The tourist trail is a little gimmicky for my tastes. I´m not especially excited about the salt flats, the death road, the Inca trail, etc., etc., but I´m assured that all these things are quite incredible and that I have to see them all.
The three day salt flats tour runs out of Uyuni. The bus to Uyuni goes through more epic landscape. The rock and desert varies in colour from red, orange, yellow, purple and pale green. As the bus snakes around wide turns, I can see the luxuriously paved road stretching out into the distance. I badly miss my Baja XR.
Thursday, 31 May 2012
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
TNT
Potosi´s gimmick is the silver mines, and I´m on the tour with a Swede and Australian and a handful of Italians. I´ve heard good things about the tour, but also that it´s a death trap.
I´m told it´s traditional to buy gifts for the miners, and so, we´re first taken to the miners market. In addition to their penchant for coca leaves and fizzy drinks, we´re offered sticks of dynamite. A stick and it´s associated parts, fuse, etc, sets me back a one pound fifty. The possibilities for this stick and I are endless.
The town is dominated by a red pyramid mountain. It´s essentially the pyramid mine of Mars from thinking man´s action blockbuster, Total Recall. After being kitted out in little more that wellington boots and a layer to keep the dust off, we start our tour at the refinery. We´re very explicitly instructed not to touch anything. There centrepiece of the operation is a spinning mill that´s crushing the mined rocks. I don´t need to be told not to touch this two metre long, two metre diameter crushing machine. The rest of the operation is rustic at best. The walls are lined with egg cartons. Apparatus includes scoops made of baked bean cans and rows of rotating water wheels made from Coke and Sprite bottle caps that pick up cap fulls of arsenic and deposit it on the rocks to start chemical reactions.
Above the entrance of the mine is a battered child´s doll covered in llama blood. Had I been here last week, I´d have seen the annual slaughtering of llamas and offering of blood to the god of the mine. We descend into a labyrinth questionably reenforced tunnels which occasionally narrow to only four or five feet in diameter, forcing me to use a crouched walk with hands on knees. When our head torches are off, there´s the rare sight, or lack thereof, of true pitch black. The air is thin and laced with dust. The miners constant exposure to this means their life expectancy is little more than fifty, when they´ll most likely die of Silicosis.
Somewhere in the depths sits Tio, the god to which the llama blood is offered. Unfortunately, the miners artistic abilities, in so far as the construction of this statue of god, is about as sophisticated as their tunnel contruction.
After an hour or two of rambling around in the dark, I´m pretty glad to be outside and breathing what passes for air up here.
I´m told it´s traditional to buy gifts for the miners, and so, we´re first taken to the miners market. In addition to their penchant for coca leaves and fizzy drinks, we´re offered sticks of dynamite. A stick and it´s associated parts, fuse, etc, sets me back a one pound fifty. The possibilities for this stick and I are endless.
The town is dominated by a red pyramid mountain. It´s essentially the pyramid mine of Mars from thinking man´s action blockbuster, Total Recall. After being kitted out in little more that wellington boots and a layer to keep the dust off, we start our tour at the refinery. We´re very explicitly instructed not to touch anything. There centrepiece of the operation is a spinning mill that´s crushing the mined rocks. I don´t need to be told not to touch this two metre long, two metre diameter crushing machine. The rest of the operation is rustic at best. The walls are lined with egg cartons. Apparatus includes scoops made of baked bean cans and rows of rotating water wheels made from Coke and Sprite bottle caps that pick up cap fulls of arsenic and deposit it on the rocks to start chemical reactions.
Above the entrance of the mine is a battered child´s doll covered in llama blood. Had I been here last week, I´d have seen the annual slaughtering of llamas and offering of blood to the god of the mine. We descend into a labyrinth questionably reenforced tunnels which occasionally narrow to only four or five feet in diameter, forcing me to use a crouched walk with hands on knees. When our head torches are off, there´s the rare sight, or lack thereof, of true pitch black. The air is thin and laced with dust. The miners constant exposure to this means their life expectancy is little more than fifty, when they´ll most likely die of Silicosis.
Somewhere in the depths sits Tio, the god to which the llama blood is offered. Unfortunately, the miners artistic abilities, in so far as the construction of this statue of god, is about as sophisticated as their tunnel contruction.
After an hour or two of rambling around in the dark, I´m pretty glad to be outside and breathing what passes for air up here.
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
Comfortably Numb
I´ve woken up in the hostel´s TV room with memories of a long night of bad karaoke. With so many tourists around, I´m back off the wagon. It´s about time for me to get out of Sucre, but there´s something about the town that makes it very easy to stay, even to do nothing but hang out. The other tourists agree, but no one can quite place what it is that makes it so comfortable here.
I´m in the market with a couple of kids from the hostel. There´s a row of wrinkled old women sat behind raised kiosks, covered in fruit. They make a hell of a smoothie, even if it is only UHT milk. Still in the market, another old woman serves me lunch of soup of chicken and potatos followed by a schniztel type dish. The total cost of the smoothie and lunch is a little under GBP1.20.
Logic prevails and I´m in a shared taxi, bound for Potosi. The two and a half hour GBP3.00 journey goes through the baron mountain terrain. I wish I was on the bike now. Potosi is the highest town in the world, apparently. It´s another pretty little town centre surrounded by questionably built outskirts.
After last night, dinner with a few new tourists is enough excitement.
I´m in the market with a couple of kids from the hostel. There´s a row of wrinkled old women sat behind raised kiosks, covered in fruit. They make a hell of a smoothie, even if it is only UHT milk. Still in the market, another old woman serves me lunch of soup of chicken and potatos followed by a schniztel type dish. The total cost of the smoothie and lunch is a little under GBP1.20.
Logic prevails and I´m in a shared taxi, bound for Potosi. The two and a half hour GBP3.00 journey goes through the baron mountain terrain. I wish I was on the bike now. Potosi is the highest town in the world, apparently. It´s another pretty little town centre surrounded by questionably built outskirts.
After last night, dinner with a few new tourists is enough excitement.
Monday, 28 May 2012
We Fly So Close
I´m back on the Honda and following my Bolivian biker pals Henry and Rodrigo through Sucre´s outskirts. There´s some measure of Bolivian traffic that I shouldn´t be wholly comfortable with, especially in this awesome-cool, but vision limiting motocross helmet, but I wholly trust my guides not to lead me into a fatality - at least not so early in the tour.
Despite looking the part, in my helmet and body armour, I find my expertise on the bike still has some holes. As I´m climbing up a dirt road switchback, possibly up a gear too far, I feel the back of the bike slipping. My quick change of direction to compensate, wasn´t well calculated, as it seems I´m now not going to round the corner. I suppose that if I pump the throttle, the Honda will pull me through. I was wrong. My foot goes to the dirt to try and save myself, but it´s too late for that. Henry returns from ahead to find me picking myself and the bike out of the dirt, then making several hashed attempts at a hill-start. But, I´m still pretty happy with myself, and ready to charge on. The roads vary between rubble, grooved dirt and a surprisingly smooth stone cobbled road, and as I push up into fourth and fifth gears I soon feel the bike and I have become one.
An hour of riding later, I miss a turn behind Rodrigo, then stall, then try to restart the bike whilst turning in a small space. The delicacy of my clutch control is another hole. The bond between man and bike becomes closer as I topple again, and the bike and I start to fuse together by way of the hot exhaust and my synthetic trousers. I´m able to peel myself off the exhaust without any pain. I don´t think I´ve done myself any damage and I remain happy with myself, so we´re back on the road without delay for recovery or treatment.
On a cloudless day, the scenery of the mountains from three-thousand-eight-hundred feet above sea level, and a thousand feet up from Sucre centre, caps the ride. I´ve also got a free t-shirt, a holed and singed trouser leg, and a presumably permanent burn.
I´m pretty keen to get a bike on my return, but it´s almost certainly a terrible deadly-bad idea. On the other hand, Oli and I could join The Grave Diggers, start the London Chapter, and prowl around town looking dangerous. I like that idea a lot.
Despite looking the part, in my helmet and body armour, I find my expertise on the bike still has some holes. As I´m climbing up a dirt road switchback, possibly up a gear too far, I feel the back of the bike slipping. My quick change of direction to compensate, wasn´t well calculated, as it seems I´m now not going to round the corner. I suppose that if I pump the throttle, the Honda will pull me through. I was wrong. My foot goes to the dirt to try and save myself, but it´s too late for that. Henry returns from ahead to find me picking myself and the bike out of the dirt, then making several hashed attempts at a hill-start. But, I´m still pretty happy with myself, and ready to charge on. The roads vary between rubble, grooved dirt and a surprisingly smooth stone cobbled road, and as I push up into fourth and fifth gears I soon feel the bike and I have become one.
An hour of riding later, I miss a turn behind Rodrigo, then stall, then try to restart the bike whilst turning in a small space. The delicacy of my clutch control is another hole. The bond between man and bike becomes closer as I topple again, and the bike and I start to fuse together by way of the hot exhaust and my synthetic trousers. I´m able to peel myself off the exhaust without any pain. I don´t think I´ve done myself any damage and I remain happy with myself, so we´re back on the road without delay for recovery or treatment.
On a cloudless day, the scenery of the mountains from three-thousand-eight-hundred feet above sea level, and a thousand feet up from Sucre centre, caps the ride. I´ve also got a free t-shirt, a holed and singed trouser leg, and a presumably permanent burn.
I´m pretty keen to get a bike on my return, but it´s almost certainly a terrible deadly-bad idea. On the other hand, Oli and I could join The Grave Diggers, start the London Chapter, and prowl around town looking dangerous. I like that idea a lot.
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Hell Bent for Leather
I´m someway out of town on an old, dry football pitch, and on the Honda Baja XR. Despite finishing at three AM this morning, I´m in good shape and anything residual drunkenness is sobered by two-hundred-and-fifty cubic centimetres of cylinder capacity. Urghf, urghf, urghf. Two hours later, without a fall, I´m moving through the gears and roaring up and down a dirt road.
I´d checked out of my hostel this morning, but I now I feel a definite urge to break off another piece of this action. Motorbikes are cool. If not for this helmet, I could probably smoke and ride. I´m checking back in.
Saturday, 26 May 2012
Gimme Some Money
I neglected to plan anything today, so I´m scanning the advert board at the hostel looking for some action. There´s plenty to do around Sucre, and it´s a very comfortable place to be based. There´s some climbing around here, but I´ve already go ideas about some heavy duty trekking and climbing in La Paz. Amongst other activities, there´s horse riding, Spanish school, and offroading. We have a winner.
The offroad experience offers quad bikes and motorbikes. I don´t think I can fall off and kill myself on four wheels, and ever since I saw the beards, bikes and leather at the biggest motorcycle festival in Europe last year, this was inevitable.
Unfortuntley, owing to a combintion of my card being max´ed out for uses over a five day period, and my inability to convey my problem and the solution to a Bolivian bank teller, the remainder of the day is on foot.
The day isn´t without excitment. Since I arrived in town, I´ve been pretty excited about posters for the Saturday night show. I like KISS and I like Bolivia. I´m going to a Bolivian Tribute to KISS. The excitement is tempered by the probability that the Bolivians will struggle to imitate one of the greatest shows in the history of rocking. I like to think Millsy would be all over this, like a bad suit, with me, but it´s more likely he´d make some derrogatarry comment about budget imitation and immediately buy a thousand Dollar KISS VIP ticket just to emphasise his point. He´d probably also immediately try to sell me that same ticket for eleven hundred Dollars.
Two Englishmen, Joe & myself, and seventy Bolivians are not in the least bit disappointed by second derivative Bolivian KISS. In full costume, overweight Bolivian Paul Stanley is hitting the high notes, Bolivian Gene is blowing fire & spitting blood and Bolivian Peter Criss is giving roses to the girls during the instrumental in Beth. Bolivian Ace´s guitar is shooting smoke, which is Bolivian awesome, until our eyes are stinging with the toxic smoke. Brilliant. Just brilliant. I love it.
The offroad experience offers quad bikes and motorbikes. I don´t think I can fall off and kill myself on four wheels, and ever since I saw the beards, bikes and leather at the biggest motorcycle festival in Europe last year, this was inevitable.
Unfortuntley, owing to a combintion of my card being max´ed out for uses over a five day period, and my inability to convey my problem and the solution to a Bolivian bank teller, the remainder of the day is on foot.
The day isn´t without excitment. Since I arrived in town, I´ve been pretty excited about posters for the Saturday night show. I like KISS and I like Bolivia. I´m going to a Bolivian Tribute to KISS. The excitement is tempered by the probability that the Bolivians will struggle to imitate one of the greatest shows in the history of rocking. I like to think Millsy would be all over this, like a bad suit, with me, but it´s more likely he´d make some derrogatarry comment about budget imitation and immediately buy a thousand Dollar KISS VIP ticket just to emphasise his point. He´d probably also immediately try to sell me that same ticket for eleven hundred Dollars.
Two Englishmen, Joe & myself, and seventy Bolivians are not in the least bit disappointed by second derivative Bolivian KISS. In full costume, overweight Bolivian Paul Stanley is hitting the high notes, Bolivian Gene is blowing fire & spitting blood and Bolivian Peter Criss is giving roses to the girls during the instrumental in Beth. Bolivian Ace´s guitar is shooting smoke, which is Bolivian awesome, until our eyes are stinging with the toxic smoke. Brilliant. Just brilliant. I love it.
Friday, 25 May 2012
Walk of Life
I´ve reserved today to see how hard the Bolivians celebrate Independence Day. I understand the President has flown in and the parades that began yesterday will be in full swing today.
After some heavy blogging, I´m half way up a tree watching the procession of marching Bolivians. It´s not a strictly regimented or visually impressive affair, more of a walk than a march. The march features school kids of all ages, the ambulance service, firemen, and so on. Dotted around the square are the well-armed Bolivian police force Delta. The Bolvian President is happy in open view from the balcony of some regal building. Personally, I would prefer to hear a reading of Bill Pullman´s powerful and inspiring Independence Day speech.
I find a few of the girls and guys from my hostel, and the girls are quite insistent that we hit the Chocolate Festival. I agree on the basis, that we´ll follow it with the Chorizo festival. In addition to a full size chocolate horse, we find a crowd around a two by one metre pool of chocolate on the floor. As I´m trying to understand the significance of the pool, and Bolivan man comes running in from behind a pillar, stage right, and runs across the top of the pool. The chocolate holds his weight as he sets his foot down on it and pushes off again. I want to walk on chocolate. Much of the Bolivian crowd and tourists question how this is possible and don´t dare to try. Fred Dinenage, Gail Porter, Gareth and I, on the other hand, understand the liquid and solidifying properties of corn flour. With a fair run up, I come off the otherside, with only a little chocolate up on my right shoe.
After a long disorganised queue, I´m bothered to discover that the Bolivians have a lot to learn from Uruguay in the field of sausage making. In addition to the sausages, I spend a little while with the excited crowd as they enjoy the synchronicity of outfits and dance moves of a badly cheesy Bolivian boyband. The stage of this festival is the Recoleta, one of the highest points in the lumpy city, already twenty-seven-thousand feet above sea level. There´s a far and wide view of the cities clay roofs and the baron mountains beyond.
At nine o´clock, I´m still waiting for one of these Bolivians to pull an explosive city-wide party out of hat. Nothing ever comes.
After some heavy blogging, I´m half way up a tree watching the procession of marching Bolivians. It´s not a strictly regimented or visually impressive affair, more of a walk than a march. The march features school kids of all ages, the ambulance service, firemen, and so on. Dotted around the square are the well-armed Bolivian police force Delta. The Bolvian President is happy in open view from the balcony of some regal building. Personally, I would prefer to hear a reading of Bill Pullman´s powerful and inspiring Independence Day speech.
I find a few of the girls and guys from my hostel, and the girls are quite insistent that we hit the Chocolate Festival. I agree on the basis, that we´ll follow it with the Chorizo festival. In addition to a full size chocolate horse, we find a crowd around a two by one metre pool of chocolate on the floor. As I´m trying to understand the significance of the pool, and Bolivan man comes running in from behind a pillar, stage right, and runs across the top of the pool. The chocolate holds his weight as he sets his foot down on it and pushes off again. I want to walk on chocolate. Much of the Bolivian crowd and tourists question how this is possible and don´t dare to try. Fred Dinenage, Gail Porter, Gareth and I, on the other hand, understand the liquid and solidifying properties of corn flour. With a fair run up, I come off the otherside, with only a little chocolate up on my right shoe.
After a long disorganised queue, I´m bothered to discover that the Bolivians have a lot to learn from Uruguay in the field of sausage making. In addition to the sausages, I spend a little while with the excited crowd as they enjoy the synchronicity of outfits and dance moves of a badly cheesy Bolivian boyband. The stage of this festival is the Recoleta, one of the highest points in the lumpy city, already twenty-seven-thousand feet above sea level. There´s a far and wide view of the cities clay roofs and the baron mountains beyond.
At nine o´clock, I´m still waiting for one of these Bolivians to pull an explosive city-wide party out of hat. Nothing ever comes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)