It suddenly dawned on me in Northern Argentina that I'm seriously running out of time. Returning early May leaves me just over two weeks to wax. While most would see that as a long summer holiday, it suddenly dawned on me how much I'd like to see while I'm this far from home. Like two whole countries, and namely catching dawn over magical Machu Piccu in Peru before I jet.
So instead of faff about everywhere I go, I decided to begin a 'by day look around, by night bus' theme. So as soon as I arrived in Sucre I booked my seat aboard the nightbus that night to Santa Cruz. I left my bag and turds in the care of the local Hostel International and set off to see what was on in Sucre.
I stomped through a ropey neighbourhood, filled with unfriendly canines, and dug out the centre and a fantastic market. Want fluorescent pink vegetables? A bag of Chickens feet? American pie 3, 4 & 5 on one Dvd? A tonne of gravel? Dried red and black corn on the cob? Sucre is your place. Plus the market sounds were ace too. Someone upstairs played recorder out of time to the chicken choppers chopping, more than one tinny radio blared news in Espanol, and near and distant voices filled the spaces in between.
Against all conventional supermarket psychology, the bloody meat stalls were located opposite fresh flowers. But it didn't put anyone off. Again I met the no-you-can't-photograph-us thing, and as usual it felt like stealing if I photographed without consent. It started to feel as though, though Bo was visually bo, I might here with a with a cack selection of photos.
Outside in the terracotta tiled centro I'm surprised by Sucre's beauty. Surrounded by low mountains, this clearly colonial town was the old capital of Bolivia, and while today La Paz has the lion's share of power, Sucre still holds on to some of the Governmental control. It certainly still feels like a reassured seat of power.
There seems to be a different huge, white-washed church on every other corner, all closed today, and a museum on every other, also closed. So instead of culture myself, I pant my way up to a mirador (viewpoint) and stomp to a cliché tourist market atop one of Sucre's skirting hills. I settle into a café and take in a chewy freshly squeezed oj, lemon & pineapple and an iced cappuccino. I kick bacl and soak in the smooth soul music, which occasionally forays into a genre I've never heard before, I believe known as 'sax fuelled porno soundtrack'.
For the greater good, the stereo is muted and a 3-piece Bolivian band in traditional threads play a set for the 4 filled tables. An old giffer plays a mandolin style geetar & drops suspect vocals, his 15 year old daughter bangs a drum, shakes shells on a rope and blows mini panpipes all at once, and his 17 year old son plas flute and throwing sultry looks. Albeit mediocre, it has a haunting charm, as though it's exactly what would get your neck hair standing if you heard it tromping through the Bolivian mountains. I blaze a few shots on the big gun and leave paper tip. Afterwards father, who introduces himself as Pedro, asks if he can practice his English with me.
Off he goes, returning shortly after in his civvies. We spend a good hour talking in Spanglish about his 10 kids, dead wife (a moment that couldn't have been more Borat) and the fact that he's never been out of Bolivia. We play the point-and-name the face parts game (eye, eyebrow, eyelash, nose, nostril ... etc) in English, Spanish and Quetchua. While I'm good at copying, I forget everything immediately. Before I leave Pedro I walk him to a shop and buy him 2 litres of Coke for his gang, for being a sound fellow.
On the way back to town I stop by one of the churches I'd tried earlier, to see if it was open. It's still locked, but after a little healthy shouting through an ajar door I catch the attention of a cleaner. He lets me in and points me in the direction of the roof. Up top in the bell tower and alone on the domed roof I get fantastic views of Sucre's red tiled city roofs from above. Carma eh? You look after it and it looks after you.
I grab a quick mustard steak sarnie and cevesa and hop in a taxi back to the hostel in time for my bus to Santa Cruz. Arriving punctually at the bus station, with 30 minutes in hand as told, I seem to be the only white again. Locals with woven bags and funky hats are everywhere. Two dogs rut in full view, but I'm the only one amused. As well as my bus ticket, I bumble my way through a massive faff to get a ticket for my bag and a ticket for departure tax. Why have one tickets when you can employ 8 folk to get your three?
Over an hour after arriving we depart Sucre, in the setting sun. Streets buzz with third world street culture and smells. I gaze out of my open window and smile at the touts trying to sell anything they have every time we pull to a stop. The driver puts on a scratchy, stretched out old tape and 5 minutes later it's like someone scratching a blackboard with their nails. Just as I burst open some soft 'crisps', best before Feb 06, the crying baby in front of me shat its pants & stank out the surrounding rows. I manage to clip my bg to my legs and don a tired BA sleep mask under my glasses and drift off into the unconscious abyss.
At 7am the following morning a man and his briefcase climb aboard and make an impassioned, hard sell presentation about how his sachet of powder will improve your life. It's amazing, they're so charismatic. You find yourself with your mp3 player on full so you can't hear them, but keep popping a plug to try and find out what his magic powdery remedy is all about. Plus at 7am, after a bumpy night wedged between a sweaty man and a freezing window, you could sell me anything.
So round 830am, wondering why I rinsed two days budget on a sachet of bullshit, I roll into Santa Cruz bus station. I set about repeating the same pattern, and look into night buses to San Juan, before finding somewhere for a strong coffee cortardo...
Barns
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