Tupiza

 I follow Paul to Tupiza, taking a bumpy, jolting ride from Potosi, where I’m placed in the back of the bus, the second-to-last seat, beside a woman who shares my cornmeal rolls and asks me about New York. I pretend, to make it easier, that I’m from the city. Every time we hit a speedbump, a rock, a break in the road, the bus lurches, we jump and fall in our seats, and the baby behind me screams. Hush, the woman holding him says. Hush, and she bumps him on her knee, feeding him pieces of cut-up banana. We drive on this unpaved road, where a few yards away there’s a paved version that matches our curves and bends. I wonder about this, a few times I let myself get angry, but I tell myself it’s not Bolivia’s fault. I never do find out why they’ve built two roads, one paved, one not, and we must take the latter.

I find, in Tupiza, a hostel with three narrow stories and a white roofdeck that reminds me of Antigua. I find two tall British boys who stay up with me until two in the morning, drinking wine and watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. They claim it’s a coincidence that this movie is playing, while we sit in the very town where those two outlaws met their makers. I argue that the movie plays every night, every other night, at least, but they are determined to believe it’s good fortune. They know most of the lines, reciting them just before Paul and Robert speak them, and then cackle when they hear them repeated.

I find jagged red hills that ring the town and stretch out to the north and south, glowing pink in the morning and violet as the sun sets. I find the Devil’s Door, two narrow, enormous slabs of brick-colored rock that stand two hundred feet high, flanked on either side by red dust and the tallest cacti I’ve seen since northern Peru. I find a stretching blue sky, speckled brown hills, a landscape so like my country's southwest. I find clean wind and dogs who live together at the end of an empty road in a ramshackle house. They’re dogs who bark and bark as I walk past, frightening me so that I pick up stones in case I might need to hurl them, but in the end those dogs are harmless, they just bark and then skulk away, back towards the half-finished group of adobe houses, the yard of old tires, of dried-up trees.

I find a town in the midst of its country’s Independence Day celebration; the parades last from Friday to early Sunday morning, and the music pumps. The ladies in the streets sell chocolate covered donuts, puffy soaked corn, glasses of chicha and paper cups of papas fritas, while an old man spins a manual merry-go-round while he sips his glass of beer and the little children perched on the tiny horses scream and demand more. That night, I say good-bye to the English guys, who are taking the night train to Uyuni, and then I crawl into bed and sleep to the sound of the Independence Day music. When my alarm sounds at 3 AM, just in time for the bus that will bring me to Bolivia’s border, I hear the music once more, pumping from the speakers set up in front of the train station. I step out onto the street, hoping that the drunk man screaming, shirtless on the corner, doesn’t notice as I walk with my pack beneath the bowl of twinkling stars. In the inky night, this town is just as busy as it was in the day. The streets are spilling over with people walking home, drunk off the celebrations of their nation’s independence.

Sucre Dazzles

Below are some snapshots of Sucre's gleaming colonial center. Sucre's located, oh, I don't know, about three long bus rides east of La Paz, and because it's set in a valley, it enjoys a nice mild climate and lots of beautiful fruits and veggies. If you can forget for a moment that Sucre was once the most important city in Latin America, and now is a nearly forgotten destination in Bolivia, where beggars cram the streets and tourists blunder around, you can appreciate the gorgeous white walls and cathedrals. It was warm in Sucre, the air smelled sweet, the produce was bountiful, and the ladies in the market served me up this yummy corn breakfast drink while their dishwashers snickered at me because I am a gringita. And then they gave me flaky, airy empanadas, and charged me about fifteen cents for the whole shebang. I've discovered that you can learn more about a city like Sucre by visiting its market than by visiting its museums, which are more often than not staffed by gruff men who never have change.

Am I jaded by all of this travel? Have I been reading too much of Open Veins of Latin America? Regardless of the answers to those rhetorical questions, I loved strolling Sucre, even though some of the poor men crumpled on the sidewalk made me weep. There's nothing worse, is there, than seeing about three tons of gold inside a cathedral, and then passing outside a long line of old ladies with no teeth and no shoes who are begging on the ground.

Seeing Coroico

Hi lovelies! 

Here are a few pictures from beautiful Coroico, a teeny-tiny town three hours north of La Paz. In those three hours you can leave the cold heights of the city, the barren hillsides, and arrive in this jungled place, where hippies walk around barefoot selling jewelry, and the locals roll their eyes at them. Coroico was a lush place for gathering my thoughts...and sitting by the pool! Yes, my hostel had a pool, and French cuisine too, and all this for, like, six dollar per night. Now I'm sitting in Potosi in a hat and gloves, and I miss the warmth. And you all! Besitos!

Seeing La Paz

Below are a few images from La Paz, which Paul Theroux described as having a woundlike landscape. I think he said that because he suffered a bad cut to his hand while in this city (accidentally self-inflicted, poor Paul) and was forced to mope around town for a while, visiting a number of pharmacies and leaving, eventually, with a white mitt over his hand and a scar that would stay with him forever.

So, woundlike? I think not. That sounds kind of gross to me. Yes, La Paz has the colors of a wound - red and white stone, red roofs, always the pavement and dirt roads - but it's vibrant and green in parts, with exciting food and great murals and begrudgingly nice people. The bread ladies didn't like me, though. Can I see the bread? I would ask. It's just bread, how many do you want. 

Or, May I please have a bag for my bread? I might inquire. No one gets a bag for two breads, NO ONE.

Okay then!

In any case, enjoy these pictures from high and chilly La Paz!

xx

Seeing Copacabana

Here are a few snapshots from Copacabana, a little city eight kilometers from the Peru-Bolivia frontera. Copacabana is the base for visiting the islas on the Bolivian side; thus, it's a little touristy, especially on the beach, which is covered in ridiculous swan-shaped paddleboats for rent. You can't walk five feet without tripping over some artisan from Argentina or Chile or the South of France, and then you have to look at all the beautiful stuff they have, the stones that come from Peru and the Bolivian jungle. Still, Copacabana is a gorgeous place steeped in history and with a very rich indigenous presence. It holds, like, 300 festivals a year, and I witnessed one - on that day, everyone brought their car to the cathedral to have it blessed with holy water and cheap sparkling wine and then decorated with so many flowers on the windshield you wonder how the drivers can see. Alas, I have no pictures of these dangerously beautiful cars, but I'll trust my dear readership to imagine it for themselves.

Anyway, enjoy! Miss you all. xx