The luxury bus to Uyuni.

Very excited now. Getting close to one of the highlights of the trip – the Salar de Uyuni. Arrived bright and early at the bus station ready for our luxury bus trip. Followed the cabby’s instructions to go to bay 2. Found out the bus left from bay 8. Watched all the local buses come in and exclaimed at the poor state of repair of most – bald tyres, rust, bits hanging off – so glad we had paid the extra for the luxury one.

But hang on – there is no luxury bus! The aforementioned was in fact our bus. Oh dear. Do we bail and go find a long distance taxi? Do we see if a luxury bus does in fact exist? Spanish continues to be lousy, so figure the best thing to do is jump aboard and cross all the fingers and toes and pray that the Virgin on the front of the bus will take care of us. There was a young French couple already on board, so reckoned if they could do it, so could we.....and off we go, bumpity bump, all the way to Uyuni.

Once again, broken seat, but comfortable. Once again, the aisles filled with luggage. And once again, spectacular scenery and a lot of fun. And we did have a loo stop along the way. Yup the blokes jumped out and lined up along the wall. The Bolivian women just squatted beside the road. The French lass and I found a Boliviano style loo – starting blocks. Not comfortable but serviceable.

Arrived into Uyuni mid afternoon. Dusty, wide streets, mining town though now a tourist mecca as everyone heads to the salt lakes. Comfortable hotel, decorated with cactus wood but no hot water, sadly. Found a much lauded pizza joint run by a not friendly Yank and his Bolivian wife. Having been told to eat carbs to help with altitude sickness, thought this should do the trick. And ok it was. One of the best pizzas I have ever eaten, washed down with a nice chilled Chilean sauvignon blanc.

And tomorrow – off to the salt lakes YEAH! (We ha a first glimpse today - awesome!)

The train that wasn’t a train - Potosi.

Early rise AGAIN as we head off to the Sucre railway station to queue for a train ticket to Potosi. Though the train takes twice as long as the bus (6 hours) thought it might be an interesting and more scenic way to travel.

When we arrived at the station, I was a little perturbed to see that the track was almost completely overgrown with grass, was rusty and was currently being used as a foraging ground for a family of pigs. Oh well, this is Bolivia after all, so on with the adventure.

Then the train arrived. As anyone who has bothered to read as far as this into our blog would know, I have had a wee bit to do with trains over the last 15 years. I reckon it was a pretty safe bet that I could identify one anyway. This blue thing, sitting on the grass covered tracks was not a train. All the luggage went on top or in the aisle. All the people fitted into the bus like interior, including the driver and his offsider (recognisable by the red hard hat he wore and the reflective strips on his jeans.) Well Col was fine – he had the fireman’s seat which comes with panoramic view. I was down the back in a broken seat with the kids, seated next to an elderly gent.

Despite all this, the seat was comfortable and the journey fun – people watching is a hobby of mine.

And what sensational scenery! Soaring rock faces, huge drops to valleys planted with corn, tiny mud brick villages......and dogs – trying to catch the train. They could in fact outrun it as maximum speed was about 20km/h. We stopped many times in the absolute middle of nowhere to drop off and collect passengers, their luggage carried in the brightly woven scarves, knotted and thrown on the roof or in the aisle. The only thing we didn’t stop for was a loo break – not once in 6 hours!!

After a brilliant trip, arrived via the rubbish tips into Potosi- a town famed for its silver mines. In the 16th century, the Spaniards reefed heaps of the stuff out and shipped it to Europe whereupon they lived well on the proceeds – with little thought for the 8 million local Indians and African slaves who gave their lives to the cause. The mine still operates. The mountain that contains all the mines ‘Cerro Rico’ dominates the town’s landscape. That aside, it isn’t a bad place – some interesting churches, a pleasant town square and friendly residents. However, as the streets seem to be all uphill and the altitude is 4070 metres, jogging was out of the question – in fact putting shoes on was a bit of a challenge in the mornings and making one’s way to the wifi restaurant involved lotsa rests.

A curious fact about Potosi – the step up from the gutter to the pavement was in many cases about 60cm – a tough one when you are struggling to breathe – yet the tiny locals leapt up and down with gay abandon.

Saw a couple of street parades, accompanied by oompah bands – one in particular that impressed Col was an all young female event. They marched, in perfect unison, playing their brass instruments, xylophones and drums, each and every one, wearing stiletto heels!

Purchased tickets for the luxury bus (with toilet and frequent stops) to Uyuni, got the washing done (including ironing of socks and jocks) and retired, a little more acclimatised to the high altitudes.

The Tarabuco Market

The day dawned cold and Col and I behaved in our typical fashion. Col dressed warmly for a walk around the town and I snuggled further under my 5 blankets plus quilt. Already there was the noise of hand pulled carts and busy people outside the window though the sun had barely risen. So off he went – and back he came. Turns out sweet Irma, the young girl left to look after us had locked us in the hostel compound – barrel bolts, locks and wire. Guess she thought she was performing a community service – wouldn’t you lock up someone who looked like this?

Finally, upon release, we were able to get out and get amongst it. The colours, the people, the produce – all were a delight. We had managed to get to the market before the gringo buses arrived so were able to peruse at a leisurely pace. Not a lot of the ridgy didge weaving on display but the rainbow of wraps, scarves, hats and jumpers more than compensated. Amongst the used clothes, potable alcohol (no we didn’t buy any) and coca leaves we discovered some really unrecognisable herbs, spices and contraptions. Loved the tin can/bottle top kero lamps.

Inside a big courtyard was mostly fruit, veg and meat. The fruit and veg were arranged in colourful pyramids that were guarded by indigenous women, mostly crocheting or knitting (nasty acrylic again).

The meat was less attractive, with offal and cows’ heads featuring strongly – at least the lack of refrigeration wasn’t really a problem as it was still pretty bloody cold!
Wandered into a big auditorium that was also fruit and veg dominated.

Came across a little old lady dressed in traditional costume buying a cabbage. I had a conversation with her in my best Spanish, complementing her on her choice of cabbage and beautifully embroidered hat. Finally I asked her if I could take her photo. We negotiated that I would buy her the cabbage (1 Boliviano = about 15c) as payment for the photo. I bought the cabbage and gave her 2Bs as well. All good til now. Then, photo safely in camera, she turned feral. Wanted 5Bs more and chased me out of the building, shouting at me and drawing quite a crowd. She grabbed the strap of my camera bag and wouldn’t let go. Many times I tried to unwind those gnarled brown old fingers from the strap, to no avail – her grip was like a vice. A larger crowd gathered. I couldn’t stop laughing as she played the crowd. Finally, as she was entertaining the masses, her concentration slipped and I was able to separate us. As I got away, she grabbed Col’s bag of mandarins – a bad move, as he lost it! With no Spanish at all, his meaning was eminently clear. We left the area and the crowd dispersed – their entertainment for the morning over.

Made a few small purchases (more of the delicious mandarins) and wound our way back to the square and the fierce warrior woman to find a bus back to Sucre. As usual, a local bus with lots of decorative tassels, small children and bags of corn. We purchased only three seats this time (much to the disgust of the locals) and travelled in relative comfort back down the hill to our Sucre home, the Grand Hotel. Pack, pack, unpack, pack...all in preparation for the new day.

High and cold in Tarabuco

When is a gringo not a gringo? Never, if you are in Tarabuco, a small village 65km south east of Sucre.

Once again, leaped out of bed eagerly at 4am to catch a minibus for another adventure. Sadly the minibus driver wasn’t quite so keen to get into the adventure and was happy to sit until the bus filled – about an hour later the two gringos were still the only occupants. Getting a bit bored and cramped by this stage, we offered to pay for 14 passengers and go ‘expresso’. Probably just as well as the bus seats were built for Lilliputians and we needed at least 4 seats and still had to wind trek-weary limbs around our ears to fit.

Arrived as the sun rose to a chilly central plaza where the mainly indigenous population were just starting about their business – sweeping, selling from the footpaths and chasing after children and dogs. Gringos have not a hope in hell of strolling unnoticed or blending with the crowd – especially those who can only mutter buenos dias and little else!

Already loving the woven shawls and knitted hats and have made a study of the crochet edges(nasty acrylic) on the beautifully hand woven tablecloths.

Tarabuco’s main square celebrates a victory over the Spanish in 1816, led by a woman, Dona Juana Azurduy de Padilla. She looks quite fierce and if I were Spanish, I would be catching the next minibus out of here – leg room or no leg room. This victory is much celebrated, annually and a source of community pride. However, this joint’s main claim to fame is its renowned weaving and textiles. They are sold at a market on Sunday – this explains our presence here on a Saturday afternoon. I need to get a flying start at that market tomorrow morning – but not at 4 am I swear.

Col has already negotiated the goat trail to the top of a nearby hill, despite the altitude making it difficult to even walk up the stairs. (Needless to say, i watched from the comfort of the settee on the verandah.) So we now have many pictures of the local landscape and some understanding of the small memorial altars dotted on the hillside.

Not sure where the next meal is to be found (Alfredo the cook at the hostel has hightailed it out of town.) Most of life happens behind closed doors so eating establishments are difficult to identify – and not sure about the llama meat cuisine mentioned in the guide book either. However, we did find a huge truck chockas with mandarins and managed to negotiate a purchase, so won’t go hungry.

But, hunger matters little as the adventure continues in this small Bolivian village.

That trek

I have a travel buddy who likes to wake early. Those of you who know me well would understand my problems with this. Most of the inhabitants of Sucre understand my problem with this. You see Sucre is primarily a university town. And anyone at all familiar with university students would know how they like to party. To cater for this, Sucre has many lively nightspots and is a town that only wakes up at 6pm. But I can’t tell you about the night life because of my travel buddy who has organised a series of 4am starts. Though this is somewhat necessitated by all roads out of Sucre closing between 7am and 7pm for road works, it is still a little extreme methinks.

So there we were, at dawn, 3760m up, drinking cocoa tea with a young French couple, Nelson, our guide and William the driver, contemplating a trek on an Inca trail. I do admit that dawn was rather beautiful with the crosses of the tiny church silhouetted against the lightening sky and the Klimt style virgin wishing us well on our journey.

Then off we went, boulder to boulder...then boulder to boulder....then more bloody boulders, stepping carefully for hours and hours and hours – afraid to look at the sensational views without stopping first, for fear of losing one’s footing and sliding down into the depths of Bolivian nature. Hard to believe these paths have been here for thousands of years. Nelson was great, patient with the old gringo bag who was slow, and very informative about all things cultural, historical and natural. Really interesting plants, used by the Jalqu’a people for medicinal purposes and textile dyeing. And the scenery was mind blowing, all the way down into the caldera and then onto the tiny native mud brick village of Maragua. So many soaring craggy mountains, striped and folded with the many colours of myriad minerals, and other weird and wildly varying landforms with Inca legends to explain what geologists are still trying to.

Time for lunch and a little bum slide onthe river bank to check out the hardness of the earth – no wonder nothing grows here!

Now Maragua was connected to electricity one month ago. To celebrate they had a week long party. I suspect that they are still recovering as we saw hardly a human anywheres about. But we did meet a young woman who demonstrated her amazing weaving to us. The people here are very poor, hardly growing enough wheat and corn for their own use so selling weaving is the only source of income. And given that it takes a whole day to make 7cm of fabric, it is a very lean income that is earned. I bought a small piece (about 30cmX10cm) for around $A15.

And then we walked some more, and some more and some more, along a river bed until finally finding the car again and heading back to Sucre. But even this was a great adventure, with the single lane road reminiscent of some seen in central Australia, but with the switchbacks and altitude of one I remember from Srinigar to Jammu in the Himalayas. Add to this rock falls, river crossings, culverts going across the road, landslides, donkeys, goats, chickens and barking dogs, and you will have some understanding of the adventure. Luckily, the Nissan we were in was a tad more robust than ours (currently in hospital at Port Macquarie) and carried us regally back to base.

There was nothing left to do but have a beer and a good lie down – a fitting end to a fabulous day.

Early days in Bolivia

Sitting in a gorgeous colonial courtyard sipping cafe con leche and watching the Bolivian world go by.

Arrived here after a taste of luxury Sydney to Buenos Aries then a little more travel reality of 6 hour stopovers, changed flights and lost luggage. A day in Santa Cruz, though unplanned served as a gentle introduction to a new culture, despite the fact that we were equipped for cold weather not tropical. Pleasant enough place though unremarkable, except for the kindness of the people who seemed not at all annoyed by non-Spanish speaking Gringos trying to get phones and lost luggage sorted.

Sucre on the other hand is a beautiful white colonial university town. the buildings around the central square dazzle and already we have been caught up in two parades, brass bands and happy kids.
The local wine is a bit rough and bites hard so shall be avoided from hereon in. A good coffee is elusive but the atmosphere is layback and charming. Beginning to see quite few native people wearing traditional costume, including the bowler hats worn high on the heads of the women. The older women are quite quite beautiful, with folded (not wrinkled) coffee coloured skin with not an age spot to be seen. Waist length plaits, often trimmed with crochet bobbles seem to be worn mostly by the older native women who are very short and stout of stature and swathed in hand woven brightly coloured shawls. All the shawls, used for carrying everything from kids to corn seem to be trimmed in the same patterned crochet edging. Saw one tiny wee girl crouched in a doorway doing this crochet work. Feel it's a bit intrusive to photograph the people at close range though, so sticking to buildings and dogs for photographic subjects at the moment.

Col has been out playing with the taxis and bus drivers trying to work out local transport to villages as all the organised tours are quite expensive. He is having a blast and already has a collection of maps to which he constantly refers. As his Spanish is even more limited than mine, I am not sure where we will end up, but don't care much as it is all different and exciting. (He has since reported reducing the bus terminal staff to gales of laughter at his Spanish speaking efforts - read from the guide book with lots of hand waving.)

Have already seen some of the local weaving and it is quite exquisite - very very fine, with colours and styles defined by location - can't wait to see more on the morrow.