Advertisement
Published: June 27th 2010
Edit Blog Post
miercoles, 12 de mayo Lie-ins are a thing of teenage years. Today 9 of the 10 on our Salar trip all caught the same bus to Potosi. Many more close calls (hope the driver has sorted the arthritis in his right knee) and bumpy roads to unsettle the stomach. This route got above 5000m above sea level and took its toll on Dan and Hayley. After the halfway point where we were shocked by the openness in Bolivian women peeing (that´s why they wear those long skirts) the route hugely improved.
Potosi is predominantly a miners' town, at one time rich enough to support the Spanish economy (but maybe not Real Madrid´s ridiculous wage structure) with its minerals in the looming mountain. It´s the highest city in the World (apparently) at 4060m above sea level. Come here and be confused with an asthmatic. If we were an American rock band we would be Weezer. Our own lung problems aside the town is largely built into the hills, very favela-like. Half of it seems unfinished. When the locals work 24 hour shifts you can afford them some leeway.
We decided to explore the town with our afternoon. The thin streets,
cobblestoned, border anorexic. Walking in line with traffic should have its own hazard sign such is the danger of being whacked in the head by a bus wing mirror. It´s kind of reminiscent of old Spain, probably anyway we haven´t been there. No time machine. The hills provide a perfect backdrop to the gothic churches tucked away down just about every other alley.
I slept 12 hours. Solid. Not much happened clearly.
jueves, 13 de mayo Since Potosi is a mine town can you guess what the main tourist attraction is? No not the cathedral. We came with the intent of a bit of sly voyeurism but at the last hour bottled it like the England football team will no doubtedly do over the coming months. When we heard that the tour includes an equivalent of potholing there was no alternative but to tell the mine to go f**k itself. Yeah fine I don´t like flying, snakes, fruit or people I think look like criminals but that doesn´t mean I have to get my oversized butt stuck in a canary cemetery (if the Bolivians had the foresight to get some in the first place).
Our great vindication
came on the return of the group (those that went). They came back filthy, coughing, stinking and tired. Almost as if they had been forced to work themselves. In fairness despite having been turned into sweaty pieces of charcoal they all seemed to enjoy it, you could tell this from the fact we heard the mine stories enough times to have nightmares about it. Stop me if you think...oh, we´re not playing that this blog? In truth the whole thing seemed a lot more voyeuristic than it need be. The small gifts given to the miners in return scant consolation for the general humiliation suffered daily.
Forgot to mention - most miners get cancer and die at 45. It´s yet another one of those situations where you just wish something could be done. But it won´t. At least until the silver runs out. But then the people will die for different reasons.
We and Laura toured Potosi and its markets. Not a lot to record aside the carcasses on every corner, and one man who called the girls "Margaret Thatchers." He had no teeth.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.076s; Tpl: 0.009s; cc: 7; qc: 46; dbt: 0.033s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb