8th, 9th, 10th May - a Pointless Walk, the Last of Bolivia and the Riot Squad

We have a saying in our family that every holiday has to have a pointless walk. One that starts out with good intentions, but never gets to where you are supposed to be going and is in some way difficult.
On the last day I spent with Mairi and Naomi we intended to walk to some waterfalls outside of the city of Sucre. We had heard that at one time the place was fairly dangerous and there had been robberies, although it had been cleaned up since. Nevertheless we decided to take our swimming things, the minimum of money and no cameras. So no pictures (hurrah I hear you cry).
We had to walk down to one of the local markets from where we caught a bus out to a small village. The day was hot and cloudless but we intended to walk to the waterfalls and stay there until it got cooler.
At first we were not sure which way to go, so Naomi asked one of the locals and we were put on the right track. It involved walking down quite a steep hill to another village further on, where the falls were supposed to be.We walked down and down on an open dirt road surrounded by low scrubby hills. I thought to myself that it was good that we would be coming back up in the cool.
Eventually, around 4 kms later, we came to a village and saw a sign up on the side of the road saying Hotel of the Seven Waterfalls. This looked promising. We turned right towards the hotel and then noticed that the river, which ran in front of the hotel, was completely dry. Not a vestige of water, just parched cracked mud. By now it was high noon. Looking for shade, we found the only tree for miles around with a vestige of grass around it and sat down to eat our lunch, trying to ignore the pile of excrement deposited to one side of us.
Then came the walk back. At the start of it a taxi came past towards the village carrying some local people. I prayed for its return. Around 10 minutes later we saw it in the distance grinding up the hill. Naomi wanted to walk, Mairi was ambivalent, and I thought no way am I walking back up that hill in the searing heat and no shade if I don't have to. I hailed it down and then we all had to get in.
It took us back into the city and we asked it to stop at the local market where Naomi and Mairi bought blankets. Many of the Bolivian women carry things on their backs (including babies) tied in brightly coloured knotted blankets. Blankets bought everyone was happy and we went back to the hostel, via a chocolate shop selling chocolate drinks which Naomi treated us all to.

Throughout Bolivia we had heard rumours of traffic disruption by protesters, but we had never witnessed it until the day before. In Sucre they had been blocking the roads around the central square. Someone had said that they were protesting about a rise in gas prices and Mairi and I had photographed them the previous evening.

We were all to leave Sucre the following morning, Mairi and Naomi to trek in the hills, and I was getting a plane out to Santa Cruz. We were not worried about the road blocks as there were other ways around the city centre.

That evening we went out and had pizza to celebrate our final night. We had spent the late afternoon packing as the girls were leaving the hostel at 4.00am and I was leaving at 8.00am.

I was woken up early the next day to say goodbye to Mairi and Naomi. It would seem strange to do the last  part of the journey on my own. I was a little concerned as I do not speak any Spanish and Naomi and Mairi had acted as translators.

I got a taxi out to the tiny airport in Sucre, and had a short flight to Santa Cruz starting out over the hills where we had walked the preceding day.

The airport at Sucre

View from the plane over the hills

The plane flew from the hills over a low plain. Santa Cruz lies in a sub-tropical zone to the east of Bolivia, not far from the Paraguay border. It is a malaria area  and very different from the highlands where I had spent the previous month. It is a commercial hub and a modern city which is thought to be more sophisticated than the rest of Bolivia. It is also the centre of the Bolivian cocaine industry.

Flying into Santa Cruz

I had booked a proper hotel with a pool thinking to relax on my final day. I also had the chest infection that Naomi was suffering from and felt tired.

At the airport I got a taxi and told him the hotel name and address. He had no English. He drove out on a most peculiar route, over sand roads, past small hamlets and I started to get really concerned that I might be being taken somewhere quiet to be robbed or worse. A city like Santa Cruz must have a metalled main road to the airport!

Eventually we arrived and he was insistent that he collect me the next day to take me back to the airport. I reluctantly wrote down the time I wished to be collected on a piece of paper and he helped me out with my luggage and left.

The hotel was a complex of rooms with balconies clustered around the pool, lovely blossoming trees and some buildings that looked like restaurants. The air was warm and balmy, but there was no one else around apart from people who looked as if they were doing a late spring clean. I walked around - none of the restaurants looked as if they were serving anything, the people in reception did not speak English, but I was not over bothered so I went to the mini bar in my room, ate the Pringles, drank the coke and took my book to the side of the pool to read. The water looked inviting but I felt too conspicuous to get in, the workers would have nothing else to look at.

Late afternoon came and I had finished the book, so I got a map from reception and walked down to the centre of Santa Cruz, the Cathedral and main square. I was the only tourist around. 

I was sitting on a pew inside the cathedral, intending to use it as a rest for my camera to take pictures of the interior, when I was joined by a middle aged man who asked if he could join me. He was a doctor, had worked in England and would like to practise his English. Why do the English alway stand out! He asked me when I had arrived and I told him this morning, upon which he showed surprise that I had made it from the airport as the road had been blocked. The penny dropped on my convoluted journey. He said that there was no demonstration planned for tomorrow and my journey back would not be hindered, which reassured me. I left and walked out into the square where another man came up, embraced me and talked to me animately as if he knew me. I racked my brains but did not recognise him - it all seemed very unlikely anyway. I nodded yes and no at what seemed appropriate moments, said 'adios' and left. Talking it over afterwards it was said that he might have been going to rob me, but I had never felt threatened and was certainly not robbed. Uncertain about the food situation at the hotel I went in to a coffee shop and had a slice of pizza.

Back at the hotel I mentioned to reception that I was being picked up by taxi the next day at 8.00am, then went back to my room and as I had nothing to read tuned in to Bolivian television. There was a lot of news on the demonstrations, which I could not decipher, some bad American television programmes and a couple of even worse Bolivian ones. I thanked God for the British Broadcasting Corporation.

I went to sleep early and woke early, showered and lay on the bed watching a replay of yesterday's news. Around 7.00am the phone rang and I heard a lady talking urgent Spanish. She had no English so I hastily dressed and went down to reception to be told that the road to the airport was to be closed by demonstrators at 8.00, my taxi driver had arrived and was ready to take me now. I paid her for the night, went back to my room and hurriedly pushed the last of my clothes and washing things in to my case and threw all the stuff down the stairs. I was loaded up and departed through the worst traffic. Every light was against us and the driver pointed out where fires had been lit on the road the previous day. We got to the airport around 7.55, he got me a trolley and I kissed him and overtipped!

Everyone had arrived early and there was a hellish queue to check in. While I was waiting I saw the riot squad arrive in the parking area outside, complete with shields and helmets.

There was a long wait now for the plane to depart. Going through security I realised that I had lost my entry permit into Bolivia which I needed to get out. When my passport was checked by an immigration  officer who looked very stern and official I pretended that I did not understand anything (easily done), smiled stupidly and he gave up on me. I had read that there was a £50 fine for losing it so I considered myself lucky. 

While I was in the departure lounge I saw troops and sniffer dogs getting in to the plane to search it. They were on it for at least 45 minutes. By the time they came out we were in a queue to board and the dogs came down the line. Then when we were going down the jet bridge we were made to put all our cabin bags on one side and us to stand the other while yet more dogs sniffed the baggage. I guess it was the cocaine!

I boarded and was back in Gatwick at 10.30am the next day. And that was it - the end of an action packed 31 days in South America - I could have done with some of that cocaine, I am sure coca leaves are no substitute (and they taste disgusting).