La ruta al Bolivia: un sendero dificil

Day 1: Dog Rough Part 2

It all started innocuously enough: Elizabeth and I hoofing it to Retiro Station to find Puma Bus, buying a one-way ticket to Potosi, packing, departing. Somewhere around the ¨departing¨phase things went pear-shaped rather quickly. First, the bus was two hours late, and what´s more, it wasn´t even the aforementioned Puma Bus. In total, I took three separate buses to reach Potosi, and like its stealthy namesake there was not a Puma in sight. Nor was there food on board. Nor a toilet. ¨¿donde hay el baño?¨ queried the Argentines, Bolivianos, and Peruanos alike. ¨no hay¨came the passionless response.

27 hours and the entire box of crackers later we arrived at la frontera. The visa was fairly straightforward -- wait, pay, walk. The only problem was that our connecting bus to Potosi had apparently left, but lucky for us, the bus station attendant had a friend who had a ¨hostal¨ and for all of 6 Bolivianos we could have the pleasure of sleeping on mattresses on a wooden floor on the very chilly third floor. I opted to spend 9B more and sleep in a chilly fifth floor walk-up that was under construction, crumbling staircase and all.


Un ¨control" de policia -- donde no hay nada


This tunnel passage captures some of the essence of la ruta

There´s not much going on in Villazon, just a few dusty streets, a lot of women hawking delicious fry-bread (similar to what I ate on the Havasupai Reservation many years ago) and piping hot cups of Nescafe. I swear, if I return to yanquilandia with a taste for Nescafe, something will have gone horribly wrong! What Villazon does seem to be doing right is constructing its municipal play spaces and murals. City planners take note:


Seriously, kids, how rad is this slide!


Dig the critter on the right!

Day 2, Bus 3: further down the spiral, OR, la vida en una dia del mochilero

I awoke, refreshed and innocent, not unlike a child. With wide eyes I took in the surroundings. Pueblitos and cabritos blended into one. By noon, I had acquired the surliness typical of all adolescents. ¡Todo es malo! Maybe it that my legs no longer had feeling and my snot had taken on the reddish hues of the country-side. As day moved into night, a new-found appreciation of my circumstances took over my senses. The Buddhist in me appreciated all that purified water in a sullied land had to teach me. The advanced hours found me free of my metal vessel, walking unfamiliar streets, dodging errant drivers and the rogue-like gaze of los perros libres. At long last, a fine dinner was had and accommodation secured. I fell asleep an old man, but slept like a baby.*

One more tiny roadside pueblo

As true as the day is long, goats do roam

Day 3: Potosi

At 4,060 meters (13,320 feet), Potosi is hoppin´! I just happened to arrive at during the annual ¨Senorita Potosi¨event, basically a beauty contest which occasions a lot of marching band action. I was woken up to an all-girl drum group called ¨La Banda Senoritas¨ whose attire featured knee-high boots that would have made the Rockettes proud. Unfortunately, my camera was not handy.

High and dry

Minus the platanos, this could be Ladakh

Potosi has a grim history. Its relative wealth stems from centuries of mining and exploitation of African and Indigenous slave labor. The mines are still operational and have become a bit of an ¨extreme¨ tourism destination, which is creepy on all sorts of levels.

One artist´s take on the mines

Enlarge the photo and check out el diablo above the tunnel´s entrance

I passed on la aventura subteraneo and took a brief tour of the Inglesia de San Lorenzo. I´m no Catholic but I appreciate a good cathedral, and this one delivered.

If the Church is still selling indulgences I could use one for forgetting to take off my visor

My guide explained that both Bruce Willis and Sylvester Stallone had walked the same steps to the top of the bell tower, then, inexplicably, he broke into Barry Manilow´s ¨Copacabana.¨ ¿Porque no?

In any case, the church´s interior is gorgeous. The floors are Canadian pine, the windows from Italy, and the massive organ hails from Germany. When given the chance, why not go big?

By noon I was tuckered out and needed to move on to Sucre. For 30 Bolivianos--roughly US $4.25 -- I hired a taxi and while sandwiched between two plump Bolivianas, headed downhill. But that story will require another post.

*The experience was entirely mine but the analogy was borrowed from ¨Life in the Day of a Mountaineer¨ by Peter Croft.