Chill'n in Chile and Believ'n in Bolivia

Chile and Bolivia

In this episode, Ryan…
-Bleeds profusely at a Santiago nightclub
-Practices Spanish with a Chilean “Chica”
-Detonates dynamite on a Bolivian hill-side
-Watches Bolivian women wrestle

Chill’n in Chile

Ah Chile (pronounced more like “chili” than “chyle,” although Chileans love it when you call it the latter).

My first exposure to Chile occurred on a late night bus from Argentina, crossing over the Andes. Against better judgment and advice, I booked the cheapest ticket to Santiago, which meant I was on a fairly cramped bus next to a gentleman who enjoyed spreading his legs and behind another fellow who loved nothing more than shoving his chair back and forth to its most unnatural position repeatedly through the night. Needless to say, I didn’t get a lot of sleep and ended up with cramped legs and crippling back pain (for practically the whole time I was in Santiago, I basically waddled like a hunched over old man, it was pathetic). (Argentinean buses had been great up until this point).

Poorer still was the situation faced by the Canadian couple in the aisle across from me who relied on me to be their Spanish translator every time the bus attendant whipped off a flurry of incoherent though no doubt important message in what I would soon discover as the “unique” Chilean dialect of Spanish. Of course, it didn’t help that my Spanish was, how do you say, muy pathetico.

At any rate, we somehow managed to find ourselves in a border checkpoint and went through three lines and copious amounts of tiny little easy to lose or throw out papers, but are ultimately necessary for you to leave the country. Like every other South American border crossing so far, the drug dogs made their appearance (it is South America, after all), and I was startled to see this big bushy sheepdog appear of out the air beside me like some sort of floating fortress of fur (no eyes, no tail, no legs, just fur and a nose hovering across the ground). At any rate, he left me be and wandered over to his puppy apprentice, whom I assume was a new drug dog or at least a very creative tactic on the part of the Chilean drug police. Basically, this dog, a friendly golden Labrador retriever in a police dog vest, carried a tennis ball in his mouth and would wander around the station pawing random people wanting them to play fetch with him. Of course, the people upon seeing a drug dog pawing them, would immediately start to freak out and get nervous, not knowing he just wanted to play fetch. A neat trick, really.

I arrived in Santiago on Easter Weekend, and with Chile being one of the most conservative catholic countries in the world, it should not have surprised me that nothing was open. Instead of the bustling neighbourhoods of Buenos Aires, Chile’s capital seemed downright… quiet. Sure there was a downtown (pretty much just for big businesses) and a very attractive multi-terraced park, but I was disappointed to find site after site closed for the holiday (not that I blame them really). Coinciding my Chilean visit with Easter brought some other interesting events, I was stopped in my tracks on the way back to my hostel by an impromptu passion parade (at least I think it was a passion parade) and the old church in the main plaza was actually filled with a congregation (a rarity in many of the old churches I’ve visited so far).

The hostel itself was probably the highlight of my time in Santiago. A converted 19th century mansion with a pool, pool-side bar, and copious courtyards and large spaces, Lonely Planet described it as “The Real World filled with backpackers,” a description not far off the mark. It was based in the Barrio Brasil neighbourhood, which while a little rough at night, had a wide assortment of quirky restaurants ranging from Italian-Sushi to Domino’s Pizza, and my favourite, a Norse-themed establishment literally dubbed “El Vikingo.” (Yes, that was its actual name) This place was great, the décor was literally ripped off of Lord of the Rings or something, and most of the menu items were slabs of meat you ripped apart with your teeth. Oddly enough, they also made a fantastic strawberry juice.

I met a few compadres at the hostel, mostly from New York, Australia, or the UK (and Essex in particular for some reason), although I definitely felt a bit of an age gap (especially when one Liverpool guy, whose accent was barely comprehensible when he was sober, asked me if liked “coke” and I presumed he was referring to a soft drink). With not much else to do in town on Easter weekend, the hostel folks engaged in drinking games (they certainly haven’t changed much, although they seem to have all been merged together) and go to one club in the Bellavista neighbourhood (apparently the only establishment open at night in Santiago on Easter Weekend). Yes, I shook my booty as best I could, but apparently the dance stylings of Western Manitoba (made extra great by my inability to stand upright since the bus ride as mentioned earlier) are not terribly impressive to Chilean women, so I spent most of the time mesmerized by the bizarre background projects they chose to showcase. Now as you may or may not have been aware, a lot of dance places now seem to be showcasing these quirky videos as background ambience (amidst the flashing lights, beat-throbbing music, and inability to have a conversation)… only nerds like me actually watch them.

This one, though, was just too weird to ignore. They were showing this Discovery Channel documentary about the origins of Bible stories, presenting evidence that major stories in the Bible (eg. Jesus) bore suspicious resemblance to earlier stories from other religions in lands in or near the Middle East, making almost a Da Vinci Code-esque argument. In some ways I could understand this one, what with Chile being such a catholic country—and Chileans who would be in a nightclub during Easter are presumably not its most pious lot—perhaps they were attempting to make some sort of ironic statement out of their drunken revelry.

When they switched to documentaries on September 11th conspiracy theories, though, that’s when they lost me.

At any rate, realizing I was probably being a douche by spending my Saturday night in Santiago watching documentaries in a night club, I decided I should at least try to get jiggy with it. And try I did… laying down all manner of hot moves learned through years of awkward grade school dances and the odd undergraduate social. Oh I got a few eyes alright… but only of the cold glare variety, although one guy’s girlfriend occasionally took pity on me and another guy stepped on my foot.

At first, I didn’t give the foot much thought (I didn’t feel anything other than a sharp initial pain that quickly disappeared). Granted, I probably shouldn’t have worn flip-flops to the bar, although my socks and shoes seemed less than cool under my shorts (and if these same flip-flops got me up the Liechtensteiner Alps, see Switzerland-Liechtenstein chapter, surely they could handle a Chilean dancefloor). But the night was dragging on, and I was trying to think of an appropriate excuse for telling my hostel friends I wanted to go to bed. When I happened to look down, I found it.

My right foot was awash with blood, my blood; a trail of it leading back to the dance floor from whence I had come (apparently the guy who stepped on my foot had had a broken shard of beer bottle glass stuck to his foot). All my toes were red with it, and I wasn’t even clear were I was bleeding for a moment. I stared at it for a moment… then decided perhaps I should seek assistance.

Hats off to the Chilean bouncers for having a first aid kit readily available (and thank god I didn’t have to explain in Spanish, I just had to point at my foot). The first aid kit was the size of my Dad’s tool box, and within a few minutes my wound went from gushing blood to merely a grotesque bloodstained but contained mess. Once again, foreigners have impressed me with their first aid prowess.

All in all, with my foot bandaged, back killing me, leg cramped, poor dancing skills, and too many flashing lights to really enjoy the documentary, I convinced my hostel friends that it was socially appropriate for me to call an end to the evening and I took a taxi home.

Okay, I may have been an injured mess (at least my mosquito bites from Uruguay had mostly healed and had been lowered from excruciatingly itchy to moderately aggravating) in Santiago, but gosh darn it, I was still going to see Chile. I took a bus to Valparaiso and Vina Del Mar, limping around their old colonial neighbourhoods and seafront boulevards. Valparaiso, a Unesco World Heritage site and an old, beautiful and a bit crumbling colonial port city built on a series of cliffs, is famous for its “acensores,” old-fashioned outdoor elevators that lead from the bottom to the top of the cliffs (and a blessing for me as I could barely climb stairs at this point). Valparaiso had fantastic political murals, lots celebrating Salvador Allende and condemning Pinochet (both whom, apparently, were born in Valparaiso), but think twice before eating at the Cuban restaurant. While the food was good, the aftermath was not… (all I can say is thank god, Chile’s version of the Home Depot have public washrooms as they were the only ones I could find).

Finally on Tuesday, after two failed attempts to see Santiago’s premier museum, the Museo de Arte Pre-Colombino, I was allowed to enter (amidst a throng of Chilean schoolchildren). Indeed, as promised, there were copious amounts of pre-Columbian artifacts, mummies that predated those of Egypt, and many many ceramic jars. Probably the most interesting though was the video of a traditional fisherman from northern Chile who would demonstrate his methods with a toothless smile. He hunted many things, but seemed most excited to hunt octopus which he called “tonto” (and they translated into English as “stupid”). Which means that him and the filmmaker would have conversations like:

Fisherman: You find stupid here hiding under the rock, and then you just have to trick stupid, and old stupid will come out. Sometimes stupid will build a pile of rocks to protect his stupidself.

Filmmaker(in disbelief): You’re saying the octopus actually makes a shelter out of rocks?

Fisherman: Sure, but then you just knock down the rocks and scare stupid.

While he’s saying this, the fisherman grabs an octopus and casually beats it to death on a rock.

Granted he stops beating it for a minute to point out the colour changing camouflage. Then he resumes beating.

A bizarre method of fishing to say the least.

Having had enough of Santiago, I decided to go back to the hostel and begin the long journey north. It was still mid-afternoon, and the busy streets were filled with school children from the museum. Before going, I picked up a chocolate milk (I was feeling pretty beat) and as I headed to the subway, a couple of women sitting on a bench (one playing some form of gameboy) asked me for the time (first in Spanish then in English when it was clear I had no idea what they said). I told them and casually continued on my way, only remembering that in Taiwan being caught with a drink on the subway would net you a major fine (and I hadn’t seen any drinking or eating on Santiago’s sparkling new subway, so I assumed it might be the same case here) so I looked for a place to sit and finish my drink.

I sat at one table but was promptly kicked out by the restauranteur it apparently belonged to, at which point the women who asked me the time waved me back and made room on their bench. Feeling insecure about my poor Spanish (and consequently my inability to connect with locals) and buoyed by their signs of friendliness I decided to engage them in conversation. I should probably mention at this time that they were dressed in long sweaters and skirts yes but nothing abnormal compared to what other Chilean women were wearing (the reason I’m taking time to make note of this will become obvious later) so we started talking… very basic conversation, but conversation nonetheless. I had time to kill before the bus anyway.

The girl with the gameboy got bored and left and told her friend she’d see her later, but the other girl seemed very friendly and eager to help me with my Spanish (a welcome relief when most other people I’d met just got immediately frustrated and switched to English). I asked her what she did for a living and she said she was a “Compania mujere,” which I interpreted as “company woman” or “business woman,” although her friendliness was getting me a tad suspicious. Nevertheless she went on to talk about all this engineering work she was doing, and so I concluded she worked for some sort of engineering consultancy firm.

There was a pub nearby, and while I was anxious about catching my bus, I figured one drink wouldn’t hurt, and my Spanish was improving by the minute. On the way to the pub, a woman from an eye-glasses shop came out and, the two of them had a heated argument (nothing of which I understood) and then we continued to the pub.

I soon learned that she was Colombian and had moved to Santiago for school, but that her family was back in Colombia and she missed them dearly. Apparently she’d had trouble fitting in Chile and missed the landscapes of her homeland. She wasn’t particularly attractive and apparently felt self-conscious about her looks.

The conversation continued on as such, and I was beginning to think “I really should tell this girl that I have to catch a bus and am not staying in town.” When she suddenly said in English “Havesexwithme,” which I didn’t catch as we had been speaking Spanish the whole time.

“What?” I said.

“Havesexwithme.” She said again.

I fumbled something like “Sorry, I’m flattered, but I don’t really know you and I have to catch a bus,” but she kept saying things like “It’s okay, it’ll only take an hour.” When she started writing prices for various acts on a napkin, I realized that “Compania mujere” didn’t mean what I thought it did.

I explained the misunderstanding (how do you explain nicely in Spanish that you’re not interested in prostitution) and promptly asked the bartender for a cheque. At any rate, she eventually accepted that I wasn’t going to be her customer (apparently she was indeed a university student in engineering and this was how she paid for her tuition) and we gave each a cordial good-bye before I caught a subway and bus out of town as fast as I could.

After Santiago, I headed to a town called La Serena, famous for its beaches, although I never saw them as they were 4 km from town and it was cold and overcast. Instead, I enjoyed the luxury of a room to myself (ah, what luxury indeed) in a charming bed and breakfast (minus the breakfast). The next day I took a tour of the Elqui Valley, a nearby valley famed for its pisco plantations (Pisco is a strong liquour made from grapes, ie something like a wine although it goes down more like whiskey). Peru and Chile have a long-standing rivalry over the drink, so I thought better try Chile’s entry, before moving on to sample Peru’s homegrown brew.

It is amazing how dry the land gets just in a few kilometers away from the sea. You can go from shore to desert in no time, seriously. And this desert is dry… the world’s driest actually (average rainfall is only 5 days a year, and in some parts of the Atacama region there has never been a recorded drop of rainfall). With such abundant sunshine, the Elqui Valley sported some unique attractions such as a Solar Restaurant where all the food was cooked in Solar Ovens (i.e. you remember that project you did in Grade Seven, where you put tinfoil on the angled side of a beer box and used it to cook a hot dog?, well guess what, someone’s turned that concept into a full-blown restaurant). The foot was tasty although the goat was a bit dry.

Leaving La Serena proved more difficult than I thought. First they lost my reservation then the new bus I reserved didn’t show up. After a half an hour or so, I asked the ticket clerk what happened, but he just said I had missed the bus and it was my own fault. After arguing for a bit, I managed to get him to change my ticket for the next bus, when surprise of all surprises my original bus appeared, with one of its windows boarded up (apparently this window had spontaneously exploded mid transit and thus had caused a the delay) and I continued on to San Pedro de Atacama, meeting up with two Canadians (a guy and a girl, although the guy asked that I not refer to them as a couple) and an Irishwoman and the four of us journeyed north.

San Pedro de Atacama was definitely my favourite place in Chile. Built on an oasis amidst the heart of the driest parts of the Atacama, the place shouldn’t even really exist, but exist it does, as a collection of mud-brick buildings, wild west streets, and a plethora of backpacker-types that could’ve been fresh out of Burning Man. Granted it’s a bit touristy, but whatever, there’s plenty of crazy outdoor sports (if you don’t mind the boiling hot days and ice cold nights) and we engaged in a few, including sandboarding (like snowboarding only much easier in that I can actually do it), hiking the valley de la Luna (the moon-like valley), and stargazing (thanks to the lack of rain, the Atacama has some of the best stargazing in the world, and I can honestly say I’ve never seen the Milky Way so vividly, nor Saturn for that matter, as I could actually see the rings—with the help of a telescope mind you).

Believe it or not Bolivia

The next day at 8 am, genuinely sleep-deprived we engaged on a perhaps fool-hardy 3 day off road journey to Uyuni, Bolivia. My guidebook warned that this journey was a tad rough and it didn’t lie. Crammed into a Toyota 4X4, our bags tarped to its rough, we barreled and twisted over jagged rock path after jagged rock path (to call them roads wouldn’t do them justice), eventually reaching an altitude of around 4900 meters above sea level, crippling everyone with altitude sickness and its accompanying headaches, pins and needles, and shortness of breath. In attempt to assuage our altitude sickness with a herbal remedy, Edgar our guide (who couldn’t speak a word of English) gave us all coca leaves to chew, but when I accidentally swallowed mine, intense nausea was added to the list (which wasn’t helped by Edgar’s aggressive and swervy driving style).

Edgar himself was an interesting hombre. He decked the front of the 4X4 with a curtain embroidered with Bolivia’s national colours (red, yellow, and green, almost like a Pan-African country), and from which hung little dolls, ball doilies, and a shrine to the Virgin Mary. Edgar himself, was definitely no virgin, as every place we stopped there was a Bolivian woman in a black bowler hat whom Edgar would call out to. Usually the woman would try to ignore him, her face demonstrating some sort of past history, but inevitably Edgar would stop the car, jump out, chase after the chica, get slapped by the chica, and then they would head to the back room for a “discussion.” Edgar even tried to get me to hook him up with my sister just upon hearing that I had one (I told him she wasn’t on the market), and ironically the only English song he seemed to know was “Womanizer.” At the end of tour, we met his lovely wife and kids.

Edgar was also a fan of South American pop music, where it seems the synthesizer effects of the 80s never went out of the style. Some of the songs were even in English, although I’d never heard them outside of South America (so if they were hits from the 80s, they must have struck a stronger chord here than elsewhere). The little dolls hanging from his windshield would seem dance to the music as we ricocheted off of rocks.

Throughout the tour we saw many lagoons; many wild flamingoes, desert foxes, vicuna, and llamas; geysers; and even the odd smoking volcano. We also had a crash course in Bolivian toiletry where you flush by splashing buckets of water at the toilet. Unfortunately, many of us failed the course.

Accomodation was largely rustic. No electricity the first night made for a very cold night, as the high altitude dropped the thermometer to -12. The second night we stayed in a village house, which had electricity for four hours in the evening, and as result there was a mad dash for they only warm shower for miles.

At 4:30 am, we hit the road again, this time to head out to the Uyuni Salt Flats, by far the highlight of the tour (you might remember them as the South American desert Bond has to traipse through with his attractive female co-star in the last Bond film, Quantum of Solace). Basically they’re a giant salt lake which extends for miles, the remnant of ancient saltwater lake, and are flatter than Saskatchewan (a welcome relief after the incredibly bumpy journey prior). They’re ghostly white, with cracks running like an uneven checkerboard towards the horizon. We saw the sun rise from an island amidst the salt lake (the salt lake is still land of course) that was chockfull of cacti, so much so that I learned when climbing a steep rocky hill in the dark its best not to reach out and lean on what you think is a post as it may very well not be.

It was a beautiful island alright, an odd intrusion of rocky outcropping amidst a barren white expanse. Because the salt flats are so barren and white, many people like taking “perspective” shots, where by you get one person to stand a distance away and another to stand up close and you can create the photographic illusion of your friend standing on your head, being pinched in your hand, bathing in your coffee mug, about to be crushed under your foot, being blown away by your breath, or any other assortment of perspective fun (note this would probably work in Saskatchewan too).

After the salt flats we visited a Salt Hotel turned Salt Hotel Museum (Salt Hotels have been banned as their waste was being funneled back into the salts causing environmental damage). While I don’t think anyone stays there anymore, the Salt Hotel definitely seemed fascinating, constructed entirely of salt (and perhaps some cement) it resembled the Bolivian version of Sweden’s Ice Hotel, complete with salt carvings of Bolivian symbols, a salt based lounge area, and even a live baby llama that scared the hell out of one of my fellow tourists when she opened the room to discover it. After they realized what it was, it was pretty clear it wasn’t scary at all, just damn cute and cuddly. (On a side note, Llama meat is absolutely delicious, like a steak without all the heaviness. Mmmm.).

After the salt flats we headed into Uyuni, which from the outside seems a town unfinished, saw the train cemetery (where a ton of trains from the 1800s have been left to rust, which takes a long time in a desert), and discovered that our plans to go to Potosi had been kyboshed by a labour strike that was blocking all traffic to and from the city (we were told if we tried to break the blockade we’d be stoned at the very least).

The strike over, we began our arduous journey to Potosi. Bolivia’s known for having some of the world’s worst and most dangerous roads, and I can tell why. The road from Uyuni to Potosi—if you want to call it a road—zig-zags haphazardly up and down cliff-edge after cliff edge along a muddy track that is frequently flooded with water. There are no safety rails to speak of, and at various points in the journey you can see other similarly constructed roads that have collapsed (this region is known for its mudslides). Add in to the equation that you’re traveling on a puttering old bus filled beyond capacity (and I do mean beyond, not only was every seat filled, but the aisles were standing room only—yes people stood crammed like sardines in the aisle for the entire 6 hour journey). Needless to say I’m glad we booked our seats early (as half the bus didn’t have seat). Add into the mix that some people were preparing food on the bus (and there were basically no showers for miles, so body odour rampant) and you have one memorable if not enjoyable bus experiences. At one point during the 6 hour journey we stopped for a bathroom break, minus the bathroom (there was no bathroom where we stopped) and it was a sight to see an entire busload of passengers stream out in all directions to do their business in the desert au natural. Still confined by my naïve North American notions of privacy while urinating, I struggled to produce a flow whilst partially hidden behind a large thornbush (one of the few covering vegetations in the area). I had almost achieved my goal, when two elder Bolivian women came up beside me, dropped their pants and performed their tasks, and promptly returned to the bus—never breaking their conversation in the process. Embarrassed and still a bit on edge, I said a couple of “Serenity Nows,” went to my happy place, finished the task at hand, and returned to the bus. A few hours later, we arrived in Potosi. (Bolivians, both men and women, seem perfectly at ease with going au naturel—indeed many Western women theorized this was the reason behind their big wide skirts. Hell, if Edgar’s house didn’t have a bathroom, everyone just went into the field out back).

Potosi is one gritty and hard-working city and its very name is synonymous with historic and present-day tragedy and heartbreak. It’s most famous feature are the Potosi Silver Mines, once so rich than they practically single-handedly financed the Spanish Empire for three centuries (Even today, the Spanish have expressions like “vale un potosi” or “worth a fortune”). Of course this wealth was built on the backs of Indigenous and African slave labour who died by the thousands carving out the mines, prompted one Spanish priest to describe them as “the Mouth of Hell.” The moniker is still true today, as working conditions in the mines are horrendous. Accidents with dynamite, cave-ins, and runaway trolleys kill 50 of the 5000 miners every year, and miners (who can start as young as ten) have to work in near pitch black conditions, often under intense heat, with no ventilation, excruciatingly narrow crawl spaces (many of the shafts still rely on colonial construction), and whilst being exposed to a myriad of toxins such as asbestos, cyanide, lead, copper sulphate, and silica flakes. Even breathing in the mine is so difficult that I was unable to make it halfway through the first level before being entirely out of breath. Life expectancy for miners, after they begin their career, is 10 years. This place is probably the most horrific site I have ever witnessed. There’s not much room for humour.

On one lighter side though, we were able to buy dynamite for about $2 Canadian at the local miner’s market. Following the mine tour, we were encouraged to have our picture taken holding a lit ball of dynamite (there’s a visibly concerned image of me doing just that), before the miners would help us whisk the lit dynamite to a hillside detonation site. One German dude misunderstood the miner’s suggestion to “hide behind this rock” to mean “put the dynamite behind this rock,” which resulted in the miner, upon going to the same hiding spot, finding the German with the still lit dynamite right at their feet. Visibly concerned, the miner quickly ran the dynamite back to the detonation site (barely), before diving back under the rock just before the dynamite (there was a few packs of dynamite lit) began going off one by one, draping the hill in dust and smoke (not to mention leaving a few craters). My guide, a Quechua former miner who spoke English well and went by the nickname Machoq’ajcha, told me the mountain has lost 1000 m over the centuries due to mining activities. By the looks of things I believe him.

After Potosi, I began the long journey to La Paz (waving farewell to my Canadian, Irish, and French friends from the Uyuni journey). This journey was considerably more paved than the previous one (and there were no people forced to stand in the aisle this time). On the latter leg of the journey, I met a mechanic from Cochamba (who like most Latin Americans became convinced my name was Brian) and his bus employee friend, and together we watched Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade en espanol from a difficult angle (we were seated at the very front of the bus). The only real mishap was my experiment in Bolivian cuisine in Oruro (a halfway point), which left me with some nasty indigestion for the next couple of days.

La Paz is a bizarre conglomeration of humanity. In one sense, it’s a city in its worse sense: clogged irregular streets, endless traffic jams and angry drivers, smog everywhere you turn, the threat of pickpockets ever present; but it also has some positive aspects: beautiful surrounding mountains, forests near town, plenty of quirky culture, and its cheap, cheap, cheap.

Bolivia as you may have guessed doesn’t have exactly the same safety standards as home (one Chilean warned me before I went that it was like Chile 40 years ago), but on the otherhand you’ll never find a better bargain and many people, of all ages, continue to dress in traditional clothes. The most prominent of these is the Bolivian cholita, which is a woman (often older, although many young girls dress this way too) wearing traditional colouring Andean robes and dress, topped off with a bowler hat one size too small. The bowler hat puzzled me the most. Not only did it seem to clash with the rest of the outfit and sit precariously atop heads, but as far as I can tell bowler hats aren’t actually Andean in origin (I tend to associate them with Edwardian England personally, or England circa 1900-1910). Why this particular headwear style should choose to flip genders and cling on to life here is a mystery to me.

While you can see all the cholitas you want in streets all over Bolivia, in La Paz on Sunday nights you can watch them wrestle. Yes, that’s right Cholita wrestling is a big sport in Bolivia (or at least La Paz), and despite my unruly intestines I wasn’t going to miss out. In an athletic centre in a hilltop park, hundreds of locals (and quite a few tourists) gathered to watch the spectacle, which while more showmanship than sport (like North American wrestling, it’s largely staged) was still quite a show. Basically, its everything you think it is, tough cholitas in traditional dress, Mexican-style masked wrestlers, arrogant villains, and corrupt refs, all smashing chairs over each other, flinging each other from the ropes, and doing all manner of knitwister, spinerattler, and bonecrusher you can think of (a feminist scholar would have a field day here, especially on the staged matches between men and women). Through it all, audience members are encouraged to huck things at the ring (and huck we did). At one point, one of the refs actually started bleeding from his forehead, and actually had to leave (not part of the show). The event had quite the carnival atmosphere (there were actual carnival games outside) complete with people selling cracker jacks, coca-induced soft drinks, and this one guy kept marching around carrying a 20 foot high tree (I’m not sure what else to call it) of cotton candy. Seriously, if you’re in La Paz on a Sunday, and love absurd phenomena as much as I do, you have to check this out. Just make sure you get the right tour bus home. Mine dropped me off in middle of La Paz and I had to scramble my way back to the hostel in the middle of the night.

The next day, I did the self-guided walking tour of La Paz (which is to say, I just wandered around). In doing so, though, I discovered a few items of interest. Feel like casting a spell? Check out the Witch’s Market, where all manner of Incan totem, dark powder, and llama fetus can be acquired. One shop had a considerable amount of dried bullfrogs for sale, but then these might have simply been tourists who neglected to ask permission before taking photographs.

At some point during my journey, I acquired a ridiculous amount of oranges. Oruro’s culinary experiment having finally passed through my system, I was feeling much better but hesitant to try anything too substantive. Feeling I could also use some vitamin C, oranges seemed like the right trick. I asked one of the street vendors (of which there are many across La Paz) how much was it for an orange. She replied 1 Boliviano (like $0.20 Canadian) so I naturally assumed this was a reasonable price to pay for one orange in Bolivia. Much to my surprise, upon receiving my single boliviano, she emptied half her collection into a bag and handed it to me. Gracious but dumbfounded, I continued on my way.

My ridiculous high amount of oranges (especially for a walking tour) would come in handy, as after the Witches Market, I found a quieter street where I felt I could relax without worrying about being harassed by pickpockets (they hadn’t really been a problem yet, fingers crossed, but I was always nervous) or hawkers. Naturally of course, while no pickpockets pestered me, the hawkers proved more difficult to avoid.

Soon after sitting down and opening one of my many oranges, I heard a man singing jailhouse type songs (in English) coming down the street. The Bolivians seemed to ignore him and I did the same, assuming he was just some dude who went down the street singing (in big cities, such things are not uncommon). As he came into view, he looked rather sketchy: gangly with tattoos running up both arms and rough clothing. I continued to ignore him.

Naturally he stopped right beside me.

“Do you speak English man?”

Thrown off by his American accent, I replied “Yes.”

“Fantastic man,” he introduced himself, “My name’s Rag, I’m a criminal…”

Great, I thought.

“My name’s Ryan.”

“Randy?”

“Yes, Randy.”

“Nice to meet you, Randy, where you from?”

I told him I was from Canada, he told me he was from New York. Apparently he’d been serving a 10 year sentence in Bolivia, although he never told me what for (judging by his mannerisms I’m guessing it had something to do with drugs). Apparently he had two weeks left in his sentence (which immediately made me wonder what he was doing out in public) and then he explained that he helped the prison recruit tourists to tour the prison and visit the various Americans, Canadians, Europeans, etc. held inside. (I should probably mention that Bolivia didn’t have a great reputation for civil liberty, while I was traveling through an Irishman, a Hungarian, and a Croatian were killed without trial by Bolivian government special forces for allegedly plotting to assassinate President Evo Morales. A few British Jewish girls from the Uyuni trip claimed that there had been a series of Jewish-related arrests at synagogues across of Bolivia and that they had been warned by people with political connections not to do anything “too Jewish.”)

He ultimately did ask me for money, but I unloaded oranges on him instead (In fact, I kept giving him oranges until he finally asked me to stop). I told him I would have to check with my “friends” before agreeing to the tour, and he probably went off, his pockets bursting with oranges (although I still had way too many left), he bid me farewell and continued his jailhouse shanties and went on his way. I later learned that this guy was an absolute scam artist (my hostel had a warning posted about him).

About this time I noticed that the street I was on was stuck on some sort of repeat sequence. As the same couple that had walked before I met my jailhouse friend, once again walked by, seemingly having the same conversation with the same expressions. Then the same two old cholitas in their bowler hats. By the time, I heard the jailhouse shanties again, I decided it was time to move on.

I wandered back through the Witch’s Market and ended up at somewhere called Plaza San Francisco, which like many plazas in South America was named for its adjoining church, a grand cathedral designed from a mixed European-Andean perspective.

From here, I climbed up to a pedestrian street called Calle Commercial (Commercial Street) and this took me to the seat of Bolivian government (ie Evo Morales’ house). Evo Morales, by the way, is probably one of the most enigmatic South American leaders currently in office. The first indigenous President of Bolivia (in a country where the majority of people claim indigenous ancestry), “Evo” as he is affectionately dubbed in grassroots graffiti propaganda across the country, is a former coca farmer, close ally of Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez, and famous for his standoffs with the US over the coca plant. In one famous case, he smuggled a coca leaf into the US and used it at a speech at the UN.

As far as I can tell, most Bolivians still support their president (they seem to be a very patriotic people), but nothing’s ever certain in this country (after all, there’d already apparently been one attempt on Evo’s life while I was in Bolivia). While in La Paz, I heard repeated outbursts of what sounded like gunfire, and there were plenty of police around the Presidential Palace (many in riot gear and holding automatic weapons). There were even modernly dressed guards standing outside the visibly nervous traditionally dressed guards (for some reason, every country seems to feel the need to have some form of archaically yet colorfully dressed guard standing outside their most important buildings).

I decided to rest my feet here for a minute on a open park bench beside an old lady, when one of the local shoeshine boys (inexplicably masked teens, that look like they want to rob a bank or play paintball, but actually just want to shine your shoes) approached me and asked if I wanted my shoes shined. Thinking my shoes could use a shine (I’d put them through a lot of abuse and they’re my only pair down here) I asked him how much.
He said two bolivianos, which caused the old lady next to me to erupt in protest and demand he reduce his price to one boliviano. I stayed out of the debate. Granted veteran travelers always brag about their ability to bargain like a local, but when we’re arguing over $0.20 or $0.40, I feel like an asshole making a stand.

Nevertheless the masked teen shined my shoes, and did a pretty good job of it, then asked for the two bolivianos, causing the argument to erupt again. Fearing the wrath of the old lady (and appreciating her efforts to assist me) I paid him one boliviano, told him it was all he had, and he reluctantly packed up and went on his way.

At this point I left the presidential plaza, and headed over to the Museo del Enthnographia y Folklorica (Museum of… while surely you can figure that one out). This museum would be worth the money I paid for it, even if it wasn’t free. Half old colonial house, and half remarkably new and state-of-the-art exhibition centre, the Museum displayed a vast assortment of Bolivian ceremonial dress and artifacts calendar timing would not allow me to see otherwise. The highlight was the Mask Room which displayed tons of colourful masks used in tribal ceremonies across Bolivia, ranging from sun and moon gods, to angels and devils, to almost Asian solemn masks, to mockeries of the Spanish and other persons and more. Just be careful not to get stuck in the dark with the masks alone, as happened to me. Apparently, I was taking too long inside admiring the masks and the lights (on an automatic timer) went out, and I found myself in pitch black surrounded by tribal masks. I fumbled my way through the dark until I finally found the entrance. As soon as I left, the lights came back on again. Lots of the museums in La Paz had this feature of turning on and off lights and sounds only if someone were to enter the room (a great energy saver, so I was impressed Bolivia was on top of that). Other museums I visited included the Museum of Musical Instruments (very awesome, a courtyardial mansion full of all sorts of wacky guitars, xylophones, and any number of rhythm machines some of which you can play, or at least they don’t tell you not to play) and the San Francisco Church (which fronts the San Francisco Plaza go figure) which is deceptively larger inside than outside (not that the outside looks miniscule by any stretch of the imagination). I unexpected received a personal guide with my entrance fee, which was great, although I had to make her stop every time we went up the stairs so I could catch my breath (I still wasn’t accustomed to the altitude… either that or I’m just out of shape). The church is very grand (it has a mix of Andean and Spanish architectural designs), and you get taken all over it, including the roof and belltower, where you can get dangerously close to ringing the bell and making your charming guide extremely nervous that you will do so. I certainly learned a helluva lot more about the Franciscan order than I had intended.

Lake Titicaca

The next day, I took a very South American bus (more like a tourist collectivo) to Copacabana (on the shore of Lake Titicaca) the bus arrived a bit late (not usual in South America) and all our bags were tied haphazardly to the roof (I’m not sure how the guy was able to lift them all up there). At one point, we actually had to cross a section of Lake Titicaca (no bridge) and so we were all shuffled off the bus, which was loaded onto a rickety raft, and we had to pay 1.5 Bolivianos to get across in a motor boat ferry, which had me huddling my laptop about a foot above Lake Titicaca itself (talk getting up close and personal). The lake itself was very clear, and “seemed” like it might actually be a refreshing place for a swim, although I wasn’t seeing anyone taking a plunge. You do see a lot of interesting sail/fishing boats with one triangular sail, usually blue, and draped off to the side.

This Copacabana (apparently that’s a popular name) ain’t that big, and you could easily walk around the main portion of town in an hour. There was a very nice (surprisingly large) Moorish-style cathedral (ie. a church that looks like a mosque). While looking for a place to eat, I ran into some friends from the hostel in La Paz, Margaret the travel writer for Viva Travel Guides (a new online-based travel publication trying to break into the market) and her friend from Nashville that came out to visit her. They were pretty cool to hang out with (I learned a lot about the travel writing business, especially how it pays $3 an hour) and gained some tips. Who knows maybe they’re be a business partnership in the future (she did have a card game idea that was turned down by her boss, so I said maybe I could develop it instead, but lets not get ahead of ourselves). We ate at a very jungle themed Vegetarian Restaurant which had a surprising amount of mainly meat dishes (I had the pizza steak).

Afterwards, the girls were tired from researching islands all day, and so we headed back to our respective hostels. I thought it would be an easy night for me. Instead, I found myself in the role of hotel bouncer.

I was surprised to find a very drunk local man (probably in his late teens) shouting at the hostel door. I should probably mention that the hostel I was staying at was apparently being run by a 13 year-old girl (I never saw the parents, and the girl did all the guest sign-ins, so I presumed the parents were away somewhere. Though having kids take on such an active role is not uncommon in South America, you usually expect to see an adult somewhere around). Anyways, it was pretty clear that the girl didn’t know this guy and just wanted him to leave, but he would not stop yelling for a “Beny” and slamming the door to get our attention when we tried to ignore him. I just walked by him, as did most the other guests, when I entered, and I did drop a few things off at my room, but when it became clear he wasn’t leaving, and may indeed be threatening the poor girl, I decided I better stay in the courtyard, just in case she needed my help (he was much bigger than her, but I was certainly bigger than him). We tried telling him his friend wasn’t here (we assumed he was looking for someone named Beny, and would get angry when we did not produce him). I tried talking to the girl in my broken Spanish to figure out what she wanted to do about the situation (I didn’t exactly want to take charge in a foreign language in someone else’s property), but it became clear she didn’t know the guy and wanted him to leave, but her parents weren’t around and calling the police did not appear to be an option (in Latin America, the police unfortunately aren’t always reliable). Finally after shouting at us from a distance, he stumbled his way into the hotel itself towards the girl. At this point, I directly intervened, and approached the man myself. I introduced myself, and surprisingly he shook my hand. I then asked him to walk with me, and I guided him back to the entrance. I explained that “todos la gente acqui esta durmiendo” which I think means “all the people here are sleeping” and thank god he understood me. I also told him that he did not look well and should return to his house (my Spanish was pretty broken, but he seemed to understand, and became more cooperative at this point). We got him back outside again, and I motioned for the girl to close the door. To my surprise he said a friendly “Ciao” and left, I said “Ciao” as we locked the door behind him, both of us breathing a sigh of relief. We didn’t hear anything more from him.

The Island of the Sun of the Island of the Moon

Two major Incan islands in Lake Titicaca were relatively close to Copacabana, so naturally I set about trying to reach them.

The first—the Island of the Sun—touts itself as the birthplace of the Incan empire, as the Incan Sun God was allegedly born on this island out of a rock that apparently looks like a puma (apparently you have to look at it from the right angle). The second, the Island of the Moon, was famous for housing a multitude of virgins of the sun.

Naturally, I tried to get to Moon Island first, but it proves difficult if not impossible to get there on my own (whence why they’re still virgins methinks). At any rate, the “virgins of the sun” thing probably went out of style 400 years ago. Now, they’re basically just Catholic nuns. But oh well, a fella can dream.

So I went to the Island of the Sun instead, and planned to stay one night to get “the full experience of the island.” Don’t do the tours, my guidebook says, stay the night and really get inside the local culture. Unfortunately, it was the local culture—particularly those of a bacterial variety—that got inside of me, as after finally getting the health and courage back to try Bolivian cuisine again (not that there were a lot of other options on the island), I found myself right back on the toilet for the remainder of the night, and this time running dangerous low on toilet paper (sorry hankerchief from Potosi tour, but your sacrifice will be remembered).

At any rate, while I probably would have seen more of the island (and less of the bathroom) had I actually just done the tour, I was able to see some parts of the island in between bowel movements. As promised the islands were definitely more traditional than the mainland (although they obviously depend on tourism for their livelihood as everywhere you turn you’ll be asked to donate a boliviano).

Most of the guesthouses (you stay with local families) are based on the southern half of the island, near the impressive massive Incan built staircase. What they don’t tell you, is you have to climb said stair case with your luggage. Hope you’re over that altitude sickness.

Yes the island is adorned in steep cliffs, many of which are terraced according to traditional Incan agricultural methods. Donkeys are constantly being led up and down (I’m not sure why, actually) and many of the people wear traditional dress. Indeed, there are some impressive Incan ruins on the islands, but the island itself steals the show with steep cliffs, clear waters, and traditional if touristed life.

After returning to Copacabana, I caught a crowded and bizarre collectivo/bus/thing that moved to the Peruvian border, whereby we went through the usual confusing border rituals and bus changes before heading into to Peru and Lake Titicaca’s other half.