I feel Bolivian but then again, nup.

Some thoughts I got excited about yesterday:

a) Although here in Sucre there was a very large protest going on in the plaza: firecrackers (LOTS of them), very VERY loud and clear speakers and music, and marching all over the shop, when Fiona and I ran into Sarah, a friend of mine from Cochas on a balcony of a bar overlooking said plaza we didn't even mention the mayhem in the street. That's an exciting concept - being such a part of a country that you don't acknowledge things that wouldn't happen in your own countries. (Of course, how much a part of which part of the country is up for question as I sit somewhat languidly sipping beer in a fancy bar on the balcony *starts talking in a toffee English colonialist accent* overlooking the masses)

b) Having been invited to have drinks later that evening with said friend it didn't occur to us to specify a time. This is very Bolivian, given that Bolivian timekeeping is famous for it's non-existence. I feel at home with this concept now. Nice one.

c) I forget the third one. But an exciting thing today is that our tea and coffee con leche, along with two cheese pastels cost only B6.50. And the smile on the girl serving us was worth at least two more B. The Sucre marketplace is actually quite clean, as noted in The Book, adding it to the suggestion that Sucre is a very clean city. "The Book" seems to have played a joke on everyone reading its Sucre pages with mistakes that outnumber all the others in the entire edition (tall order) but it rings true here.

Potosi tomorrow to witness the horrid conditions of thousands in the mines (a national tourist attraction!! Whee!) kept in motion by the powers that need the poor to feed the rich.

And photos soon, I promise!

Oh man. Four responses to my blog and NObody thought to point out that the Jewel of Bolivia has more than four popularly used names, even though one of it's names is "The City of Four Names"? Sheesh.

White, after wet after wild after white.

Sucre, the Athens of America, the City of Four Names, the Cradle of Liberty, the White City of the Americas, Sucre. Boy howdy, it sure is white! And the prettiness that everyone rattles on about is due, surely to this whitewashed city. The streets are fairly spotless, the gardens are exquisite and there's a lot of interesting achichechure to google at (see, I can use that word without any reference to the one with a capital "G" even though I just referenced it...)





I wonder however how much of this "whitewash", a typical phrase for nastiness swept under the carpet, is facading the reality. Afterall, T.I.B. (This Is Bolivia) and it's poverty can't just be non-existent just because the buildings are coloured white. In fact, poverty there is: our new amigos, Julio and Rodriegez - two cute little chewing gum sellers - wolfed down their meals we bought them yesterday, chicken bones sucked as white as Sucre, almost licking their plates while they chatted gaily and interestedly about Australia, their homes in the university grounds, our favourite Bolivian soccer teams, Pirates of the Carribean 3. And racism and classism runs clear and true here as in anywhere in Bolivia and indeed anywhere in the world - poor little 8 year old Rodregez couldn't eat his meal today because he was too scared of the very well-dressed arsehole who roared at them to get out of the dining room (an open market-style food court) when they were clearly sitting with us, and having a fine old conversation. We told him the boys were our friends and were here to dine with us, but I wish I had the Spanish to have been able to challenge HIS right to be there more than our friends. Makes me want to swear... *takes deep breath and it passes* Rod wolfed down when we got it out of him from Julio (12) why he was trying to surrepticiously hide under the table, and assured him that we could "take that jerk" and not to worry. Talking about the dinosaurs cheered them up somewhat.





And so Sucre - we've been here since Tuesday morning and its tranquilo pace (strange, since we're back in the Occident, where although we feel more at home is supposed to be much more stressfully busy and unfriendly) is giving us reason to stay a few more days, then visit Potosi's stark contrast, and then hotfoot it to Cbba for Luke's wedding.




Before landing in Whiteland, Fiona and I spent a specki 5 days cruising up the river, the Mamore River to be exact, from Trinidad to Guayaramarin. A variety of animals and the tranquility of the neverending scenery was only slightly interrupted by the nagging knowledge that we were towing tonnes of petrolium on our little tugboat. Oh well, nobody's perfect. Trinidad upwards we found an incredible habit of the younger portions of the population to ride interminably around and around the plaza on their motos (motorcycles). Fiona thought it was more amusing than I did, me being a killjoy and vilifying their disgusting waste of fossil fuels. They'd be much more comphy on a bicycle...



Guayaramerin (in the north of Bolivia just below the Pando region (I must take a horse to the Pando just for the sake of being in "The Pando!")) was hot, of course, being close to the Equator, low in the altitude and the jungle just across the river, as is Brazil. We could see Brazil from the water's edge and most of the day yesterday as we meandered down the border river watching Pink River Dolphins (by the hundreds!), monkeys, a plethora of beautiful birds and just the serenity and diversity of both countries' jungle edge.



Bloody glad on the other hand to be able to walk 10 steps in a straight line and have a beer and some ice cream and some fruit and some water and some chocolate and some more beer. Dry land with shops have a lot going for it.



Yesterday we went to the site of the largest collection of fossilised dinosour footprints in the world. Over 5000 tracks set in the wall (as it is now - techtonic plate movement giving the lake bed a nudge upward) of a concrete company's mining site. The tour operator told us that it was lucky they found magnesium in the rocks otherwise they'd have just blown up that wall as well. Anyhow, the place was incredibly high quality tourist development by Bolivian standards, and again, photos will ensue when we get back to Cochas and my camera photo transfer cable.

Oh, and the jesuit missionary circuit was a boon and a bore at various times. More about that another day.

A quiet ride back to town from the schoolhouse...

Is it fate? Is it stupidity? No se. Pero Fiona and I found ourselves (after 2 hours in a taxi along the most wonderfully scenic countryside and remote mountains) outside the schoolhouse in the middle of nowhere, where Che Guevara and two comrades were summarily executed. As many of you may already know, I was not going to view, or even venture near the places that were most morbid and too sad for me, including the laundry of the local hospital here in Vallegrande, where his body was brought and put on show like a big fish, the trail of his final push including the river crossing where many of his right hand men and woman (Tania Bunke) met their end and he was captured, and the schoolhouse where he was jailed and shot. I looked at the schoolhouse as I stood outside it, now a information centre of the whole affair, and knew it was where it all happened (even though we had thought it was some miles from the town we'd just arrived in, La Higuera). In fact I read it on the wall -something like "This is the schoolhouse where Che Guevara was held and later executed". Not sure how I missed my resolve to not experience this period of his life, and not sure why I crossed the threshold. Inside was the picture of Che that perhaps I feel worse about than his many depressing photographs as a dead man being propped up by Bolivian military for show and tell - it is a photo of his bent and apparently defeated self, head bowed, being led in shackles before being shot. I had been under the impression that he and his comrades had been killed outside the schoolhouse but when I walked inside I had the destinct impression that it smelled like death. I think I was still under the nearing delusional impression that I wasn't at his site of death. When Fiona read on the wall that he was in fact killed IN the room in which we were standing and clarified that with the curator of the building, I finally came to and said "NO! No puedo quedar aqui (No, I can't stay here)" and made a beeline for the door bursting into the sunlight, with the very emotional knowledge that Che couldn't do that. And perhaps - and I hope this is true for many revolutionary comrades - my being able to leave that place was a sign that it is we who can continue his dream of a free world, a fair world, a fight for justice and peace.

"Patria o muerta!" (Which to me translates to "A fair and equal planet or death!")

Then had dinner in a restaurant tonight that, while not unlike all the other outlets in this town in displaying Che and exploiting his image, including one's of him dead, had giant artistic paintings depicting his dead body on the walls, copies of the classic photos you might find in books and things... I found this particularly disturbing and distasteful and tried to express my views to the owner, who was receptive but appeared surprised. I don't think she gets too many complaints...

Just working out where to go next. We both agree that it should be far, far from this little depressing neck of the woods.

And due to popular demand no puedo... I can't download photos, I just realised now, because my cable is in Cochabamba. Perhaps this nice woman who runs this internet place (not the fodden extorcionista in Samaipata!!! Be warned!) will have one.

Weather reflecting my mood so close to Che's demise.

Yeah. So we're freezing our proverbials orf in Vallegrande. Know where that is? It's the main town in the region of Señor Ernesto Che Guevara's last stand. I didn't want to come here initially due to the whole finality of his living years being so starkly commemorated around these parts, and certainly can't see myself going to the school he was shot outside of, the hospital where he was taken after they cut off his hands to avoid identification, or the airstrip under which he was buried but there is a very large (taller than the whole of me!) bust of Che, a monument in the little town where the hospital and school are so I want to see that at least.

We're staying, luckily, at a hotel for 15B each with a big private balcony looking over the pretty pretty plaza. Yay.

As noted, Fiona and I ventured into the Amboro National Park for some wildlife viewing and it was bloody cold there too. Janice and all will be happy to know I'm keeping up the tradition of doing stupid things around water... we had to wade waist deep (just passing the low of my jocks for me) through a river to continue our hike on day two of the three day trek - not a blue spot in the sky to be seen - and I predictably found a spot in the riverbed that sloped down, down, down... and I lost my fodden left sandal. This was one half of a pair I'd bought just days before leaving Cochabamba, a rubber tyre-made pair popular among the poorer Bolivians and specially made for me (size 46). I had to take off the top half of my clothing as well to wade deep, deep, deep in the less than warm (read: c-c-c-cold) waters sifting through the sand to rescue it. I didn't, but I found a complete set of kitchen knifes down there - not really but I couldn't believe I found another thong, a girly right-footed one about half my size that I finished the slippery rockhopping hike with. Bloody. Then on our way back, at the river after the water had settled and we could see the bottom again, did I see my sandal at the bottom? No, I saw the other half of the girly pair. Bugger! So at least I had the left size 6 girly sandal to wear on my left foot. Photos to follow.

It was sunny today but yesterday's weather was shithouse. However the drives to the prettiest towns ever are very pleasant and viewsome and everyone is very friendly around these parts.

After this we might find ourselves on a riverboat tour to Trinidad. Vamos a ver.

Chau, busting to go to the baño!!

Love yas, Michael.