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.