Where Have all the Gringos Gone?

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What is your religion? she asked.

This was either the silliest pick-up line I have ever heard or the most shocking introduction ever. When I had first seen the two girls, I thought that they were prostitutes. Two hotties dressed like they were out to party, wearing full make-up in a dead-end town with nothing but soldiers around...and I was dining at the Military Casino. Dear Wilma and Maria will have to forgive me for not instantly realizing they were doing their utmost to promote Herbalife products.

I switched on the T.V. in my room only to find exactly what I had expected. You've heard of a one horse kind of town, well San Jose de Chiquitos was a two T.V. channel receiving kind of town. Around the plaza, the streets were being cobbled for the first time in history and the restaurant bars reminded me of hillbilly and redneck night at the Wild Rover Hostel in La Paz. Seated behind the tables, the men were wearing almost exact replicas of the costume I had purchased two weeks earlier. Denim overalls, checkered shirts and white cowboy hats. I would have stepped in and congratulated them on their outfits, but I knew better. Their fair skin, light eyes and the Plattdeutsch they spoke betrayed their origin. The men were Mennonites. Their ancestors had emigrated from present day Russia less than a hundred years ago to fill in the void called the Gran Chaco and built colonies around San Jose. Today, being Monday, they were in town to sell their produce and buy other goods.

Sleeping until late, I woke up refreshed and looking for something to explore. Naturally, I made my way to the tallest building in town. Settling here and prospering until their expulsion in the nineteenth century by the order of the King of Spain, the Jesuits had used local labour and artisans to build their houses of worship. Three minutes of wandering around and I was already looking for something else to do when a girl asked me if I wanted to see the cordoned off area. It was like asking a thief if he'd like a key to the vault.

The church, one of six comprising what the tourist authorities have dubbed the Jesuit Mission Circuit, was receiving a major make-over in the midst of a minor cultural renaissance in the area and in a bid to lure in more tourists. Seeing that the frequency of all visitors, national and foreign is one per six days, they shouldn't have any trouble bettering that figure.

Truth be told, I was glad to be off the gringo trail. As much as I liked La Paz and the surrounding area, I preferred to interact with the locals. Being in a gringo area, it is just too simple to get caught up with foreign company, thereby limiting your contact with the locals. Sort of like the difference between travelling solo vs. travelling in a group.

I looked at the extensive pizza and pasta list but my choice would not be my own.

You can have pizza with bacon, I don't have the ingredients for anything else, she said.

Coming back two hours later, my meal was oven fresh. The dough had been hand-made using a closely guarded family recipe my cook had brought over from Rome, Italy. Sitting me down at her kitchen table and setting out her best cutlery, she served me the finest pizza I have had so far these travels.

Vote: No! I had noticed the change. All the towns in the North and East of Bolivia had large painted signs on the walls expressing their discontent with Evo Morales's rule. At the last referendum they had gone against him but he narrowly stayed in power. Here, in the middle of nowhere, the people were quick to blame him for everything. Low number of foreign tourists? Evo's fault. Neighbour's dog just shat on your porch? Evo's fault! In return, Morales, like Chavez, needs to showcase his good work. Everywhere you see a project completed, you will find an Evo cumple! sign.

Life can be tough for some, I guess, but for me, it doesn't get any better than this. Or does it? 😉

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