Buenos dias,
When we last left you we were cleaning our pants after a frightening introduction to La Paz via the dark and cobbled back streets renowned for organ extraction. Thankfully since then our fears regarding keeping our kidneys in place have reduced, athough these have been replaced by plenty of others…….
After gathering ourselves it was off for some La Paz exploration. Was a bit of an effort given the altitude had rendered me out of breath and more brain dead than usual. But we decided to explore the markets; home of an unusual mix of colourful ponchos, llama fetuses and witches peddling potions. Krys was particularly interested in the witches potions and claimed she wanted to find one for long lasting love. I’ve already tried to tell her what potion she needs for that – alcohol. As long as she spends most of her time intoxicated she will continue to find me interesting and tolerable. But she did try in broken Spanish to explain to the witches that she wanted a potion to ensure we have a long and happy relationship. I’m still not sure if the blank stare back from the witch was due to a language barrier, or whether the witch took one look at me and thought ‘if that is what you are dealing with, there is nothing I can do for you except wish you luck’.
That night we went to see a traditional Bolivian show complete with local music and dancing. I didn’t know until we settled in that the dancing would also involve some crowd participation. So sure enough half way through the first dance members of the crowd were pulled up on stage including Krys and myself. I thought I acquitted myself quite well, pulling off a mix of unco-ordinated Vinyl Room two-stepping while awkwardly twirling my little Bolivian dance partner. I still can’t work out if the look on her face was dizziness from too many spins or just pure boredom. Krys also did quite well; although I’m not sure when the lambada became a part of Bolivian culture – gee those Bolivian men sure are friendly. But I thought the true test of our dancing style would be if we were invited back on stage. On comes song two and the Bolivian men almost fight each other to get Krys back up. I feel a rush of self congratulation as my dance partner looks like she is coming back to me, only to see her glide straight by and grab a 60yr old bald man who looked like he’d spent the first dance trying to see under her skirt when she twirled. Obviously I need to refine my dancing to the rhythm of flutes, mouth pipes and wind chimes before Bolivians can truly appreciate my abilities.
Apart from the lack of appreciation Bolivians have for quality dancing, the other thing we have been dealing with is Bolivian roads and their driving. When Bolivians get a new car they have this wonderful notion of a spiritual day when the car is decorated in flowers, driven to a religious town 3hrs away and blessed by a local priest so as to ensure safety. But in reality, this spiritual day is little more than an excuse for the locals to get hammered. We saw this first hand as the spiritual car blessing day co-incided with our trip to Lake Titicaca. Going through the town in the morning, the scene was beautiful; cars buried under elaborate flower displays, priests in robes splashing water about and well dressed families milling around enjoying the weather and the markets. Coming back through the town that afternoon was instead like wandering through a Minto Hotel carpark that had just held a Christmas party for recovering drug addicts and day release prisoners. The men looked disheveled and were only kept upright by poorly constructed alley walls. The ladies now used their beautiful, colourful dresses as impromptu screens for public urination. It was the closest thing you’ll see to a Bolivian day at the horse races. Then due to a mix of perceived divine vehicle protection, and a legal system not quite up to framing legislation around drink driving, they all get in their cars and drive home…….
So not surprisingly, we also got the added bonus of experiencing a car accident Bolivian style. Our driver had pulled up to a speed hump which consisted of little more than a haphazard pile of dirt. Given the ‘home made’ nature of the speed hump it was too high and sharp for 98% of vehicles so our car slowed to a speed even David Boon could beat to try and get over it without leaving both axles and a muffler behind. This was too slow for the van behind us which decided to give us a bit of an inadvertent bump to help get us to the other side. So both cars stop just up the road, our driver gets out and says ‘in Bolivia we don’t like to involve the Police or insurance. We’ll just have a little discussion for a few minutes. Then we’ll be on our way’.
So there is our driver on one side. On the other are the 14 people that piled out of the 8 seater van that hit us. And off it goes; lots of shouting in Spanish (I think I recognised some words from our abusive air hostess). Arms flailing like a bunch of unco-ordinated orchestra conductors on one too many Codral tablets. And 15 people all circling our vehicle, like Joe Hockey stalking a cupcake, all trying to do their own inspection and appraisal of the damage to our vehicle. Finally they seem to reach an agreement, exchange some money, and off we all go again.
One of the talked about things to do in La Paz is to mountain bike down ‘Death Road’. It’s little more than a goat track barely wide enough for a van in some places, no safety railings, and sheer drops of 300m if you miss a turn. And lots of buses, cars and a few cyclists have missed those turns over the years – hence the name. We had a problem though; we had only one spare day to do this on, it took all day, and we also had to retrieve some washing that a laundromat working ‘flexible hours’ had held captive for the last 2 days. So Krys took the ultimate grenade; she would retrieve the washing while I rode down Death Road.
The van circles further and further up the Bolivian hillside until you reach what feels like the clouds. Then you are given a run through on how the bike works, kitted up (the helmet seemed a little pointless) and make your way to the edge. At this point I was glad that our laundry had been taken hostage; I was only ruining the undies I’d already been in for 3 days. Would have been a shame to soil a fresh pair.
The first few minutes you are concentrating harder than Kim Kardashian in closed shoes trying to count to 11, and all the time trying to keep your fear in check so you don’t be “girly”, get off the bike and walk. Actually calling it “girly” makes no sense; there were 3 girls in the group and they were going faster than me. So maybe the term should be ‘Trent out’. Anyway about 30mins in I’m starting to relax when the guy in front of me takes a massive tumble off his bike and knocks himself around pretty badly. Could have been worse though; his tumble ended only about 1m from a sheer drop into a ravine so an afternoon of sitting in a car being patched up by the vet from the local animal refuge was a good outcome for him. But after another couple of hours I am starting to feel comfortable again; so comfortable I am actually overtaking some of the girls in the group. And just at the point that I am hitting top speed for the day, my front wheel hits some loose rocks and I am airborne, flying like an out of shape Superman trying to slap away flies but without the external underpants.
It’s funny what goes through your head at that point. The first few seconds are ‘sh#t, how did that happen’ before the initial contact with the ground and the realisation ‘this is going to hurt’ before the panicked ‘where the hell is the edge. I’m sliding a lot’. But I pulled up before the drop (well that is obvious. If I didn’t, instead of reading this email you’d be reading some news article in the La Paz daily about locals complaining about a massive gouge taken out of their hillside as an unco-ordinated, chunky gringo tumbled his way into their ravine).
But I got up, did a limb check and all seemed to work. So apart from losing some skin and any delusions of appearing in BMX Bandits 2 I was ok. It wasn’t overly comforting to have the guide say “well you ended up better than the Israeli lady last week – she went over the edge like ET but sadly she couldn’t fly”. And while I escaped major damange, the same could not be said about the bike which was a mangled mess of chains, spokes and gears. But around the corner comes the ‘bike guy’ Haviar, who somehow reconstructed the bike into acceptable working condition. Given what he was working with and how it ended up, I reckon if I let Haviar “repair” me, I’d be doing some minor modeling roles in department store catalogues by weeks end. Needless to say I spent the rest of the day ‘Riding Miss Daisy’ all the way to the bottom.
When I got back to Krys she had been through an interesting day as well. It seems attractive and alone women in La Paz, especially those showing a high level of domestic skills by carting bags of washing up hills, invite some none too subtly overtures. After being able to add mountain bike riding to my list of deficiencies I think she may regret not further exploring the prospects of a fruitful relationship with a pushy Bolivian.
We have since had the joys of Bolivian overnight bus travel, and I’ve paid to have my favourite pair of shoes ruined, but more on that later.
Adios.
Krystal, Trent and some missing skin.
smallthoughts 