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Published: October 14th 2011
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The constitutional capital of Bolivia.
Sucre. Another night bus from La Paz. Not the worst, though it could have been better. It was full of miners, all of whom had picked the aisle seats, meaning everyone else had to make do with sitting by themselves. The bloke next to me went to sleep almost immediately – he'd done this before. The bloke next to Klaire fiddled with his phone for a bit, then crashed. The older travellers had managed to score seats together – mum just played the Nintendo while dad slept. The kid behind Klaire, however, didn't sleep. He just kicked her chair. A lot.
Only a short walk to the hostel, where, strangely, it was cheaper to pay up front than the customary next morning. Checked in, we wandered out to see what we cold see.
Marching bands, all in yellow. And soldiers, all in yellow. Bolivia may not have much, but it has a rich, deep vein of marching band love. Sucre was a very pretty town, quite a lot different to the towns on the Altiplano. We were once again down at a breathable altitude, and the air was thick. But thick also with the
smells of truly excellent salteñas. We bought some. And they were excellent. Also a lot fewer indigenous folk around, the people here looked richer, but still friendly.
Still, they had their fair share of protest. Well – they also had students, and students always have something to say, sometimes even something of value (I can say that – when I started uni Keating was PM, and when I finished – it was Julia Gillard).
We had only a short time here, so had some Chinese for dinner, which wasn't too bad at all. Our next stop was in the Bolivian lowlands, at
Santa Cruz.
What followed was the Worst Bus Ride Ever.
At first, our (we hoped) last night bus of the trip looked good. It was old, but then so was everything in Bolivia. It had, however, more leg room than any bus we'd ever seen. Stretching, threatening to tear a tendon or something, I could just brush the seat in front. Well, almost. Score, we thought, and settled in for a good night's sleep.
Now, it's not that the road was bad. The road, in fact, was fine. Where there was one –
for most of the 10 hours there was no road – merely a series of rocks leading to a group of foot deep bumps in between 5kmh switchbacks on dirt tracks where the bus rocked so much you had to grip the seat for dear life or end up in the lap of the friendly Bolivian man across the aisle. Or in the luggage rack.
The torture was broken only for a moment, when we stopped for some dinner and a toilet break at some place. It may have had a name. Not sure. What it did have was some pretty good fried chicken and a pretty bad toilet. Me and dad ate our fried chicken, standing on the street with the other shell shocked passengers, peeling the flesh off the dead birds bones as local youths hammered up and down the dimly lit dusty street, helmetless on dirtbikes, simultaneously trying to impress the girls and avoid getting killed by mining trucks.
Then, it continued. As bad as it was, I think it was worse for the little girl next to me. Her dad had clearly not sprung for an extra fare, so, in the beginning, she slept
on his lap. Maybe the last time they made the trip she was younger, because this time she got too heavy. Shifting uncomfortably, he eventually made a bed for her in the aisle right between us with a couple of jackets and a blanket. Unfortunately the floor was slippery and, like a lost bottle of water, she slid, fast asleep, all over the floor of the bus, waking from time to time to stare upwards and wonder where was.
So, we resolved to pick a decent hostel. The Residencial Bolivar had decent reviews. And a tame toucan. Again we picked it out of the LP. The staff were surly and short. Rude, actually – and I don't think it was our fugue state that made us think so. They gave us some keys for the rooms but told us not to get comfortable. We put our bags down, then waited. And waited. We really only wanted to have a shower and something to eat. Then they told us we couldn't stay in those rooms, so we took our bags out, and waited some more.
Then we got the shits. It was the morning after the worst bus ride
in human memory, and we had waited for over an hour. We left. Not normally our style, but we walked out in a huff. At least we tried to huff. Not having had much experience with huffing it might have been snooty, or something. If they didn't have a room for us they might have said something...two hours ago.
We found our way to Hotel Sarah – we probably should have known, from the name, that it would be much better. No tame toucan, but some wooden replicas. The bloke at the desk was excellent – helpful, friendly. The rooms were motel style, and basic, but they had a telly and a bathroom.
And we were back in the tropics. It felt good, really good, to be there. Sure, we had been in the tropics before, but at 4000m, so it didn't count. Now – lazily turning fans, air like treacle, that awesome colour to the sky on dusk.
The town was quite different from what we were used to. There was still the Plaza de Armas, the Latin feel, but it was tropical. The three of us from Darwin felt at home in the humidity and
the palms.
It also seemed to be a tourist destination, but not for bacpackers. There were a few of us around, but a lot more rich South Americans – Brazilians, Argentinians – on holiday.
Again we didn't have all that long here, but we made the most of it – using the free wifi in a strange cafe bar place, eating Italian food in a quiet place where we were the only customers.
Klaire and I found an excellent Chinese place for a ridiculously cheap dinner – the Retaurant Sabroso. I highly recommend it. The food was great, came out fast, and it was like being in South East Asia. Plastic chairs, plastic tables, concrete floor, and a cheerfully relaxed approach to business and food preparation. Complete with a charismatic owner that talked to me in a weird combination of Spanish and what I assumed was Mandarin. When it came time to pay he said to me “cincuenta y liang”. I took a punt and gave him 54 bolivianos. It was 52, so he took it as a tip.
All in all, Santa Cruz was odd in quite a charming way. From rows of crappy electronics
shops to Chinese restaurants to truly weird ice cream...um...well, icecream warehouses with huge areas with dancing whackos dressed as Winnie the Pooh, balloons, waterfalls. More than enough to divert the casual traveller for a few days. But Brazil beckoned – we hadn't put in that much effort for a visa for nothing.
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Sarah
non-member comment
Hotel Sarah!
Yay!