When I arrived in Santa Cruz's airport, in Bolivia, I discovered the airline had left my backpack in La Paz. I was told to leave the name of my hotel and they would deliver my bag later that afternoon when it arrived on the next flight. I flipped through my Lonely Planet guide and found the name of a hotel near the main plaza and said that was where I would be staying. What more could I do?
Sweat. Santa Cruz was much warmer than La Paz - being at a much lower elevation the climate was tropical. This did not bode well for the guy wearing jeans and wool socks with nothing readily available to change into. I found a cab (one without a/c apparently) and directed him to the address in my guidebook. The drive took about 25 minutes, and although the cabbie had all the windows down, my t-shirt was soaked by the time we reached the hotel.
I paid him and went into ask for a room. They had plenty available. But the cheapest room was 130 Bolivianos (about $16) and I thought this was much too high. So I thanked the desk clerk and decided to check the hotel three doors down. He offered a room with cable TV and an over-head fan for 100 Bolivianos (about $12.50). So much better. I cranked up the fan, stripped off the wool socks, and stretched out to relax for a bit. Then I realized I had given the airline the name of the other hotel. Ugh.
I tried calling the number they gave me to tell them I had switched hotels. But all I got was a recording in Spanish. I decided I would walk back to the original hotel, tell them my situation, and beg them to hold my bag even though I wasn't staying there. Hopefully they would be sympathetic. They were.
Santa Cruz was the city from which I was going to catch a train into Brazil. There didn't seem to be much to do here other than sweat. And wait for my bag. But my coworker's cousin was in town from La Paz visiting relatives and offered to show me around. Not having anything to do other than wait & sweat, I took her up on the offer. But first I had her call the airline to see about changing hotel names for delivery. She got through to someone but was told they weren't going to deliver the bag - just send it to the airline office in town. Okay, that would be part of my tour. To kill some time we walked to the main plaza and checked out the church. I was looking for any relief from the heat - the cool air in the church, the shade of a tree, a cold drink. But the jeans and wool socks were just too much in that heat. I finally decided we needed to take a break at a restaurant on the square that had dozens of ice cream dishes. And there we sat for a couple of hours.
Finally, around 4pm, we took a cab to the airline office. We skipped the long line and walked back behind the counter (I was just following the cousin who seemed to know what she was doing) to a back office. There we (and by we I mean she) went about explaining the situation and trying to find my bag. Turns out it was being delivered to the hotel. Two cab rides and 16 Bolivianos later we got back to the hotel where my bag - and shorts & flip flops - were waiting.
I carried it up to my room and took a nice, long, cold shower. The relief of cold water and then shorts and flip flops immediately turned my foul mood around. I was ready to see what Santa Cruz had to offer - with a smile.
Still, not much.
To see pics from my time in Santa Cruz, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603952352167/
Monday, March 17, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
They Calling Me
Where are those durn pictures? They're coming. I am going to Charlotte this weekend to see the folks for the first time since I've been back & to celebrate my 31st with my grandfather. I am taking the laptop, the pictures, and the Lonely Planet (don't have my notebook, so I'll cheat and take notes from my guide book). I PROMISE to have pics up before I return. And a few stories that I can remember.
Until then, here's proof I was in Patagonia. And maybe a weeee bit lost. More to come!
Until then, here's proof I was in Patagonia. And maybe a weeee bit lost. More to come!
Monday, March 10, 2008
A Bad Start to the End of My Time in Bolivia
My last day in La Paz started with me thinking I was about to die. Bright and early I made my way to the shower, still very much asleep. The shower in my coworker's place doesn't come with hot water and so, like many shower heads in South America, a heating device was hooked up to cook up the water just before releasing it on the bather. These contraptions always look scary - with archaic wiring connecting from the shower head to a large switch that looks like what Dr Frankenstein pulled to bring his monster to life.
A few minutes into my shower I noticed bright flashes of light just above my head. I looked up to see sparks flying from the wiring of the shower head and then a large spark just before the wiring caught on fire. In the span of these few seconds I managed to get the shower curtain back and leap to the toilet four feet away - naked, dripping wet, but seemingly unscathed. I watched as the flame grew smaller and the wires melted away, my heart beating a thousand times a minute. When I gathered my composure, I tossed a small bit of water on the now tiny flame to put it out. Smoke filled the room. And I had 20 minutes to get down to my cab and head to the airport.
I dried off, made sure the fire was completely out, and got dressed. Then I left a note for my coworker's uncle who would be arriving that day. And I called his cousin to tell her what happened. Her response? "Oh, don't worry about it. Happens all the time."
Right.
Completely shaken, I grabbed my pack and went out to meet my cab to catch my flight to Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz is located in eastern Bolivia, at a much lower elevation. I was told to be prepared for tropical weather - a big change from the chilliness of La Paz. I wore jeans (it was still cold here after all) but wore a tee with my jacket, knowing I could dunk the jacket in my little pack once I landed.
The flight was quick enough and I was glad I had taken it instead of the 17 hour bus ride. But when I went to the small airport's baggage claim, and waited and waited, I couldn't find my checked backpack. An announcement was made when it was clear I wasn't the only one waiting for my bag 40 minutes later. But it was in Spanish and I couldn't understand it. All I caught was that I should get in line where something further would be explained. When I got to the front of the line I found one of the two guys doing damage control could speak a little English. He said the plane was over weight and so some of the bags were left behind for the next flight from La Paz. I was to leave my hotel name and address and the bag would be delivered later that afternoon. I could already feel the heat outside the doors and immediately regretted wearing my wool socks and jeans. There was no way I could change now. I was not liking Santa Cruz so far.
A few minutes into my shower I noticed bright flashes of light just above my head. I looked up to see sparks flying from the wiring of the shower head and then a large spark just before the wiring caught on fire. In the span of these few seconds I managed to get the shower curtain back and leap to the toilet four feet away - naked, dripping wet, but seemingly unscathed. I watched as the flame grew smaller and the wires melted away, my heart beating a thousand times a minute. When I gathered my composure, I tossed a small bit of water on the now tiny flame to put it out. Smoke filled the room. And I had 20 minutes to get down to my cab and head to the airport.
I dried off, made sure the fire was completely out, and got dressed. Then I left a note for my coworker's uncle who would be arriving that day. And I called his cousin to tell her what happened. Her response? "Oh, don't worry about it. Happens all the time."
Right.
Completely shaken, I grabbed my pack and went out to meet my cab to catch my flight to Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz is located in eastern Bolivia, at a much lower elevation. I was told to be prepared for tropical weather - a big change from the chilliness of La Paz. I wore jeans (it was still cold here after all) but wore a tee with my jacket, knowing I could dunk the jacket in my little pack once I landed.
The flight was quick enough and I was glad I had taken it instead of the 17 hour bus ride. But when I went to the small airport's baggage claim, and waited and waited, I couldn't find my checked backpack. An announcement was made when it was clear I wasn't the only one waiting for my bag 40 minutes later. But it was in Spanish and I couldn't understand it. All I caught was that I should get in line where something further would be explained. When I got to the front of the line I found one of the two guys doing damage control could speak a little English. He said the plane was over weight and so some of the bags were left behind for the next flight from La Paz. I was to leave my hotel name and address and the bag would be delivered later that afternoon. I could already feel the heat outside the doors and immediately regretted wearing my wool socks and jeans. There was no way I could change now. I was not liking Santa Cruz so far.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Going Down
Before leaving La Paz, there was one last thing I wanted to do. About an hour and a half north there is a stretch of road that was named the "World's Most Dangerous Road" by the Inter-American Development Bank in 1995. There were more deaths annually on this road than on any other road in the world. In 1986 alone there were 362 deaths. The road hugs mountains with steep cliffs over the edge. The majority of the road is barely wider than one car and it is not paved. Most of the deaths are caused by drunks drivers or speeding.
In March of 2007 a new, paved road was opened up following a safer route and most cars have been redirected to this route. The number of fatalities has dropped drastically and the road, now, is no longer considered the World's Most Dangerous. But it doesn't stop bike companies from advertising downhill excursions on the World's Most Dangerous Road. I, of course, wanted to go biking down this old superlative and so I signed up to do it (again) for the Monday before leaving La Paz.
I was up at 5:30 in the morning to get dressed and catch a cab into town. The company, Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking, warned me to wear warm clothes since the ride starts at 15,400 feet. But they also suggested I bring a bag with a change of clothes since we would be descending 11,800 feet into the Amazon jungle. I met the other riders at a cafe where we were to meet our biking guide. When the guide arrived we were asked for proof of insurance. They weren't taking any chances with us - not when inexperienced bikers would be speeding down a gravel/dirt road beside 3,300 feet sheer drops.
We were piled into the back of a Landrover with our bikes stacked on top. The ride up was quiet - much too early for anyone to really talk to each other. Doing the road with me was a canadian couple, a dutch couple, and a german woman. Our main guide was originally from Cananda - he had moved to La Paz with his girlfriend 8 months earlier to do volunteer work with homeless children. To make some extra money he picked up this biking gig. He had been doing trek biking since he was a kid and was apparently thrilled to go down this trail each week. Our guide bringing up the rear was originally from La Paz. He was apparently the 2nd best down-hill biker in Bolivia. At the end of the trek, over beers, he showed me video of some of his downhill competitions. He admitted he wasn't able to the do the whole course - he chickened out on a 18 foot drop on one course.
When we reached La Cumbre, our starting point, we were told there were usually grand views of the surrounding snow capped mountains. But it was now snowing (in summer) and foggy. We could see about 50 feet in front of us. I was anxious to see how this would effect out riding. But we were immediately suited up with goggles, gloves, and water proof pants & jackets. It was freezing and I was glad I had layered up. Before setting off, a small container of pure sugar cane alcohol (97% alcohol) was passed around. We were told to take a shot and pour a small amount on mother earth for good luck.
Within minutes of starting the ride I was soaked - as we descended, the snow turned to rain - and my hands started to go numb from the cold. My goggles were almost as useless as going without them. We were doing 40 miles down the road, but fortunately the first section was on wide, paved road. Made things a bit safer. The only thing that really freaked me out was the occasional sharp horn blasts from truckers passing us.
Eventually the rain let up a bit and I could see the land we were riding through. It was beautiful. After about an hour we got to the section where the road split - old from new. And down the old we went. No more wide, paved road. As we passed the only guard rail (on the safest part of the road) it was clear the technical part of the ride was beginning. I wasn't shy. Off our lead guide bolted and off I went peddling after him.
I am not an avid biker. In fact, I rarely ride. Especially not on narrow gravel/dirt roads with 3,300 feet sheer drops to one side. I had no business trying to keep up with the guide. In fact, they encouraged us to go at a comfortable speed. But the thrill of flying downhill, hugging sharp turns, dodging larger rocks, and knowing this was the World's Most Dangerous Road was too much and I continued to peddle faster and faster. There were too many instances when I almost lost control or hit a rock too fast and came close to wiping out or going over the side of a cliff. But I was enjoying the thrill of it all.
As we descended farther and farther we took breaks to check out the scenery or have a bite to eat, or make sure our brakes still worked. It warmed up a bit with each stop and a new layer would come off every rider with each stop. By the end most people were down to tees and their orange vests; a big change from the bulky layers we started with. I almost kept it all on despite the heat just so any spill I might take would be a bit softer.
Under waterfalls we rode, into more rain, through mini-rivers cutting through the road. When we finally arrived at the small village of Yolosa, we were all dirty and sweating. We had just a short ride left to Senda Verde Hostel, which doubles as an animal refuge - where we were able to take hot showers and eat a late pasta and salad buffet lunch while checking out the rescued monkeys, parrots, snakes, and wild cats. Everyone was exhausted. But we enjoyed seeing the hundred or so pictures our guides managed to take along the trail, now set up to play on a tv monitor.
The other riders were staying at this small town for the night. But I had a flight early the next morning to the other side of Bolivia and rode back with the driver and two guides. We stopped before driving back up the World's Most Dangerous Road and bought several beers for the ride back (the driver got a Fanta) and for the next three hours I chatted up my Canadian guide about his experiences in Bolivia. With only one stop for more beer and another stop when we almost hit another car coming the other direction on the Dangerous Road (coming too close to adding four more to the annual fatalities), we made good time back. They dropped me off back in the center of town around 9pm and I found a cab back out to my coworker's house. I managed to stay on the bike during the entire ride, but once I got to my bedroom I crashed hard.
For a few pics from the ride, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603819518089/
In March of 2007 a new, paved road was opened up following a safer route and most cars have been redirected to this route. The number of fatalities has dropped drastically and the road, now, is no longer considered the World's Most Dangerous. But it doesn't stop bike companies from advertising downhill excursions on the World's Most Dangerous Road. I, of course, wanted to go biking down this old superlative and so I signed up to do it (again) for the Monday before leaving La Paz.
I was up at 5:30 in the morning to get dressed and catch a cab into town. The company, Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking, warned me to wear warm clothes since the ride starts at 15,400 feet. But they also suggested I bring a bag with a change of clothes since we would be descending 11,800 feet into the Amazon jungle. I met the other riders at a cafe where we were to meet our biking guide. When the guide arrived we were asked for proof of insurance. They weren't taking any chances with us - not when inexperienced bikers would be speeding down a gravel/dirt road beside 3,300 feet sheer drops.
We were piled into the back of a Landrover with our bikes stacked on top. The ride up was quiet - much too early for anyone to really talk to each other. Doing the road with me was a canadian couple, a dutch couple, and a german woman. Our main guide was originally from Cananda - he had moved to La Paz with his girlfriend 8 months earlier to do volunteer work with homeless children. To make some extra money he picked up this biking gig. He had been doing trek biking since he was a kid and was apparently thrilled to go down this trail each week. Our guide bringing up the rear was originally from La Paz. He was apparently the 2nd best down-hill biker in Bolivia. At the end of the trek, over beers, he showed me video of some of his downhill competitions. He admitted he wasn't able to the do the whole course - he chickened out on a 18 foot drop on one course.
When we reached La Cumbre, our starting point, we were told there were usually grand views of the surrounding snow capped mountains. But it was now snowing (in summer) and foggy. We could see about 50 feet in front of us. I was anxious to see how this would effect out riding. But we were immediately suited up with goggles, gloves, and water proof pants & jackets. It was freezing and I was glad I had layered up. Before setting off, a small container of pure sugar cane alcohol (97% alcohol) was passed around. We were told to take a shot and pour a small amount on mother earth for good luck.
Within minutes of starting the ride I was soaked - as we descended, the snow turned to rain - and my hands started to go numb from the cold. My goggles were almost as useless as going without them. We were doing 40 miles down the road, but fortunately the first section was on wide, paved road. Made things a bit safer. The only thing that really freaked me out was the occasional sharp horn blasts from truckers passing us.
Eventually the rain let up a bit and I could see the land we were riding through. It was beautiful. After about an hour we got to the section where the road split - old from new. And down the old we went. No more wide, paved road. As we passed the only guard rail (on the safest part of the road) it was clear the technical part of the ride was beginning. I wasn't shy. Off our lead guide bolted and off I went peddling after him.
I am not an avid biker. In fact, I rarely ride. Especially not on narrow gravel/dirt roads with 3,300 feet sheer drops to one side. I had no business trying to keep up with the guide. In fact, they encouraged us to go at a comfortable speed. But the thrill of flying downhill, hugging sharp turns, dodging larger rocks, and knowing this was the World's Most Dangerous Road was too much and I continued to peddle faster and faster. There were too many instances when I almost lost control or hit a rock too fast and came close to wiping out or going over the side of a cliff. But I was enjoying the thrill of it all.
As we descended farther and farther we took breaks to check out the scenery or have a bite to eat, or make sure our brakes still worked. It warmed up a bit with each stop and a new layer would come off every rider with each stop. By the end most people were down to tees and their orange vests; a big change from the bulky layers we started with. I almost kept it all on despite the heat just so any spill I might take would be a bit softer.
Under waterfalls we rode, into more rain, through mini-rivers cutting through the road. When we finally arrived at the small village of Yolosa, we were all dirty and sweating. We had just a short ride left to Senda Verde Hostel, which doubles as an animal refuge - where we were able to take hot showers and eat a late pasta and salad buffet lunch while checking out the rescued monkeys, parrots, snakes, and wild cats. Everyone was exhausted. But we enjoyed seeing the hundred or so pictures our guides managed to take along the trail, now set up to play on a tv monitor.
The other riders were staying at this small town for the night. But I had a flight early the next morning to the other side of Bolivia and rode back with the driver and two guides. We stopped before driving back up the World's Most Dangerous Road and bought several beers for the ride back (the driver got a Fanta) and for the next three hours I chatted up my Canadian guide about his experiences in Bolivia. With only one stop for more beer and another stop when we almost hit another car coming the other direction on the Dangerous Road (coming too close to adding four more to the annual fatalities), we made good time back. They dropped me off back in the center of town around 9pm and I found a cab back out to my coworker's house. I managed to stay on the bike during the entire ride, but once I got to my bedroom I crashed hard.
For a few pics from the ride, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603819518089/
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Pictures to Come
In spite of not having my journal and all my notes, I still plan to post the pictures from the trip with what details I can remember. I have three albums lined up to go and will publish them in the next day or two.
Coming up is my bike ride down the world's most dangerous road. Then a quick stop in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, where the weather turned tropical and the traditional dishes kept coming. After that is my short trip into Brazil's pantanal region where I fished for piranhas while wading with them. And then crossing from Brazil into Argentina at Iguazu Falls.
By next week I hope to have the pictures from Buenos Aires, Antarctica, and the Patagonia region posted.
Stay tuned!
Coming up is my bike ride down the world's most dangerous road. Then a quick stop in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, where the weather turned tropical and the traditional dishes kept coming. After that is my short trip into Brazil's pantanal region where I fished for piranhas while wading with them. And then crossing from Brazil into Argentina at Iguazu Falls.
By next week I hope to have the pictures from Buenos Aires, Antarctica, and the Patagonia region posted.
Stay tuned!
Saturday, March 1, 2008
And Here I am
I arrived at Washington National Airport at 9 this morning. I was welcomed back to DC by an Argentine girl that was seated next to me on the flight. An odd return. The metro ride was long and lonely and when I got to my house it was empty.
There was a box of mail waiting for me. Literally, a large box of mail. Fortunately there was also a Duke/NC State game that needed watching so I was able to sort through the mail while screaming at rat-face on TV. My first college bball game of the season. And Duke pulled off the win at the last second. I really hate them.
Anyway, I am going to the bar to watch the UNC game at 3:30 with my new roommate. Apparently a new roommate moved in while I was gone. Life is back to normal.
For now.
There was a box of mail waiting for me. Literally, a large box of mail. Fortunately there was also a Duke/NC State game that needed watching so I was able to sort through the mail while screaming at rat-face on TV. My first college bball game of the season. And Duke pulled off the win at the last second. I really hate them.
Anyway, I am going to the bar to watch the UNC game at 3:30 with my new roommate. Apparently a new roommate moved in while I was gone. Life is back to normal.
For now.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Ciao!
My last day in South America. I am running all over the city trying to see as many things as possible (and buy a flag). The weather is actually cooperating for the most part. But everything I want to see is, of course, miles from each other. It`s a bit hot and thankfully internet cafes all have AC.
Anyway, I will be cabbing to the airport in about 4.5 hours. And I still need to pack. Thanks for reading and commenting. See everyone State-side soon.
Ciao!
Anyway, I will be cabbing to the airport in about 4.5 hours. And I still need to pack. Thanks for reading and commenting. See everyone State-side soon.
Ciao!
Thursday, February 28, 2008
A Special Thank You
I arrived to Buenos Aires in the pouring rain this morning after an all night bus ride from Mendoza. Turns out it was a pretty big storm. Parts of the city flooded and it was impossible to get a taxi most of the day. So I have spent most of the day inside. Not exactly what I wanted to do during my last two days.
But since it is my next to last day (will probably be heading to the airport in about 25 hours), I wanted to take a moment to say thanks to the person who made this trip possible: me.
Just kidding.
A HUGE thank you to my boss, Denise, for working with me and the people in charge at my company to allow me to take so much time off - and still have a job to come back to. She was open to the suggestion the moment I asked and made sure everything went through the proper channels so that it could happen. She also took a big leap of faith that I would actually return. But knowing that I am coming back to work for some one who is looking out for me is insentive enough to return. Despite the stack of work supposedly sitting in my chair.
I also want to thank my company for letting some one leave for a reason other than having a baby.
See you all on Monday.
sigh
But since it is my next to last day (will probably be heading to the airport in about 25 hours), I wanted to take a moment to say thanks to the person who made this trip possible: me.
Just kidding.
A HUGE thank you to my boss, Denise, for working with me and the people in charge at my company to allow me to take so much time off - and still have a job to come back to. She was open to the suggestion the moment I asked and made sure everything went through the proper channels so that it could happen. She also took a big leap of faith that I would actually return. But knowing that I am coming back to work for some one who is looking out for me is insentive enough to return. Despite the stack of work supposedly sitting in my chair.
I also want to thank my company for letting some one leave for a reason other than having a baby.
See you all on Monday.
sigh
A Big Loss
I have lost many things on this trip. The worst to this point was a memory card with pics from Bolivia, Brazil, and Buenos Aires. Fortunately I had taken some of the more significant pics and put then on a flash drive already so they could be uploaded to the blog.
But I have just discovered the biggest loss to date. And only two days shy of me leaving South America. I have lost my notebook. It`s the notebook I have all my spanish notes in. It also has all the contact info for people I have met along the way. But most importantly, it had a journal entry and notes for every single day of my trip. I have no functioning memory so this notebook was very important. Unfortunately this also means I have nothing to look back at when trying to write stories after Bolivia.
Technically ìt`s not lost. I know exactly where it is. OR at least was. I left it in an internet cafe in Mendoza the morning I arrived after a night of no sleep. Just in case I have emailed a friend I met traveling that was staying there when I was. That`s a long shot though...
I am bummed.
But I have just discovered the biggest loss to date. And only two days shy of me leaving South America. I have lost my notebook. It`s the notebook I have all my spanish notes in. It also has all the contact info for people I have met along the way. But most importantly, it had a journal entry and notes for every single day of my trip. I have no functioning memory so this notebook was very important. Unfortunately this also means I have nothing to look back at when trying to write stories after Bolivia.
Technically ìt`s not lost. I know exactly where it is. OR at least was. I left it in an internet cafe in Mendoza the morning I arrived after a night of no sleep. Just in case I have emailed a friend I met traveling that was staying there when I was. That`s a long shot though...
I am bummed.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
A Long Goodbye: Day 2 (a month ago)
The actual day my coworker was to leave Bolivia and go back to the States started much like the previous: with a lunch at another tio & tia`s house. I was in pretty bad shape after the late night that had ended just a few hours before. My coworker took this into consideration and told his tia that I had a sore throat and might not be able to make it.
She told him to bring me anyway. She had drugs.
This was the day I was supposed to do my bike ride down...ready for it? THE MOST DANGEROUS ROAD IN THE WORLD. I was to meet the group at 7am in the center of town. But having arrived back at the house at just 5am, I decided riding a mountain bike in the rain down THE MOST DANGEROUS ROAD IN THE WORLD while still very much hungover was not such a good idea. And so I called and asked to reschedule (for a fee of course).
And so I found myself riding in a cab to Tia Marta & Tio Pepe`s house, still hungover, at noon. Tio Pepe is a military man and had just been reposted - though only a few streets from where he was previously posted. They were still having to move to a new house. So the house had packing boxes every where. I pretented to be slightly ill with a sore throat (not to hard because of all the drinking the night before and the large cigar I had smoked that afternoon), and tia Marta continued to push some sort of throat relief at me. I assured her my throat didn`t hurt so badly I couldn`t eat. I don´t think it would have mattered.
The meal was another traditional Bolivian one - one I can`t remember the name of (in one blog post I will make a list of all the unusual but delicious meals I had there). Still not really all that hungry after all the food I had the day before, I tried to pace myself. It was great food though. Neither Marta nor Pepe spoke much English so there was much translating to be done. Which is why, when I was told I would be driving with Pepe to get our next dish, I had a slight panic over what I would say to the military man with my delicate grasp of the spanish language.
Pepe was (is still I assume) a great and friendly man. I tried my best to chat with him in Spanish during our ride. I pointed to the military base and asked about how the consription worked in Bolivia. He explained it. In spanish. I still have no idea how it works. I asked about the dog that was riding with us. He seemed to take great pride in that dog. And when we arrived at the restaurant (some might say meat circus) he took great pleasure in pointing out the process through which the meat we were buying was cooked. Big giant vats of boiled pig meat. He explained that it was a traditional food from a certain area of Bolivia and that the best parts were the skins. Mmmmm...pig skins. He even offered to take pictures of me standing next to the hanging pigs (which, I was informed would be the next day`s fodder).
Our initial lunch was really filling. They always were. And I really didn`t have room to eat this pig skin "treat". But I tried a bit to be polite. Yep, exactly what I expected boiled pig skins to taste like.
With my coworker leaving that night and me staying in La Paz a few more days, tia Marta offered to feed me if I needed to be fed. Just come by and I will fix you something. "What, I don`t know. But there is something here you can eat". She and Pepe were gracious hosts and I thanked them repeatidly for having us over for lunch. Even as tia Marta told me to take care of my sore throat and offered more throat relief thingies.
My worker`s cousin picked us up and drove him back to the house so he could pack. Then she and I went in search of more dancers practising for the upcoming Carnival. We found them dancing down a side street. The guys were going all out - really entertaining to watch. And so we parked the car and walked along side the parade - me snapping away with my camera and trying not to step on the dozens of little children watching on the sidewalks too. The girls? Not so impressive. Much like the ones we had seen in the park before. And so there is no video of them. But there is a video of the guys; just follow the link below.
After following the dancers for a while it was back to the house to pick up my coworker and take him to the airport. All the cousins piled into the car for the 40 minute drive up into the hills. It was a quiet ride, my coworker clearly not excited about leaving Bolivia. Fortunately he didn`t have to. At least not immediately. The plane was delayed 2 1/2 hours.
The La Paz airport is not a big airport. There is very little do there. And so we sat and waited for two hours. I bought some postcards and wrote everyone (have they arrived yet?). The cousins joked amongst themselves. When the time finally came, there were sereval hugs and kisses on the cheek. When he was out of sight, I walked back to the car with the cousins - now all very quiet.
The boys were going home to keep an eye on their youngest brother who was home alone. Knowing I had nothing else to do, the other cousin offered to take me to a Peña. I had wanted to go to one while we were in Tarija but we never made reservations and thus never made it. Peñas are restaurants with live traditional music or dancing. I looked up a few names in my guide book and she asked around for a couple. We found one just in the center of town.
There was no dancing, but the singer and band were enough entertainment. My coworker`s cousin knew him by name and told me his history: used to be part of a duo, partner was killed a few years ago, official consensus was that it was because of his political beliefs, unofficially people believed it was his wife. All sorts of great drama. But the singer had a great sense of humor. While I didn`t understand many of the jokes he told between songs, he was spirited enough in telling them that I laughed along (and some times I laughed when he wasn`t telling a joke - awkward). He made an effort of finding out where everyone in the crowd was from and altering the traditional music to sound similar to music from their countries. The oddest had to be the Japanese/Bolivian mix. For the two hispanic U.S. girls upfront, he had the band turn their hats backwards, put on sunglasses, and did some reggaeton (effing reggaeton). All this over a meal of shredded llama. Mmmmmmm...
Afterwards I suggested we go to a jazz bar I had read about, but it was closed. Instead we met friends at a dance club. Um, yeah. The friends included a huge German guy, who grew up in Bolivia, went to college in Arkansas - where he played football, and tried out for the Dallas Cowboys, only to miss the opportunity after breaking a collarbone in tryouts. Lucas knew the right people at the club. Instead of waiting in line and paying the cover (a whopping $2 USD), we were led around to the back of the club and in through the back door, up to a VIP lounge. There, drinks were waiting for us. Dance clubs aren`t really my thing. But free drinks are. So I put on my happy face and mingled. Turns out there were several Germans there that had grown up in Bolivia. All were nice enough. All got drunk (or arrived drunk) quickly. Pretty soon I noticed everyone in the group was drunk. Might have been the endless supply of rum and whisky that kept funneling towards our booth.
I had just enough of said rum to get me on the dance floor. The club had gone from live music to U.S. pop music. And who doesn`t want to head to the floor when YMCA starts playing. Okay, usually I don`t. But as I mentioned I had had just enough rum at this point.
And as the day started much like the previous, it ended like the previous as well: me getting home around 5am full of rum. But this time minus my coworker. For the rest of my trip, I was on my own. With a little help from his cousins...
For a clip of the dancing, follow this link:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvPvgToE5wc
She told him to bring me anyway. She had drugs.
This was the day I was supposed to do my bike ride down...ready for it? THE MOST DANGEROUS ROAD IN THE WORLD. I was to meet the group at 7am in the center of town. But having arrived back at the house at just 5am, I decided riding a mountain bike in the rain down THE MOST DANGEROUS ROAD IN THE WORLD while still very much hungover was not such a good idea. And so I called and asked to reschedule (for a fee of course).
And so I found myself riding in a cab to Tia Marta & Tio Pepe`s house, still hungover, at noon. Tio Pepe is a military man and had just been reposted - though only a few streets from where he was previously posted. They were still having to move to a new house. So the house had packing boxes every where. I pretented to be slightly ill with a sore throat (not to hard because of all the drinking the night before and the large cigar I had smoked that afternoon), and tia Marta continued to push some sort of throat relief at me. I assured her my throat didn`t hurt so badly I couldn`t eat. I don´t think it would have mattered.
The meal was another traditional Bolivian one - one I can`t remember the name of (in one blog post I will make a list of all the unusual but delicious meals I had there). Still not really all that hungry after all the food I had the day before, I tried to pace myself. It was great food though. Neither Marta nor Pepe spoke much English so there was much translating to be done. Which is why, when I was told I would be driving with Pepe to get our next dish, I had a slight panic over what I would say to the military man with my delicate grasp of the spanish language.
Pepe was (is still I assume) a great and friendly man. I tried my best to chat with him in Spanish during our ride. I pointed to the military base and asked about how the consription worked in Bolivia. He explained it. In spanish. I still have no idea how it works. I asked about the dog that was riding with us. He seemed to take great pride in that dog. And when we arrived at the restaurant (some might say meat circus) he took great pleasure in pointing out the process through which the meat we were buying was cooked. Big giant vats of boiled pig meat. He explained that it was a traditional food from a certain area of Bolivia and that the best parts were the skins. Mmmmm...pig skins. He even offered to take pictures of me standing next to the hanging pigs (which, I was informed would be the next day`s fodder).
Our initial lunch was really filling. They always were. And I really didn`t have room to eat this pig skin "treat". But I tried a bit to be polite. Yep, exactly what I expected boiled pig skins to taste like.
With my coworker leaving that night and me staying in La Paz a few more days, tia Marta offered to feed me if I needed to be fed. Just come by and I will fix you something. "What, I don`t know. But there is something here you can eat". She and Pepe were gracious hosts and I thanked them repeatidly for having us over for lunch. Even as tia Marta told me to take care of my sore throat and offered more throat relief thingies.
My worker`s cousin picked us up and drove him back to the house so he could pack. Then she and I went in search of more dancers practising for the upcoming Carnival. We found them dancing down a side street. The guys were going all out - really entertaining to watch. And so we parked the car and walked along side the parade - me snapping away with my camera and trying not to step on the dozens of little children watching on the sidewalks too. The girls? Not so impressive. Much like the ones we had seen in the park before. And so there is no video of them. But there is a video of the guys; just follow the link below.
After following the dancers for a while it was back to the house to pick up my coworker and take him to the airport. All the cousins piled into the car for the 40 minute drive up into the hills. It was a quiet ride, my coworker clearly not excited about leaving Bolivia. Fortunately he didn`t have to. At least not immediately. The plane was delayed 2 1/2 hours.
The La Paz airport is not a big airport. There is very little do there. And so we sat and waited for two hours. I bought some postcards and wrote everyone (have they arrived yet?). The cousins joked amongst themselves. When the time finally came, there were sereval hugs and kisses on the cheek. When he was out of sight, I walked back to the car with the cousins - now all very quiet.
The boys were going home to keep an eye on their youngest brother who was home alone. Knowing I had nothing else to do, the other cousin offered to take me to a Peña. I had wanted to go to one while we were in Tarija but we never made reservations and thus never made it. Peñas are restaurants with live traditional music or dancing. I looked up a few names in my guide book and she asked around for a couple. We found one just in the center of town.
There was no dancing, but the singer and band were enough entertainment. My coworker`s cousin knew him by name and told me his history: used to be part of a duo, partner was killed a few years ago, official consensus was that it was because of his political beliefs, unofficially people believed it was his wife. All sorts of great drama. But the singer had a great sense of humor. While I didn`t understand many of the jokes he told between songs, he was spirited enough in telling them that I laughed along (and some times I laughed when he wasn`t telling a joke - awkward). He made an effort of finding out where everyone in the crowd was from and altering the traditional music to sound similar to music from their countries. The oddest had to be the Japanese/Bolivian mix. For the two hispanic U.S. girls upfront, he had the band turn their hats backwards, put on sunglasses, and did some reggaeton (effing reggaeton). All this over a meal of shredded llama. Mmmmmmm...
Afterwards I suggested we go to a jazz bar I had read about, but it was closed. Instead we met friends at a dance club. Um, yeah. The friends included a huge German guy, who grew up in Bolivia, went to college in Arkansas - where he played football, and tried out for the Dallas Cowboys, only to miss the opportunity after breaking a collarbone in tryouts. Lucas knew the right people at the club. Instead of waiting in line and paying the cover (a whopping $2 USD), we were led around to the back of the club and in through the back door, up to a VIP lounge. There, drinks were waiting for us. Dance clubs aren`t really my thing. But free drinks are. So I put on my happy face and mingled. Turns out there were several Germans there that had grown up in Bolivia. All were nice enough. All got drunk (or arrived drunk) quickly. Pretty soon I noticed everyone in the group was drunk. Might have been the endless supply of rum and whisky that kept funneling towards our booth.
I had just enough of said rum to get me on the dance floor. The club had gone from live music to U.S. pop music. And who doesn`t want to head to the floor when YMCA starts playing. Okay, usually I don`t. But as I mentioned I had had just enough rum at this point.
And as the day started much like the previous, it ended like the previous as well: me getting home around 5am full of rum. But this time minus my coworker. For the rest of my trip, I was on my own. With a little help from his cousins...
For a clip of the dancing, follow this link:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvPvgToE5wc
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