Evo owes me $100. Horse riding through the devil´s door. Water balloons in the streets. Coca is not a drug. Walk on water. Se puede tocar. Llama fetuses.
(A LATE POST, from a past draft)
I started my journey through bolivia in the small border town of Villazon, after paying the 100 dollar visa fee imposed this past december. Somehow during my 40-50 hours of bus travel, it slipped my mind that I would be arriving in southern bolivia during carnaval. And although it has become a major event in Rio, for those of you who aren´t aware of some of its costums, I´ll briefly mention a few. Toting super-soaker style water guns. Drinking. Throwing water balloons at bystanders. Drinking. Spraying foam out of a can at bystanders. Driving around in a produce-truck type oversized pick-up truck, drinking, singing, dancing, and of course, dumping buckets of water at bystanders. The key is, not to be a bystander. Its as easy as carrying around a bottle of water, so when a ten year old points his water weapon at you and tells you to put your hands up, you can chase him around a car and let him have it. ha ha ha. SO what if he was ten.
It should also be understand that if public transportation has not ceased, it will be necessary to get up at 5am to buy a ticket.
Luckily, with the help of my mate, I was able to get a ticket on the train headed north and through the window I gazed out on a landscape thats compared to the American southwest. Accordingly, once in Tupiza, I threw my leg over a horse and galloped away. I had never really ridden a horse before, its exhilerating, yet painful. Again trapped by Carnaval, I got involved and invited to a local couple´s courtyard bbq. Although the host gasped, only responding GRINGO in response to my native country, I recieved a warm welcome. A strange mix of middle aged folk, including a musician from Tupiza, a dentist from Miami, and a sauced couple from la paz, joined together to eat steak and ahi off the grill, and share pitchers of sangani ( a rum like liquor mixed with lemon and sprite). After badmouthing bush, evo, castro, and every other political leader he could compare to a tyrant, the host told me I was his corazon (heart). We danced salsa, I tried, till midnight when half of the guests departed and the three other extranjeros retired to their hostal. I was invited by the miami doctor and blanca, a woman who kept trying to teach me the correct dance steps, to the local discotech. I dont turn down invitations from locals, and this I believe is the best way to experience local culture. Earlier in the day this meant chewing coca leaves and making an offering to pachamama, the incan goddess, but now it meant dancing till 5am. Sometimes its hard, but you must accept gracefully.
Next was a tour of the southwest region of bolivia. The drive in an off road jeep winds through hills, past reflecting lakes and dali-esque landscapes, down towards the border with chile and back north ending in the Salar de Uyuni- the world´s largest salt flat. The salar is currently covered in a couple inches of water, turning the massive plane into a giant mirror. Mountaints out in the distance look like shipwrecks, and the jeeps driving over it seem to be slowly crossing a lake. Ironically, in the face of all this splendor, I think the most popular activity on the salar, is taking silly photos capable due to the flat perspective. You can stand on a waterbottle, walk out of a can of pringles, or hold a truck in the palm of your hands. Aside from this, there´s plenty of time to stare at the pink flamingoes wading over the red lake.
In bolivia its easy to get high. The drive through the southwest crossed over platues at over 5000 meters, and Potosi, where I took the next bus to is claimed to be the worlds highest city, just over 4000 meters. The constant habit of chewing coca leaves can help, although I personally prefer the tea. The sun is still strong, and the chill at night kept me under a mound of blankets. Potosi is famous for its silver mines, which were sacked by colonialists for hundreds of years mainly for currency production. Ironically, the city´s own moneycomes from canada, where it is much cheaper to produce. Tours to the mines, which are still opperational, are advertised like trips to disney land, ´workers´ and tourists standing around a pickup waving under hard hats. The average life span for a worker once under the ground is ten years. I opted out of the tour.
Sucre was one of those places while travelling where I just didn´t get my fill. Nestled in rolling green mountains, an ongoing characterstic of western south-american cities, its mix of colonial churches, palm trees, a university population, and that familiar central-market charm. It was a great last week in bolivia, with new allies from canada, chile, france, and a few blocks from my hostal. Museums and reading in ex-pat cafes during the day. Nights at discotecs till 5am. Waving from the bus window, andre in the seat next to me, holding me hand.
And then there were two days in La Paz - dingy, polluted, and the smell of a dried lama fetus just outside my hostal, its a traditional good luck charm.
