Tupiza to Potosi

My last experience of Bolivian buses (see Uyuni to Tupiza) was memorable for some fairly wrong reasons. That account prompted the following recollection from Liza Eastman, who travelled in Bolivia in the days when buses were a luxury:

Thoroughly enjoying your blog Bill, especially because I have memories, be they everso ancient, of many of the same places and experiences, except we could not afford the buses and travelled on top of the produce trucks. We may have gotten the better deal, as we sat on our packs, lots of leg room, fresh air, and fun with the kids, every one facing different directions. The Indians usually facing us so they could study us, as gringos were pretty rare in those days. Need a loo stop? Hammer on the drivers roof, yell "Necesito bano por favor", screech to a stop, every one pile out, men one side, women the other. I was the one who got the shtick because I was wearing boys, clothing and couldn't just squat covered by my skirts! The ride that lasted the longest with us was a whole day on top of loose garlic!

Thank you, Liza for permission to share that lovely story. By the way, travelling by truck is still practiced but I am too old for that sort of thing.

I made very sure that the Trans O´Globo company (yes, really) ran buses, not jeeps, before I booked my passage, and that it was a direct service with no changes along the way.

It was almost disappointing. The bus left on time and arrived on time. This was my first Bolivian bus to achieve that. I had a pleasant, if limited, conversation with the gent in the next seat and my bladder behaved itself. Severely rationing my liquid intake may have helped. There was a lunch stop after 2 hours during which I joined the queue to utilise the Cotaigata public toilet. Easy.

That is not to say that the journey was without interest. The driver hauled his big vehicle briskly around the winding, gravel road without ever using his horn. This was not terribly comforting because 2 days earlier a bus had gone off the road and many passengers were killed or injured. I think it happened in Eastern Bolivia, but I couldn´t follow all of the news report.

Along the way we encountered clear evidence of a new road under construction. Apart from the very first section we encountered, it appeared to be a completed concrete road. Why then was the bus not permitted to drive on it? There were rocks and piles of earth every so often to make quite sure that no vehicles soiled its pristine, level surface. Certainly we crossed the concrete a few times. Just occasionally the bus was able to quit the gravel and grant us a kilometer or so of smooth riding before jolting back onto the old track.

I was not always be sure of the details, because the two carriageways were not parallel, but the new surface seemed to be complete for well over 100km. Why would this be prohibited territory? If anyone has any theories, please leave a comment.

The winding path got to one passenger. The baby across the aisle was sick. Fortunately it was not too lavish and the parents efficiently reclothed the child, who now looked quite comfortable.

I opened my guide book to select a hostal for the night. I had plenty of time so I read the entire entry for Potosi. Ah, there is a big fiesta on the last Saturday of August. Advance booking is essential. And today is ... the last Saturday in August. I´m already on the bus so I can´t change my plans. I don´t have access to a phone so I cannot now book ahead. Why did I not read this before?

It´s all right. I am lucky. There will be no drama. So I didn´t worry. No, I just worked out that if all else failed I´d just have to get on a bus to Sucre.

The last, long stretch of the journey was over a well-made, sealed and painted road. Luxury. As it neared Potosi it took us past the famous mountain that produced so much silver that Potosi was the biggest and richest city in the world at one time. We approached the ´back´ of the mountain, with little evidence of mining. Then the road swept us round to see the great terraces of waste on the city side. My affable companion kindly pointed out the miners´houses. They looked like industrial revolution terraces, but smaller.

Shortly after that we saw some gaily decorated vehicles. "That´s because of the fiesta", my companion told me. "It´s in honour of Saint Batholomew." I wondered what the saint cared for travellers who neglect to book ahead.

From the bus terminal I took a taxi to my first choice hostal. Along the way there were many harrassed traffic police trying to unjam the traffic. The driver blamed the fiesta. At one of these enforced pauses a lady passer-by exchanged words with the driver and then jumped confidently into the front seat. The guide book refers to the practice of sharing taxis, but this took me completely by surprise. Eventually we cleared the traffic jams and I was delivered to a hostal in a narrow street just off the main plaza.

Did they have a room? Yes, but it was a double and would cost me 80 bolivianos per night. That´s steep when you have been paying 25Bs. However, it did give me confidence that I would not be searching for a park bench at midnight. I shouldered my pack and stumped off to hostal no.2. Yes, they did have a room. Did I want private bathroom or shared? Getting a choice was more than my lack of organisation deserved. Shared bano it was, at 40Bs.

The senora provided a map and marked the route of the dancing. Then she inked in the route I should take to go and see it. The quickest way was, she insisted, dangerous. The guide book was not entirely accurate, though. It was an all weekend event. And its description deserves a post all to itself.