We were in Argentina a week ago.
Or, at least, we were when I thought that yesterday. We have moved from the realm of standard time and back into the land of bizarre time, which hurtles past us on days when we really ought to have achieved something, and stands still when we look at the moths in our pockets and wait for postmen to deliver the required documentation. Or for the email telling me I've won the Euromillions to arrive.
La Paz isn't a distant memory, although when it comes time to write a week's worth of blog it seems like a hell of a lot happened during those final seven days. We grazed through our final weekend in Bolivia. Everything was falling into place. We collected football stickers, browsed the tourist old town and retreated happily back from it to Calle Junin and our little neighbourhood, Plaza Murillo and less familiar accents. We ate fried chicken and bought pruck. We put in our time well and Sunday breezed past us.
Monday was a rueful slog, back down to the Argentine embassy and, thank you gawd, back out with passports complete with visas. Our 48 hours in the country would likely pass in the blink of an eye, and we had to get there first, but at least that was done. Our preferred Japanese restaurant was just about to shut when we arrived, so after a walk round the block we found a sufficiently mediocre Chinese restaurant to eat in, and forked out a outrageous BOB$26 for sweet 'n' sour chicken and bottle of Coke, whilst Sarah dined on some generic rice dish. Get what you pay for, etc etc. Final shopping bout in a supermarket, back up round the old town (again) and then to our final task; the acquisition of football stickers.
Not just any old acquisition though. Today I am teaching Sarah how to SWAP.
At the end of Calle Comercio, where the stalls of toys and Panini football albums abound, men and boys (mostly men) gather to swap, buy and sell football stickers. The sun was high when we arrived around 4pm. It was gone when we left, close to 8pm. This was one of the more enjoyable ways to spend a few hours this week.
We stood with our little pages of numbers, passing them back and forth as people questioned 'Cambio?', if they wanted to swap, or 'Vende?' if they wanted to know were we selling. The standard rate of BOB$0.5 per player is very acceptable, and you quickly fall into line with everyone. It's a nice atmosphere and everyone is very friendly, parting with stickers for a few pennies even when you have none to swap (I have not often seen such generosity back home. People will only give you a rare sticker in exchange for a rare sticker. Mind you, about twenty years since I did this last, so what would I know?)
The day flies in. We decide to return home and pack for the morrow rather than spend a night imbibing more Bolivian wine in Hotel Torino and possibly regretting it on the bus tomorrow. A wise move, it transpires.
The night ends with another excellent burger from Chely, our local burger man. He had fed us a lot during our fortnight in La Paz. You can't beat a double burger for less than two quid, washed down with Paceña lager whilst watching Warners' tv channel and sticking in half the Colombian team. Our excitement at getting the Greek team sticker was simply too much to handle. We had spent most of our afternoon telling people it didn't exist. No one had one. Except one man, who parted with it rather too quickly.
Tuesday morning after a restless sort of night. Our schedule was fairly simple: Bus One from La Paz to Villazon on the border with Argentina, departing at 1pm, arriving at 7am. Through the border we go at 10am and on to Buenos Aires, arriving 4pm the following, Thursday, afternoon. A fifty hour journey. Provided it goes that smoothly then its not a problem, we have two nights in BA and arrive at Ezeiza airport well rested and full of steak, Santa-style sacks of presents in tow. We had a final breakfast in Alexander Coffee and reflected, sadly, on the misfortune that left us running out of Bolivia, one city of many explored, and even then we spent most of our time running up and down to Embassy Row and traipsing the streets of Tourist Central picking up last minute guff in case we totally ran out of time (which we were doing, surely and painfully). No trips up the sides of the valley, no time for Tihuanacu, no visits to fancy Bolivian restaurants. Half happy, half sad, we take a taxi to the Terminal de Bus for 12pm and settle down, waiting for our bus to load up.
Not that the bus would inspire great confidence. It looks like a juggernaut with a rooftop cabin. Enormous bundles are being stuffed into the hold, a few characters hanging around, this is not a state-of-the-art coach experience. 'Does it even have a tv?' we wonder. Remember that this journey, this 18 hour journey, is costing us about £15. This will not be luxury. Not by a long shot.
But, just after 1pm, we board the bus (last people on so we can watch our bags being loaded; we are very paranoid now that someone will get our bags in our final days here and make off with our wealth of presents for friends and family) and settle ourselves in seats 3 and 4, one row back from the front. Our bus has no tv, no blankets, no A/C, the synthetic covers on the seats seem to generate an awful lot of static, and we are by far the only tourists on this bus. We knew that bus travel in Bolivia would be a very different experience to that of other countries, but still. We knuckled down and figured a little endurance and character might be called for. Couldn't have been further from the truth.
Up the valley of La Paz we go, suddenly hundreds of feet up, looking down on a magnificent city for which we both felt great affection. Through the streets of El Alto, busier than on our way in, heavy traffic, reminding us a little of Glengormley, there seem to be a lot of dentists up here. The main road, however, is well paved and stretching from here to the border. President Morales' proud and happy face beams from hoardings everywhere. His government is spending good money on the infrastructure and it seems that it will be worth every penny. Ruta Nacional 1 is as good a road as we have ever travelled on, permitting full speed traffic (although we will often pass major drainage works in progress along the way south) and far from the moniker its predecessor had, 'the world's most dangerous road', which is now primarily used by cyclists and mentalists.
<unfinished>
Or, at least, we were when I thought that yesterday. We have moved from the realm of standard time and back into the land of bizarre time, which hurtles past us on days when we really ought to have achieved something, and stands still when we look at the moths in our pockets and wait for postmen to deliver the required documentation. Or for the email telling me I've won the Euromillions to arrive.
La Paz isn't a distant memory, although when it comes time to write a week's worth of blog it seems like a hell of a lot happened during those final seven days. We grazed through our final weekend in Bolivia. Everything was falling into place. We collected football stickers, browsed the tourist old town and retreated happily back from it to Calle Junin and our little neighbourhood, Plaza Murillo and less familiar accents. We ate fried chicken and bought pruck. We put in our time well and Sunday breezed past us.
Monday was a rueful slog, back down to the Argentine embassy and, thank you gawd, back out with passports complete with visas. Our 48 hours in the country would likely pass in the blink of an eye, and we had to get there first, but at least that was done. Our preferred Japanese restaurant was just about to shut when we arrived, so after a walk round the block we found a sufficiently mediocre Chinese restaurant to eat in, and forked out a outrageous BOB$26 for sweet 'n' sour chicken and bottle of Coke, whilst Sarah dined on some generic rice dish. Get what you pay for, etc etc. Final shopping bout in a supermarket, back up round the old town (again) and then to our final task; the acquisition of football stickers.
Not just any old acquisition though. Today I am teaching Sarah how to SWAP.
At the end of Calle Comercio, where the stalls of toys and Panini football albums abound, men and boys (mostly men) gather to swap, buy and sell football stickers. The sun was high when we arrived around 4pm. It was gone when we left, close to 8pm. This was one of the more enjoyable ways to spend a few hours this week.
We stood with our little pages of numbers, passing them back and forth as people questioned 'Cambio?', if they wanted to swap, or 'Vende?' if they wanted to know were we selling. The standard rate of BOB$0.5 per player is very acceptable, and you quickly fall into line with everyone. It's a nice atmosphere and everyone is very friendly, parting with stickers for a few pennies even when you have none to swap (I have not often seen such generosity back home. People will only give you a rare sticker in exchange for a rare sticker. Mind you, about twenty years since I did this last, so what would I know?)
The day flies in. We decide to return home and pack for the morrow rather than spend a night imbibing more Bolivian wine in Hotel Torino and possibly regretting it on the bus tomorrow. A wise move, it transpires.
The night ends with another excellent burger from Chely, our local burger man. He had fed us a lot during our fortnight in La Paz. You can't beat a double burger for less than two quid, washed down with Paceña lager whilst watching Warners' tv channel and sticking in half the Colombian team. Our excitement at getting the Greek team sticker was simply too much to handle. We had spent most of our afternoon telling people it didn't exist. No one had one. Except one man, who parted with it rather too quickly.
Tuesday morning after a restless sort of night. Our schedule was fairly simple: Bus One from La Paz to Villazon on the border with Argentina, departing at 1pm, arriving at 7am. Through the border we go at 10am and on to Buenos Aires, arriving 4pm the following, Thursday, afternoon. A fifty hour journey. Provided it goes that smoothly then its not a problem, we have two nights in BA and arrive at Ezeiza airport well rested and full of steak, Santa-style sacks of presents in tow. We had a final breakfast in Alexander Coffee and reflected, sadly, on the misfortune that left us running out of Bolivia, one city of many explored, and even then we spent most of our time running up and down to Embassy Row and traipsing the streets of Tourist Central picking up last minute guff in case we totally ran out of time (which we were doing, surely and painfully). No trips up the sides of the valley, no time for Tihuanacu, no visits to fancy Bolivian restaurants. Half happy, half sad, we take a taxi to the Terminal de Bus for 12pm and settle down, waiting for our bus to load up.
Not that the bus would inspire great confidence. It looks like a juggernaut with a rooftop cabin. Enormous bundles are being stuffed into the hold, a few characters hanging around, this is not a state-of-the-art coach experience. 'Does it even have a tv?' we wonder. Remember that this journey, this 18 hour journey, is costing us about £15. This will not be luxury. Not by a long shot.
But, just after 1pm, we board the bus (last people on so we can watch our bags being loaded; we are very paranoid now that someone will get our bags in our final days here and make off with our wealth of presents for friends and family) and settle ourselves in seats 3 and 4, one row back from the front. Our bus has no tv, no blankets, no A/C, the synthetic covers on the seats seem to generate an awful lot of static, and we are by far the only tourists on this bus. We knew that bus travel in Bolivia would be a very different experience to that of other countries, but still. We knuckled down and figured a little endurance and character might be called for. Couldn't have been further from the truth.
Up the valley of La Paz we go, suddenly hundreds of feet up, looking down on a magnificent city for which we both felt great affection. Through the streets of El Alto, busier than on our way in, heavy traffic, reminding us a little of Glengormley, there seem to be a lot of dentists up here. The main road, however, is well paved and stretching from here to the border. President Morales' proud and happy face beams from hoardings everywhere. His government is spending good money on the infrastructure and it seems that it will be worth every penny. Ruta Nacional 1 is as good a road as we have ever travelled on, permitting full speed traffic (although we will often pass major drainage works in progress along the way south) and far from the moniker its predecessor had, 'the world's most dangerous road', which is now primarily used by cyclists and mentalists.
<unfinished>
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