This is how it should have gone:
- Hi, I have a reservation for the lakeside suite in the name of Glenn Cumming.
- Ah yes, here it is!
- A room on cue.
- A room that’s new.
- A room for two?
- A room with a view.
This is how it actually went:
- Hi, I have a reservation for the lakeside suite in the name of Glenn Cumming.
- I’m sorry we’re full tonight.
- That’s odd as I have a reservation.
- You can’t have. Was it by e-mail? Show me.
One e-mail located, suite requested, confirmation received.
- Oh, I appear to have made a mistake with the dates.
- So we haven’t got a room because you made a mistake? That’s not very good is it?
[Heckles rising, barely there chilled out traveller persona receding]
- No. Let me check - I think we may have one room for tonight.
And thus we were shown to a room for two entirely available for the evening...
- I have this room.
- Ok, looks fine.
- Or I have the suite for $18 a night.
- Oooh toughy, let me think, this room or the suite I originally requested and that you told us less than 5 minutes ago wasn’t available (this dose of sarcasm may have been silent). The suite please.
- Ok, but you can only have the room for tonight.
- Ok.
Later that night...
- Can we book our room for tomorrow night as well please?
- Yep, no problem.
What more of Copacabana?
Sitting on the shores of Lake Titicaca Copacabana is the Italian Riviera Bolivian style - and thus nothing like the Italian Riviera.
Consisting of ramshackle streets, various accommodations, obligatory stalls selling Alpaca and Llama products and a surplus of seafood restaurants the whole town is overlooked by a rather grand Cathedral with an altar bathed in pure gold - unlike those who beg at its door.
A place to rest, relax and, if one so feels the need, sojourn to the Isla Del Sun (Sun Island) where myth has it that the Inca race was begun Copacabana rewards a laid back approach a place to be rather than do. Watching vistas of the lake itself, the waning sun (not quite a sunset due to an awkwardly placed hill) and a violent electrical storm proved a more than satisfactory way to pass an hour or two...
And that is perhaps that for Copacabana. Last stop in Bolivia - time to say goodbye to a country which surprised, shocked but rarely overcharged and hello to Peru. Back again and this time I was determined to see Machu Picchu.
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
Monday, 4 August 2008
La Paz, Bolivia
And thus to La Paz - Bolivia’s administrative capital and at over 3600m altitude the highest capital in the world.
Time to say hello and goodbye as I bid one friend a fond farewell and welcomed another to South America.
Firstly goodbye to my Paunch - a constant companion for far too long the little bump that has long defined (or more appropriately - not defined) my lower stomach fell victim to the many nightmarish reports I had heard of Bolivian cuisine which had for the past week reduced by intake of food to barely sustenance levels.
Secondly hello to Joseph T Loader who would be joining me on this little adventure for three weeks. Time to prepare for the rollercoaster ride that spending time with Joey ever is. A man, whose mood, in lighter moments, soars higher than Icarus ever dreamed and, at darker times, plumbs the deepest, darkest recesses of Neptune’s basement.
Where was I? Ah yes, La Paz - literally.
Home for just under a week I chose to stay in La Paz´s premium party hostel. Ever the moth to the flame I seem drawn to staying in such places - the feeling of maybe missing out gets me every time and every time I regret my decision. For ´party´ in hostel parlance invariably, perhaps inevitably, means extremely inebriated English and Irish of various ages (all below 21 though) being rather loud and really rather tiresome. I am getting old and if this is what it is to be young I am quite happy to be doing so. Youth is wasted on the young and the young waste their youth.
Enough of that.
Bolivia seems always to be the South American black sheep, the bad apple and the place in which to be that little bit more wary. Even contemplation of time spent over the Bolivian border sends shivers down the spine of residents of other countries - ¨here is fine, but in Bolivia you need to be careful...¨. Add to that the simmering political unrest, rumours of a potential civil war and Foreign Office advice to avoid large gatherings and it was becoming obvious that time spent in La Paz, the capital and thus the centre of all things (obviously...), was going to be anything but dull...
And thus it proved but in a far more pleasant way than my words may have suggested to be expected...
Joey came determined to confound stereotypes - speaking Spanish and spending with gay abandon he maintained a shop to purchase ratio that only just dipped below 1:1. Life is cash intensive but not in Bolivia it would appear.
Having completed our tour of the tourist shops and the witches market (Llama foetuses - do I get a discount for buying two?) we decided - against the advice of several people including the taxi driver we were paying to take us there - to make the journey to El Alto market. After initially poor impressions the little we saw yielded a veritable cornucopia of bargains. It was to our regret that time and baggage allowances did not permit further forays into the bowels of this 5sq km beast. Next time I travel to South America I will take only the clothes I stand up in and begin my journey here.
Contrary to the impression given thus far La Paz wasn’t all shop, shop, shop and when not redistributing wealth in a manner of which Robin Hood would have been proud we indulged in a spot of eating and also, very occasionally and never to excess, drinking. On the food and drink I must admit to having no complaints and found the fayre to be of a really rather decent order - however the choice of a feisty Llama curry the night before our death defying bike ride was perhaps not the most sensible timing...
Thus to the bike ride - down the World’s Most Dangerous Road (!). Booked against Joey’s wishes and truth be told without him knowing too much about it the road down which we were to ride was given the rather dramatic moniker of World’s Most Dangerous by the International Development Bank based on the cold hard facts of the most fatal accidents per mile.
After 10 years the ride has become quite the box to tick on the Bolivian travellers (as in people travelling in Bolivia as opposed to people from Bolivia who travel - though they may like it too) itinerary. And who am I to be original?
Beginning early one morning we togged up in all manner of protective clothing ready to face the worst the road could throw at us - apart from the cliffs for which it is famous though - stretching to a willy worrying 400m vertical drop should disaster occur helmet and goggles somehow seemed slightly inadequate...
After seemingly having fixed some early teething troubles with Joey’s steed it was off ever downwards (apart from a slight up that is) - round hairpin, across stream but always accompanied by the drop that has claimed too many victims.
And thus things proceeded in due course - a natural order being established as those imbued with too much testosterone, too little regard for life or a point to prove tried vainly to keep up with yours truly (I jest). Indeed all was passing rather smoothly until word reached the leading pack that there had been a crash in the peleton...
- Who was it?
- Not sure.
- Was it serious?
- Don’t know.
And thus, fearing the worst, I began counting the riders. 6 of us here - three more - 7, 8, 9, no Joey - 2 more coming down the hill - 10, 11, still no Joey - one more - 12 from a total of 13 and no Joey. Oh dear.
- Hello Mrs Loader - its Glenn
- Oh hello, how are you? How’s Joey?
- Erm...
I jest once more. Some 5 minutes later and with only the mildest onset of panic Joey rounded the bend bleeding profusely from a rather nasty cut to the arm but otherwise seemingly OK - I feared the presence of head injuries would be difficult to discern. Still in good spirits Joey blamed mechanical failure and I shall not argue with that conclusion here.
And so after 5 hours of downhill descent (is there any other kind?) we reached the bottom. Tired and is some cases bleeding but overall smiling we rewarded ourselves in blo*dy bloke fashion with a couple of cold ones...death defying - or rather riding a bike down a hill without the need to pedal and avoiding falling off the edge - is thirsty business indeed...
Having survived the bike ride the only remaining challenge was getting back to our hostel (oh joy - Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all...YEE HAH). Blocked at every turn by closed streets we found ourselves in the middle of a University procession watched by a large and boisterous crowd (remember the bit about avoiding large gatherings). Our fatigue turned to aggression as the party atmosphere (not a hostel type party) seemed to mock us and people seemed to prefer to dance and laugh rather than ease our journey - inconsiderate indeed. Becoming an inconvenience of quite monumental proportions - I think by this point we had lost some perspective - we eventually rounded the woman relieving herself in the street, hopped over the woman kicking her prone husband and barged through the procession itself no doubt setting the gringo cause in Bolivia back several years...
Leaving La Paz I reflected on time well spent and a more than promising start to Joey and Glenn’s little adventure. I looked forward to the next 2 and a bit weeks - spending time with a mate - at times just the two of us - catching up, chewing the fat, no-one else, keeping it simple - and then at other times being social, meeting new people, not judging, getting merrily inebriated...
Time to say hello and goodbye as I bid one friend a fond farewell and welcomed another to South America.
Firstly goodbye to my Paunch - a constant companion for far too long the little bump that has long defined (or more appropriately - not defined) my lower stomach fell victim to the many nightmarish reports I had heard of Bolivian cuisine which had for the past week reduced by intake of food to barely sustenance levels.
Secondly hello to Joseph T Loader who would be joining me on this little adventure for three weeks. Time to prepare for the rollercoaster ride that spending time with Joey ever is. A man, whose mood, in lighter moments, soars higher than Icarus ever dreamed and, at darker times, plumbs the deepest, darkest recesses of Neptune’s basement.
Where was I? Ah yes, La Paz - literally.
Home for just under a week I chose to stay in La Paz´s premium party hostel. Ever the moth to the flame I seem drawn to staying in such places - the feeling of maybe missing out gets me every time and every time I regret my decision. For ´party´ in hostel parlance invariably, perhaps inevitably, means extremely inebriated English and Irish of various ages (all below 21 though) being rather loud and really rather tiresome. I am getting old and if this is what it is to be young I am quite happy to be doing so. Youth is wasted on the young and the young waste their youth.
Enough of that.
Bolivia seems always to be the South American black sheep, the bad apple and the place in which to be that little bit more wary. Even contemplation of time spent over the Bolivian border sends shivers down the spine of residents of other countries - ¨here is fine, but in Bolivia you need to be careful...¨. Add to that the simmering political unrest, rumours of a potential civil war and Foreign Office advice to avoid large gatherings and it was becoming obvious that time spent in La Paz, the capital and thus the centre of all things (obviously...), was going to be anything but dull...
And thus it proved but in a far more pleasant way than my words may have suggested to be expected...
Joey came determined to confound stereotypes - speaking Spanish and spending with gay abandon he maintained a shop to purchase ratio that only just dipped below 1:1. Life is cash intensive but not in Bolivia it would appear.
Having completed our tour of the tourist shops and the witches market (Llama foetuses - do I get a discount for buying two?) we decided - against the advice of several people including the taxi driver we were paying to take us there - to make the journey to El Alto market. After initially poor impressions the little we saw yielded a veritable cornucopia of bargains. It was to our regret that time and baggage allowances did not permit further forays into the bowels of this 5sq km beast. Next time I travel to South America I will take only the clothes I stand up in and begin my journey here.
Contrary to the impression given thus far La Paz wasn’t all shop, shop, shop and when not redistributing wealth in a manner of which Robin Hood would have been proud we indulged in a spot of eating and also, very occasionally and never to excess, drinking. On the food and drink I must admit to having no complaints and found the fayre to be of a really rather decent order - however the choice of a feisty Llama curry the night before our death defying bike ride was perhaps not the most sensible timing...
Thus to the bike ride - down the World’s Most Dangerous Road (!). Booked against Joey’s wishes and truth be told without him knowing too much about it the road down which we were to ride was given the rather dramatic moniker of World’s Most Dangerous by the International Development Bank based on the cold hard facts of the most fatal accidents per mile.
After 10 years the ride has become quite the box to tick on the Bolivian travellers (as in people travelling in Bolivia as opposed to people from Bolivia who travel - though they may like it too) itinerary. And who am I to be original?
Beginning early one morning we togged up in all manner of protective clothing ready to face the worst the road could throw at us - apart from the cliffs for which it is famous though - stretching to a willy worrying 400m vertical drop should disaster occur helmet and goggles somehow seemed slightly inadequate...
After seemingly having fixed some early teething troubles with Joey’s steed it was off ever downwards (apart from a slight up that is) - round hairpin, across stream but always accompanied by the drop that has claimed too many victims.
And thus things proceeded in due course - a natural order being established as those imbued with too much testosterone, too little regard for life or a point to prove tried vainly to keep up with yours truly (I jest). Indeed all was passing rather smoothly until word reached the leading pack that there had been a crash in the peleton...
- Who was it?
- Not sure.
- Was it serious?
- Don’t know.
And thus, fearing the worst, I began counting the riders. 6 of us here - three more - 7, 8, 9, no Joey - 2 more coming down the hill - 10, 11, still no Joey - one more - 12 from a total of 13 and no Joey. Oh dear.
- Hello Mrs Loader - its Glenn
- Oh hello, how are you? How’s Joey?
- Erm...
I jest once more. Some 5 minutes later and with only the mildest onset of panic Joey rounded the bend bleeding profusely from a rather nasty cut to the arm but otherwise seemingly OK - I feared the presence of head injuries would be difficult to discern. Still in good spirits Joey blamed mechanical failure and I shall not argue with that conclusion here.
And so after 5 hours of downhill descent (is there any other kind?) we reached the bottom. Tired and is some cases bleeding but overall smiling we rewarded ourselves in blo*dy bloke fashion with a couple of cold ones...death defying - or rather riding a bike down a hill without the need to pedal and avoiding falling off the edge - is thirsty business indeed...
Having survived the bike ride the only remaining challenge was getting back to our hostel (oh joy - Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all...YEE HAH). Blocked at every turn by closed streets we found ourselves in the middle of a University procession watched by a large and boisterous crowd (remember the bit about avoiding large gatherings). Our fatigue turned to aggression as the party atmosphere (not a hostel type party) seemed to mock us and people seemed to prefer to dance and laugh rather than ease our journey - inconsiderate indeed. Becoming an inconvenience of quite monumental proportions - I think by this point we had lost some perspective - we eventually rounded the woman relieving herself in the street, hopped over the woman kicking her prone husband and barged through the procession itself no doubt setting the gringo cause in Bolivia back several years...
Leaving La Paz I reflected on time well spent and a more than promising start to Joey and Glenn’s little adventure. I looked forward to the next 2 and a bit weeks - spending time with a mate - at times just the two of us - catching up, chewing the fat, no-one else, keeping it simple - and then at other times being social, meeting new people, not judging, getting merrily inebriated...
Sunday, 3 August 2008
Potosi, Bolivia
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
¨Watch your rucksack!¨
¨Sorry?¨
The lady from the bus company with which I was travelling sounded her verbal warning and departed.
¨Be careful with your rucksack!¨
¨Excuse me?¨
The French girl offered her advice and disappeared into the melee.
After checking that I was not displaying an obvious disregard for my belongings or that I wasn’t receiving unwanted attention from someone of obvious ill repute I boarded my bus. Following the warnings and the unavoidable need to put my large rucksack (mainly dirty clothes following life on the slat flats) on the roof I held my little rucksack (everything of value) with a pincer like grip.
Taking my assigned seat next to a man of indeterminate age (¨Its so hard to tell with these indigenous types¨ - Charles) I eyed him wearily as a potential bag thief but it became clear that apart from desiring to sit in both his own and my seat and undertaking vigorous preparations for the World Coca leaf chewing championships he would pose no threat. Thus I sat and hoped quietly to myself that the next six hours (my first on a Bolivian bus) would pass incident free.
Alas such a hope was futile at best and despite repeatedly telling myself that - this is travelling (!) - the next 14 hours (14 being 8 more than 6 for the mathematically challenged) of my life would not prove to be the most pleasant I have ever spent.
Although a ´direct´service to Potosi the driver seemed more than happy to pick up and drop off passengers and their baggage (invariably brought onboard and occasionally including livestock) here, there and everywhere. As the bus filled to record breaking proportions - 57 people, 6 chickens, 5 children and 2 llamas - the grip upon my rucksack became ever tighter and the space which I occupied ever smaller.
Devoid of music - I feared the iPod as such an obvious example of the accoutrements of Western wealth seemed entirely inappropriate - and unable to read due to the pervasive, oppressive and truth be told slightly ominous darkness I sat surrounded on all sides but with only my thoughts for company.
And thus we proceeded and, given the age of the bus, the first couple of hours passed without great event, disturbing noise or pilfered rucksack. Bolivia is nothing if not interesting though and as our five minute convenience break stretched to half an hour and then to an hour including a tyre change and some miscellaneous banging emanating from the engine it became apparent the first hours were but false dawn and that our forecast 6 hour journey time was passing from fact through fiction and on into fantasy.
Trying as best she could the bus in which I started my journey soldiered on for another couple of hours - the periods spent travelling becoming ever shorter as the periods spent idle increased until at 4am (we were due to arrive in Potosi at 1am) the driver and bus gave up.
Therefore the next three, seemingly interminable, hours of my life would be spent in single digit degree temperature, 4500m on top of a mountain pass in remote (1 bus a day) Bolivia. Fortunately another bus had been arranged to pick us up - unfortunately the bus driver neglected to mention this fact as we waited quite unsure what was going on.
With no feeling in hands or feet (physically rather than emotionally) I stumbled to the new bus and refrained from gazing out of the window for the remainder of the journey as the driver - rather pointlessly to my mind - tried to claw back some lost time. An admirable intention perhaps but not when the corners being taken at some significant spend are precariously precipitous to say the least.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
Descending from the bus relieved if a little tired I was given a rather harsh welcome as a violent wind accompanied by an assortment of dust, grit and urban detritus struck me straight across the face. First impressions of Potosi led me to think the bus journey was a pleasant experience.
With grit in my eyes I extracted the ever present guidebook from the closely watched rucksack and determined to walk to my lodgings (something to do with economising). Relying only on a notion of the right direction (the map being too small to show where I then stood) I set off rebuffing a barrage of taxi offers. Having walked for 10 minutes and having had no luck in matching a street name to my map I asked for directions in a shop - with perfect timing and not a smirk in sight the man pointed me straight back from whence I came. Thus a further 10 minutes later I stood back in the whirling dust of the bus station. After two further abortive attempts at finding the town centre I relented - sod the expense - hailed a taxi and 5 minutes and roughly 20p later found myself where I should have been an hour earlier.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
This time quite literally for if hell on Earth truly exists the mines of Potosi could surely stake their claim to that title.
Dispensing with the health and safety briefing in typically brisk Bolivian style and dressed in full mining get up myself and 23 others (Is anyone here travelling alone? That would be only me with my hand up then...) felt ready for the adventure to begin.
To set nerves jangling and before even setting foot within the mine we had witnessed our guide smoking a stick of dynamite, had each sipped 98% proof Alcohol Potable (a likely claim) and had an oxide of unidentified origin smeared on our faces. Bolivian tourism.
Bearing gifts of dynamite and fizzy drinks and chewing vociferously on coca leaves (they are supposed to help with the altitude) it was time for the real adventure to begin.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
The entrance to Satan’s salon, Beelzebub’s boudoir is marked by no special fanfare; St Peters evil twin does not greet or note your passing. Rather one passes through a seemingly innocuous hole where the darkness from within seems to fight with the sunshine for territory advancing further than it should. Through this portal man and metal have passed for many years creating riches and trouble in equal measure. For there is only one way in and if you are lucky, if it is not yet your time, one way out.
One step followed another, left after right. As the tunnel grew darker and ever smaller forward progress relied on senses other than sight. The heat slowly growing from unpleasant to unbearable as hands groped along wall and ceiling and the heart and head in unison told that turning back really was the thing to do. Claustrophobia, nausea and asthma stalked my every step. 20 metres in.
Mined for over 500 years the once rich silver lodes that attracted first the Incas, then the Spanish and even at times the English have long been excavated and thus now co-operatives of miners (only men for women in the mine are seen as bad luck) toil in medieval conditions for ever decreasing returns but spurred on - against the toxic fumes which leave not a lung untouched - lives in the mine can be long but retirement rarely is - by the hope for finding that rich seam, that last silver lode.
Generations of Potosi man has followed generations of Potosi man into the mines. Undeterred by the archaic conditions the mine remains resolutely and almost entirely manual and after one short burst of shovelling (more for the photo than to truly help - though I tried) I considered my mining career ended shortly after it had begun.
Beginning at a height of 4000m the mines are a physical, mental and emotional challenge. Lacking sufficient oxygen, enduring +35 degree heat and scrambling on hands and knees (and at times fully prone on stomach when the tunnels became quite disturbingly small) it is a tourist experience quite like any other.
Passing numerous other groups of foolhardy or just plain foolish souls there seemed to be people crawling throughout the bowels of the mine - left, right, up, down and save for the workers OUT OUT.
Part of an ever decreasing group as several of our member decided enough was enough we survived (for that is how it felt) and the tour complete our pace quickened with the promise of seeing the sky once more. Quite literally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel was worth the price of admission alone - to kill two clichés with one stone.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
Our day was not finished yet though and after regaining collective breaths it was time to take a crash course in assembling a fully functioning bang for your buck dynamite complete.
Once finished by my fair hand the complete was lit, held for the obligatory panic stricken photo (given no mention of safety records I was rather glad to hold it first with the fuse a healthy length) and then transported at high speed, deposited on the mountain side where it exploded (after a not excessively long time) with some vigour roughly above where we had been about half an hour ago - and yes where the miners still were...
Potosi - I have been to hell and back...
¨Watch your rucksack!¨
¨Sorry?¨
The lady from the bus company with which I was travelling sounded her verbal warning and departed.
¨Be careful with your rucksack!¨
¨Excuse me?¨
The French girl offered her advice and disappeared into the melee.
After checking that I was not displaying an obvious disregard for my belongings or that I wasn’t receiving unwanted attention from someone of obvious ill repute I boarded my bus. Following the warnings and the unavoidable need to put my large rucksack (mainly dirty clothes following life on the slat flats) on the roof I held my little rucksack (everything of value) with a pincer like grip.
Taking my assigned seat next to a man of indeterminate age (¨Its so hard to tell with these indigenous types¨ - Charles) I eyed him wearily as a potential bag thief but it became clear that apart from desiring to sit in both his own and my seat and undertaking vigorous preparations for the World Coca leaf chewing championships he would pose no threat. Thus I sat and hoped quietly to myself that the next six hours (my first on a Bolivian bus) would pass incident free.
Alas such a hope was futile at best and despite repeatedly telling myself that - this is travelling (!) - the next 14 hours (14 being 8 more than 6 for the mathematically challenged) of my life would not prove to be the most pleasant I have ever spent.
Although a ´direct´service to Potosi the driver seemed more than happy to pick up and drop off passengers and their baggage (invariably brought onboard and occasionally including livestock) here, there and everywhere. As the bus filled to record breaking proportions - 57 people, 6 chickens, 5 children and 2 llamas - the grip upon my rucksack became ever tighter and the space which I occupied ever smaller.
Devoid of music - I feared the iPod as such an obvious example of the accoutrements of Western wealth seemed entirely inappropriate - and unable to read due to the pervasive, oppressive and truth be told slightly ominous darkness I sat surrounded on all sides but with only my thoughts for company.
And thus we proceeded and, given the age of the bus, the first couple of hours passed without great event, disturbing noise or pilfered rucksack. Bolivia is nothing if not interesting though and as our five minute convenience break stretched to half an hour and then to an hour including a tyre change and some miscellaneous banging emanating from the engine it became apparent the first hours were but false dawn and that our forecast 6 hour journey time was passing from fact through fiction and on into fantasy.
Trying as best she could the bus in which I started my journey soldiered on for another couple of hours - the periods spent travelling becoming ever shorter as the periods spent idle increased until at 4am (we were due to arrive in Potosi at 1am) the driver and bus gave up.
Therefore the next three, seemingly interminable, hours of my life would be spent in single digit degree temperature, 4500m on top of a mountain pass in remote (1 bus a day) Bolivia. Fortunately another bus had been arranged to pick us up - unfortunately the bus driver neglected to mention this fact as we waited quite unsure what was going on.
With no feeling in hands or feet (physically rather than emotionally) I stumbled to the new bus and refrained from gazing out of the window for the remainder of the journey as the driver - rather pointlessly to my mind - tried to claw back some lost time. An admirable intention perhaps but not when the corners being taken at some significant spend are precariously precipitous to say the least.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
Descending from the bus relieved if a little tired I was given a rather harsh welcome as a violent wind accompanied by an assortment of dust, grit and urban detritus struck me straight across the face. First impressions of Potosi led me to think the bus journey was a pleasant experience.
With grit in my eyes I extracted the ever present guidebook from the closely watched rucksack and determined to walk to my lodgings (something to do with economising). Relying only on a notion of the right direction (the map being too small to show where I then stood) I set off rebuffing a barrage of taxi offers. Having walked for 10 minutes and having had no luck in matching a street name to my map I asked for directions in a shop - with perfect timing and not a smirk in sight the man pointed me straight back from whence I came. Thus a further 10 minutes later I stood back in the whirling dust of the bus station. After two further abortive attempts at finding the town centre I relented - sod the expense - hailed a taxi and 5 minutes and roughly 20p later found myself where I should have been an hour earlier.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
This time quite literally for if hell on Earth truly exists the mines of Potosi could surely stake their claim to that title.
Dispensing with the health and safety briefing in typically brisk Bolivian style and dressed in full mining get up myself and 23 others (Is anyone here travelling alone? That would be only me with my hand up then...) felt ready for the adventure to begin.
To set nerves jangling and before even setting foot within the mine we had witnessed our guide smoking a stick of dynamite, had each sipped 98% proof Alcohol Potable (a likely claim) and had an oxide of unidentified origin smeared on our faces. Bolivian tourism.
Bearing gifts of dynamite and fizzy drinks and chewing vociferously on coca leaves (they are supposed to help with the altitude) it was time for the real adventure to begin.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
The entrance to Satan’s salon, Beelzebub’s boudoir is marked by no special fanfare; St Peters evil twin does not greet or note your passing. Rather one passes through a seemingly innocuous hole where the darkness from within seems to fight with the sunshine for territory advancing further than it should. Through this portal man and metal have passed for many years creating riches and trouble in equal measure. For there is only one way in and if you are lucky, if it is not yet your time, one way out.
One step followed another, left after right. As the tunnel grew darker and ever smaller forward progress relied on senses other than sight. The heat slowly growing from unpleasant to unbearable as hands groped along wall and ceiling and the heart and head in unison told that turning back really was the thing to do. Claustrophobia, nausea and asthma stalked my every step. 20 metres in.
Mined for over 500 years the once rich silver lodes that attracted first the Incas, then the Spanish and even at times the English have long been excavated and thus now co-operatives of miners (only men for women in the mine are seen as bad luck) toil in medieval conditions for ever decreasing returns but spurred on - against the toxic fumes which leave not a lung untouched - lives in the mine can be long but retirement rarely is - by the hope for finding that rich seam, that last silver lode.
Generations of Potosi man has followed generations of Potosi man into the mines. Undeterred by the archaic conditions the mine remains resolutely and almost entirely manual and after one short burst of shovelling (more for the photo than to truly help - though I tried) I considered my mining career ended shortly after it had begun.
Beginning at a height of 4000m the mines are a physical, mental and emotional challenge. Lacking sufficient oxygen, enduring +35 degree heat and scrambling on hands and knees (and at times fully prone on stomach when the tunnels became quite disturbingly small) it is a tourist experience quite like any other.
Passing numerous other groups of foolhardy or just plain foolish souls there seemed to be people crawling throughout the bowels of the mine - left, right, up, down and save for the workers OUT OUT.
Part of an ever decreasing group as several of our member decided enough was enough we survived (for that is how it felt) and the tour complete our pace quickened with the promise of seeing the sky once more. Quite literally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel was worth the price of admission alone - to kill two clichés with one stone.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
Our day was not finished yet though and after regaining collective breaths it was time to take a crash course in assembling a fully functioning bang for your buck dynamite complete.
Once finished by my fair hand the complete was lit, held for the obligatory panic stricken photo (given no mention of safety records I was rather glad to hold it first with the fuse a healthy length) and then transported at high speed, deposited on the mountain side where it exploded (after a not excessively long time) with some vigour roughly above where we had been about half an hour ago - and yes where the miners still were...
Potosi - I have been to hell and back...
Saturday, 2 August 2008
Uyuni, Bolivia
For today I travelled to the end of the world - and when I reached the end I found no-one to meet me there...
And thus at 2am I stepped off the train from Villazon into the freezing night time desolation of Uyuni. After a brief tour of the town and several unsuccessful efforts to secure accommodation eventually I checked into the Hotel Avenida - one should perhaps not expect much for the princely sum of 2 pounds a night but a room warmer than the outside temperature would perhaps be a start...bedding down under 5 blankets, a quilt and my sleeping bag I shivered myself off to a fitful sleep...
Uyuni from a travellers perspective exists almost entirely, nope that’s wrong, exists entirely for the purpose of serving trips to the nearby Salar De Uyuni (salt flats). Apart from arranging tours and buying woollen goods there is little else to do when in Uyuni - indeed even a day spent in the town leads one to contemplative thoughts of what went wrong and quite how to move on...the perpetual time warp of groundhog day seeming a cornucopia of possibility by comparison.
With these thoughts in mind I awoke early and after defrosting in the shower which only maintained heat when trickling with the force of post marathon spit I ventured into town determined to do as the guidebook suggested and shop around for a good deal on a good tour with a reputable company. Armed with a list of questions regarding such essentials as menu, programme of activities and safety records I was prepared to negotiate, haggle, play one against the other and not say yes until I was sure the best deal had been secured. And thus I returned to the hotel 5 minutes later having agreed to do the tour with the first lady that approached me - she seemed nice and life’s too short for such things I think.
Perhaps Uyuni's gift is the gift of time for in the day between the arranging of the tour and the tour itself minutes passed as though they were hours and hours crawled along as though they had forgotten the need to move on. However with an almost imperceptible inevitability day became night and as the sun waned the temperature began to fall slowly to its quite disturbingly low levels. Had Kelvin been to Uyuni I feel sure he would have set the absolute zero benchmark just that little bit lower than -273.
After having a farewell dinner with my two rather moody Irish travelling companions (4 weeks of travelling - 7 combined weeks of food poisoning) I settled down to sleep fully clothed and draped in a selection of the best the local Alpacas could muster - sleep was again fitful but Mr Frost and Mr Bite were at least kept at bay...
And thus to the salt flats - travelling invariably by Toyota Land Cruiser the streets of Uyuni throng in the morning with tour after tour as numerous travellers sate their need for another tick in the travelling box and head out onto the salt flats for 1, 2, 3 or 4 day trips around a quite surprising landscape. Joined by Elias our driver (husband and father rather reassuringly) our tour group consisted of little old me, two Irish peoples (fortunately not of the ill moody variety), two Brazilians (a couple - sometimes I just can’t catch a break) and a Frenchman (nothing to say about that).
And quite a merry little band we formed as we set out upon one of geography and geology’s weirdest and most wonderful creations - the Salar de Uyuni. Thrust skywards by a monumental shift in tectonic plates the Salar was once a sea like any other but is now a blinding expanse of salt all the water having long since evaporated under the intense gaze of the sun. Towns line the shore seemingly remnants of another age when people came to bathe, fish and play at the waters edge. Where the Salar touches the land the last lapping of the final waves of a once liquid and very much moving expanse can be seen frozen in salt forever more.
After a full day on the salt flats and the (almost) obligatory perspective shots having been obtained we spent the next two days in and around the lakes, geysers and other geographical wonders of the region. Stopping briefly at villages here and there and taking time for yet more photos time outside of the 4x4 was welcomed by all - after a while and one flat iPod we all needed a break from Elias´ rather limited musical repertoire - the same song 7 times in a row is a bit much for anyone. One village sprung a surprising highlight when one young Bolivian chap - in the midst of a game of football, and on hearing that one of our member was French - waved his hand in front of his nose - certain stereotypes are very reassuring.
And thus after three relatively incident free days (apart from the Frenchman who performed a back flip and landed on his face) we returned to Uyuni still shivering from the hot springs in which we bathed at 7am on our last morning. The translation of Aguas Thermales is not in doubt but the validity of the claim, considering the proximity of vast ice patches to where we swam, perhaps is...
Deciding that another night in Uyuni was too much even for an occasional laconic traveller such as myself I booked a ticket for Potosi and having not been back in town even for two hours I found myself sat on a rickety old bus heading into the night and into the mouth of hell...
And thus at 2am I stepped off the train from Villazon into the freezing night time desolation of Uyuni. After a brief tour of the town and several unsuccessful efforts to secure accommodation eventually I checked into the Hotel Avenida - one should perhaps not expect much for the princely sum of 2 pounds a night but a room warmer than the outside temperature would perhaps be a start...bedding down under 5 blankets, a quilt and my sleeping bag I shivered myself off to a fitful sleep...
Uyuni from a travellers perspective exists almost entirely, nope that’s wrong, exists entirely for the purpose of serving trips to the nearby Salar De Uyuni (salt flats). Apart from arranging tours and buying woollen goods there is little else to do when in Uyuni - indeed even a day spent in the town leads one to contemplative thoughts of what went wrong and quite how to move on...the perpetual time warp of groundhog day seeming a cornucopia of possibility by comparison.
With these thoughts in mind I awoke early and after defrosting in the shower which only maintained heat when trickling with the force of post marathon spit I ventured into town determined to do as the guidebook suggested and shop around for a good deal on a good tour with a reputable company. Armed with a list of questions regarding such essentials as menu, programme of activities and safety records I was prepared to negotiate, haggle, play one against the other and not say yes until I was sure the best deal had been secured. And thus I returned to the hotel 5 minutes later having agreed to do the tour with the first lady that approached me - she seemed nice and life’s too short for such things I think.
Perhaps Uyuni's gift is the gift of time for in the day between the arranging of the tour and the tour itself minutes passed as though they were hours and hours crawled along as though they had forgotten the need to move on. However with an almost imperceptible inevitability day became night and as the sun waned the temperature began to fall slowly to its quite disturbingly low levels. Had Kelvin been to Uyuni I feel sure he would have set the absolute zero benchmark just that little bit lower than -273.
After having a farewell dinner with my two rather moody Irish travelling companions (4 weeks of travelling - 7 combined weeks of food poisoning) I settled down to sleep fully clothed and draped in a selection of the best the local Alpacas could muster - sleep was again fitful but Mr Frost and Mr Bite were at least kept at bay...
And thus to the salt flats - travelling invariably by Toyota Land Cruiser the streets of Uyuni throng in the morning with tour after tour as numerous travellers sate their need for another tick in the travelling box and head out onto the salt flats for 1, 2, 3 or 4 day trips around a quite surprising landscape. Joined by Elias our driver (husband and father rather reassuringly) our tour group consisted of little old me, two Irish peoples (fortunately not of the ill moody variety), two Brazilians (a couple - sometimes I just can’t catch a break) and a Frenchman (nothing to say about that).
And quite a merry little band we formed as we set out upon one of geography and geology’s weirdest and most wonderful creations - the Salar de Uyuni. Thrust skywards by a monumental shift in tectonic plates the Salar was once a sea like any other but is now a blinding expanse of salt all the water having long since evaporated under the intense gaze of the sun. Towns line the shore seemingly remnants of another age when people came to bathe, fish and play at the waters edge. Where the Salar touches the land the last lapping of the final waves of a once liquid and very much moving expanse can be seen frozen in salt forever more.
After a full day on the salt flats and the (almost) obligatory perspective shots having been obtained we spent the next two days in and around the lakes, geysers and other geographical wonders of the region. Stopping briefly at villages here and there and taking time for yet more photos time outside of the 4x4 was welcomed by all - after a while and one flat iPod we all needed a break from Elias´ rather limited musical repertoire - the same song 7 times in a row is a bit much for anyone. One village sprung a surprising highlight when one young Bolivian chap - in the midst of a game of football, and on hearing that one of our member was French - waved his hand in front of his nose - certain stereotypes are very reassuring.
And thus after three relatively incident free days (apart from the Frenchman who performed a back flip and landed on his face) we returned to Uyuni still shivering from the hot springs in which we bathed at 7am on our last morning. The translation of Aguas Thermales is not in doubt but the validity of the claim, considering the proximity of vast ice patches to where we swam, perhaps is...
Deciding that another night in Uyuni was too much even for an occasional laconic traveller such as myself I booked a ticket for Potosi and having not been back in town even for two hours I found myself sat on a rickety old bus heading into the night and into the mouth of hell...
Friday, 1 August 2008
Villazon, Bolivia
And thus to Bolivia where life gets cheaper in more ways than one...
Not too much to say about Villazon as, at best, it is a town to pass through. After avoiding the myriad of contraband goods on sale and having warmed myself in the midday sun (along with a couple of mad dogs - good idea for a song?) I boarded the train to Uyuni with a random assemblage of other travellers met along the way.
Train travel boasts a unique fillip over that of travelling by bus - the buffet car. After finishing a rather ominous looking dinner it was time to try and blank out the bumpy track, aging rolling stock and precipitous drops which escorted our rather slow progress. In the absence of sleeping pills, horse tranquilisers or stories beginning - When I was in... - it was time to decamp to the buffet car and proceed to get quite merrily drunk. The hangover with which I awoke at 2am the next morning in the minus temperatures of Uyuni was truly a thing to cherish...
And thus to the end of the world...
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