Not Everyone's An Electrician

A little Bolivian innovation was at work in the hotel bathroom in Potosi.

The shower was right next to an electrical outlet. We all know that's a bad idea, right?

Lucky for me, someone fixed the situation.

Offline

I'm off the grid, somewhere in the Bolivian salt flats near Uyuni. I've left you a few things to read while I'm gone and should be back in the afternoon on January 7th.

Mines of Potosi

Potosi was once a huge city, home to much of the silver that was taken away by the Spanish Empire. The silver comes from a mountain that overlooks the town, supposedly discovered by a man chasing a runaway llama. Silver is still mined there today, by workers using their hands, a few crude tools, and some dynamite.

The air can be toxic, the hours are long, and many of the miners don't live past their forties.

But we were in Potosi and checking out the mines is a highlight of Bolivia. So off we went.

First stop was to rent gear. About 9 tourists, including me, were decked out in rubber boots, rain pants, plastic coats, and hard hats.

The next stop was to buy presents for the miners. It's traditional to give them cookies, soda, and dynamite in exchange for them showing us how to mine.

Yes, I bought dynamite.

And then we went to the mines.

After being fitted with headlamp, we walked into an opening in the side of the mountain.

And sloshed through mud, ducked under rocks, and scrambled along sloping rocky pathways.

The tour guide would yell out names of some miners. They'd answer from a distance, then we'd go and find them. Then miners were hammering away at rocks, which they'd hand to a small kid, who would examine them and put them into a sack.

These guys have it rough. They pound away at rocks for a living, while breathing asbestos, acetylene gas, or silica. They drag these rocks out of the mountain and sometimes get hurt and have to drag themselves. It's a living, I guess, but it didn't look like much fun.

Here are some photos of the mines at Potosi.

Party in Potosi

I'm on a small group expedition with a company called GAP. Long-time readers might recognize this company as the one that I went to Antarctica with. They aren't my favorite company for this sort of travel—that honor is split between Intrepid and Dragoman. But they are cheapish and the timing was right.

The itinerary goes: La Paz, Sucre, Potosi, Uyuni, La Paz. Then I'm on my own, bussing it over to Lake Titicaca before flying up to Cuzco, then via Lima to home.

I'm kind of here because I felt lame for not going anywhere new in 2008 (I'd been to Colombia and the Grand Canyon before), kind of here because ERH keeps badgering me about Strip Passport, kind of here because I'd never been to Bolivia, and kind of here because I had such a horrible New Year's Eve last year that I didn't want to acknowledge New Year's Eve, much less live through it.

Nevertheless. the calendar marches on in Bolivia much as it does in New York.

And here is how they celebrate in Potosi.

Over the Hill and Far Away

To Potosi we go!

After my shoe repair emergency in Sucre, we loaded out bags and selves into three taxis and headed out for the three hour drive to the silver mining town of Potosi.

Our trip leader and two others were put into a taxi that was a "super-saloon."



Super-saloon. Huh? What am I missing?

But I got to go in the dinosaur taxi.



The road was the reason Dramamine was invented. We squiggled up over the hill, our driver munching on coca leaves the whole time. I sat in the front and tried not to turn around when I spoke to the two passengers in the back.

"Eyes on the horizon."

I hadn't taken any Dramamine.

We passed an elaborate bridge called Point Sucre, stopped for a potty break once, and pulled into Potosi at lunchtime.

And the skies opened up.

Night On the Town

I struggle with group meals. Everyone argues over the bills and the service takes forever.

Last night, I tagged along with the group. And just after we left the hotel in Potosi, the rain started.

And got harder. And harder. But the time we got near the plaza, thunder and lightning kicked in.

"It's only three more blocks," said the trip leader.

"I'm out. To hell with it. I'm going in the next place I see," I said. I veered off.

The next place I saw was an Internet cafe. And the rain was pouring down. And then the floods started. I sat down and made myself comfortable. I wasn't going anywhere for some time.

Emergencia de Shoe

"I think my shoe just broke."

I was walking around Sucre with Hey-There, whose real name is Heather, but the Bolivians can't seem to say Heather so she's become Hey-There. And my sandal was suddenly quite loose.

I stopped and looked down. The top strap had detached from the sole. Flop-flop. Crap.

Maybe I can get some flip-flops.

We passed a Bata shoestore, closed for New Year's Day. "Maybe tomorrow."

But then I had a thought. Maybe I could get it fixed.

"Zapateria repardo?" I queried the woman at the front desk at the hotel, butchering the Spanish language.

She gave me a map and marked two shoe repair places on it. And the next morning, Hey-There and I wandered up the street to the shoe repair guy. He'd just opened and he smiled as I barged in with a loud "Buenos Dias."

I showed him my broken sandal.

"No, no..."

He spoke to me in Spanish way beyond my capabilities and then he pointed up the street.

Okay. We'll go up the street.

I asked him to mark the spot on the map, which he did. I tucked my sandal back under my arm—I'd figured a poor wee gringa with a broken sandal in plain sight would be more sympathetic than a gringa with a shoe in a bag—and off we went to the spot he'd marked on the map. One block up and one block over.

And there on the corner, in the sun, sat a man with an industrial sewing machine, surrounded by shoes.

I handed him my sandal. He punched a few holes in it and sewed it up with a needle and some cord. It took him about 40 seconds.

"Dos Bolivianos."

Twenty-eight cents.

A Bit of Serious Paleontology

"How can I put this?"

Our trip leader, Paul, hesitated.

It's a little... cheesy."

That's it. I'm going. I'm going to see the dinosaur footprints at Parque Cretacico. Bring on the cheese.

Four other tourists on my small group expedition—there are 8 passengers and a leader—and I piled into a single taxi ("Mega-sore-ass" quipped the sweet young Aussie man) and off we went to see the dinosaur footprints.

The taxi driver was a reasonable adult, and he didn't sneer at our giggling over stuffing four into the back seat. But he did look puzzled when he pulled up to a concrete factory and we wouldn't get out.

"That's not a dinosaur park. That's a concrete factory."

"He's taken us to the wrong place."

I got out and spoke to a concrete factory security guard who waved up a hill.

"Si, si, Parque Cretacico."

Hmmm.

"Apparently this is the right place."

But look, would you have believed it?



The security guard dropped the chain over the driveway and we drove up the hill to the dinosaur park.

Oh, cheese!

Plastic dinosaurs galore! I was in heaven.

"But they aren't roaring. The guidebook promised roaring."

On cue, the dinosaurs started roaring loudly. I quickly switched my camera to video mode. Give me time.

At the top was a viewpoint over a quarry of dinosaur footprints. It was across a ditch—you couldn't go up to them. Nevertheless, how cool to stand over dinosaur footprints.

More photos here.

Cerrado

Today in Sucre, Bolivia, I:

-almost stepped in doo-doo.

-narrowly avoided broken glass (a result of last night's parties, which included the most fireworks I've ever heard and a marching band that started marching at midnight and last passed my hotel at 8:30 a.m.).

-broke a sandal. Searched for a shoe repair man but he was closed for New Year's Day.

-tried to go to some museums, but they were closed for New Year's Day.

-wanted to eat at "La Posada," but it was closed for New Year's Day.

-tried to see some churches. But even they were closed for New Year's Day.

-climbed up a steep hill to see a panoramic view of the whitewashed buildings of Sucre, Bolivia. It's a UNESCO World Heritage Site, you know. And since it's outside, it wasn't closed.

Click here to see some of my photos of Sucre, Bolivia. The outside, I mean, since museums and cultural stops were off the table.

Greetings from Bolivia

"Follow me," said the guard at Bolivian passport control. Or rather, he motioned for me to folllow him. I reclaimed my pen that had just been borrowed by a Swede, leaving him with a half-blank customs form. I followed the uniformed official to a booth.

"135 dollars," said the visa officer behind the counter.

I tore open one of the envelopes I'd sealed at home, the one l'd labelled "Bolivia visa fee," and handed $135 to the man along with my passport. And yellow fever card, which he ignored.

"But the visa is good for five years," he said apologetically, obviously used to American tourists complaining about the high fee. I hadn't even rolled my eyes, having known in advance about the high price of admission to Bolivia.

I thought for a second.

"But the passport expires in 2010. What good is a 5-year visa in a 2-year passport?" I smiled. He laughed in response.

"Sign here," he said, handing me a thick ballpoint pen that bore a large white Viagra ® label.

I signed. Territorially—just as I'd watched the Swede with my pen—he kept a close eye on his Viagra ® pride and joy. I placed it on the counter. His hand snaked out and grabbed it. Pens have a way of disappearing.

"Welcome to Bolivia," said the visa officer, cheerfully waving his Viagra ® pen at me as I headed through the gate into his country.