Tortuga Travels: Week One: La Paz to Sucre, Bolivia

Tortuga Travels: Week One: La Paz to Sucre, Bolivia
La Paz, Bolivia

My friend Carrie was slumped sleeping under the passenger lounge windows, so for a while I wandered around the San Jose airport wondering if I felt like going to Bolivia alone. Since I had already endured the 30 minute security check, during which a woman in rubber gloves prodded every article in my pack and played my guitar, I decided I may as well go. Fortunately Carrie woke up and found me just in time to hear the flight attendant announce, “Rows 30 to 25,” summoning the entire passenger list to form a violent mob that pushed its way on board the plane.

Seated comfortably, we received our first of two meaty dinners and our first of two complimentary headsets, which I’m sure I would have enjoyed had there been any sort of in-flight movie or music.

In La Paz at last we were greeted by Jacqueline, one of those friends-of-a-friend you seek out when landing somewhere like Bolivia with a big green backpack and multi-purpose travel pants that scream “Stupid American!”

Jacqueline was my first travel angel of this trip: those folks that surface when you feel distressed, rideless, lost or otherwise on the verge of the foreign abyss, and point you to the right bus, offer a sofa, take you to the local pub. She welcomed us into her awesome apartment (handed us spare keys!) and sent us out to explore.

La Paz is a city of beauty, a city of activity, but most of all a city of karaoke bars and photocopierias. There’s not a block in town where you can’t sing “the tide is high” while awaiting your Xerox job. Despite these burgeoning industries the bulk of the economy is informal, with street vendors selling snacks, kitchen supplies, underwear, beauty products. (…but no liquid soap. And if you’re looking for hair spray, as Carrie was to hold her pastels – and her Jersey bangs – don’t ask for “spray de caballo.”)

Much as there was to do in La Paz, we were anxious to head south to Sucre for our language classes. Up at the station we investigated the dozen bus companies that run the route, a trip that takes 12 to 26 hours and costs 40 to 80 bolivianos, with no apparent correlation. After a number of informative conversations:

Carrie (to woman under giant “Sucre” banner): autobus a Sucre?
Woman (glaring with pity at our ignorance): no Sucre. Cochabamba.

Carrie (to next vendor): how far to Sucre?
Woman: 14 hours.
Carrie: when does it leave?
Woman: leaves at 6:30 in the morning, arrives 5:00 next morning.
Carrie: you said 14 hours?
Woman (glaring with pity at our ignorance): it stops for 2 hours in Potosi.

We picked a random bus. Sixteen hours and one Spanish dubbed version of Kickboxer 2 later, there we were.

We settled into the dank and depressing Hostel Veracruz, where $3 a night gets you not only a bed, but also a mandatory 6 a.m. wake up call courtesy the screeching parrot in the lobby. Eager to see the city and spend no time whatsoever at our accommodations, we set
off.

Sucre is a low, sprawling city of whitewashed buildings with terra cotta roofs, shops that close from 12 to 4, and churches that glow blinding white in the midday sun. Home to a large university and many schools, the streets are full of students and children. The local marketplace brims with cruising teens, popcorn carts and the sweet sounds of ABBA after sunset. It’s a modern place with a disorienting sprinkle of campesinos who wear colorful traditional clothing amidst the crowds of pedestrians.

Carrie and I arranged Spanish classes and new accommodations for the coming week, and spent a relaxing evening discussing the geopolitical consequences of U.S. foreign policy with Cesar (”like the ruler of Rome”) the Spaniard at the German cultural center’s
Oktobrfest.

bienvenido a Bolivia.

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