The rocky road to sweetness


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South America » Bolivia » Chuquisaca Department » Sucre
April 21st 2011
Published: April 21st 2011
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Eighteen hours into our journey across the barren chaco region that seperates Paraguay and Bolivia, our bus broke down. The midday sun was adding heat to a situation we had not been in for a while. Brazil and Argentina had dazzled with buses and prices to match any European country, but now we were back on a proper bus that rattled and smelled its windy way from A to B via C.

The journey up to that point had not gone without incident. A few hours into the trip Han had exclaimed that "South Americans are good travellers". It was true that, unlike their Indonesian counterparts, nobody was sick aboard the juddering bus, but the man behind me was doing his best to dispel our theory. I could smell the alcohol on his breath and smoke constantly fumed out the window depsite the 'no smoking' signs, thus, it was only a matter of time before his arms flailed over to my seat. It was actually quite amusing in spite of the fact I was trying to sleep. The drunkard was neither trying to hit me nor caress me, merely pat my head, but having told him once it became annoying when he did it again. When he stood up and tried to join my seat I made sure he was sat firmly back in his before, luckily, the man in the aisle seat next to me told the driver and at the next point the police got on and hauled him off. It was a relief to be able to sleep but I did feel sorry for him. We were in the middle of nowhere.

As we waited for another bus to come along I played chess with a fellow Brit amidst lost in translation reports of; whether our bus would be fixed, when another might come along and how far the Bolivian border was. We were technically stuck in no mans land. At 5am that morning we had ambled off the bus to stamp out of Paraguay at a tiny immigration post. Seven hours later and we still had not reached the Bolivian check point. The knight before had put me in check and by the time I was out of it we were all gratefully piled onto another bus with most of us facing the prospect of standing for the next ten hours to Santa Cruz. Immigration did it's best to welcome us to Bolivia with stringent checks and plenty of assault rifles on show. Although it was frustrating to all have to constantly shuffle off the bus to have our bags checked it was refreshing, in a funny kind of way, to be back in a country where things don't always run smoothly.

At 8pm that evening, twenty eight hours after leaving Asuncion, we arrived into a warm Santa Cruz bus terminal that bustled with life. Having found a place to stay we hit the streets for our first taste of Bolivian food. The people seemed friendly, humble, there was no reaction from street stalls at us joining them just simple tasty food on offer. It was cheap at six Bolivianos (60p) for a huge dish of potatoes, meat and vegetables. I instantly knew I was going to like Bolivia.

You may think us mad but the next morning we booked another sleeper bus to Sucre, leaving us the day to explore Santa Cruz. A stroll through the busy market streets was an experience unto itself. Money changers bellowed out their latest rates, huge chunks of meats hissed on makeshift barbecues and a sloth in a nappy was entertaining a small child. It was manic but real, balanced by the clean, airy plazas and ornate churches that scatter the city.

Having paid the equivalent of £40 for a twelve hour journey in Brazil we delighted in the fact that our sixteen hour night bus to Sucre only cost £5. Of course there was no toilet on board and the roads were some of the worst we had experienced in our whole trip but that's beside the point. Unlike our previous bus, we arrived on time and at the start of a beautifully sunny day in Bolivia's judicial capital.

Sucre is a pleasure to behold. White washed buildings stretch far across the valley, backed by the rippling shadows of the Cordillera de los Frailes. Rooftop views of terracota merge the bouyant cityscape whilst churches poke through the cool morning air. Flowery plazas provide the social and focal point of this Unesco Cultural Heritage city that buzzes with idigenous markets and diverse eateries. We found our place at the peaceful Pachamama Guesthouse (mother earth in Ayumara language) and began five days of blissful relaxation, much needed after some tempestuous journeys.

We wandered around the pretty streets, the city always matching our mood, climbing to lookouts above the city and into small cafes and bars below it. Artisan shops seemed to lure us in to their colourful lairs where the thought of wrapping up in an alpaca jumper was just too much to refuse. Food was never far from sight or mind as carts served hot Tucumanas (puff pastry filled with potates, meat and eggs) and the central market dished out two course almuerzo's (set lunches) for all of £1.

Sitting in the shade on sunny afternoons in the plaza seemed to be a Sucre pasttime and enabled us to witness the flow of life here. Young and old alike meet to sell their wares or join forces in government protests, battling apparent poverty. Fresh juices are squeezed out on every corner, quenching the needs of both buyer and seller while indigenous people colour the street with their vibrant clothing and hats to match. We were happy to both witness and be a part of this enchanting place, using the cold nights to warm in our spacious room where we planned our next route over a bottle of Bolivian red wine. What a life!


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