real danger was dying, peacefully, in her sleep. Prompting a plan to stay awake indefinitely. Which explains the unilateral ingestion of varying stimulants. "Genius," I thought.

Back in Samaipata, coming down from our recent brush with history, we decided to go to the local animal refuge: caring for varying types of monkeys, donkeys and turtles. 

Arriving in the refuge we were met by six barking dogs - one of which was a gigantic St Bernard, utterly confused about  the drama but still barking in all directions. I was armed with a rock. . . and was goddamn ready to throw it, when we heard  someone whistling for the dogs - Hippies, volunteering. At odds with my judgement because these were pro-active hippies-type. Not like the meandering type we had met in La Higuera. Yes, these people had dreadlocks but at least they were living the true hippie doctrine. I reserved my judgement and complemented one of them for their noble sacrifice. 

Together, wandering around, were a horse and a donkey - minding their own business. I was slightly agitated by their normality, because these animals had hooves and we came to see hairy thumbs! We could hear the indiscriminate screeches of monkeys in the middle of the park. We had already heard the legend of Simón, a black spider monkey whose temperament varied from sleepy to psychopathic. With caution we followed our ears to the center of the park. In an enclosure, the size of a two-story building, roughly twelve capuchin monkeys ran riot.  An insane asylum, where the guards had either been killed or extorted into passiveness. Flashing around this mad-house, screaming his lungs out, was Elvis: the oldest male capuchin monkey in the cage which looked like The King (not at the end). He was an intensely paranoid character, feeling the need to continuously stamp his dominance on the population. The little bastard even had a swipe at my beard through the fence. 

I lost Charly and fearing the worst, I went looking. I found Charly sitting on a swing cuddling one of the monkeys whose name was Miel (Honey). An incredibly placid creature who just wanted to be warm and sleep: she found both, buried deep in Charly's belly - underneath her shirt. 

I sat down next to them on the other swing, considering the possibility that Miel had been somehow sedated, when out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a black humanoid figure moving behind some short bushes. "What the hell was that," I sneezed. "What was what?" Charly replied - completely engrossed with Miel. In a break in the bushes, I saw what looked like a bigger than usual black cat walking on its hind legs. "Sweet Jesus," I thought. I've seen this kind of stuff on the X-files. From behind the final bush, appeared the menacing form of Simón: picking his nose. He was walking like an inmate who had just discovered that he was getting the electric chair (for something he definitely), scanning the yard, looking to settle the score with something. I found this terribly unsettling: a skinny, furry, up-right WALKING animal, roaming around with no rules. If it came down to it and things went sideways, would I be able to reason with this beast? Probably not, I thought. He was the king pin around these parts. Top dog. His turf. Not be messed with. From the swing, I tracked his movements intensely. What would his reaction be when he realized that Charly was giving Miel temporary asylum? Violence I predicted, the type that pays little regard to the conventions of gentlemen. While watching him, an Oprah Winfrey story came flashing back where a "tame" chimpanzee went on a jealous rampage after meeting his handler’s new boyfriend. Viciously tearing off the intruder’s genitals and nose. Such precise targets made me think we have grossly underestimated these throwbacks. 

Simón let out two loud screeches, then looked exactly in our direction. Jesus Christ! He's on to us! Charly we have to flee at once!!! 

Like most intraspecies based discrimination, once the misconceptions were explained, we began to bond. 



Planet of the Apes from Charly and Rich on Vimeo.


The next day was raining and cold so we decided to go back to the animal refuge. On arriving, there was little commotion - no barking dogs or wandering animals of any sort. We went further in to see the huge monkey cage to find them all huddled in one corner - retreating from the cold and rain. I wondered where Simón was and thus went searching. I walked through a archway, covered in dark-green vines, sprouting pretty small purple flowers, where I found Simón - spread out like he was skydiving but asleep, on top of the St Bernard dog. I tried to rouse him for my own gratification, and he gave me the same look I gave my mum every morning for 15 years. He then rolled over, covered himself (like a blanket) with one of the large skin flaps of the gigantic St Bernard.

Charly and I wondered around for twenty minutes looking for a monkey to play with. The only active animal in the yard was a tropical pig which wanted attention, but his heinous ordure kept my hand in my face and my foot in his. Something startled the dogs and as a pack they ran off into the adjacent yard. I thought, ah ha! Simón has to be awake now. I went back to where I had last seen Simón. Again, walking through the pleasant vine covered archway, this time, to be confronted by Simón, facing away from me, masturbating - like some kind of crack fiend on the lower levels of a dark car park. He kept looking over his shoulder at me, not creepily but rather looking out for predators. Is this what scared the dogs away? I didn't know for sure but the St Bernard was running with defined intention, seemingly leading the pack away from danger.

If I was more clever, I would be able to make the correlation between a masturbating monkey and the failed adventures of brother Ché Guevara, but I can't because everybody knows that one is monkey and the other is a guerrilla. Arf arf. In reality, Samaipata was a tiny-unremarkable village and these two events stood out in my mind.

More photos of monkeys and the Ruta del Che here: https://picasaweb.google.com/109362659982164453049/SamaipataAndLaRutaDelChe?authuser=0&feat=directlink

Ritchie's Road Rant - No.1 (12-13 July 2012)

Because Bolivia is an Andean country, meaning: a country in the mountains, flat land which is not jungle is scares. Therefore, most of the major cities were founded on a slither of plateau on a mountain ridge. Sucre is no different and leaving Sucre meant getting on a bus and descending into the valley to then ascend again. Easy enough.....

Our destination was Samaipata, a rural town known for its laid-back temperament and temperate climate. The real reason why we were going was because of it's proximity to where Ché Guevara was captured and assassinated. As a devout communist, I felt it pertinent to make the pilgrimage to pay homage. Hasta la victoria siempre!!

We went to Sucre’s bus station just outside the city centre, just inside civilization, to enquire about our next journey. Traveling by bus is the most popular/only mode of interstate commuting, making any bus station a centre for busy activity, commotion and noise..... Lots of god damn noise! Inside the stations exists a bizarre atmosphere of competition and comradely between the vying "bus companies". Each company will have a woman yelling at the top of their lungs the destinations that they offer. Theoretically a useful tool but the combination of 15 women in synchrony, inside a sheet metal construction creates a vial-coarse shrill deep from the belly of hell, which my ears are not designed to hear.

We inquired about prices and times with the highest recommend bus company: Boliviar. Because our destination was a 13-14 hours journey away and three hours from the next major city, we would have to be specially dropped off on the way. The bus company only offered an overnight commute starting at 5pm, which meant that we would arrive in Samaipata at 6-7am. We considered this a viable option, simply because it was the only one, and let our hotel in Samaipata know that they wouldn’t have to pick us up since they had told us that there would be taxis from 6am. After checking again the time of arrival in Samaipata, we bought our tickets for the following day. $10 for a 14 hour bus ride. Not bad, we thought.

The next day, backs straining with all our luggage, we arrived at the bus station not really sure what to expect of the journey. A crowd amassed around the bus, all anxious, wanting to store their cargo: Potatoes, giant bags of sugar, various plastic trinkets and imitation Dolce Gabbana bags. Surprisingly, we were first to load our bags into the belly of the 1990's era greyhound followed by the miscellaneous contents of the mobile bazaar. Charly mentioned to the 13 year old steward that we had to get off before everyone else and our luggage should go at the front, not the back. He nodded in understanding and then slid our bags to the very back of the cargo bay and put 30kg bag potatoes on top. Efficiency was lost in translation.....

The bus inside, reflected its condition on the outside. The seats were electric blue: patterned with mustard colored isosceles triangles, green ovals and red zig-zags. The now ivory colored head rests, on close inspection, had sweat rings emanating from the point of contact of where thousands of heads had rested. Like growth rings of an ancient red wood, I could also determine the age of the bus by counting the rings. The bus was constructed in 1520, Da Vinci's master stroke.

Air inside the bus was no longer the prime constituent but rather a medium to carry odor. Chokingly-stagnate, except for the turbulence created by people migrating to their seats, I smelt (without my decision) every person that sat behind row 8. I wanted to open the window but it was welded shut by centuries of dust formation - which is great because I'm totally fine with not being able to evacuate quickly from burning wreckage!! I inspected the overhead vents - also out of order. (The bus itself, reflected Bolivia as a generalisation, meaning: the perception that something works is just as good as if it were functioning properly.) It's ok, I thought. Calm down.....relax. The rigors and palpitations you are experiencing are first world withdrawals. Pull yourself together man!  You're going to get through this! I look left to see Charly taking great amusement in my mental and emotional deterioration. She said with a cheeky grin, "I love you", I said, "We're not going to make it." The bus jolted into action.

Leaving Sucre in peak traffic is similar to what it would be like evacuating Manhattan in the event of an oncoming asteroid. All the cars seem to vulcanize into one giant train yet were still able to still operate their horn independently in a display of defiance for the imposed unity. Our gigantic metal beast meandered its way through the chaos to reach the outskirts of the city where street vendors would try and sell clear plastic bags of water and bags of soup to the passengers through the windows. I witnessed one unfortunate lady lift one of the amorphous-like bags to show it's contents to a passenger only to have her fingernail pierce the bag thus exploding it's contents all over her face. I did not laugh as I would have normally. We pulled away and began our descend.

I respectfully acknowledged that small bushes were the only barrier between life and a sheer 900m drop, yet our progression was swift and comfortable thanks to the apparent effort la presidente Evo Morales. (Four weeks earlier we saw an election advertisement for the current president: Evo Morales. It went on to champion the presidents commitment to pave Bolivia by laying 250km of road in five years). The sun was setting fast to our left, dragging shadows across the steep mountain face across the valley to our right. I perceived this as a dramatic farewell from civilization because what lied ahead was uncertain.

After 40mins of smooth sailing, we finally arrived in the valley below. El Presidente's road had faded long ago along with the sunset. The bus stopped at several villages to pick up various passengers. Each successive village was a little bit further out of the reach of civilizations warm glow - just that little further away from basic commodities that you and I so desperately need. However, even in this extra-terrestrial-like environment some things are still universal; teenagers are inevitably awkward and grandmothers will inherently fuss over their grand children's well being. The last village was the extreme outer limit of possible human habitation in the valley. Lack of water, electricity and transportation makes it simply impossible. We, our bus, were on our own for the next nine hours.

The road we had been traveling on could have been described as a proving ground for the mars rover. How quick I am to criticize......The dirt road transitioned to an ancient river bed, wheel-sized ditches and rock melon-sized boulders, now used by Bolivians as an interstate highway. Normally, "catastrophic vibration" is a term used by aircraft engineers post-analysis of black box recordings. I can attest that that in Bolivia "catastrophic vibration" is known as "what vibration gringo?" To be able to accurately convey how impressive the noise was, please imagine being inside the following, with a hangover: Gorillas beating the shit out of an absurdly unbalanced washing machine running erratically, 1/4 filled with nuts, bolts, marbles and drum symbols and holding this mess in are hammers rarling on top. Standing next to the washing machine is Shakira, Christina Aguilera, Shaggy and Charly attempting their own version of the “Scat man” in parallel – all lasting for 9 hrs

Ritchie´s Road Rant from Charly and Rich on Vimeo.

The bus forced its way back into the mountains. The only light available, other than our head lights, was the ghostly-dim lights of oncoming buses. The width of the road, which was carved out of the edge of the mountain, felt at times a bit too snug. When other buses would pass, our bus would accommodate its presence by slowly veering to the right which would frequently be accompanied with a violently jerk to left. The higher we went the more consistent the violent jerks became. I looked at Charly and saw her head swinging like a pendulum which told me she was asleep.......Everyone was! What the hell was happening? Who are these people? Do they all have narcolepsy! This bus was producing resonance that was threatening to induce spontaneously diarrhea and everyone was falling asleep and what was this violent jerk! I again looked at Charlys head swaying, it seemed her biggest problem was the string of drool repelling from her mouth, so it was up to me to investigate the cause of the violent jerk….

Oncoming lights of a bus sparked my attention to pay attention. The bus driver presumably saw what I saw and began his procedure and veered right. I keenly observed our bus and the passing bus. BANG-violent jerk!!! I was still unable to narrow down possibilities. Were the buses some how colliding? We had to be driving over something! 10 mins passed and again headlights were radiating through the dust but this time we were trailed by another bus, their headlights providing more illumination. The oncoming truck approached slowly and our bus crawled to the right. With the additional light I was able to properly judge how close we were to the edge of the cliff - because I couldn't see the edge. The buses drew parallel. BANG-violet jerk!!! I snapped my head right to look out the window to witness a portion of the cliff, which the back wheels drove over, break off (which explained the BANG) and fall into the abyss. The violent jolt was the wheel momentarily losing traction. I didn't know how high we were, I assume high as we had been ascending for three hours. Charly had been asleep, or at least pretending to sleep, for the last two - so she must have not cared much. Wait till she hears about this, I thought!

Everyone’s relaxed bodies moved in unison, a kind of momentum tide, with the motion of the bus. How can they relax under these circumstances, what's their secret? I inspect the contents of my Valium bottle....all out.......DAMN NATION!! Got to do this cold turkey... brutally conscious. I know Charly’s secret, it's a mixture of courage and ignorance. Like all aspects of her life, little consideration is expended on the "what if" aspect of a scenario. She just gets on with it - and I'm trying to learn. But no learning or sleeping on this night! No, just waiting to brace myself for imminent impact. The next two hours passed and we had progressed to a semi-flat region of a mountain range where the number of passing trucks and buses were less frequent, allowing the milky way to shine a few watts brighter. While I gazing at the milky way, I saw a dim illumination, level with us on the adjacent mountain range. Being the only light in an otherwise empty vacuum, I trained my eyes on it theorizing. Our bus trudged on, vibrating the fillings out of my teeth, and the light became more substantial. I began to notice that the light wasn't the usual headlights but a fire. Curious! Closer and closer the fire grew bigger and bigger. Our bus drove around a sweeping right hand bend to position the bus head on to the fire. The buses hydraulics and breaks puffed and squeaked into action to bring us to an abrupt halt. (If this would have been a paved road in any "normal" circumstances, people would have woken with screams and squeals - but the maverick braking went unnoticed - people continued to sleep). Why have we stopped? What spooked the driver? Did the driver just see what I have been watching for 25mins? From my perspective I couldn't see much; there were steep walls on either side of our bus and the orientation of the bus meant I couldn't see the fire as well. However, I could see the two drivers heads scanning the road ahead of us in the direction of the flames, both in what looked like discussion. The bus again rattled in to motion, surging out first gear and slapping through second. Our acceleration was excessively rapid, I thought. We had sprinted the estimated 100m, I could again see the fires glow as we boomed past and I could see that the blaze was actually a truck tyre on fire with no one around.... But why? Too many uncertainties on this nervous journey, I summarized  I did however learn later, when talking to the Texan who ran our hotel in Samaipata, "that a burning tyre is a tactic used by bandits as a form of disorientation, a distraction before a raid". Well Christ, I'm happy I was short of that knowledge.

2.30am took it's time and I was knackered. I was starting to feel sick, probably from exhaustion, so I tried, with one eye open, to get some rest. A few minutes past and I could feel my self falling asleep but, I was still awake enough to realise it. (I again inspected the bare Valium bottle). I had reached what was going to be the most comfortable position I could manage in the space provided...

...and some sadist yells out SAMAIPATA!! Thinking I was hallucinating I pulled back the curtain and rubbed the frost away and staring at me right in the face was a rusting green sign, "SAMAIPATA". Bullshit! What is this!! We had both set alarms and wondered if we had set them wrong. It's 3am for fuck sake and we are in the middle of no where. No time for thought! These guys didn't care about us and were not going to stop for long so we grabbed our stuff, I wrestle with my guitar from the overhead compartment and hastily put on my shoes but didn't have time to tie up the laces. Charly was already outside getting our backpacks but I had trouble carrying my stuff, stepping over people an children sleeping in the isle and my shoe laces. In the rush, I tripped over my shoe lace, heaving forward and slamming my face into the headrest of a sleeping Bolivian. With no means of bracing myself for the impact, I feebly let out a sound that sounded like a pig being slaughtered which obviously startled the sleeping Bolivian. I compounded the situation by trawling my guitar over the heads of all the sleeping passangers.

Out on the street, Charly had managed to retrieve our two big backpacks and was confirming with the 13 year old steward, who was already half on the then pulling away bus, if we were in Samaipata. Si, was yelled out. Stunned we watched the bus leave, growling through its gears as it eventually disappeared into the deep fog that hung an even meter off the ground -dragging with it all sound, leaving tinnitus ringing in our ears. We were 3hrs early, on the side of nothing in the middle of nowhere: with no map and no telephone and no clue.

Our next move was based on the premise of "how big can this place really be", so we started to walk, any direction had its own merit and off we went. We figured in a pristinely-sound-void environment, we should be as clandestine as possible yet it seemed that every footstep woke up a dog which felt the need to alert others, forcing us to retreat to our original position. We sat down on a bench with a street light that eerily gave the fog an orange hue and next to us an unsettled labrador/sausage dog was wildly barking its long-arse off due to our presence (I could have bludgeoned that mutt to make an example of him).

Four legs appeared, off in the distance, underneath the fog. I stared at those legs, preparing myself for what was still hidden. I presumed they didn’t know we were there and assumed when they did, they would only be curious. If these guys ever had the desire to rape, murder or mug somebody opportunistically, there chance was now. Two pairs of legs materialized into a pair of hips with four arms swaying, one of each were carrying, rather loosely, a bottle of something. A sinking feeling had sunk like I had just swallowed lead.... (I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be engaged in mortal combat on this trip!) Alright! LETS HAVE IT!!! The two brutes would soon enough realise our presence, I stood up with purpose, and devised a plan: The fog would thin and no longer conceal us, the drunk “perps” would then gain enough mental stamina to realise that there was an anomaly in their mist. As a diversion, we would project an image of "we don't give a shit" and make a point not to acknowledge their presence, yet being acutely aware where they are - ready for war. Upon noticing us, their next move will be predictable. Momentarily pausing not being quite sure what we were, the rapist and thief would look at us as an exhausted pair of tits and an disheveled dollar sign. Coming closer, one of them would blurt out "hola chicos", and approach tentatively coming within full view of all our belongings behind us. Their stench of corn liquor wafting over, one of them would say, "De donde…" POW! I spring into action, jumping onto the seat then leaping foot outstretched aimed right at the fat mans chin - KNOCKING HIM CLEAN OUT! I will use my own momentum from landing, spinning anti-clockwise with a 140 newton meters of force - extending my arm outwards. Fist flying at the speed of sound, it would then connect with the skinny mans temple - KNOCKING HIM CLEAN OUT in a mist of spat out corn liquor. All without Charly waking up. I waited and watched. Watched and waited. The two passed without even a glance to then be again absorbed by the fog. (It was hard for my kidneys to deal with all the unused adrenalin.)

We waited until the sun rose to burn off the fog to give us an awareness for our surroundings. A kind man, after gentle persuasion, gave us a lift to our hostel – only 2km away. At the hostel, the sleepy attending woman wasn’t aware of our pending arrival, why should she - we were still an hour early, but was kind enough to let us sleep on the couch in the reception area until our room was ready.... six hours later. I slept like a stone…….A stressed-angry stone. What a night.

  

Studying, eating and living in Sucre (25 June - 12 July 2012)

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