"Don't Stop Bolivian" by Hans

If you’ve ever regarded the melancholy colors of late sunset, pondering the lost and broken things in life, and in the all-encompassing discretion of the twilight allowed your soul unchained to scream “Why?! Why!? Why is there nothing, no video game or real-life experience which marries the high-stakes adrenaline of Frogger to the rapid-fire spatial reckoning of Tetris!!?” then Aaron, Sheldon and I have come to give you peace. The Peace. La Paz. The traffic of La Paz, specifically. A maelstrom and a geometry exam, all in one, it can be formidable.

And one crisp Tuesday morning, it was over. We climbed into the car, steeled our nerves, and left the city. Somehow, it was easy. Almost too easy. I’m not a superstitious man, but it was so easy it almost resulted in a sense of foreboding.

Our drive that day, other than easy traffic in La Paz, included the following: a group of vagrants (I assume: I was manning the wheel, not watching the underpass) who began to bellow at us as we passed through an intersection next to their underpass, a large, manically maneuvering bus that followed us into a merging situation, going 34,000,012 kph (21,126,626 mph for anyone who can’t do the math mentally), forced us into the wrong lane, then couldn’t pass us, then honked in outrage when it passed us later as we switched drivers on the side of the road. And then the coup de grace; we were detained by an angry young policeman who was very upset with us, and unfortunately did not seem to speak any language at all, in favor of an almost-Spanish mumble-slur-growl, which he delivered to us in outraged expostulation three times, each time ending by striding pompously to the middle of the road. In the end, we don’t know what he wanted, because he gave up, and let us go. We theorize that he was looking for a bribe, but several times when Aaron explicitly asked “What is it you need?”  he made indecipherable noises at us. Quizzical is a fine word to use to describe our feelings.

Thanks to a unexpected attack of three-hours-of-dirt-roads-through-mountains, we bogged down, and were obliged to spend the night in a tiny village high in the mountains. On our way to the village, we spent 45 minutes listening to NPR’s Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me--probably the group’s favorite in-car activity--while a pair of bulldozers the same size as the ones they use to build mountain ranges messed around with the dirt road. Also, the hostel owner told us that he’s had visitors from North Korea, which we think was a lie.

The next day started well. We were rattling down the road, enjoying our new fuel pump and a retrospective play list of popular Christian rock tunes from our childhood when a man emerged from a small thicket of humanity beside the road and flagged for a ride. Noting the presence of what appeared to be an inoperable taxi beside his little thicket of people, we pulled over.

“How many?” we asked.
“Four.” he said.
“We can only take two.” we said.
“Oh, no, we’ll fit.” He said.
“No.” we said.
Actions speak louder than words. We used the word ’no,’ but he and his confederates made use of the more convincing action ’yes.’ The whole forest of person began to ripple and move, and we experienced emotions similar to those of Macbeth when he realized that an actual forest was moving, bringing with it his doom. In our case, we realized that four people were coming at our car. Four adults, that is. Plus six children. Plus two large bags, a small bag, a kettle of boiled potatoes, a yellow propane tank, and the odor of goat, more pungent and goatlike than any real goat I have ever encountered. Sheldon was engulfed and submerged, I was shoved into the center column, where I was obliged to share space with the shifter, the emergency break and the four-wheel drive control. Just behind me, floating on a cloud of goat, a small child was playing that game where you cough, and then cough again, and then you let a blob of snot the size of Godzilla slowly emerge from your nose, and when it’s approximately an inch down your upper lip, you suck it back in with a sound this chronicler can only describe as “Bubonic Plague”

Two hours later, about an hour after we discovered that their first statement of where they wanted to be dropped off was a disingenuous maneuver to get in the car, we reached a crisis point, in a village without gasoline. We told them--honestly--that we had enough gas to get three people into town, but not enough to transport thirteen. After some discussion, they decided to remain behind. So they took their kettle of boiled potatoes, their two large bags, their small bag, and leaving only the odor of goat, they disembarked, and we went off in something of a huff.

The huff proved temporarily inescapable. Thirty minutes down the road, on the very cusp of reaching Sucre, we found the road impassably filled with seemingly dead trucks. Investigating, we discovered that the truckers of Sucre were on strike--no one knew why, and that it would be at least four hours before the trucks moved. We investigated alternative routes, we baked in the sun, and we at last conceded that there was no hope of alternative passage, as we’d been told by a hopeless policeman, and a slew of women, gnawing globs of coca leaves and nodding at each other like a congress of Solomons.

Surprisingly, instead of their projected 7 pm, the behemoths lumbered from our path at about 5:30, allowing us the freedom to stumble into what is, in my severely limited experience, the nicest city in Bolivia. Our experiences there were uniformly pleasant, and clean, and untroubled by the incessant hang-ups and bizarre obstacles that seem to compose a great deal of Bolivian life. Except for having to wake up at six AM every morning to move the car to a different part of town.

After two whole days of refreshment, good food, a cheap city tour from a Swiss man named Michael, and one painful incident in which a street-vending sunglasses salesperson decided Aaron and I had been looking too long without any cash having changed hands, and chased us away with abrupt, angry cries, we departed for the Argentine border, thinking happy thoughts, and fairly content that the worst of Bolivia’s infrastructural arthritis was behind us.

For the record, we’d also have told you that the glass was half full.

YOLO: You Oughtta Look Out for how cool these pics are: by Aaron

Because every good blog post should start with women like this...

It was one dollar.  And it even came with a complementary war bond.

 There was a man in La Paz who would stand on a pedestal and fly his hawks and falcons all over the city.  Unfortunately, this is a picture of a statue and a pigeon   What's really too bad is that the other man doesn't even exist.

 Right before our ride down "The World's Most Dangerous Road".  We were really scared.

 I knew he wasn't dead...

 Sucre, Bolivia.  I think this is the building that the Treaty of Versailles was signed in.

 Sucre also has really nice monuments.  This town shouldn't have been in Bolivia.  It was a bit to sparkly and nice.

 Juan, Rafael, and Dervish gave Grizzley the thumbs up sign.  He was victorious.  It was complete. The table was finally his.  Sure it wasn't from Ikea, but after what he had sacrificed it no longer mattered to him.  It was constructed with fine oak and had a glass top.  There were only three legs but he figured he could stack up a lot of books or tobacco cans and it should sit nicely in the kitchen.  Hopefully his wife could make him some fresh raccoon or cat soup.  (This was a favorite game of Grizzley's.  His wife would make a soup and he had to guess whether it was raccoon or cat meat.  Usually it was cat; they had a lot of cat hoarding neighbors.)  Even though he had finally achieved the glorious moment of buying a table, Grizzley felt empty inside.  Empty like a bowl with nothing in it.  Empty like a box with nothing in it.  Empty like the opposite of a room with a lot of stuff in it.  He understood, now, that it was the chase of this "white snail" that had defined him for 6 years.  Now it was over.  Now he had to go back.  But to what?  The only thing he had done before this was a bunch of Sudoku puzzles.  "Well," he though, "I guess I'll burn that bridge when I get to it and throw my wrench in the gears."  And with that, his journey was over.  So he took the grenade, pulled the pin, and threw it into the theater.    

 We stopped at a small museum that had a bunch of trains from around 100 years ago.

 Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid robbed this one.  Seriously, they did.  It was full of money at the time.  We checked around but we think they got it all.

 And then we drove off into the Salt Flats of Uyuni.  Do not confuse these with the Amazon Jungle.  They are very similar but the flora is just a little different.  (These are salt piles for harvesting.)

Hans: I spy with my little eye something that is white.

Me: Is it salt?

Hans: Yes.

If you look carefully, you can see the reflection of a reflection in a reflection.  If only Keanu Reeves would have know because this could have broken the Matrix.

Good ol' St. Pheonix has seen some pretty incredible sights.  Too bad she doesn't have enough work ethic to make her own blog.

I think this is a picture of the Amazon, but like I said, it's hard to tell the difference.

Not the best nights sleep in the tent, but not the worst.  We could have slept on a bed of nails like flagellants   Though there was a lot of flatulence in the tent.

Some dude sold us a shrink ray for around 20 bucks.  Bolivia is so cheap!

First the car...

 Then Sheldon and I got mad at Hans so we shrank...shrinked?...shrunk?....shrunked?...shranked?..ehh, we made him smaller.

 Then Sheldon really got on my nerves...

 Ninja level...salt destroyer!

He held this pose for over 3 hours while we tried to get the perfect picture.

This picture is more fun if you play Jump Around by House of Pain.

 This is a cool picture.  Must I really say something clever for each one?

   Travelling south out of Bolivia we met a prickly friend.  His name is Andy.  He works for AIG as an account and has a cactus wife named Susan and a cacty?...cactis?...cactuses?...cactii?...ehh, he has a family of his own kind.        

                 

                                  Pillar Rock.  I just named it right now.  I'm open to suggestions.

Poor car.  She's seen better days.  But she's just about back home.

Chaos and Unrest in La Paz, by Hans

With the careworn skill of the parent of a toddler, we coaxed St. Phoenix to the Peru/Bolivia border, and that was where the trouble started. Though our Peruvian visas themselves were valid for ninety days, a spherical potentate of a border control agent condescended to alert us of a grave sin we had committed; on our little entry slips, we’d written that we planned to stay in the country for 20 days. In fact, we had blown it, torn it, messed up and perpetrated a floater. It was day 21. There was a fine, he told us, a fine of one American dollar, which we could pay at the bank. Which bank? The one outside. So we tracked down the bank--ten blocks away--and paid our fine. On our return, I stopped off to use a public restroom (.5 solas) and when I rejoined the lads, they told me that the corpulent border emperor had ordered them to make three copies of each passport, along with the receipt from the bank where we had paid our fine.

When we came back to the office with our copies, we discovered that--on account of Aaron displaying frustration when we left to make the copies--we had displeased the rotund demigod of international crossings. We had displeased him, and so nothing could be done for us. We would have to return to Puno, they told us, because Aaron was a bad boy. His highness had tried to help us, but now, nothing could be done.

So Aaron set to beseeching forgiveness, and I put on my best customer-service manners and between us, coming up just short of genuflection, we softened the granite folds of his chins into a look of righteous condescension.

And additional six copies each later, we were back in the sun and the dust and the town, we congratulated ourselves that things would be easier, now. We rolled St. Phoenix across a bridge, pulled up at the Bolivian border offices, and commenced to duel the paperwork. At first, things swam along fantastically; the car papers were no sooner mentioned than complete, we found our visa forms, we filled them out, we asked (although we’d asked before, and changed all our Peruvian money to Bolivianos because we’d been told it was best to pay the visa fee in local currency) if Bolivianos would suffice for the visa. The assembled agents of the crossing regarded us with astonishment. Of course it wouldn’t work. It was a visa fee for American citizens, wasn’t it? Well, then, it must be paid in USD.
So Aaron changed our money to USD in the street, and in the process discovered that the money changers who changed our funds from Peruvian to Bolivian had skimmed $30 off the top, leaving us $8 short. So we ransacked our baggage for any trace of money more, and could find none. In the end, Sheldon and I were obliged to walk back across the bridge, and through the Peruvian town to find an ATM, and withdraw the necessary money to complete the transaction. At last, three hours later, we pulled away from the border.

We reached La Paz with relative ease, having been stopped at checkpoints three times, but only being obliged to bribe a police officer (who pointed out quite reasonably that moon-crater windshields are not permitted in his country),  found a garage for the car, and a hostel for ourselves. The most notable incident of the evening was when we footed the dinner bill for a homeless gentleman who accosted us in a restaurant offering to shine our (unshinable) shoes, and he proceeded to take his dinner out to the sidewalk, and share it with others of low estate. Our hearts, to say the least, were warmed.

Next morning, we tracked down a reputable mechanic, described the symptoms of St. Phoenix’s ailment, and asked if they would mind checking/replacing the fuel pump. After a bit of symptom-confirmation, the friendly old man who was our mechanic unhooked a fuel line from the carburetor, and asked Aaron to start the car. The car rumbled to life. The fuel line gave one great spurt of gasoline, and then subsided into a steady trickle of fuel, all over the top of the engine. Mechanic nodded, then covered the opening with one thumb, as folks do to transform a placid garden hose into a high-pressure shower-stream. About 1 second after he did so, all of the gas he’d been spraying onto the engine erupted in a merry sheet of flames. Sheldon and I, looking on, were not a little disturbed. Mostly because the mechanic, although anyone could have easily predicted that spraying gas all over a running engine will produce an inferno, seemed horribly surprised and all in a fluster. For a moment, he ran about the shop frantically, found a large bucket of water, and came charging back.

I’d always been told that pouring water on fires caused by A) electricity or B) oil was a bad idea. The other mechanics seemed to agree, as they came running, one of them brandishing his beer bottle shouting “No water, no water! Beer!”  A familiar cry, no doubt, from mechanics, but not necessarily when attempting to douse a fire.

But the deed was done. The bucket was flung. The water cascaded all over the battery, and the petroleum fire. And everything went out. And no harm was done. And the mechanic told us that we could pick it up in the morning, new fuel pump and all.

Spending the next morning picking up the car necessitated a certain change in our plans and an extra day in the smoggy clutter of La Paz, but that seemed a small price to pay in return for a more-or-less functional car, so we delightedly agreed. The rest of that day we took advantage of cheap restaurants, caught up on various little bits of bookwork, journaling and blogging, and arranged our Death Road bike tour for Monday morning. To finish off, we ate gyros at a tiny restaurant on the street, sucked down some freshly pressed juice from another stand, and -in my case-stayed up until 4 AM uploading photos to the blog, hindered by slow internet.

Saturday, as a day, is largely lost to my recollection. Other than an uneventful trip to the mechanic’s to pick up St. Phoenix from her surgery (which fixed the sputtering, but left her somewhat anemic) my day was spent twisting upon a bed of sickness, racked by the effects of we-still-know-not-what-but-we-guess-it-was-the-gyros. Aaron and Sheldon did a bit of puttering, a bit of exploring, and a bit of shopping, and brought me back apples to eat when my gastrointestinal system would permit no substance else.

We spent the full next day at Ceja, La Paz’s open-air market. We went there principally hunting after cheap souvenirs, and a certain South American instrument, the Charango. We’d been told that out of all South America, Bolivia’s prices were the best, and out of all Bolivia, there was no place with Charango deals like Ceja. Imagine a sea of small tarp-tent booths stretching literally for miles, up streets, down streets, through alleys, filling plazas and shutting down roundabouts. Hardwear, headwear, footwear, toiletries, pastries, laundry, car-care, second-hand-clothing, furniture, piles of junk, knock-off athletic gear, music…Ceja trounces Wal-Mart in size, options, and low prices (but only on Thursdays and Sundays). After hours of hunting, we found our Charangos, and after several more hours of shopping, we squeezed into a taxi loaded down with plastic bags of Bolivian merchandise.

Next day was the Death Road Tour. We rose at 7:30, and made our way to the touring office, where we ate a pleasant breakfast, and signed one of the most thoroughly binding waivers I’ve laid these luckless peepers ‘pon. It explained, in essence, that if anything went wrong for any reason whatsoever, including negligence of the company, they were absolved of responsibility.

Thanks, we’re sure to your prayers and Providence, we successfully navigated the World’s Most Dangerous Road, first whizzing--no word will fit but ‘whiz’--down 21 k of asphalt in  25 minutes or so, and then spending a number of hours raging--no word but ‘rage’--down the gravel remainder, some 40 k. The ride was bouncy and treacherous, full of large rocks and infinite drop-offs, but the riding was a rush, and when we reached the restaurant at the bottom (they have these things for tourists) we were sweat-drenched and satisfied.

Of canyons and lakes with funny names by Aaron

And just like that the car was not sold.  If you remember from my last post, we had looked into selling good ol’ St. Pheonix to a guide from Cachora named Celestino.  Though not as epically disastrous as the Titanic, I believe our failed attempt at sell the car was on par in the Hindenburg.  Okay, not really.  All it did was delay a day a half.

Anyways, we left Cuzco and headed south for the small town of Chivay.  Chivay is located beside Colca Canyon which is, at it’s deepest,  twice as deep as the Grand Canyon.  I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the Grand Canyon, but speaking from personal experience, I can confirm that whoever named it may not have had a great imagination but they did describe the canyon quite well.  Since we read that Colca Canyon is twice as deep we were really exciting.  We’re talking as excited as the Southwest Illinois Girl Scout troupe finding out they booked the exact same convention hall that is hosting a Justin Bieber and One Direction autograph signing.  Hans was behind the wheel as we honked, squeezed, and caromed our way out of the crazy traffic of Cuzco.  We were cruising, living the dream, wind in our hair, tunes pumping over the speakers.  Well, that may not have been the case.  As a history major, I think it is safe to say that was a bit of revisionist history.  What actually happened was we went a couple hot hours with terrible speakers gurgling our tunes and then the car decided to stop.  It was doing that stupid Whum! Whum! Whum!  We let her cool for a while and clunked up and up and up hills and mountains.  Suddenly we realized that there were no trees and we were cruising along a gravel road above the tree line.  Our Garmin GPS said we were at 4,700 “meters” (roughly 8,000 weasels stacked end to end) above sea level.  It was getting dark and we were glad to see a small town in the distance.  We were less glad when we saw how terrible grungy the town looked but at least we had 3 beds at a hotel.

We went out to eat at a local hang out joint that night and ate soup, rice and alpaca.  After the meal Sheldon mentioned not feeling well and suddenly seemed to pass out.  Thankfully he had not actually passed out but it was a bit scary seeing what the altitude had done to him.  We got him some coco leaved to chew (the locals say it helps) and went back to our room.  It was a fitful night of sleep because, to put it bluntly, being at 15,000 feet is really cold at night.  The next morning we woke up early and got out of dodge as quickly as possible.  By afternoon, after providing a taxi service for a lady, we arrived at Chivay.  It was a little too late to see the canyon so we hung out and ate some incredible fried chicken for $2.  This was a theme in Chivay: eat fried chicken and other amazing food at their outdoor market.  We got up the next morning excited to explore the colossal canyon.  The car chugged up the gravel road with the same effort as a building inspector in Peru.  We finally got to Mirador de los Condors (Lookout of the Condors) and looked down the famed canyon.  We were all a bit disappointed.  Though it was really far down, it wasn’t as far down as we were expecting.  It was kind of like opening a present on Christmas and hoping for pants that were 4,160 meters long but when you looked at them they didn’t looked that long.  We were told that the canyon got deeper the farther you went so we decided to start walking down the road and give St. Phoenix a rest.  Shortly into our walk a French couple picked us up in a new rental car.  We were thankful for the ride and at the same time contemplating if we could “accidentally” push the couple over the edge of the canyon and take their car.  After some discussion we decided it wasn’t a good idea.  We got to a town farther down the canyon and went to some lookouts to see if it was deeper.  It seemed to be  but we still didn’t think it looked ridiculously deep: just really deep.  We took a 3 hour hike back to our car and chugged all the way to Chivay.

Off we chugged, the next morning, to the city of Puno.  Puno is located beside Lake Titicaca and we wanted to explore the world’s highest major lake.  We still couldn’t get over 80 km an hour (just google what that is in miles) but we finally got to the city in the afternoon.  We found a nice hotel where Hans was able to watch FC Barcelona get slaughtered by Beyrn Munich while Sheldon and I took the car the car to a mechanic.  We told the mechanic we thought the fuel pump was bad but since he couldn’t get that part (we assume this because he didn’t tell us much) he just cleaned the carburetor.  We hoped that this was the solution but as we learned later this was about as helpful as a weasel in your sock drawer.  For those of you not informed on a weasel’s habits, one in your sock drawer is far from helpful.  That night we explored the city and found a market that would sell you goat heads.  Not very appetizing but we all agreed they would be great souvenirs for our sisters.

We had booked a tour to take us out to a reed island and a natural island in the middle of thee lake.  In the morning we got up and waited for a guy to pick us up like the tour guide said would happen.  The man was only 20 minutes late but we were relieved he came at all.  We got on the boat with about 20 other people and started out for the open waters of the great Lago Titikaka.  The boat was hardly going at all, however.  We later learned that the boat was made in a way that it could only go about as fast as a…really slow boat.  Great engineering.  After 2 hours we stopped at a reed island.  These islands are made by natives who wanted to stay out in the water and catch fish to sell on the mainland.   The islands are made by taking chunks of reeds, and the dirt below them, and tying them together with more reeds.  Thus, you have your own personal island.  The one we went to was about 100 ft by 100 ft and had its own amusement park with roller coasters.  No, of course not.  It had several huts and some places to buy trinkets.  It was really touristy but still interesting.  The second island we went to was a natural island that was known for its textiles.  When we got their we were surprised at how little textiles their were for sale.  Not much was happening on the island.  Maybe they were getting ready for the UFC fight that night on Fox Sports Net, but I doubt it.  After a great, but more expensive, lunch then we wanted, we hopped back on board the boat and slowly crawled back to land.  The next morning we were hoping to get to La Paz, Bolivia.  This only seemed possible if she gave a better effort than a blind trapeze artist.

Photos: Captioned by Hans, Who Warns You That He Is Sick, and Consequently Not at the Top of His Game.

The three of us, looking our best on the drive from Cuiaba to Cusco.

Our hotel, the night before we entered Peru. As you can see, we stay in only the best.

One view of the city of Cusco. Incas built all that.

They built this, too. Longer ago than that other stuff.

This is the sort of ghastly landscape we've been dealing with. Your sympathy is appreciated.

Some of these terraces were built for purposes of ornamentation. Kind of makes shutters and flower-beds seem less of a pain.

More ornamentation, yo.

Machu Piccu at dawn. Lest you begin to feel inferior on account of the Incas upstaging your cosmetic
landscaping with their terraces, be reminded that these people thought the ideal place to build a city was smack dab on the top of a mountain. You know, just to work extra. 

Here's the view from Machu Piccu Mountain, the unofficial inspiration for  J.R.R Tolkien's Endless Stair. Unlike
LOTR, though, your reward is a fantastic view, not a grim passage through Cair Ungol into the land of fire. 

Inspired, we built this puppy out of LegoTM bricks on a nearby mountaintop. Except we didn't.
More to the point, everyone says to get up early to beat the crowds to the ruins. We got up at 4:30, to find that
no one is as interested in beating the crowds as....the crowds. Afternoon is better.

The Incas did not, in fact, build this. God did. 

This is what happens when you build a bridge five feet above the regular levels of a
tempestuous, flood-prone mountain river. You use the bridge for a year. You use a steel-frame
cable-car contraption after that, and leave the ruins of the bridge as a reminder that in architecture,
as in business, the first three rules are Location, Location, Location. 

Here is a city the Incas built further out, higher up, and less accessibly than Maccu Pichu,
presumably to prove it could be done. 

Sheldon, in front of quite possibly the most impressive ruined building we saw in Peru. 

Here's me, in front of the least-impressive hotel we stayed in in Peru. I'm lashing wood to  the frame of the car
in order to prop up the hood in another futile effort to combat vapor lock.

Choquequirao. Aaron arrives right at the end of the camera timer.

Aaron, who appears to have spotted something less pleasing than Choquequirao's magnificent ruins.

These, also, were for decoration. 

Here we are with Celestino and the horses. All smiles and hopes for selling the car. Except perhaps the horses, who
had done all the climbing for us. 

St. Phoenix, looking her best, over 15,000 feet, on the long ride to Chivay.

Just the roadside scenery. The Incas did not build this.

Colca Canyon. Twice as deep as the grand, but we felt like there was a reason they didn't call it the Grand Colca Canyon.

We take risks. We stand on walls. In front of canyons twice as deep as the Grand Canyon.

And then sometimes, we take too many risks. 

If you can't go around it, just bust a big ol' hole right through it.

Lake Titicaca, with Puno in the background. Those ships were designed to go about 3 miles per hour. We asked, and were informed that the design was such that any attempt to go faster would lead not to acceleration, but just a bigger wave. Sigh.

Aaron, looking happier than Choquequirao in front of an island, a boat, and houses all made from Reeds.

The Andes, showing off from the far shore.

We kept trying to take pictures of La Paz. We kept taking pictures of traffic.

The street outside our hostel. Busy, grimy, and pretty exciting. Less exciting when the hostel plays  10,000 decibel
dance music until 4 AM. But you take the bad with the good.