Bolivia

After Potosi I made my way to lake titicaca - on the border with peru. I arrived at the bus station from Potosi at 6 in the morning. It was downright freezing, I curled up into my little, blue sleeping bag in the terminal and tried to divert my attention. I bought a ticket for a small colectivo to Copacabana, about 3.5 hours from La Paz. I was astounded at the landscape when we arrived there. Copa is small - maybe 50,000 people and nestled between two massive hills and set on the sapphire-blue waters of the lake.
Stunningly beautiful - one of the seven wonders of the natural world. I found a cheap place to stay and wondered to the cathedral where the clergy was blessing newly purchased cars. Afterwards, I walked up one of the large hills where catholics have built tributes to the virgin mary. They were spraying beer on one another and lighting candles.
Copa is a neo-hippie hangout - plush with dredlocked, hemp-braiding folk. A pleasant change from the rest of Bolivia.
Next day was July 4th, I tried to conjure the spirit of the holiday, but had no luck. I hiked to Yampupata - a small town the almost touches Isla del Sol.

Isla is where Incan mythology places the birth of the sun god. It's a small little island and stuninngly beautiful and without motorized vehicles. I met two Belgian girls on the hike and we all rented a rowboat with a guide to take us to the island. We weren't aware that part of the deal included us rowing with him. Difficult work at 4000 meters, but we managed.

We arrived at the small town of Yumani and found a cheap hostel perched on a hillside and remarked again and again at the beauty of the surroundings. We drank alot and I got food poisoning again. The stars were unbelievable - possible to see the thick band of the milky-way. The next day we hiked to the temple of the sun and soaked up the atmosphere.

I was meditating next to the ruins when some English arrived. I could hear them guessing as to what I was doing sitting so still. They correctly surmised I was meditating and guessed I was soaking up the energy from the Incan power centers. Huh? Dude, I only energy-bathe when I'm wearing my geode-power satchel.

We trekked for what seemed like an endless amount of time - things made complicated by the triple whammy of hangover, food poisoning, and severe altitude. But the scenery overpowered all and we arrived at the northern end of the island at the pueblo of Cha'llapampa. We hopped a boat back to Copa and I bought a bus ticket to Cusco for the next day.
Goodbye Bolivia. It's been nice, but I will not miss the women pissing in the streets, the bitterly cold nights, or the gastrointestinal war I've waged here.
I arrive in Cusco tommorow and soon thereafter will meet my friend Pilar from Spain. Pilar lives in Madrid and is skipping out on some flamenco dancing opportunities to come explore the continent. It will be nice to no longer travel alone, especially with a native spanish speaker.
So many foreigners I meet here have a similiar story to Pilar's and mine. Work sucked or wasn't what they wanted - so they quit and went travelling. No one seems to have regrets. Talking to all these well-to-do foreigners and seeing the Bolivian lifestyle has once again reminded me of how much opportunity I have back in the States. I hope I have the clear sight when I return and choose to do something worthwhile. There's always H-E-B!

Sucre was a lovely town with whitewashed walls, beautiful architecture, and winding cobblestone streets, although I didn't find much to do there. Mostly read in the plaza.
I've been surprised at my pace of travel thus far. I believed I'd take more time at each stop, but have, instead, been moving every 3 days or so. This is the sort of travelling I was reared on with my family. Break-neck, sun-up to sun-down activity. I feel it's good for my mind and spirit - I feel a renewed confidence in my ability to anticipate my needs/wants and to deliver. Maybe it's the sleeping pills.
Elections for the new governor of Sucre province took place while I was there. The province banned alcohol consumption for two days because of Bolivians' drink-till-you-fight/drop habits. This perturbed the Irish and English at my hostel.
Took a bus to nearby Potosi the next day - at 4060 meters the highest city in the world. Potosi was established by the Spanish in the 16th century because of the rich silver deposits contained in the nearby "cerro rico" or "rich mountain." Thus began hundreds of years of mining misery. The Spanish shipped in African slaves and natives from other territories by the millions to work the mines. The miners were usually forced to work for 20 hours at a time until they died of starvation, exhaustion, disease, or any other number of possible dangers. It's estimated 8 million people have died in the mines - earning it the nickname "the mountain that eats men alive." Potosi was once larger and richer than London or Paris at its' time, but most of the mineral wealth has now been exploited. Nevertheless, Bolivians still work the mines in organized cooperatives that are able to set wages, hours, etc. But the conditions are still appalling. Average life expectancy of a miner is 10-years once he steps foot in the shafts. Silicosis pneumonia kills most, a kind of miners' lung. Others are crushed or blown apart in dynamite accidents/fights. I wanted to see them - found a company that offered cheap tours and signed up. Not sure why I want to see something as awful as this - maybe that bloodlust part of me or a part that wants to remind myself of how lucky I have it in life.
First, we were given jumpsuits and boots then taken to the miners' market to buy coca leaves, soda, and dynamite as gifts for the miners. The guide loved demonstrating how safe the dynamite was by throwing it on the floor. We made our way to the mine entrance that was stained black with sacrificial llama blood. Miners' pay homage to a devil-god called "tio" because of their proximity to hell when deep in the mine. They tribute him with cigarettes, blood, coca leaves, and 96% alcohol that they also imbibe.
The mine was a nightmare of cramped tunnels, mud, and dust. The walls quivered with the dull explosions of dynamite as we descended to the third level. There we met some coughing, dreary-eyed miners shoveling rubble into a winch system. Back-breaking, mindless work. They joked about the gringos paying money to come down here, I felt ridiculous.

Most of the miners are here because there is no other work to be found or because mine companies ask no questions about their workers' origins. Many are proud of their jobs and many are not.
By the time we made it back out everyone was gasping for air because of the dust and altitude. My throat and lungs burned and I was incredibly thankful I was not a miner. Before we could head back the guides wanted to show us one last thing. The little Bolivian man broke apart the dynamite stick, put it in a plastic bag and pured in some ammonium nitrate to make it more powerful. He lit the fuse and passed the bomb around so everyone could get pictures with it. I declined and gained some distance from the group. I trust no one - including myself - with explosives. He dashed down the hill and hastily buried the package, awkwardly ascended, and waited a minute. The explosion was more felt than heard, although the sound was deafening. Now I know.
I went back to the hostel and tried to wash the accumulated filth off, no luck though, still stink of the place. Tomorrow I go back to La Paz on my way to Peru.

I saw some ruins outside of Samaipata the next day. A pre-Inca site with ceremonial figures carved into a huge slab of rock, El Fuerte. I Walked back to town - beautiful countryside - mandarin orange country.
I tried to buy a overnite 2nd class ticket to Sucre (about 12 hours), but all were sold out so I bought 3rd class. I thought the ride would be terrible so I went to the local pharmacy staffed by a 15-year old Bolivian girl. I asked for something to help me sleep on the bus. Two options, both prescription strength: mild or strong. Strong, of course.
Waited at a restaurant and met some Australians. The bus was an hour late and was absolutely packed. There were people riding in the luggage compartments in the bottom of the bus. I quickly hopped aboard and left my book on the counter at the restaurant. Fuck. I have a problem with losing things lately.
Stopped for a greasy dinner.
Party Time.
Took one - felt good - hung my head out the window like an jubilant dog. Shot some photos of complete darkness. This isn't working - I need another.
After this I remember only fragments of the night. Had hiccups at some point. Got out to pee wearing my headlamp in the middle of nowhere. Wrote something in my journal. Next thing I definitively remember is a policeman on the bus asking me for my papers.
"Gracias, David Hixon"
"And a good day to you, sir"
Arrived in Sucre - the Australians had arrived on another bus - they had my book!
Today - dinosaur tracks. Tomorrow is election day.

P.S. The following is what I wrote in my journal - atleast what I can make of it:

The bus is full of anomalies. I have the hiccups. Things are going quickly outside. We must keep a calm positive and enjoy the progressive workings of our truck trip.

Saw a giant gopher cleaning out its burrow. Saw Santa Claus disguised in the trees.

Hi
Hippopotamus Rocks

Hiccups
Richeousness of river crossing?

Great Eagle commands
- size of one tree

The stars were like wadded beautiful wallpaper of death - bonewhite plants grasping for sunlite.

Lament Women as
shrub

Hiccups!

I recovered quickly from my illness and was ready to get out of La Paz. I had been there for 4 days at the time of my departure. I hopped on an overnite bus to Santa Cruz - a city that is the jumping off point for exploration into the surrounding jungles and continuing journeys to the pantanal of Brazil. The bus was fine other than some 7 AM, wake-up, latino rock. Santa Cruz was sunny and warm - a nice departure from the high-elevation, cold of the rest of Bolivia.
When I arrived I went straight to a mini-bus colectivo stand to catch one to the small town of Samaipata. A small pueblo known for several reasons: UNESCO ruins, gateway to Amboro national park, proximity to the site Che Guevara`s death.
I met a strange Swiss woman and her tiny dog at the Samaipata taxi stand. She was a self-proclaimed "Modern Che." She fought with the colectivo drivers for a lower fare and, when rebuffed, convinced me to come with her to find a lower fare to Samaipata. She talked a thousand words a minute in Spanish at me.
Found a lower fare. Showed me pictures of Che done with Eucalyptus leaves. She proclaimed "Me encanta niños (I love children)" as she awkwardly tried to give some coins to a child washing his father`s car - a reward? a handout? She chastised a local woman who threw her trash on the sidewalk. Everyone just stared at her in disbelief. I didn`t want to be associated with this woman.
On the road to Samaipata now.
Stopped. A landslide had blocked the road. Everyone piled out and faux-Che found some fellow Fench speakers. She cursed the Bolivian people as worthless. What is this Chihuahua-toting, idealistic, communist-wanna-be doing here and why am I stuck next to her?
Arrived. Thank you Jesus.
Samaipata is a beautiful town of 3000 residents, nestled in the Cordillera Oriental. There are, of course, a few Germans living here and even a couple of Texans. Their accent warmed the cockles of my heart.
I went with a group of Americans to the nearby Parque Nacional Amboro - a huge tract of land with some of the last untouched cloud forests in the world. Giant fern trees and wild guinea pigs. Like a Jurassic Forest - minus the Goldblum.