Category: Wanderings

Today saw a tortuous bus ride lasting 10 hours over a dirt road into the Bolivian high plains towards the remote town of Uyuni. With a population of roughly 14,000 people, there really isn´t much here to see. Arriving at dusk, I scrambled to find accomodation for the night and quickly tried to book a ticket for a tour of the Salar de Uyuni and the southwest circuit. I can only report that there isn´t much here save strewn plastics near the outskirts of town and extremely dusty air that blows with a sense of sad abandonment. The folks who do live here seem to subsist mainly on the thriving tourist trade of those coming from far flung to see the Salar salt flats. The only other viable economic activity is the harvesting the bountiful salts here for consumption and industrial use.

I dont´plan to stay long, but this is one of those strange towns where one has a good sense that many are just drifting by with no sense of home rooted here. In any case, the excursions to the Salar begin tomorrow and should offer plenty feast for the eyes.

The road behind us is never as far as the one in front of us. All that has happened will eventually lapse into the recesses of memory, and like a faded nostalgia, linger enough to remind us of this human experience. Though our paths differ, we are all the same, each and every one, in so many ways.

This is not so much realization, but natural understanding by gradual experience. An apt example being today´s venture out of Sucre into Tarabuco. Again I boarded a packed mini bus and followed the road as it lead through almost virgin land that stretched hundreds of miles in all directions. This is pristine country, and its people still smile with dignified mien despite the onslaught of history. I´m often left questioning how different they are from myself, and the answer is the same: there is no difference.

Culture and history maybe divide people, but this curious lot between life and death binds us. And here, in Tarabuco, the descendents of the Yampara people walk proud and ply their trades and earn honest living, removed from the troubles, mechinations, and politiking of the world at large. Some are happy, some not so much, some suffer along with much of the world. But are they any different from elsewhere?

The last two days have been spent transiting from Petosi (world´s highest city) to Sucre and then subsequently laying low wandering the town in hopes of staving off further lung complications from the foul air. The road from Potosi literally wound through some of the highest roads in the world with splendid views of this daedal earth stretched from horizon to horizon. The rough folds of ancient mountains that once laid on the ocean floor are visibly thrusted to the high ranges. The epochal stretch of eons from which this majestic display of unfolding nature has played out makes this human existence inconsequential. The splendor unfolds with every turn down the road, each image flickering too fast to be captured by camera. Still, sweet is this experience on the way to and from Sucre.

The city of Sucre itself is a beautiful relic from the colonial era – onsidered the most beautiful city in Bolivia. The appellation is well-deserved. By luck, or dint of obstinacy, we manage to find a hotel that is situated right next to the central market – private rooms for $6 per night. After wandering the streets and numerous parks For the next two days my palate was treated to some of the finest marke food the world has to offer, with each meal with large portions of soup and main costing only one dollar or so. Such experiences of exotic market food are some of the best pleasures of travel.

Today, I took a microbus to the outskirts of the town and then wended 30 minutes further up the road on foot to visit Parqueo Cretacico, a minor museum of sorts built way atop the Andes mountains with spectacular views of the city below. It turns out the location is not accidental as local cement factories nearby quarrying for rock unearth preserve dinosaur tracks that have been turned vertical, eroded over millenia, and now exposed as a mountain side. The paths and tracks of these great animals remain visible here from a perched barely a few years old. Yet, the paths they left millions of years ago remain… and I, wandering, crossed their path for the briefest of moments.

The morning dawned to another clear day in high altitude of Potosi (13,420 ft, 4,090 m) and surrounding region. This is an old town dating back to 1544, known for its productive and rich silver mines hidden under Cerro Rico, AKA Rich Mountain hosted up very, very high (15,827 ft, 4,824 m). In fact, it was these mines of Potosi that financed munch of the Spanish empire. Although production has steadily declined over the years, these hills are still rich, and many an industrious hand still join the dangerous mining cooperatives to secure their livelihood in this thin and forbidding air.

Today I joined a tour venturing deep into the dusty, dark  world of these Bolivian miners who ply the trade as their forefathers. It is grueling and dangerous work that evokes sympathy from this outside observer. Some of them make less than $10 a day for risking their life and limbs. The vast majority succumb to siliconosis or other afflictions and die by age 35. The effective working life of these miners is no more than 10 to 15 years before inevitable lung trouble end their career. It is a sad reality of existence, and the miners mitigate their harsh existence by chewing coca leaves, smoking and drinking 96% industrial strength alcohol. The tunnels are dangerous, everything seems makeshift with rudimentary supplies. Even having braved some of the most harrowing adventures, Cerro Rico has to be one of the most intimidating of conditions, especially for those who might be claustrophobic.

I climbed down over 250 ft. below ground through dark, dank, and dusty mazes to see first hand their working conditions. It is extremely dangerous as at any time the shafts can cave in as they are supported by flimsy beems. All work is done by manual labor still with very scarce aid from modern heavy machinery.  The silver and silica dust have cause me to cough a bit after exiting – not good for these lungs when consider how bad the pollution in Bolivian cities are.

Having arrived at Petosi this morning via an extended night bus, I, along with an Israeli traveler, decided to stay and explore the city as the situation with with the bus strike is uncertain, and there is reported no water in Uyuni. I settled to explore the town today, and then visit the famed cooperative mines tomorrow before heading to Sucre.  The salt flats can wait a couple days.

By the looks of the bus terminal, this city didn’t seem like much to write about. However, once afoot and winding through the streets of town, a whole new appreciation presented itself. For a better part of the morning, I lost myself wandering through the narrow warrens of the city, all the while admiring all the colorful portals along the way.

As it turns out, the local governor was having a political campaign rally and throngs of supporters followed his entourage, at once playing loud music, waving flags, and showering him with confetti. Myself and the Israeli happened on the scene and was crowded into the parade. Soon, some of the supporters handed us flags and we too began to chant along to what seemed like a happy celebration. The local women looked on and laughed at the crazy tourists partaking in their politics. It was only later on when a local middle age man pull us aside and told us “Put those away, you don’t know what’s happening” that we came to our sense.  However, it was still a lot of fun. I have no idea who or what ideology I was lending support to. Such is the crazy adventures of random wandering.

Well, the horrors and fascinating tales of travel never fails. Last night saw the antics of three very uncivil British backpackers. The details are irrelevant here, but ask me any time and I´ll gladly relay the stories.  This aside, woke up at 9, and as luck would have it, was able to catch the last morning tour to the ancient ruins of Tiwanaku perched some 44 miles away from La Paz. The drive exiting La Paz pass El Alto neighborhoods was fascinating as it is the section of town populated by vast majority indigenous peoples. Though known to be the poorer section of town, replete with crime, still I found the view out the blurry motion of the bus window something to marvel at. The air all over Bolivia so far chokes the lungs, traffic is severely congested, yet through it all the motion of life admits no pause. One can spend a lot of time to enjoy the scenes here.

The road to Tiwanaku is pristinely beautiful as any I have seen. The vast stretches of open pasture and hills rolling from horizon to horizon delights any city dweller. For miles on end, the landscape unfurls with novel wonders of mud brick homes, flowers, rivers, grazing livestock, and distant rolling clouds that seem unending. Interestingly enough, President Evil Morales had just been there some minuts before as part of some children´s sports ceremony. Our tour group was greeted with soldiers and hundreds of traditionally attired Bolivians.

As for the ruins themselves, they were certainly not as impressive as Angkor or Tikal. However, the site is only partially excavated, and the civilization that thrived here was very advanced based on observation of their knowledge of astronomy, precision masonry, and metallurgy. Some of their constructions looks impossible without the aid of modern machinery; yet, according to the archeological record, Tiwanaku did not even have access to the wheel.  This empire left no written record; consequently, not much is really known of this civilization that predates the Incans, but it gave pause to this wanderer to ponder on the scourge of time and human history.

After returning from the outing, I was alerted that there is to be a national bus strike tomorrow. As it is uncertain when it will end, I booked the next ticket out to Potosi on the last night bus.

So I survived the Road of Death, but alas there was a death on the road today. It’s one of the most amazing things I’ve done. Too tired to post now, but will share the experience when I have time.

On this third day, still not fully acclimated to the altitude, I took a calculated risk to venture further beyond the city center and staid tourist rout. First on the agenda was  a moderate distance walk to city’s cemetery. It’s something to behold as it is perched high in the center of the bowl-shape La Paz. The view from the cemetery is absolutely stunning. Apart from some mausoleums, the cemetery consists mainly of niches stacked vertically above ground where cremated ashes are placed with a plaque behind a glass door. However, bodies are first interned for 10 years, then exhumed and cremated and then placed in the niche. The strangest part was seeing eviction notices place in front of the glass niches – presumably on rent that is pass due.

Upon returning from this morning outing, I booked the bike ride down the Yungas Road (Road of Death) for tomorrow – yes I did it. After lunch, a group of us gathered and head towards Valle de la Luna at my suggestion. The short 10 km drive itself offered a spectacular view of the vicinity. The vast majority of abodes and buildings are built on top of sloping clay and sandstone. Had the Chilean quake struck here, all would certainly be lost.

Valle de la Luna itself is a surreal landscape, strange juxtaposition of colors and odd formations. Formed after perhaps millions of years, the erosion of clay and sandstones resulted in wild formations in the outskirts of La Paz. This place is truly something to behold.

Afterwards a couple English blokes and I went for late afternoon coffee and conversations into travel and politics. Some how, despite the intermittent rain, the day pass beautifully into the evening. My head still hurts, but my heart is racing in anticipation of tomorrow’s downhill adventure.

The impression of La Paz is at once of vibrant and other-worldly. I ventured off to explore the city on foot today having slept off the high-altitude symptoms from last night until 2:30pm today. There will always be that magical, initial impression of a city that can only be taken in whilst aimlessly wandering about. Perhaps it was fair timing, but the rains ceased as I woke mid-afternoon to cool weather, with sufficient light for exploring. As per usual, I headed for the local markets and haunts where the majority descendants of Incans and Aymarans wandered about. Also per usual the assault on the senses of a 3rd world city quickly presented itself in the form of fetid odors, automotive exhausts, trash, etc. Amid all this, the business of local life carried on oblivious to this foreigner’s roamings.

My walking tour then passed the bustling streets – congested with buses, minivans, lost of people -and looped around the Mercado Negro area. There is something in the organized chaos of third world cities – the market streets are always divided into niche or trade guilds. There is always sections for shoes, clothing, copper ware, cutlery, locks, ceramic toilets, etc.; as if it was logically laid out in sectors. Today’s encounter was no exception, excepting that I spent too much time in the textiles section.

The remainder of the walk tour was spent winding through the Witches Market where an assortment of strange and bizarre can be found being hawked on sidewalk stalls by local Aymara women. “Witch Doctors” wander the streets providing traditional remedies. The strangest sight must be that of dessicated llama fetus hung out for sale; the locals bury them under their property to propitiate spirit gods.

Well, all done and tallied, this body does not feel too bad after the scheduled light activities. The next two days should see more interesting adventures.

After dropping out of the air at 6:40 am local time, I took the local shared van to the city center with another chap who was on the same flight. As I didn’t have any Bolivian currency, I had to pay with US dollars to cover the 4Bs fair. The fair collector agreed to take $3 between us, equal to 21Bs at the current exchange rate. To my surprise, a couple of the local Bolivians voice protest to the bus driver saying that the clerk was trying to rip-off the tourists. This is always a good sign when the locals are honest.

After checking in to the hostel to rest a little from the altitude shock, I took a walk by morning to explore the center of town on foot. As the hostel is only 3 blocks from Plaza Murillo, I went to explore the government buildings and see Evo Moralles’ presidential abode. It’s a pleasant welcome to see local city life bustling about – reminds me I’m home on the road again.

From there, I wandered off the map into the winding streets up the hillsides; perhaps not the smartest thing as it really tested my lungs and stamina at this altitude. The higher I went, the more stunning the view of the city nested on high slopes.  So far, La Paz has already proved unique in what she has to offer.

After resting atop the hillside a while, I wended back to the hostel pass food stalls, stray dogs, local markets to rest and obviate against any altitude related problems. Just in time too as torrential rains just started pouring… time enough to plan for the next few days ahead.

Once again I’m in transit via Miami, gateway to South America. Having charged the boat to a friend’s tending, off I go to roam this wide earth. Everywhere I pass, the voices and dreams of millions echo our common destiny. Truth is, there is really not difference between here and there. One may ask “why then constantly uproot?”; to this I rejoin it is precisely because there is no difference between here and there. In some ways, we are all strangers to this strange land. This surreal existence was only re-enforced by the beautiful sight of hundreds of fishing vessels out trawling off the shores of New Orleans – each barque flickering silently in the darkness through the plane’s window.

The red-eye flight departs soon and I’m slightly apprehensive about dropping out from sea-level to 13,000 feet; along with the severe difference in weather to be encountered on the loosely planned route has made for heavy packing. But regardless, La Paz, Bolivia awaits at the crack of dawn.

Scourge of time and happenstance have wrought their thrashes; that we survive its attrition is by attribution of fortune and fortitude. Many miles have I roamed in search of proverbial home. Yet for now, I have given up my lodging to find myself moored to a homesick heart, harbored for the moment from the travails of life. Such is such to brave the storms as they come. It so happen that, by chance, my first week aboard this floating life is met by forecast of a full week’s storm. For a better part of 2 days already the boat has been jostled by wind and rain. There is a sad romance to it all if one pauses long enough to take in the surroundings: the flap of canvas, the creaking mast, the bangs against the hull, the thumps of stays, etc. There are a couple of minor drip leaks, but the hull is sturdy and intact; and I doubt there will be any cause for concern. It is not the most ideal of situations, but it makes for sound economic planning for one who longs to travel more. My plan is to bide the time, hoping to light propitious after.

You never know where the tacks and turns of life will lead. As fortune would have it, I touched down back in Costa Rica again for a week near the beginning of the dry season when the air is clear and weather clement.

…becomes more than a convenient metaphor. I suppose it has been a long romance of mine to be adrift on a skiff or boat; in fact, I can distinctly remember having fancied the notion even while young. Well, happenstance come as they come, and given all due consideration in regards to economics and the life style amenable to my personality, I settled on the idea of living on a boat. I had no idea a boat could be had for so cheap, and for a period of a week I actually had two boats.

There is a pristine beauty and calming pleasure of being at harbor. The concept of a boat safe at harbor as metaphor applied to life is scarce lost on anyone with a perceptive mind. It will be a good base to bide the storms of life for now, perhaps even learning to sail competently will come to pass.  Either way, plenty of beautiful sunsets are awaiting apt appreciation — anyway the wind blows… such is this floating life.