first days in bolivia
I suppose most of us think of South America as two big blocs, one speaking Spanish and the other speaking Portuguese. Reading up on Bolivia before traveling I learned that the country is roughly divided into the parts in the Amazon basin and the Andean desert. It isn’t just a climate division, but a cultural and political one. Only 75% of Bolivians speak Spanish; fifty years ago only half of them did. Others speak languages derived from earlier American cultures.
A tributary of the Rio Piray.
The part of the continent I traveled in could be divided east and west. There is a strong sense of the Andean culture in the west that crosses national borders. Argentina and Uruguay feel much more western.
There isn’t much to say about Santa Cruz de la Sierra (elevation 416 meters). Even Lonely Planet is hard up to find anything interesting there. It’s a big city, the centre of the Spanish/conservative population. I stayed in a nice neighbourhood of nice walled houses with little huts on the sidewalk for the night watchmen. Thanks to bad directions from the hotel desk clerk, I got to wander around in it. (Advice to travelers: when getting directions “left” and “right” should be augmented by pointing!)
After catching up on my sleep, I left Santa Cruz for Samaipata. I’d arranged for a private taxi the day before, but when I went to the El Fuerte Taxi place, there were different people there who didn’t speak any English. So I went to Samaipata in a micro with eleven other people. The way this works is the micro—a sort of minivan with nine seats—waits until there are enough passengers to fill it up. There is a total price for the trip that is divided by the number of passenger. So we were crammed in, children sitting on laps, freight in the back and tied to the roof, for the three hour trip to Samaipata.
It was Sunday, and as we headed out of the city there were more and more people selling things on the side of the road. It was the same in the small towns we passed through where Sunday was apparently market day. Bolivia is the poorest country in South America and there was a lot of stuff falling down and abandoned buildings. Throughout the areas I visited, buildings were mostly stone, concrete or adobe. Since these never rot, it’s hard to tell how old buildings are, and whether they are going up or falling down. I saw (and stayed in) building which were finished, but had rebar sticking up above the roof, presumably in case someone wanted to build up later.
The road was rough and the pavement disappeared entirely in places. It rose as it followed a small river until we were in the mountains around Samaipata.
A tributary of the Rio Piray.
The part of the continent I traveled in could be divided east and west. There is a strong sense of the Andean culture in the west that crosses national borders. Argentina and Uruguay feel much more western.
There isn’t much to say about Santa Cruz de la Sierra (elevation 416 meters). Even Lonely Planet is hard up to find anything interesting there. It’s a big city, the centre of the Spanish/conservative population. I stayed in a nice neighbourhood of nice walled houses with little huts on the sidewalk for the night watchmen. Thanks to bad directions from the hotel desk clerk, I got to wander around in it. (Advice to travelers: when getting directions “left” and “right” should be augmented by pointing!)
After catching up on my sleep, I left Santa Cruz for Samaipata. I’d arranged for a private taxi the day before, but when I went to the El Fuerte Taxi place, there were different people there who didn’t speak any English. So I went to Samaipata in a micro with eleven other people. The way this works is the micro—a sort of minivan with nine seats—waits until there are enough passengers to fill it up. There is a total price for the trip that is divided by the number of passenger. So we were crammed in, children sitting on laps, freight in the back and tied to the roof, for the three hour trip to Samaipata.
It was Sunday, and as we headed out of the city there were more and more people selling things on the side of the road. It was the same in the small towns we passed through where Sunday was apparently market day. Bolivia is the poorest country in South America and there was a lot of stuff falling down and abandoned buildings. Throughout the areas I visited, buildings were mostly stone, concrete or adobe. Since these never rot, it’s hard to tell how old buildings are, and whether they are going up or falling down. I saw (and stayed in) building which were finished, but had rebar sticking up above the roof, presumably in case someone wanted to build up later.
The road was rough and the pavement disappeared entirely in places. It rose as it followed a small river until we were in the mountains around Samaipata.
Samaipata in the distance, seen from El Fuerte. Winding through the picture is the road from the town to the national park.