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Hello Bolivia. After all that planning I’m here. The excitement of being where I said I would be is almost unsettling. I wonder what this land with cities in the clouds will hold. What am I doing here? What should I be doing here? For who? For what? Why? Slowly. I need to just take it all in first. The rest will come later. As with altitude – it’s always good to ascend slowly.
A year is a long time; I better not waste it. What would waste be though, really? No matter what happens, it would be hard to ever see this year as a waste. I won’t.
We celebrate being Bolivia with a bottle of Bolivian wine and beer in the central plaza of Tarija. The beer tastes as sweet as cola. The wine is a little worse than Corbans White Label for $9.99 on sale at Foodtown. I’m not complaining, I don’t mind Corbans when it’s on sale. The altitude gets me tipsy, faster than usual at least. Cheers. We made it. Hello Bolivia.
A couple of street kids come up and ask for money. Hello Bolivia, I remember Kenya. The paradox of our celebration and their lives is not so sweet. Those feelings everyone gets when in a developing country come rushing in. The inequality, the privilege, how lucky we really are, and the stories you tell yourself to make it okay. It’s never okay. That’s not to say I’m not able to feel okay. Carrying a Macpac of guilt won’t help anyone. It’s the story that matters, always the story. I just need to work on my own story. That’s what I’ll do with my year, work out the story I want to tell myself. Figure out how I’ll make it okay.
Time I get started in this land of a lot of white cloud. Hello Bolivia.
Every river, swimming pool and fountain I’ve seen in Argentina has been dry. So when we met up with Lauren and James for a week, my only requirement was water. Tick. The tree frog (Lauren), the wolf (James), the elephant and the cheetah set off for Mina Clavero after a couple of uninspiring days in Cordoba (except for the best coffee in Argentina at Victoria cafe and some dinosaur bones at a museum).
Lauren and I knew the limitations of looking for accommodation with the boys, so we left them with a bottle of Quilmes and headed down the road in search of a deal. With Lauren’s spanish we landed a private cabin/house, Los Angeles, for a week at a price that was cheaper than a hostel. Swimming pool, our own bedroom, bathroom and a kitchen. Absolute luxury.
Hanging in Mina Clavero was our little summer holiday. A holiday from travel if you like. We were able to cook our own meals (finally a rest from cheese), shower without jandals, hang clothes on a washing line and unpack the pack! Like I said, luxury. And a ten minute walk away from us was a beautiful rocky river, dotted with private swimming holes, small rapids and mountain views in the background.
No trip to the river was complete without a guided tour by my favourite dog ever (don’t be fooled by the little affection I usually have for dogs). The first day he guided us through the rocky terrain, protected me from a snake (yes I freaked out a tad) and then showed us a beautiful place to swim – muy linda. I called him Spike, what a dog.
- Spike and James
The next trip to the river was a little more exhilarating. We found Spike again and he proceeded to risk his life to show us where not to swim. I can’t do it justice so will leave Bevan to tell the tale in his blog but basically we found a new swimming hole and were wondering how strong the current was. Spike jumped in and his doggy paddle couldn’t battle the current. James jumped in to save Spike and the two of them ended with a ride down a pretty decently sized rapid. Both were shaken but unharmed except for James’ sunnies that are still somewhere in the rapid.
Yes, the current was too strong.
We all loved Mina Clavero and the lady running Los Angeles. We called her Mum, she gave us angels when we left and we gave her flowers.
My memories of Mina Clavero are: buckets of ice-cream, a group obsession with iPod solitaire, an epic dice game tournament, sunburn, Museum Rogen and its random collection of everything (eg. a shrunken head, an old x-ray machine, insect taxonomy), me kicking-butt at air hockey, instant coffee and porridge for four in the mornings, the boys making friends with whoever sold them Quilmes, gin and tonic with lemon, winning the bet on how long the bus will take to arrive after our freezing 10km condor walk through clouds and Spike.
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Sweating wine is something I’ve got used to now, you just have to in the north. Heading to northern Argentina has meant getting used to red wine and heat. Though not commonly welcome companions of myself or each other I have been savouring bits of both.
The first of many 'animal power' shots
Water and more water
Iguacu Falls was just as grandiose as expected. The sheer magnitude of the spray from the falls is hard to believe (in fact Hester didn’t believe me at first). The park itself felt somewhat Disneyland-ish. To get around you a ride in a mini-faux-train, there are paved streets, the staff wear a jungle costumes/uniforms, there are rides and the tourists walk around smoking or eating. I’m not really sure it deserves the name ‘national park’. It is still a national wonder and the afternoon downpour was certainly appreciated given the intense humidity in Iguacu, the contrast reminded me of Auckland.
Salta
Salta was where I decided that we should really start observing siesta. The shops aren’t just closing for fun. Doing anything just isn’t worth the fluid you have to give for it.
Our hostel in Salta suited the four of us and we definitely let our ‘animal powers’ out by night (and day) too. It was a nice place to chill. The All Blacks were playing. Watching the ABs is always fun, probably more so when everyone thinks the sport is a bit whack.
The bike ride
¨50kms…that will be easy as. I’ve run 42.2, so riding 50km will be sweet as.¨ These were my famous last words. The blatantly obvious factors I didn’t consider in the lead up to this 50km ride:
- It was a desert
- We were riding during the hottest part of the day
- Each person will need a lot more than 1.25 litres of water
- I’ve not ridden a bike for 4 years
- No matter how much you wish it, there will not be a stall selling a cold Coke anywhere
- My skin colour is literally blanco (as confirmed by the lady in the chemist when asking for after-sun)
The 50km ride back from Garganta del Diablo was stunning. 50kms of colourful canyons, the Andes and real cactus all around you. But it was tough. Really tough. Tougher than the marathon this year. Pretty damn satisfying too. I thought the last 10km would be easy, but the dehydration was really settling in for all of us then. The light at the end of the tunnel finally came in the form of a gas station 2kms from town. I won’t forget the image of Bevan’s white face and shrivelled and crusted lips when I came out of the station with some water. We all helped each other through it and there were a few tears of happiness and relief at the end (although I’m not sure where the body found any fluid to do so). What a team.
Northern Argentina has introduced me to some bigger bugs (of the outdoor rather than bed variety), more sweat than I believed possible, bike riding, red wine and locre.
We will be in and around Cordoba for the next week or so before finally heading up to Bolivia. We’ve had to farewell the anaconda (Rachael) and otter (Hester) until Christmas.
Note to Bolivia 