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Uyuni to Sucre - Scary Times
We caught a cheap overnight bus to Sucre from Uyuni, filled with excitement for the city to come. Seven+ hours for about NZ$12... we should have known better.
Despite the lack of toilet (an ongoing issue in Bolivia - if the bus has a toilet 9 times out of 10 it's mysteriously locked!) the ride was pleasant. Cool music, lots of locals and a few tourists thrown in for good measure. That is until we reached Potosi, the home of Bolivia's infamous silver mine. The other gringos disembarked and we were left holding our backpacks on our laps with 4 hours to go.
5 minutes later, just after midnight in an empty car park on the outskirts of Potosi, the bus ground to a holt and two burly guys boarded the bus and made a beeline directly for us. They started pointing aggressively to the door and signaling for us to get off. The weasely 14-year-old bus attendant grabbed our bags and started dragging them away. What the f***! Meanwhile the other passengers looked at their feet and tried to ignore the commotion.
It turned out the old dunga wasn't going to Sucre anymore (as you do) so we were forced to take a taxi with one of the burly b*****s and a couple of locals. To make matters worse they tried charging us for the pleasure and then our driver smoked all the way to Sucre with a baby on board n' all. On the way he stopped on the back streets of a small town and disappeared into a door. We thought we had been delivered to a gang house to be robbed blind. Instead he appeared some time later with more ciggies and our fumey journey continued.
The only saving grace of this taxi ride was a very peculiar vision: At 2am, 50km from Sucre we passed 3 tourists on bikes (2 being girls) casually pedaling their way through the night. Sure it's a good way to avoid the heat of the midday sun but 2am!? Are they loco? South America does weird things to some people. It must be all those witches' brews.
When we arrived in Sucre at 3am we became sitting ducks ourselves, abandoned by the taxi driver in the middle of a deserted street next to a menacingly empty central market. We began to desperately knock on hostel doors as shark-like cars with dark windows cruised by, slowly. Eventually the third hostel let us in and we crashed out relieved to be in the warm bosom of Bolivia's capital city. Finally.
Sucre
Sucre is a town in constant parade. Each morning we wake to the sprightly toot of trumpet and horn, and the unmistakable stomp of ordered feet against cobble-stone streets. Every day they celebrate another aspect of Bolivian identity and pride; honouring their city, their freedom, their traditions, their religion. Once we saw heavily armed men march strong and terrifying for Sucre while just around the corner a procession of small children dressed in tall Marlborough Red cigarette packets giggled their way against littering. There is never a quiet day in Sucre, it is in a constant bustle of energetic celebration.
Phil: In Sucre I finally got my chance to play football in South America although not exactly how I had imagined it. A shoe shine boy called Robert approached us and after a strangely philosophical chat (strange because he was only 13 years old) he pulled out a mini football and rounded up a bunch of rag-tag street kids and the game commenced right there in Sucre's central plaza.
Admittedly I was twice the size of everyone else but that didn't get in the way of hard fought match featuring all the familiar stuff: Gooooooaaals, hollywoods, outlandish celebrations and a few grazed knees. Nice.
Ella: On the way to the infamous Tarabuco markets one Sunday morning we crammed into a small bustling van overflowing with 21 people; 12 adults and seemingly thousands of small tired eyed children tucked into every nook and cranny of the musty vehicle. Women sat amongst great seas of skirts and shawls, with towering stovepipe bowler hats precariously perched upon their tightly woven ebony plaits. We squeezed between their skirts, digging for hidden empty seats underneath.
At Tarabuco we smugly feasted on delicious NZ$0.60 meals piled high on plastic plates, surrounded by the shrill cries of women selling bright oceans of vegetables and fruit. We strolled through tightly wound streets lined with piles of ancient woven blankets in an overwhelming display of antique beauty in abundance. Small fat babies with smudgy red cheeks and woollen hats with animal ears rolled joyfully round in their mothers knitted wares, chortling at the smiling gringos. Girls laughed as I tried on antique traditional skirts, thick and swirling, while the older women tutted, unable to understand my fascination with the torn and stained with silky age. Phil couldn't quite understand this obsession either when I purchased with blushing delight an antique, hand stiched, bejewled bolero jacket to fill my bag with a crippling weight for 5 months.
Ella: Crushed in the van home from Tarabaco one of the numerous small children squirmed out of her squashed hole on the floor between seats with a green tinge to her flushed complexion. A small plastic bag was unceremoniously whipped towards her from an abundant pile in the van corner. The girl was quite sick for several minutes, before handing the full bag the her nonchalant mother who carelessly threw it out the window onto the road to be happily feasted upon by a hungry dog. The dizzy girl nestled back into her crammed spot, and not another word was mentioned. This must be a regular occurance.
Sadly for me, I found out quickly just how commonplace it is to vomit in plastic bags on public transport. We caught a bus out of Sucre to Potolo, a gorgeous small farming and weaving town deep in a multicoloured valley surrounded by mountains. Having arrived late to the station I was left standing in the isle for the journey, clutching the rusty seat handles as the bus wound through the most windy, bumpy, pot hole strewn, tretcherous road known to man. This is never a good position for one prone to crippling motion sickness. Suddenly in a cry of desperation I yelped to Phil for a plastic bag. Sitting down in the isle, surrounded by knarled dirty feet and crusty toenails, i vomited bright pink, ice-creamy sick (my last meal) into a bag, and proceeded to do so for the entirety of the trip. Instead of jumping to my aid and offering me a much needed seat by an airy window, I went unnoticed. And even though I was stuck with a heinous plastic bag full of pink vomit, I couldn't bring myself to throw it out the window into the wilderness for some dog to devour (as happens with most rubbish in South America to our constant disbelief).
In Potolo we explored green and orange fields with wandering donkeys and random piles of pumpkins. We chatted to smiling Quechuan farmers carrying heavy bundles of green and brown folliage. At sunset we climbed high on a rocky hill overlooking the town and valley and witnessed Bolivia's extraordinary rural landscape, a beautious explosion of lush greens juxtaposed with multicoloured rocky mountains. And as dark settled in we were welcomed into mud brick courtyards by women showing off their incredibly detailed weavings.
Phil: A popular form of human transport in Bolivia is by 'Back of Truck'. A big open deck with walls for humans, animals and as many goods as physically possible. Due to a less than reliable public transport system this is how we managed the 2 hour journey from Potolo back to Sucre. It's not everyone's cup of tea especially if, like Ella you get motion sickness and feel sick before getting on, but I loved it. The view is great and if (like snowboarding) you keep your knees bent its as much fun as a Disney ride.
Then there are the added bonuses: A late arrival decided he liked me so loaded an entire butchered beast on and around my legs so that its blood dripped on my shoes. Then before long I was surrounded by 5 people within a one metre radius despite space elsewhere, no doubt a sign of immense popularity.
Ella: My stomach still in a state of disrepair from the plastic bag experience, I stood squirming as the truck launched itself over cavenous street potholes, throwing us several feet in the air every couple of minutes. This was while trying to dodge the constant stream of green, coca smelling spit balls that fly towards your feet and coat the wooden floor. An old wisened women next to me spat hugely on my backpack and didn't seem to notice that my loud exasperated swearing was directed at this action. A man with a giant pickaxe kept falling asleep against my bare legs. Those huge slabs of thick smelling meat wrapped in plastic sacks were dragged onto the truck and lay seeping blood on the wooden slats, squeltching as people clambered across them in dirty sandals. Sacks of overflowing corn became pillows for resting children in brightly woven hats. The valley fell below the zigzag road dramatically. It was beautiful and hidden. Bending my knees to take the edge off the bumps, I admired Bolivian transport in all its mad glory.
For one of the first times on our trip we felt so completely accepted into everyday Andean culture. We recommend 'Back of Truck' trips to everyone.
Phil: In a slightly different set of events something strange happened to a pair of my undies in Sucre, which I only noticed when we had departed the white-washed city once and for all. They had been cut completely across the crotch then roughly hand sewn back together with (how nice of them) matching orange thread. I felt strangely violated. Some might say with orange undies I deserved it but I disagree. Even cartoon undie-wearer's shouldn't have to put up with this.
I'd love to know exactly what happened to my American Apparels and one day may even give the lavanderia a call to ask but for now I'll leave it to the imagination: Were they a religious sacrifice, did owner's children need an exotic flying bird for his puppetry assignment or did my undies get mixed up in some kind of pre-coital experiment? The mind boggles.
Hasta Luego Sucre!
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