Finally, a blog. A week´s worth.
Hello everyone and sorry for this week-long silence, which I´d promised to fill with excitement and hilarity. I´ve failed miserably, but I´ll try to restore my reputation. In truth, I´ve been thinking about the blog every step of the way, trying to weigh out what´s blog-worthy and what not, and haven´t really decided on an answer, so you´ll surely let me know whether I am stepping over any personal information boundaries (you wish!).
Santa Cruz, our first point was a massive city that felt like a Bosnian village, with the addition of funnily dressed Bolivians - that would be strange in Bosnia, I suppose - and people selling orange juice, raisins, whole pigs´ heads and salteñas, a Bolivian sausage roll type things, which taste of sweet curry. We befriended a bunch that runs a gay bar/theatre/concert venue and ate llama steaks, which are bloody marvellous! Might kidnap a llama and bring it back to London. Will invite all for a feast if I manage to get it to pretend to be a fluffy toy and get it past the border guards.
Doing the Lonely Planet thing here is interesting. Most people have no idea what LP is (as is the case with most of my jobs) so Rafa and I are regarded with suspicion and eyed from head to toe. Information is given with a squint at my battered notebook which has ´Travel Journal´ printed on it in cute letters. I probably look like Heidi with a Michael Palin complex to them. Though I doubt that Michael Palin is known here. But you get the picture. The problem is, I used to make notes in a black notebook, and people thought I was a tax inspector. They used to be even more suspicious.
As for crazy adventure, I must report the exciting incident of riding three on a motorbike with a Bolivian moto-taxi bloke, who unwittingly let himself in for a three hour ride to a jungle hotel. We drove down a dirt track road, me on the back, my ass killing me, Rafa in the middle, shouting jokes in the guy´s ear and offering more money the longer the journey turned out to be. Ah, the beauties of hotel research. There was no mention of a 1.5km walk through the jungle to get to the hotel, in the existing review. We walked, with the moto-taxi guy who was to drive us back, the heat felt like being wrapped in a pissed on, wet duvet, the mosquitos were biting through our jumpers, other, unnamable (is that a word?) insects were going for our extremities with all their might. But no hotel. Finally, some cabins appeared. ´Hola!´ ´Hello!´ we yelled. No one. Trying to locate non-insect life. Finally, out of a far-away cabin an ´Hola´ was heard. We walked towards the place and I stared at a mosquito net covering a window, trying to see inside. I couldn´t see a thing. It was all dark. Suddenly, a woman´s voice: ´por favor!´ she screamed. A man in a towel wrapped around his waist got close to the net, and we could see that he was old, wore a grey pony tail and had wrap-around hair that is meant to conceal bald patches. He spoke in a sarf London accent: ´Can you wait down by the gate please?´ We´d caught them shagging. It seemed to both of them I´d been staring at them relentlessly though the mosquito net. ´We´re from the Lonely Planet´ I said, voice quivering.
We also met a fair number of New Agers here, as is the rule with most LP research and hostel world. One guy, who shan´t be named in case I get sued for slander (or libel?), told me I need to let go of my wartime experiences and that that was why I had got a furious cold and my stomach ached. Apparently, he said, that all the letters which had been written to me during the war in Bosnia, and which I still keep, should be burned and the energy from the letters sent back to those who wrote them. My digestive system should be working better after that. Might try it. Will invite all for bonfire and stomach monitoring. Oh, and apparently, despite the fact that I am ´physically petite´ (he was 2 metres tall), I am spiritually ´a fucking house´. Those were the very words he used. Rafa said that that should help us save money on accommodation. Perhaps I should start renting.
Anyway, both R and I now have massive colds due to my emotional baggage. Damn the Bosnian war. We´ve spent the last two days trying to recover before heading out to Sucre, at 3000 metres, and La Paz at 4000, from which I´ll send mad, coca-leaf chewing, dizzy emails and blogs. I promise.
I´ve been watching the Lebanon - Israel war (I suppose that´s what it is). It´s unbelievable. A CNN report on rescuing Americans from Beirut showed poor American citizens having champagne cocktails on board of a cruise ship. ´At least they can carry on their holidays,´ the producer spoke. I am happy Aida´s family is ok. Vito, is Katia´s family all right?
This is it. A week´s worth. Kisses to all.
Santa Cruz, our first point was a massive city that felt like a Bosnian village, with the addition of funnily dressed Bolivians - that would be strange in Bosnia, I suppose - and people selling orange juice, raisins, whole pigs´ heads and salteñas, a Bolivian sausage roll type things, which taste of sweet curry. We befriended a bunch that runs a gay bar/theatre/concert venue and ate llama steaks, which are bloody marvellous! Might kidnap a llama and bring it back to London. Will invite all for a feast if I manage to get it to pretend to be a fluffy toy and get it past the border guards.
Doing the Lonely Planet thing here is interesting. Most people have no idea what LP is (as is the case with most of my jobs) so Rafa and I are regarded with suspicion and eyed from head to toe. Information is given with a squint at my battered notebook which has ´Travel Journal´ printed on it in cute letters. I probably look like Heidi with a Michael Palin complex to them. Though I doubt that Michael Palin is known here. But you get the picture. The problem is, I used to make notes in a black notebook, and people thought I was a tax inspector. They used to be even more suspicious.
As for crazy adventure, I must report the exciting incident of riding three on a motorbike with a Bolivian moto-taxi bloke, who unwittingly let himself in for a three hour ride to a jungle hotel. We drove down a dirt track road, me on the back, my ass killing me, Rafa in the middle, shouting jokes in the guy´s ear and offering more money the longer the journey turned out to be. Ah, the beauties of hotel research. There was no mention of a 1.5km walk through the jungle to get to the hotel, in the existing review. We walked, with the moto-taxi guy who was to drive us back, the heat felt like being wrapped in a pissed on, wet duvet, the mosquitos were biting through our jumpers, other, unnamable (is that a word?) insects were going for our extremities with all their might. But no hotel. Finally, some cabins appeared. ´Hola!´ ´Hello!´ we yelled. No one. Trying to locate non-insect life. Finally, out of a far-away cabin an ´Hola´ was heard. We walked towards the place and I stared at a mosquito net covering a window, trying to see inside. I couldn´t see a thing. It was all dark. Suddenly, a woman´s voice: ´por favor!´ she screamed. A man in a towel wrapped around his waist got close to the net, and we could see that he was old, wore a grey pony tail and had wrap-around hair that is meant to conceal bald patches. He spoke in a sarf London accent: ´Can you wait down by the gate please?´ We´d caught them shagging. It seemed to both of them I´d been staring at them relentlessly though the mosquito net. ´We´re from the Lonely Planet´ I said, voice quivering.
We also met a fair number of New Agers here, as is the rule with most LP research and hostel world. One guy, who shan´t be named in case I get sued for slander (or libel?), told me I need to let go of my wartime experiences and that that was why I had got a furious cold and my stomach ached. Apparently, he said, that all the letters which had been written to me during the war in Bosnia, and which I still keep, should be burned and the energy from the letters sent back to those who wrote them. My digestive system should be working better after that. Might try it. Will invite all for bonfire and stomach monitoring. Oh, and apparently, despite the fact that I am ´physically petite´ (he was 2 metres tall), I am spiritually ´a fucking house´. Those were the very words he used. Rafa said that that should help us save money on accommodation. Perhaps I should start renting.
Anyway, both R and I now have massive colds due to my emotional baggage. Damn the Bosnian war. We´ve spent the last two days trying to recover before heading out to Sucre, at 3000 metres, and La Paz at 4000, from which I´ll send mad, coca-leaf chewing, dizzy emails and blogs. I promise.
I´ve been watching the Lebanon - Israel war (I suppose that´s what it is). It´s unbelievable. A CNN report on rescuing Americans from Beirut showed poor American citizens having champagne cocktails on board of a cruise ship. ´At least they can carry on their holidays,´ the producer spoke. I am happy Aida´s family is ok. Vito, is Katia´s family all right?
This is it. A week´s worth. Kisses to all.
posted by Vesna at 12:45 PM
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