It's Sunday morning & I duuno what to do, so I go to Church! Santa Cruz Cathedral, Bolivia. It's been a while since I pulled up a pew in God's house. So while the crowd half-heartedly sing saccharine sweet hymns to acoustic guitars (the same the world around) I knock a wee Prayer skyward...
"Yo G wassup boss! Nice place you got here! I'm feeling the sweeping arches and vaulted ceiling. I like what you've done here. Jesuit chic. Good side lighting when the sun ain't behind the clouds. I'm not sure about the finishing décor though buddy. What's with all these pictures of Jesus looking starved and pained? Yeah yeah, I know that's what happened. But is it really necessary to have 83 variations on one scene? Guided tour: This one's also called 'Jesus in pain'. Make your congregation feel guilty if you like. Oh the Catholics did it? Blame the decorators eh? Tell em to put up a picture of that night Haysoos got mashed with his boys. Yeah, the last supper, that's the puppy! That's a wicked group shot. Say Cheesus! Or that time Jesus got in a fight at Church, flipped a table and hit a rabbit. Rabbi, whatever... I just thing the old picture collection needs a change in emphasis. Get a bit more ying yang. A bit Feng Shui. What do you mean they won't listen to you? Throw a thunderbolt or something! I heard you was omnipotent! I dare ya..."
And so on. A deep and spiritual prayer, cut short when a person who SERIOUSLY needed a shower came and sat next to me.
After the Lord's Prayer, somewhat different to Barn's prayer, folk did that 'give thanks' bit where people shake hands. It was a nice surprise to get a bunch of foreign handshakes and kisses of old ladies with moustaches. I'd forgotten churches did that. S'nice.
When the service was over I was flushed out with the masses into the main square where the churchgoers and general populace mingled. I shot a bunch of snaps of folk relaxing. Shoe shiners chatting, old men reading papers, kids trying to stamp on pigeons.
I saw a sweet old dude with thick glasses and an ancient box camera taking peoples portraits in 'Blanco y Negro'. Using a fascinating old home-made wooden camera on an easel tripod, he'd set everything up under a cloth, then whipped off the lenscap and put it back on, real fast. Oooh, the technology! Then he'd put his hand in a glove into the box and fumble around in tobacco tins of developer until he pulled out a developed negative. He'd then re-photograph the negative on a board and end up with a reversed, or positive, exposure. So for 55p I got my portrait taken, while a drumming army band marched behind me.
It seems something important's going on today. It started with old men gathering round the main square flagpoles to make a meal out of raising three flags. Then traditionally dressed women helped set up flowers and a lectern. Then arrived a man in a suit and sash, flanked with other suited men, one carrying a flag on a pole, the others possibly bodyguards, and a woman who was clearly organising things. Sashman roused the growing crowd with an impassioned fist clenched speech. Afterwards flowers were given and a military band played a few numbers. I bemusedly watched the cymbal player wait expectantly for his part, which he performed with much gusto when it came around. Everyone knows the cymbal player in a band never gets laid.
Then the strangest thing happened. The consulate in the sash asked a traditionally dressed flower girl to dance. She obliged, and they started pulling all sorts of crazy shapes across the square. His second in command grabbed dropped the flagstaff And grabbed the next most attractive flower girl to follow suit. The masses started clapping and before I knew it, they were joining in and making a cancan ring. The politicians looked like they were having a wonderful time.
I asked around to try and find out what the hell was going on and who the guy was. Some said he was a consulate, others the President of Peru. Either way I can't imagine Gordon or Tony B getting down in front of a crowd.
Around the square, the council has an interesting policy to keep folk off the grass in the square. Every tree, flowerbed and green patch is cordoned off with yellow and black stripy tape. Like a crimescene. Extreme, but one thing's for certain, no-one's on't grass.
In town, after a lemon pie ice cream I toy with the idea of getting a haircut. Last time I got a 3rd world haircut up against the linguistic barrier was in northern India, and the 'hairdresser' made me look like a victim of a particularly nasty lobotomy. My last haircut was self styled with children's scissors in Lencois, Brazil, nearly two months ago. The sun has accelerated it's growth since then as it now resembles an unkempt hedge. I'm gonna have to find a parting soon. Outside a Bolivian hair salon wisdom gets the better of me, and I buy a pair of primary school paper scissors next door instead. After all, the closest haircutting instructions in my Spanish lexicon are 'big' and 'small'.
After a stroll, a bosh on't net, ascending the church tower, a crap sarnie and a scan of the tourist market tat I'm heading back to the bus station for another nightbus. Running behind again I get to watch 70% of Back To The Future 2 in Spanish, which has impressively accurate overdub casting.
Sat aboard the bus, hawkers squeeze up the bus selling plastic cups of ugly coloured jelly and kareoke dvds. I'm pleased to find both windows by my seat are openable - a rare delight. The smell from outside has that dusty, dry, bbq aroma that reminds me of Asia. Some cheerful Brazilians at the back start singing and locals call 'Vamos' to the driver through cupped hands. These buses are a definite gear change from Argentina. Like accidentally slipping it into reverse at 70 on a motorway. But I love em, cos they brim with character and remind you how far you are from home.
As we pull away I clock I am the only Westerner aboard. I introduce myself to my unlucky seatmate (two nightbuses, no shower...), he's called Christoph and he thinks I'm called Benitol. Sounds like a cough syrup. To a minor extent, I'm cutting my own path out here. Far Eastern Bolivia gets a minimal write up in the ol' Shoestring LP. I've only met seven tourists on the endless buses out East.
The traditional, well-worn Bolivian Backpacker Circuit (BBC?) includes a 4 day tour of the Uyuni salt plains in the South (including clever perspective photos on the white canvas), a claustrophobic trip down the working Potosi mines, a wander round colonial Sucre, a trip to La Pampas to voluntarily offering your body up to the jungle mosquitoes, a week in La Paz getting altitude sickness and then cycling the road of death and a trip to Lake Titicaca.
They're the highlights - for good reason - but as y'all know I'm a bit of a Jesuit Ruin freak, and there are some ace ones in Eastern Bolivia.
Barnster
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