Bonkers Bolivia

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Bolivia, Bolivia, Bolivia. So good they named it once. Bolivia's one of those destinations that people either can't wait to get involved with, or choose to ignore. The bald Dutch giant we'd met in Argentina had told us in his broad Glaswegian accent 'Aaam spending as little time as possible in that shitehole', but most people we've met have been looking forward to it and see it as a highlight of their trip. Probably because it's 'proper' South America. By 'proper', people tend to mean it's where there are lots of indigenous people walking around in funny hats; where home comforts such as working showers and salmonella-free food are nowhere to be seen; and where the landscape is as dramatic and varied as the gurglings in your stomach. All these are true and more. It's where Che Guevara met his maker, as did Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid; it's also the source of the famous marching powder and as such it's home to many dozens of failed drug smugglers. Bolivia's got it all. Well, apart from beaches. It definitely doesn't have any of them. And so, with a fair amount of excitement, mixed with trepidation, we said goodbye to Brazil, the home of massive meals of divine foods, and hopped on the bus to Bolivia. And pretty quickly we were to see that although Brazil and Bolivia share thousands of kilometres of border, they are really worlds apart.

We were crossing into the easternmost border town of Quijarro which we think translates as 'smegma'. It's not a pretty place and doesn't give you the best first impression of Bolivia. It's dusty as hell and offers very few options in terms of eating or accommodation. We had planned not to need to bother too much with either since we were hoping to catch the 'train of death' to Santa Cruz as soon as we could. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on which way you look at it, we'd decided against pre-buying our tickets in Brazil for extortionate rates. This meant we had to wait a day for a train, but paid about a tenth of what a lot of other travellers had paid. So, saved money - good, had to spend a day in Quijarro - bad. There are some people who feel they have to see the best in everywhere, but when there's no best to be found, we feel that the only option is to hole up in a room with a TV and let time take its course...

So, next day we were on the train. The 'train of death' is a very dramatic name for a train, which travels somewhat slower than growing hair. There are many rumours as to how it got its name, the most common being that it's so uncomfortable and breaks down so often that you'd choose death over almost anything after about 4 hours of the 16 hour journey. However, it quickly became clear to us why it deserves its name. They put the TV on. First off was about 4 hours of Bolivian music. Now call me a cultural heathen but Bolivian music is not sophisticated. Put it another way, Bolivian music, especially when it involves synthesisers and anything that plugs in, has the sophistication of one of those signs that says 'you don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps'. After we'd seen the same DVD three times, we were ready to embrace death in whatever form it offered. But wait. Then came the films. Back to back delights of Dolph Lundgren movies. Anyone who doesn't know who or what Dolph Lundgren is should try to imagine what ultra violence mixed with male porn looks like. Seemingly nothing tickles the fancy of the average Bolivian film buff (or train driver) than watching a semi-naked Nordic giant strutting round in teeny weeny shorts blasting the living crap out of anything that moves with guns so alarmingly big they can only be designed to represent his shlong. There was so much blood on the screen that it's a miracle it didn't start pouring from the bottom of the TV. Death was everywhere and for us and all the families, young uns included, who were experiencing varying degrees of glued-ness to the screen, the train was living up to its name. Somewhere between midnight and the next day, amongst fitful, violence-strewn dreams, the killing ended and we woke up in Santa Cruz.

Santa Cruz isn't quite as cool as its name. It's one of those places, which people coming the other way tell you 'isn't the real Bolivia'. We hadn't at this stage realised that the real Bolivia isn't just panpipe-playing indigenous people carrying babies in stripy cloths strapped to their backs. It is also rich, well fed people driving round in four by fours while the indigenous people beg or sell nick nacks for nearly nothing on the street. Santa Cruz is rich Bolivia, something that we perhaps didn't realise existed. It's got smart buildings, a pretty plaza and quite a few expensive shops. Those looking for 'real Bolivia' don't want to see those kinds of things, but those of us wanting to see 'real coffee' didn't mind too much. The trouble is, is that there's money in this country, it's just not very well distributed. The gulf between rich and poor is quite scary and is everywhere to be seen. Still, none of this makes Santa Cruz a particularly interesting town. We stayed in a guesthouse which contained two toucans who had had their wings clipped which led to some rumblings of guilt about our choice of accommodation, but didn't stop us taking photos. Just one of the numerous contradictions that seem to arise quite frequently on our travels. We also saw some shops which sold Tarantulas in glass cases and caiman dressed as doctors and decided that unethical presents wouldn't be on the menu for you lot back home. We only stayed long enough to get some extra days stamped into our passports, then headed off for Samaipata...potentially a taste of the real Bolivia.

The journey there was certainly authentic. For some reason there's no buses to Samapaita from Santa Cruz and the intrepid traveller has to find a specific street corner on the other side of town where they stand awaiting a passing taxi. There's no two ways about it, standing on a street corner waiting for a bloke to drive by and offer you a lift makes you want to lean in the car window and offer them 'the works for fifty quid.' We whored our grubby selves for little more than twenty minutes before being picked up along with a Canadian couple and soon we were crunching gears up the road to Samaipata. Sitting in the middle of the back seat, Ant could only muse at how a car with apparently so few working parts could career so quickly up the wrong side of the road towards onrushing lorries. If the loose feeling in our bowels wasn't enough to make us all clench hard, then this drive certainly would. Fortunately as the road gave way to...well, just gave way...and we started to climb, the car was unable to pick up much speed and we could all enjoy the scenery. And it was beautiful. Bolivia can be very pretty, especially when there's an absence of people, who tend to use bushes and rivers as dustbins. Lots of valleys and hills, rivers and trees, all with a clear blue sky, perhaps now we were beginning to see the real Bolivia. And Samaipata was a treat when we arrived. A really sweet little town with a lovely square, surrounded by beautiful countryside and national parks. Our plan, once we'd though of it, was to spend a bit of time in the Parque Nacional Amboro, which is meant to be home to a cloud forest and lots of mad giant ferns. (Ant to Jen, 'are we becoming ‘that’ boring?). First though, there was the pre- Inca site of El Fuerte to visit, our first one! Still miles away from Machu Pichu we felt obliged to take in some ancient culture. After first visiting the local museum which showed a video of the site and left us more confused than when we walked in, we hopped in a cab which would drag us up a very steep and crumbly road to the sight. Heathen time again - the taxi was more interesting than the site. Seriously, the passenger's side sported the remnants of a steering column, which had obviously been transplanted in the (now) driver's side. We've all seen pictures of those cars which have the front end of one car and the back end of another, but different sides?! Still, it somehow got us there and Ant gave the driver a sticker for his dashboard. At first it was intended to join the numerous other stickers as decoration, but looking back it was more effective in actually holding the car together. The site itself wasn't as bad as I'm making out. You could actually see the layout of what would have once been a busy Aztec town, then Inca, then later used by the Spaniards, and to be fair, lots of raised platforms made it a damn sight better than the Roman Vindolanda back home. The most exciting part was a large hole in the ground. It could just be that it was a large hole, which happened to be in the ground. But this didn't stop Ant fantasising that it was where they ritually sacrificed virgins, as blood was drunk and drums were pounded.

Next day, it was time to visit the national park. We'd chosen to go with a chap called Michael Blendinger who seemed to have all the credentials to give us a thorough inspection of the forest and all that lived in it. And sure enough, Michael was a joy to spend the day with. His knowledge of all things forest was brilliant, even though there was very little bird or animal life to observe. It didn't matter, we spent the day finding out about Bolivian politics, the national parks in Bolivia and how, unfortunately, the current president is ignoring them, and in amongst it all, we did spot some Jaguar pug marks and found out an awful lot about giant ferns. It occurred to us, regrettably, that we should have followed our instincts (not out wallets) and chosen the overnight trek which would expose us to all the wildlife on offer. Unfortunately, we were walking at the time when all the animals and birds sleep - daytime.

This was our first indication that in Bolivia, most things happen at night. Especially bus journeys. We'd been lucky up to now not to have had to use the buses, but getting out of Samaipata meant we had no other option. Still blissfully ignorant about the buses, and more specifically the roads, we filled our stomachs with a meal that had 'intestinal disease' written all over it and boarded the 7pm to Sucre. Actually, this bus wasn't too bad, much, much worse was to come further down the line. Still, the roads were bad enough to prevent us from sleeping and we arrived very blurry eyed in Sucre at 10am on Sunday morning.

We had plans for Sucre. Not content with our Spanish skills, we had decided to squeeze a week or two's lessons in here. But more than just Spanish lessons was on offer to us in this cultural heartland. After we had traipsed around every guesthouse in town, we eventually found a room which offered not just warmth, but a TV complete with English speaking channels and CNN. And so our first day in Sucre was spent in bed watching several films and the BBC's questionable version of Robin Hood. Not only that but the European Cup was on. Oh the joy! And thence our first week in Sucre was spent between learning Spanish and watching footy and films. There was time for Ant to contract the most hideous gut rot of the trip thus far, which cleared up in time for us to enjoy an evening's entertainment at one of the many local orphanages. On show were no less than 6 Bolivian music acts - six! But thankfully, all of them were much more enjoyable than what we had witnessed on the train, due to the fact that most of them were traditional groups playing traditional instruments, and one of them was Bolvia's answer to Eminem. We discovered that when your instruments are limited to 20 sets of panpipes and 2 sets of drums, the key to making the music sound interesting is to shout and whistle and then crank up the tempo until everyone's lips and wrists are too sore to continue. The excitement was so much that, overwhelmed by charity, Jen sent Ant off to donate a wedge of cash to the orphanage and somewhere in the translation, Ant ended up buying all the children (about 50) two drinks each of warm sugary something. This was fine, as it meant the money was going in the right place, but a tad embarrassing for Ant who had to spend about 45 minutes walking round with trays of drinks, offering them only to the kids and not to the adults. If the kids were up all night due to sugar-induced highs, I hereby apologise. Once all the drinks were served, we skulked off in preparation for a day at a local market which would, on June 15th, be our Christmas shopping day! You have been warned.

The market town of Tarabuco was a two hour drive away, but with roadblocks (the Bolivian form of protest) and a local car rally going on, we had to leave very early, just in case. So we arrived far too early, but late enough for breakfast. Breakfast was reduced to a solitary cup of coca tea after we saw our cafe owner hauling raw meat into the fridge with the same bare and tender hands that were serving the bread. But we weren't there to eat, we were there to shop til we dropped. And shop we did. Of course, every shop sells the same 5 jumpers, 5 rugs, 5 hats etc etc, but it kept us occupied for a few hours and we were happy with our haul as we sat in a solid traffic jam on the way back to Sucre for the remainder of the day.

Fortunately for you, and for this blog, there's not much to report when we're taking lessons. Our days became devoid of action and adventure as we swotted and watched TV. We did manage to get monumentally hung over after drinking a terrifying drink whose name eludes us but its taste haunts us still. If anyone reading this is heading to Sucre, go to the Safari Bar and ask around, pretty soon you'll get handed a vial of green something, supposedly herbal, which will make you wonder if you'll ever have the full use of your mouth and throat ever again. It also made our trip the following day to the site of a large number of dinosaur footprints, that much more bizarre. Were the 100 foot dinosaurs surrounding us real, or simply an after effect of the trippy drink? Feeling the way we both did certainly added to the surrealism of visiting a cement works to witness dinosaur footprints. Jen, complete with cynicism, was convinced that the footprints were a money making fraud on behalf of the owners of the cements works. It was a cement works after all. But assuming they were real, witnessing not just one but hundreds of giant prehistoric footprints is a pretty fascinating and wondrous experience. Especially when your brain is telling you your mouth drank something like dinosaur piss the night before. Which seems like a suitable place to leave you. Next stop, the high and sub-zero plains of southern Bolivia. But first we had to get there...

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Photos

Lookout!!
Many people in the west believe dinosaurs to be extinct, but like guitar-synthesisers, they are very much alive and kicking.

Dolph Lundgren
In the eyes of Bolvians, this is the face of art and cinema. Looks a bit like Ant, actually.

Above Samaipata
Looking down the valley from the Parc Nacional Amboro

El Fuerte pre-Inca site
The pre-Incas were a very hardy bunch who fought long battles with the aggressive and dangerous pre-menstruals

Jenny, Michael and some more big ferns
The ferns really were very big. Not as big as Fern Britton though.

Giant Ferns
Alright, so we did't take that many interesting photos in the first couple of weeks. They were very big though.

Hot Wheels
By Bolivian standards, this car is shit hot.

Dinobus
Yes the bus that took us to the dinosuar site came complete with claws on the roof! ROOOOAAAAARRRR!!

Don't laugh
Even though they look very small, there a hundreds of dinosaur footprints in this photo. It was just a very long way away.

Streets of Sucre
From a dinosaur's perspective