Normality in Sucre

It had been about 2 months since we left our last volunteering position at the trekking hostel ‘Llullu Llama’ in the mountains of Ecuador, when we arrived in the small Bolivian city of Sucre. All along we had earmarked Sucre as a place where we would stop for a little while, rent an apartment, get to know the locals and do some more volunteering.  Two months on the road can go by fast, and even if you don’t realise it at the time, the continual travel can be draining. It’s good to stop and ‘recharge the mental batteries’ before the travel fatigue kicks in.

Home for a while!

Our apartment courtyard

Sucre is a wonderful city. We consider it (at least the central part of the city) a kind of ‘bubble’ in South America. Clean and safe; all the modern conveniences (like supermarkets, movies and good coffee), but still plenty of culture and heritage.  One minute I might be sipping a double espresso and using high speed wifi in a café; the next, buying a kilo of fresh strawberries from a woman sitting on the sidewalk in traditional costume with a rosy cheeked baby slung to her back.

Sucre streetscape

Our favourite café

Zebras educating the locals on pedestrian crossing safety!

There is a wonderful central market where you can buy everything from fresh fruit and vegies, cheese and eggs, fresh flowers, decorated cakes and fresh bread, to a bewildering array of cuts of meat. Oh, and the fresh juices – every combination you can think of – mango, strawberry, peach, passionfruit, papaya, kiwi, apple, pear, pineapple, all whizzed up freshly to order for less than 50c. A strange local combo is fruit juice mixed with milk and dark beer – even Mark won’t go near this one!

Fresh juice alley

Special occasion cakes

Eggs and cheese

The local butcher

It’s been wonderful to have our own kitchen, which even has an oven (a rarity in these parts). So far I’ve cooked up a roast beef with all the trimmings, and we have had a taco night. The simple things that remind us of home! Also found a great steak restaurant right around the corner, that serves up T-bones for $4 and sirloins that you could cut with a spoon for $6. Mmm food, glorious food!

Dinner party in our apartment with our wonderful friends Danica and Andrew

We have found an awesome organisation to volunteer with www.condortrekkers.org  which is a ‘not for profit’ tour company (and now also café) started up by an Aussie guy, Randall. He, with a variety of volunteers have trained the local staff in all aspects of leading tours and managing a café.  Any profits go right back to the communities that the treks visit, as well as some important projects here in Sucre.

I have been spending most of my days teaching English to the guides as well as some of the café staff. It’s my first time teaching, and I am really enjoying it, especially since they are all so keen.  Mark is mainly volunteering as an assistant guide on the treks – because the guides speak limited English, they try to send an English speaking volunteer out with each group. I have done a few as well, but I prefer the teaching.

The treks, mostly 2-3 days long, explore the arid countryside surrounding Sucre, which is remarkable in its own right.  The geology of the area is very interesting – a spectacular array of colours and crazy folding of the rock.  As well as the natural beauty, it is interesting to see how the local Indigenous people live, farming the land subsistence style -  many of whom don’t even speak Spanish. The highlight of the trekking route for both of us is a rock slab with some amazingly clear dinosaur footprints. 

Trekking on an ancient Incan trail

Dinosaur prints

Surreal landscapes

Trek accommodation in local villages

The plan is to spend a month or two here, and then hit the road south again, towards Argentina and Chile, which, I think will be very culturally different than Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia, where we have spent the last eight months.

Into Bolivia

Our last night in Copacabana we chartered a boat to go for a sunset cruise with our friends Andrew and Danica, who we first met when we volunteered on the coast of Ecuador. Lake Titicaca is a huge lake, that at some points is impossible to see from one side to the other. It looks like the ocean, but at 3808masl it definitely doesn’t feel like it! We all sat up on the top deck while our skipper motored us to the Bolivian version of the floating islands. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Lake Titicaca, it is most famous for whole communities who live on floating reed islands. As the reeds get waterlogged, fresh dry reeds are piled on top, ensuring the islands are always high and dry. We had discovered a little too late that the authentic versions of these ‘Islas Flotantes’ are on the Peruvian side of the lake, near Puno, which we passed by on the way to the Bolivian border. Nevermind, we visited the replicas, constructed purely  for tourists… luckily it was a beautiful sunset! For the four of us the whole trip cost BOB 80 (about $12) total.

We packed up bright and early the next morning, ready to make our way towards Sucre, a two day ride away. But first we had an important stop to make – Copacabana Cathedral. Each day, cars, trucks, buses and motorbikes come here to receive the ’benediction’, which is a kind of blessing to keep you safe on the road. I’d seen other travellers doing this for their vans or motorbikes, but we weren’t exactly sure how it works, so when we pulled up I asked a Bolivian guy who was there with his late model 4WD how to go about it.

He told me to hurry to the office around the back of the Cathedral and buy a ticket (for a blessing!?!) and to come right back because the priest was on his way. We had to decorate Zorra (the bike) with fresh flowers and plastic streamers, and then the priest came by. Dressed in a brown robe with a rope tied at his waist, the first thing he did was ask for the ticket. Next he splashed water over Zorra (sheepskin seats, luggage and all) using a dishcloth (you know those ones on a stick), dipped into a dirty old bucket of water, while praying, I believe, in Latin. When he finished blessing Zorra, he asked who the driver was and splashed some water on Mark while saying another prayer. When it was all done we threw rose petals like confetti all over the bike and then hit the road out of town, knowing we would be safe – little did we know that a few times during that very day we would feel just a little more secure knowing Zorra was in God’s hands!!

After about half an hour of winding around a hilly lakeside peninsular we came to the end of the road, literally! In front of us was a body of water about 500m wide that separated the huge Lake Titicaca to the north from the slightly smaller Lake de Winaymarca to the south. Far on the other side, the road continued, winding its way further east.  While we paused for a moment to get our bearings on where the ferry departed from, a parade went by. First there was a group of women in pink, solemnly dancing and playing strange box- like instruments.  Following them came an all- male marching band, playing an assortment of instruments, and then another group of dancing women, this time in purple (and holding fluffy white toy gorillas!?!),  swirling enthusiastically. The parade continued to alternate, with men playing instruments and women dancing all along the dusty road that followed the shoreline.

Once they passed we were directed to the loading point where we needed to board the ferry. Now, I use the term ‘ferry’ very loosely.  It was really just a platform of rotting planks, with low side walls and an engine attached. We were told to wait to the side until some more vehicles arrived and we could make the journey together. Soon enough a big belching bus rolled up and boarded, followed by an old-style red ute (pick-up truck). The ferry guy motioned for us to come aboard and pull up in the narrow gap between the red ute and the 50cm high side wall. The back wheel was about 30cm from the rear of the ferry, with no barrier between it and the cold blue water.

As soon as we were on, the ferry engine started up and we pulled away from the shore. Mark stayed astride Zorra, with one foot pressed on the top of the side barrier and one hand holding the back of the ute, trying to keep steady. As we got further out into the open water, the ferry started rocking with the swell. The most concerning part of this was watching the bus, which had also started rocking with the swell. Actually, rocking quite a lot, from side to side, so much so that it looked close to tipping over the edge. I asked the driver of the red ute if this movement was normal.  He laughed and said it was, which momentarily made me feel relieved. Then I asked him if there were any passengers on board the bus.  He told me that passengers have to make the crossing separately, because once a bus full of passengers actually tipped over board. Needless to say, we were both quite relieved when we pulled up high and dry on the opposite shore.

We had decided not to visit La Paz, because of the high crime rate, chaotic traffic and insane pollution, and besides,  we really just don’t like big cities. However, we still had to skirt around it, and unlike some of the other big cities we’d opted to bypass , there was no easy ring road. The traffic got thicker, the pollution more suffocating and the swell of humanity of all kinds seemed to press in closer from either side of the road. Packs of dogs (which we hadn’t seen up until this point) roamed, luckily not paying any attention to us. The whole place reeked of urine. When we passed an airport, I realised we were in the ‘El Alto’ area of La Paz; notoriously poor and crime ridden. 

The GPS (and Mark)did a pretty good job of getting us through, only occasionally directing us down side streets that resembled goat tracks, when there were perfectly good asphalt roads running parallel. At one point we heard what sounded like distant gunshots,  but were, in reality, most likely just fireworks which are let of with great frequency here in South America. After an hour or two, the traffic thinned a little, and then a little more and we were on the long straight road heading to that nights destination of Oruro, a non-descript town about half way to Sucre from Lake Titicaca.

PS. No photos were taken of the La Paz section of this journey. I thought it prudent to leave the camera hidden away!