The Bolivian mindset

I have to ramble a bit about Bolivia.

There's a lot of negative prejudice surrounding Bolivian attitudes, they´re often considered stupid or lazy, and there´s clearly a lot of euro-centricism and racism in that.

But, unfortunately, there are a few things about the way Bolivians get things done that are just... barmy.

I read a book about a woman who went across S America by horse back, and after she left Bolivia for Brazil, she was amazed of the initiative the Brazilleros took.... anticipating that horses need water and trivial things like that.

And I have to agree, Bolivians don't seem to pre-empt anything.

I heard the following examples secondhand:

At the airport, a small plane had been badly loaded, and instead of being on its three wheels, it was leaning back, balanced on its tail and the rear wheels.
Apparently they tried various things, like getting vehicles at the rear to try and push up the tail etc, and eventually they got some soldiers to enter the plane, and apparently they just kept putting soldiers on until it was balanced right, and the tail lifted from the floor, like the end of the see-saw, and it came down onto the front wheel with a thump. Sounds like a crazy theme park ride or a game on the crystal maze, but no, this is just running a Bolivian airport.



The Worlds Most Dangerous Road is in bolivia, and has been replaced by a new one, although only a few years in and it's showing signs of failing under the traffic, with cracks in the tarmac etc. It's feared the old WMDR will soon be the primary route again.

The WMDR itself used to have people who worked as human traffic lights, with green and red paddles they used to indicate to their colleagues further up and down the road if there was oncoming traffic. Perhaps the government might have paid some people to do that, you might imagine?

You might argue that maybe they just couldn't afford to have a hundred or more guys it would take to do the job. Although I would counter that , as there are few traffic light in La Paz but on occasion there are a group of 20 or so men dressed as Zebras acting like schools crossing guards (Zebra crossing, gettit???), having people on the WMDR wouldn't be that expensive. They wouldn't even have to pay for Zebra suits!!!

One or two of these things wouldn't be that big a deal, but you can see the pattern forming, right?

Do something, and if it all goes tits up, deal with it then...

There are even more examples: this is the only country Ive been too where, when u take a bus, you put your bags in the hold before they check your ticket.
So of course, loads of gringos have their bags buried deep in the hold before they realise that this isnt their bus. This is part of the reason that every bus in Bolivia is at least 30 mins late to leave.

The boat we took across the lake that didn't have enough gas, and everyone was singing hymns to keep the bugger going. And we'd all just paid, so surely there was money to be had to top-up the gas before setting off across lake Titicaca?

And finally, on my trip to the middle of freaking nowhere in the Bolivian salt flats, they cooked lunch in the desert.... and where going to just leave the rubbish in the middle of the road. There's no bin men out here, and this is your country - your national park in-fact - do you not want to keep it clean?


I wish I could have said that all the prejudices about Bolivia are unfounded, but as you can see, they definitely seem to have quite a "unique" mindset.

Uncertain Transitions III: Is that my bus on that boat?

Its common knowledge that traveling around Bolivia is a lot more ardouos than most of South America, with the Lonely Plant making ominous comments like "In Bolivia, getting there is half the fun!"

So my trip to Lake Titicaca from La Paz, with two other Brits, wasn`t helped by Russel, who signed us up to the first van that had a guy screaming "Copacabana", when for 50p more we could of had had a luxury tourist bus.

Instead, we had a tiny minivan with zero leg room. We then had to wait for it to fill up, all the time being taunted by the shining tourist bus at the other end of the road.

When we finally left, Russel simply necked a few valiums to make it all bearable, leaving me and Sarah to suffer for his impulse buy. He didnt even notice when we swerved massively, and for the briefest second I saw a cow flash past within inches of the window.

We stopped at the shore of the lake, and we assumed it was a toilet break. I asked the driver where the toilet was, and he pointed.

Me and Sarah returned from the toilets a few minutes later.

"Wheres the bus gone?"

Erm...

We spotted Russel, coming back from a food stall.

"Wheres the bus gone Russel?"

"Its on a boat on the lake."

Ha ha, very funny. But of course, he`s not kidding: we can see our mini van on a rickety boat, our rucksacks visible on the roof, half way across this bay of the lake.

"Im so glad youre here," says Russel, in a spaced out Valium way: "I knew you were pissed off about the mini van, but I didnt think you`d leave me!"

Theres a second or two of stupid giggling, the kind you get from being completely dumbfounded by a turn of events.

We ask another Gringo:

"Have you got any idea why our bus is half way across the lake?"

Of course, he`s a fucking American, replying "so you missed the speech in Spanish about the lake, huh?"

No you twat, my Spanish is good enough to pick out words like "lake", or "other side."

And when I asked him where the toilet was, he just pointed, he didn't say "by the time you get back, your rucksacks will be halfway across the water."

So, we rushed to get our own passenger boat across to the other side. Its a strange feeling, waiting for your boat to fill up as you watch your bags sailing off into the distance.

When we got to the other side, our driver was waiting for us. Everyone on the bus seemed annoyed that we had delayed them. Well, If someone had made clear that THE BUS WAS GOING ON A BOAT ACROSS THE BAY there wouldnt have been a problem.

You migh think that given this experience, the return journey would hold no surprises.

Well, welcome to Bolivia!

Our return bus was overbooked.

Backpackers generally consider themselves to be in the same boat (which would prove even more apt in a few hours), but its amazing how the atmosphere changes when you realise not everyone is gonna fit on the bus.

And when we're finally on and there are still people arguing outside, and they keep coming back on the bus reading out surnames they can't pronounce, of people who apparently have tickets for a different bus, you`re dreading the word "Casey."

And the poor buggers who are evicted have to run around like crazy, finding their bus, asking it not to leave, getting their rucksacks off our bus, etc.

When we finally made it to the bay crossing, which was at least expalined this time, although the fact that the bus was a lot bigger made the sight of it lopsided on a wooden barge halfway across the bay worrying none the less.

The boat looked in a lot better condition than last time, and it was mainly fellow gringos, with a final contingent of Bolivians, including a man who must have been completely blind and barely able to walk, the way he was led to his seat.

The driver, who had about three teeth in his mouth, had to pull the cord for the engine about 30 times to get it started.Some might have taken this as a hint that more gas wss required, but not this dude. We were finally under way, and inevitably, the boat stops half way across.

A few of the Gringo Reggaton afficonados on the boat, including msyelf, couldnt help but break into the chorus of Gasolina: "Te gusta de Gasolina, Da me mas Gasolina (She likes Gasoline, Give me more Gasoline)", but no one can remember any of the rest of the words, so that ends pretty quick.

A woman helps the driver, working the gas tube to keep the dribble of fuel going into the engine, and the locals have their own song: a hymn, sung to the tune of something a bit like "she`ll be coming round the mountain when she comes"

Temos Gracias mi Senor mi Senor... (*3) (We give thanks, my Lord, my Lord)

Temos Gracias... Christo Salvador....

Everyone is clapping along, all the gringos in their gortex or local alpaca hats, and the locals themselves all wrapped up in their blanket like things, singing with reverence from mouths with only a few teeth left. The driver himself is getting into it as well.

Obviously, all that praying did the job, and we got to the other side without the engine dying again.

We all clapped and cheered each other like it was some mutual effort that saved us, and some of the local women gave thanks to the local saint.

So yes, on balance, I think Id agree that travel around Bolivia is more taxing than other countries.

Deja Vu: Santa Cruz, Bolivia...

So, I flew into Bolivia, Santa Cruz.
And in case youre wondering, I chickened out of the 30 hour bus journey followe dby 15 hours on the train, charmingly called the `train of death.`



The first thing I thought about Bolivia , after hearing my first Gracias, was `thank fuck to be in a Spanish speaking country!` My Spanish is far from great, but compared to my Portugese Im absolutely fluent. No longer is every comment and quesiton a complete mystery, now theyre just mildly confusing, jigsaw puzzles with odd pieces, waiting to be moulded into some kind of sense.


The second thing I noticed is that, for being the most mountainous country in South America, so far its incredibly flat. Gone are the consistent cotours of Brazil and Colombia that I had become accustomed to. I already miss it, and dont know hwo Im going to deal with the monotony of the English landscape again.

Nexst, I notice the people: much more indiginous looking than Brazil or Colombia, broader builds, flatter faces and noses. I havent stuck out this badly since Guatemala.

Theres more and more reasons for deja vu: after the westernization of Brazil and Colombia, decrepid buses and dirty streets had almost faded from my memory.

Another welcome return is cheaper prices: from nine quid for a bed in a 10 person dorm in Rio, Im paying four quid for a five person dorm here, and Santa Cruz is supposedly one of the pricisest places in Bolivia.
And although Id been told food in Bolivia wasnt great, and food in Brazil was awesome, there was no western breakfast. As good as it was, man cannot live on steak alone: sometimes bacon and eggs is a necessity. Of course, with that comes familar poor service.... Id forgotten that breakfast could sometimes take up half your day. And finally, good old reggaeton.... I dont particularly like reggaton, but after so many months of it incentral america, I find it strangely comforting.

Our hostel also has the Spanish style courtyard with plants and hammocks, and a pair of Tucans. At first I thought it was kinda cruel to have their wings clipped, but they seem happy enough, hopping around from floor to trees. They also like to give u a cheeky nibble, especially on your toes: when you open the door to the shower and that big beak is pointing at you, you do feel a bit vulnerable.

And when theyre hosing down the floors, they tel the birds to get out of the way: their nickname seems to be pookey tookey. ¨Hey, Pookey tookey... Pookey tookey!!!¨

Rio Baby!!! That's right, Rio!!!!

Well, Rio isn't overestimated!
This city absolutely rocks. The sun shines, the beaches are clean and plentiful, the mountains and hills are visible form everywhere, the Cariocas (people of Rio) patient and friendly to gringos, and they speak a lot more English than people from Sau Paulo...

Easy examples:

• I was on a bus the other day... and it stopped for a couple of mins so the driver and conductor could get ice cream.
  
• There's a guy who sells pineapples on Ipanema beach, who has half a pineapple on his head, and tries to creep up on gringos and scream 'Abacaxi!!!!!´ (pineapple) to scare the crap out of them.
  

I dont know how much of that kind of thing is Brazil in general, but Im sure that living in a chill, pretty, sunny city by the sea helps anyones temperament.

Rio is full of landmarks and things to do...

• Ive taken a cable car to sugar loaf moluntain... in the mist... kind of creepy, like being on a cable car STRAIGHT TO HELL!!!!



• I went to see the Christ statue too, which has great views, and everyone posing for a pic with their arms outstretched, it must be one of the most cliched photos ever.
  
• I went to a modern art gallery, with loads of funky stuff you could really interact with, touch, smell, taste, wear... made the Tate modern look stuffy in comparison.


• I took a creaking, antique tram, which goes over a narrow aquaduct, then onto tiny old cobblestone streets... its the kind of death trap that you could never have in the UK.... the RMT would crap themselves at the sight of it.



• Favela tours, where you wonder around the Favelas with a guide (think city of God, but not so hard core).

I have had a fair amount of beach time, however. Copacobana... Ipanema.... every beach here has a song about it, that you can´t get out of your head, like a sound track for each beach.
There´s patterns in the paving stones on the sea front promenades, so you can literally tell where you are just by looking at the ground. It seems to rub off too, a lot of people wear black and white, consciously or subconciously matching themselves to the streets of the city.

Food is great, my favourite being kilograma restaurants, where you get your plate weighed and pay by the gram. Meat is amazing and dead cheap, apart from bacon (I cant figure out how they havent clocked how amazing bacon is).

The hostels are good, with hot tubs and bars... no wonder Ive been here so long!

Its killing my bank balance tho, I need to leave.... but theres always the lure of one more day, especially when the next step of my journey, to Bolivia, is like 40 hrs travel.

Another day on the beach for me then...

Salvador

Salvador, Brazil

Ahh, finally, something like the postcard Brazil.
Im rolling with two Belgians, they give me joke with their accents (`Germansh, eh? Fucking Bashtards!`).

The streets of Salvador are cobblestoned, and the buildings old and in pastel colours (apparently before street numbers, the colour of your hose was the way to address the mail to you).
We arrived on a Tuesday, a big party night here, and this old towen gives great acoustics for the drums and Frohha (?) rhythms echoing from every square.

Theres a lot of touts and salesmen, but mostly good natured: When trying to get rid of one of them, he said `maybe tomorrow?` Yeah, maybe tomorrow. ´Maybe never!!!!´ he said, then laughed as we walked away.
The most obscure thing someone tried to sell was a kind of marionette set piece, two caricature figures in black and white like something from a nightmare before Xmas, one bent over and the other with a big pole, and when you jiggle the wires the pole smacks against the arse of the bent over one over and over... puppet soddomy! Tim Burton would be loving this!

In the main square there's live music, people who want to sell you things, including themselves.
One short prossie we saw grinding someone earlier waltzes over, and asks for a little bit of one of the belgian guys drinks (pocito?)... she then snatches his caiprinhia, and tries to down the whole thing, but almost chokes, and starts coughing andd spluttering. Im sure theres a lesson to be learned there. She recovers quickly tho, and is onto me for my drink. I think Im being dead clever by holding it too high for her to reach: she then pinches my nipples hard. Im in a tug of war over a can of beer. I win!!!!! I feel like such a man.

She goes to the other Belgian, and starts trying to seduce him: she moans in cliched porno ways, then finds herself so funny she cant stop laughing at herself, then moans again, then cracks up, etc.
Normally I have no time for hasslers, especially prostitutes that arent even pretty (Im in Brazil, WTF???) but she gave me jokes, maybe she was on some decent drugs, but she had a fun energy about her, and I didnt mind her craziness.

When the live music started to wind down, we made ourt down hill toward the hostel.
Everyone says this town is kinda dangerous, the north east of Brazil has massive unemployment, and theres loads of tourists in Salvador, ripe for the taking.
Theres a big sign at the hostel saying to be very careful after midnight, especially when its rainging, cos the police go indoors and youre a walking target. You cna kind of feel it in the air too, the midnight thing is so true that its like some kind of fucked up CInderella story, after 12 the magical town turns into muggers alley.

Despite all this, one of the Beligian guys tries to buy some weed from a sketchy random.
After he tries to sell us tobacco, and the strets feel empty and people are eying us up as ambulatory wallets, we leave.

Well there you go. Music, beauty, party atmosphere, crazy prostitues, a mild sense of danger... that's what you expect from Brazil, no?

Medellin... in general

Medellin... well, for a start, the Colombians pronounce the ll as a j, not as a y, so it sounds like Medejin....



Medellin, home of Pable Escobar's coke trade, and of the current right-wing, hard line, FARK busting president.
Escobar's mark is still left on this city, he was defacto governer, he built houses and owned clubs, and died in a hail of gunfire running across the roofs of houses here... there's a picture by a famous Medellin artist, who's statues decorate the plazas, of Escobar falling, larger than life, like King Kong, from the roofs of Medellin... You can visit his grave on the outskirts of town, and of course all the 18 year olds take C up there and do a line of his grave.... (that particular tourist attraction doesn't do it for me).

Medellin is nestled in a valley surrounded by green mountains, and at night the lights from the towns on the slopes of the mountains sparkle like stars.



Medellin, home of some incredibly friendly people: I've had people chat to me in plazas, help me out of nowhere using pay phones, practice their English with me, let me practice my Spanglish...

Medellin, with a great metro train that becomes an L train in the centre, offering great views from the clean, quiet and safe train lines. Part of it is a cable car, so for a dollar you can travel up the mountain for a great view of the city, from one of the poorer burbs.

Medellin, with one of the nicest Spanish accents I've heard, with elongated As that sound like notes being sung a little flat, claro = claaaro, facile = faaacile....

Medellin, a place I could definitely live.

*sighs*

Nightlife in Medellin...

Mangos had been recommended to me as follows: "Hot Colombian Woman are literally falling out of the sky, from poles. "

I had already been to a club the night before with drinks all inclusive, serving blow your head off rums all night (and if you ask for coke they look at you like you're a pussy).
The bar was a circle in the middle of the club, with dancers on a platform in the center of it. There were so many glow sticks about that when the lights went out the other side of the bar looked like a massive light saber fight. So if Mangos was better than that, well....

Oh, and the other thing I had heard: "And there are dwarves, dwarf wrestling, dwarf salsa." Dwarves, you say? Well say no more!


I rolled 15 strong with the hostel posse, Israelis (so many Israelis in Latin America it's not even funnu), ozzies, Brits, and some Dutchies ('the girlsh here are shuper shexy').

The place is half saloon, half Latin cantina... wood and faded posters, mirrors, wagon wheels, cow heads... As we walked in there were Salsa partners on the stage, one of which is a dwarf couple.

Wandering around randomly are people in fancy dress; cowboys and cowgirls, all with crazy silicon: Medellin is full of cosmetic surgery, apparently wives are bought boob jobs for wedding presents, some girls even as a 16th birthday coming of age thing.
Besides the cowboys, there was a man with only one arm, in a hospital gown dragging his drip with him; and gypsy women with piercings and cigars; half doctors / half S and M gimps... it was all quite surreal.

The blokes toilet had sinks that were like a water trough, and the taps were actually replica horses heads, with the water flowing from the mouth, so as you walk in it looks like several horses are drinking from the trough.

The next stage show was even more crazy: first to slide down the pole was a Tarzan guy, miming his Tarzan call as it was played on the speakers, followed by a Jane character, then a guy dressed as a lion, then a zebra man, his skin painted in white and black stripes, with a headpiece of white fur from his crown to the bottom of his back.
Finally, a dwarf in a monkey suit shoots down the pole, and starts cartwheeling and rolling around the stage. I can almost hear Hunter S in my mind at this point.

Strobes again, as the strange jungle tecno with a Tarzan call as the main sample is syncronished to the lights and the dancing of this Tarzan and Jane family.

And whenever a dwarf walks by you have an irresistible urge to grab it, put it in a bag, take it to the hostel and make it dance for you.
Shows like this continue throughout the night, with sweaty, toned, and surgically enhanced Colombians dancing in various themed getups in strobe lighting, from break dancers to salsa to meringue to reggaeton grinding.

Outside in the street there's of course the obligatory guy with a tray of mints, sweets and cigarettes for sale, one at a time if you like, and a woman with a stall selling spicy sausage blobs you eat with a tooothpick and try to balance ketchup on without dropping it on yourself.

I left about 4AM, tried my best drunk conversational Spanglish with the taxi driver, and at the hostel found myself instantly taking over for someone in a Poker game, and winning 4000 pesos, about a quid.
That victory rounded of my night nicely, and I went to bed, my head spinning.