e-lopers - Travelogue - South America

Ipanema	Location: Rio de Janeiro Brazil
September 13, 2001 - Kiran

We pack our bags after a swim and tan session on the rooftop pool. If only our friends in grey, rainy Dublin could be here with us now... it's 26 degrees with blue skies!

We change hotels and beaches. We have to stick out our index fingers on the street corner to flag down the public bus, and in line with us are a couple of Americans.

"Are you stuck here too?" one asks. The US attacks have affected many more people than it seems on the surface.

We are again hurrying to update our website, to let all of you know that we're safe and moving on tomorrow. Bolivia is only 28 hours away on a bus with non-reclining seats, and that's just to the border.

We might stop in Santa Cruz for a short sleep under a roof and Cochabamba will be our acclimatization stop before hitting La Paz's elevation of 3632 meters. After Europe, the distances here are huge. It might take up to a week to get to La Paz.

I'm excited about moving on, learning about a new culture and arranging our next ceremony!

Santa Cruz	Location: Santa Cruz Bolivia
September 16, 2001 - Kiran

On second thought, we flew here. Geoff found a cheap flight and saved us from 28 hours to the Bolivian border by bus PLUS 23 hours on the "Death Train" to Santa Cruz. We aren't taking malaria pills anymore and would have had to go through some risky parts. I love to travel overland but 53 hours plus waiting time seems a little closer to hell than adventure.

On the flight we meet Fernando, a friendly Santa Cruzian, our age, who kindly offers us a lift to our guest house.

It is beautiful, with 2 courtyards, exotic trees, hammocks hanging between them, and a stunning resident toucan. This is good, very good for budget accommodation.

This morning we cruise around the lively town. At Santa Cruz's center is Plaza 24 de Septiembre. The locals sit under the trees in the square playing chess, or nuzzling with their lovers on green park benches, or having animated discussions with friends. Vendors walk around calmly with plastic jugs of juice, woven crafts and snack food. The indigenous heritage of these people is more evident than Portuguese/indigenous-mixed Rio de Janeiro.

"Perisoso!" A woman catches our attention and points to a tree overhead. After a bit of squinting, we realize she has located a sloth. Soon a crowd of children are gathering around us, also pointing and yelling "perisoso! perisoso!" The furry, long-jointed animal raises his little head, turns his little eyes upwards, reaches an arm slowly upwards, then a leg, squeezing the 2 claws on each into an upper branch and pulling himself up. He moves in slow motion, gracefully and with much deliberation.

Below him are busy shoeshine boys and shoeshine men. As we walk up the street, taxis honk as they pass to tell us they're available. The occasional sparkly Sports Utility Vehicle cruises by, a pretty sure sign that this center's cocaine business is doing okay. Supposedly Santa Cruz was a popular destination for runaway Nazi heads after the war and cocaine a popular investment.

Today is Sunday; by the looks of it, Sunday is haircut day since those seem to be the only open doors. We make our way to the bus terminal for our journey southwest. Around us and waiting with us in line are hats and braids, hats and braids and knee-length, layered skirts. It was a 'uniform' of sorts imposed upon Bolivian people by the Spanish, but remains today because of its sensibility in this environment and direct sun. Our bus looks comfy and the baggage/seating process is conducted in an organized way (we're not in India anymore, Toto). I feel safe and relaxed for our 18-hour journey to Sucre.

The next busride, 15 hours	Location: Sucre Bolivia
September 20, 2001 - Kiran

My Spanish... how you say... sucks. I thought my 6 one-hour lessons 2 years ago would somehow come back to me once I walked the walk. Wrong.

Our hostel manager recommended Jorge (khor-khay), who has taught us two 1.5 hour lessons and is a great teacher. We wish we could bring him with us to La Paz; he says thanks but never- it's too busy, big, noisy. Too bad. Adios, Jorge. Acclimatization has been achieved and it's time to move on.

Adios, resident parrot that yells "bebe" with a human voice into the night. Adios, braided hair and hatted women that sell tin spoons and ponchos on the sidewalks. Adios, cute crusty nosed kids who chase behind us, hands outstretched. Adios, orange juice vendors with carts that spiral-peel the skins and squish the juice out of them.

We settle back in our comfiest bus ever, in our entire lives: almost fully-reclining seats, leg cushions, enough room between seats for straight legs. $25 Canadian for about 740 kms. That's $0.03 per kilometer for heaven on wheels.

Adios, dog that sleeps in the middle of the busy street. Adios, fruit and flower markets. Adios, old stone neighborhoods, and hills that hug them.

As the bus scoots past the last bits of Sucre, the smell of vomit wafts up our noses from the back of the bus. The kid responsible starts to wail in horror.

Pleasure and pain... the law of balance.

The bus stops; police enter and check our passports. They write down our information, the only foreigners, then we're off again. Ruins of an archway fly by, then a deserted pink stone mansion, then a dry river bed whose path lies in wait for new water. Looking down from a low-flying plane you would see our happy bus zipping along the spaghetti road through the dusk hills.

Our first break is an hour and a half later at a small roadside hut. Arms in the kitchen make like Shiva for the hungry visitors. Stray dogs roam outside for roadside scraps. I've just eaten so I stand in the shadows to watch. This could be anywhere; Thailand, Malaysia, Ethiopia... Soon it starts to rain.

Back on the bus, one of our drivers puts on a video, a beautiful Bolivian story about a relationship between a trucker and a homeless boy. Halfway through the movie it starts to pour, with occasional lightning whiting out the windows. Looking down from that plane again, you would see the small beams from our headlights wading through the rain, catching a glimpse of the entire bus and its path sometimes with the lightning.

By the end of the movie, the trucker and boy have found happiness and the rain has stopped completely. Lucky for us, or we may have been negotiating road washouts.

The moon's smile is on us as we push on, mostly uphill now, the kid in the back vomiting now and then as we fall asleep in our comfy chairs.

During the night, we make brief stops to change drivers or at checkpoints. Each time, a woman behind us wakes up and asks her husband excitedly, "La Paz?"

Mamacoca	Location: La Paz Bolivia
September 21, 2001 - Kiran

The sun rises over the altiplano. "3742 meters, 1000 more than when we started," Geoff shows me on his handheld GPS. Along the horizon is a neverending wall of hills, purple from the first sun. All along the ground is a stretched-straight mist cloud, which evaporates as the sun floats higher. The earth from the horizon to our bus is a hard-looking tundra, frozen in places with rough little shrubs sticking out. Here and there are mud igloos, every now and then we pass a community of patchwork mud & brick & advertisement-painted block buildings.

Our first view of La Paz is a shock- an entire valley packed with low mud and brick houses. In the middle of the sprawl are highrises, traffic jams and a city symphony of horn honks. Adios, sleepy Sucre. Our taxi driver speaks perfect English, kind of a disappointment. After a bit of searching, we find a room away from the road for only $4.50 Canadian each.

Next, to the Museo de Coca, a fantastically laid out and detailed explanation of the makeup, traditional use, historical use, synthesization, and directions for use of the coca leaf.
Very educational.

It never ceases to amaze me how the

gentle respect and awe for the powers of a natural thing can be completely destroyed- along with the lives and livelihood of many innocent people- by big business, politics and the greed of the 'advanced' West. (Click here for more info.)

With our little trial stash, we make our way back home.

Off the record	Location: La Paz Bolivia
September 27, 2001 - Kiran

Our taxi driver drives us to the bus stop for Copacabana, where we will have a short tourist break before planning our next ceremony. As the wheels stop, a man opens Geoff's door and pokes a clipboard with seat numbers in his face. The driver opens the trunk with our backpacks in it and demands his fee. When all the dust has settled and our tickets have been bought, Geoff asks, "where is the video camera bag?"

My face falls. We run after the taxi's trails, searching for our white taxi somewhere in the sea of cars, in the sea of other white taxis.

We wait at different corners, praying that he is an honest man and will return the bag when he sees it in his rearview mirror. Geoff hauls our backpack off the top of the bus, and tells the ticket guy we want to take a later bus. Half an hour later the taxi hasn't shown and the bus starts to pull away. The ticket guy points to our bus ticket and says nonchalantly that we have to get our money back from the guy on the bus, which is now turning onto the main road. Again I run like the wind, so close but then the bus gains speed and I have to give up.

I return to the bus terminal with tears of defeat falling down my cheeks. A woman watching from another bus introduces herself as a Director Nationale (political director) and demands that the ticket guy give us tickets for a future date, then calls over the tourist police.

We drive with the head tourist police officer to the main station. In the taxi he hands us a paper with a list of do-not's: do not pay any fees to people claiming to be police who aren't wearing a green uniform, do not enter a taxi without noting the license number, do not, do not... too little, too late.

Later, on our way to dinner, we meet a Swiss man named Daniel. He says that he also saw our fiasco that morning, while sitting on his bus. He shares with us his tragedy.

Daniel went to the bank machine yesterday, and put the wad of bills in his pocket. As he was walking up a nearby street, a businessman ran by, dropping some money onto the street without noticing. Daniel and another passer-by stopped to pick up the bills. The Bolivian man said to Daniel that if he didn't say anything, they could split the money 50/50. Daniel replied that he was going to take the money to the police instead.

A third man arrived at the scene, showing his badge and introducing himself as a police officer. He asked what had happened, and wanted to see what was in Daniel's pockets, to make sure he hadn't taken any of it for himself. Daniel showed him the folded Bolivianos in his pocket, which the officer looked over and then returned. It wasn't until later that Daniel noticed what had been handed back to him... 2 out of use, old Bolivian bank notes and in between, pieces of newspaper, cut to size. Just like that, he had lost 250.00 American dollars.

Not what we wanted to hear.

The Tourist Police had basically told us to forget about our camera; it was probably being sold at a Peruvian black market by now. We email the Canadian TV network that put their camera in our hands in order to get better quality footage for their show. They are insured and assure us that it is not the first time for such a thing to happen. We are relieved but anxious to get our own video camera back. Days without our camera mean no photos for our website, no documentation of our great adventure.

I hate the thought of some greedy #!&%#, looking through our video footage, negotiating prices with black market dealers. I can't help but look at people differently, with a higher degree of paranoia. Not a nice headspace to be in.

Pied pipers	Location: Copacabana Bolivia
September 28, 2001 - Kiran

We've done all we can do about the video camera; now we're in Copacabana and quickly forgetting our paranoias. Copacabana is tranquil, slow... incidentally the Copacabana Beach where we celebrated my birthday in Brazil was named after this place, on the shores of deep blue Lake Titicaca. We're back in a place where people greet each other and smile when they pass by.

Tonight we climbed Cerro Calvario, one of the only tall peaks around the town, for a sunset view. The 14 Stations of the Cross lined our way to the cliff, the mountains took our breath away at the top, and the moon graced our path on the way down.

Trout is the local specialty, and after a delicious dinner we return to our hostel and fall asleep.

The notes of a full brass band pound their way into my dreams. I wake up, try to go to sleep, then wake again. On and off I drift through sleep as the band plays and pauses, plays and pauses. I can't sleep because of the same feeling I used to get during my summers in Holland as a teenager: hearing the music and the older kids going out to the bars while I had to stay in. I wanted to be where the action was.

At about 2 am Geoff and I throw on some clothes and walk down into town, following the music. We turn a corner and stop. In front of us are about 20 cholitas (traditionally dressed young women) and an equal amount of men, raving on the street, skirts twirling, hats bobbing, alcohol flowing. Geoff and I stand in the shadows and watch with grins of kids in a fairy tale.

Full moon	Location: Copacabana Bolivia
October 1, 2001 - Geoff

Walking up from Lake Titicaca I hold my hand over my head, a lame attempt to prevent my scalp from blistering. We are so close to the sun and I forgot my hat this morning. We're hailed by an artesenia selling his handmade jewelery on a blanket by the road. There is something honest and appealing about this guy. He doesn't have the desperate-to-sell look in his eyes that has become a bit of a turn-off for us. Maybe it's because he looks like someone we'd hang out with at a rave in Vancouver. Who knows, but we stop. I like some of his work and buy a necklace for 15 bolivianos-about $3 Canadian. Kiran asks if he could fix a broken pendant and we agree to come back.

We spend the next hour waiting to meet with our Aymará translator in the plaza. Thankfully we find some shade and watch the stray peros (dogs) playfight around us and under the little ice cream stand of a chola (an indigenous woman living in the town).

It seems improbable that her ice cream is more than a syrupy puddle but in Bolivia if you're in the shade you're cold, and in the sun you roast. I guess she's banking on that with her little parasol. I see her sell about 50 cents worth of treats during her entire peak hour.

After a quick meeting with Renan (our translator), Kiran and I head back down to meet the artesenia, whose name turns out to be Ruben. We meet him by chance walking up the road. As he does some quick work on Kiran's necklace, she remarks on his pendant from Tibet. We then break into a friendly, broken Spanish, conversation about similarities between various world spirtualities. We really hit it off. As we leave he invites us to come to a celebration of the full moon later tonight.

We arrive at Hotel Gloria for the celebration an hour and a half late. It turns out to be perfect timing and we are almost the first to arrive. We are quickly introduced to the owner, Pedro, who holds these ceremonies at every full moon. Anyone who wishes to join in is invited. This month he has a beautiful group of artesenias, travellers and ex-pats from around South America and the world in attendance. It doesn't take long for our story to come out and before we know it we are a big part of the festivities.

While poeple take turns on drums, flutes, a yidaki (didgeridoo) and dancing around the fire, a ceremonial mesa takes shape. Mesa means table and it's a pizza shaped board on which offerings of flowers, sweets, coca leaves and seeds are placed in a circle. Only the women take part in placing the offerings as the moon is a feminine force in the Aymará traditions. Each sweet has a meaning and each leaf a wish.

In the centre of the mesa, Melissa, a new friend places a square of sugar with a wedding couple carved on the front. A place of honour to ask the moon for marital blessings for us. We are deeply moved.

We wait until the moon is directly overhead and then each pass our hands over the mesa in a private moment asking for personal blessings. The mesa is then placed onto the fire while prayers and songs are directed into the brightly lit sky. It is important that all the mesa burns for it to be a proper offering. In some cases a diviner will come to read the ashes in the morning. The ashes may tell if the offering was well received.

We leave exhausted and elated. A wonderful group of people have used some of their spiritual currency to buy us good fortune in our wedding quest. Good omens for tomorrow...

Isla del Sol	Location: Isla del Sol Bolivia
October 2, 2001 - Geoff

We grab a launch at 8 in the morning, still a little blurry from last night. Waves rock us gently and we start to see the majestic Island of the Sun after a little more than an hour. The Incas used to ply this route with reed boats as did the Tiahuanacu that preceded them. Our boat makes a slightly noisier approach to the village of Cha'llapampa. Our hearts are on our sleeves as we wait to meet with the village authorities.

The authorities turn out to be 6 men in sandals and felt hats with sun-dried chiseled faces. We make our offering of tobacco and coca and immediately feel welcome. Renan does his best to convey our deep respect for their ways and sincere desire to learn from this ancient community. The Aymara language is guttural but they seem to have to smile to use it. I realize I've become quite used to Spanish and feel lost for the first time in awhile. After a good wad of coca is in all our mouths and a few formalities have passed, it seems our idea is catching on. We stress, through Renan, that we want this to be a good experience for the community. We will foot the bill for the fiesta, of course, but also say we would like to contribute to the community in some way. This turns out to be a donation for seeds and some windows for the common hall. The men tell us that they hope some of the younger members of the village will be inspired by seeing their old pre-Catholic traditions. It feels like wedding is in the air.

The meeting then moves on to the nitty-gritty: how many potatoes do we need, who will be our family, who gets to play in the band and all the concerns of any wedding. They are really sinking their teeth into it by the time lunch rolls around. We can hardly contain our joy. We agree to an official meeting at the community hall to deal with finances so the village will know exactly what's what. We shake hands and thank each man profusely. They look a little shy at our gratitude.

We spend the afternoon hiking with Renan to Titi Khar'ka, the rock of the puma. This sacred spot is where the lake gets its name. With a little imagination the huge rock looks like the business end of a puma about to pounce on us. This is the place where the Incas said their civilization was born. The pre-Incan Tiahuanacu people, from which the Aymara claim descent, believe the sun and moon were both born here. The spot, with it's ancient temple ruins, sacrificial mesa (this time a large stone table) and rock hewn Andean cross is steeped in spirtual history. Renan asks us to take our shoes off to feel Pachamama (the female spirit of the Earth) and to raise our hands to the sun, which is the face of Viracocha (the creator spirit). We meditate in the warmth and wind. The good omens of this meditation are reinforced when a pair of falcons fly over our heads from front to back. They hover in the wind while Renan smiles and says we are sure to be together forever. We aren't going to argue with that.

Matrimonia	Location: Isla del Sol Bolivia
October 7, 2001 - Kiran

This is the big day. At about 5:00 this morning we are informed of the names of our parents and godparents. I write them on my hand so as not to make any mistakes. I am then whisked away to prepare at my family's dwelling, about five minutes' walk from Geoff's.

As I walk up the stairs, my female relatives wave and giggle excitedly to me in Aymará. They show me into a room and from heaps of material bundles, unwrap dozens of skirts, picking out the right colors for the occasion. They signal to me to leave my jeans on, just fold them up above my knees. The first skirt comes, yellow, over my head and is tied at the waist. It has layers, and is quite poufy over my jeans. The second skirt is blue, over my head and tied. The final skirt is fuschia. I raise my hands up one last time and wait for the final knot. I remember feeling this same way in Japan, thinking that I probably wouldn't be able to eat much because now my stomach is wrapped around my spine. I look down and can't see my feet anymore due to the layers and layers of color and material around my middle.

The women have a short conference, then return to me with determined looks on their faces. They remove each of my skirts. Over my jeans they wrap a thick, embroidered belt, then return each of the skirts over my head, this time adding a fourth (red) between the fuschia and blue.

They cloak me in two, white (for purity) woolen shawls and pop a bowler hat on my head- on one side for now, as I am still a cholita (unmarried girl). Tomorrow I will be able to wear it on top of my head like the other cholas. I look out the window and can see a line of people making their way towards our house. The women chatter excitedly to me and amongst themselves. Shy little daughters peek through the door. I want to wave at Geoff, but they hasten to hide me in the room.

So I wait, by myself, nervously reading and re-reading the names on my hand.

Read on about our Aymará ceremony.

Saddle sore	Location: Tupiza Bolivia
October 13, 2001 - Geoff

Tupiza is a sleepy little town right out of a spaghetti western. At rush hour you might get hit crossing the road by a bicycle or a horse. Not much chance a car will run you down. You can hear them from too far off. The surrounding cliffs are bright red and the clouds seem to keep their distance. From the looks of the cacti drying in the sand, the clouds have kept their distance for a while now.

Kiran and I decide to jump on horseback as soon as we can to really experience the surreal landscape. We hook up with two Brits (Dave and Nigel), two guides and 8 saddlebags. We stuff our saddlebags with tomatoes, onions, spices and pasta. As an afterthought we grab tins of sauce, sardines and condensed milk. We're ready for days of trail cooking.

The scenery is spectacular. Red pillars look like the pipes of a massive church organ. The red changes to grey, then to metallic blue and yellow and then back to red as we ride. We're in the land of Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. In fact, the doomed duo made their last heist not far from here before meeting their end in the nearby town of San Vincente.

Riding a horse is always more difficult for me then I remember. The movies make it seem far to easy. I never hear John Wayne complaining that he may have lost the ability to have children. After the dusty gallop and the pounding trot, I'm bruised enough for a week.

Kiran and the Brits are feeling the same way. Dave, from London, was actually thrown from his horse and we take a riverside break while I irigate the wound with some diluted iodine sprayed from a plastic bag. Between Kiran and I we have three different disinfectant unguents and ointments. We can't be too careful with all the animal crap around these dusty paths. Dog, horse, donkey, chicken, goat and llama all leave reminders of their presence in these hills, hopefully not in Dave's wound.

With the aches, scrapes and bruises setting in, talk tentatively turns to shortening this adventure from three days to two. When I open my saddle bags the decision is made for us. The sauce tins, bouncing in the saddlebags, have pureed the vegetables. The heat has melted the margarine and cheese. All the food, newly liquified, has been absorbed into our clothes. We now have just enough food for tonight (sharing with Dave and Nigel) and only the dusty clothes on our backs. Although this is a tragedy for both food and clothes, I think we are all secretly relieved that we'll have to head back.

We spend the evening tending a campfire in the abandoned mud house of a campesino (traditional country dweller). We get downright silly on cheap boxes of Bolivian wine and crash for the night.

After a hard ride back to town the next day, Kiran and I crawl into our beds with multiple bruises and raw scabs where no scab has a right to be.

Bus chicks	Location: Tupiza to Uyuni road Bolivia
October 18, 2001 - Geoff

Our butts are finally healing a little. We have a forced three day recovery period as there's a strike going on and there has been no transport. We hear that a bus will leave for Uyuni at 11. The ticket vendor tells us it's an eight hour journey. It's supposed to be a hellish ride but incredibly beautiful. At this point we'll take anything.

We cram ourselves onto to the bus and into our seats. The floor beside me is filled with sacks of lima beans, stinking raw meat, a mother and her two children. This creates an insurmountable obstacle to the girls trying to sell fried egg sandwiches as the bus pulls away. The girls manage to jump off the bus before it picks up too much speed. I don't see whether they sell any of their greasy wares.

As we pull away I marvel at how loud the sound of the birds is. Their shrill chirps pierce through the belching engine and the rattle of the spare parts hanging by wire and string. The road is a constant washboard. The poor infant trying to sleep on the floor must have scrambled eggs for brains by now. Our feet are doing rapid jive steps to the rhythm of the bouncing. There's no way to stop the jiggling and our voices come out in Tarzan yodels. We can't help but laugh. Our laughter isn't so strong after we hit the four hour mark.

After seven hours in the desert and creeping along cliff edges with nothing but cacti to slow our fall, I realize that I can still hear those birds, just as clearly. This doesn't seem right as the only sign of life out the window is the occasional group of llamas. I peer over the shoulder of the woman in front and notice her colourful bundle contains a box of baby chickens. Bus chicks and dancing feet. I sit back with that feeling that the world never ceases to amaze me. As I smile with this feeling I notice that a straggly puppy has appeared from under someone's seat and is licking mashed chicken off the face of the formerly sleeping baby at my feet. The baby just pulls the dogs fur and bashes it on the head. Patient puppy puts up with anything for a lick.

At about hour ten, just as the sun has gone down, an axle goes on the bus and we slide into the soft sand beside the dirt road. I shudder to think what would have happened if we'd still been in the mountains. I jump out and notice a young boy shovelling sand away from the tires. I motion to help and he finds another shovel for me. We fight off the desert cold by furiously shifting sand away from the bus's path while the driver and his wife climb under to repair the axle. A Greyhound may not have broken down out here in the middle of nowhere, but if it had I bet the driver wouldn't have been able to fix it, nor would there have been a trunk full of shovels and spare parts.

After a half hour of shovelling and clanging, the boy and I clear a path for the newly fixed bus. As we wait for the driver to get back on board the boy and I look out over the desert at the thin line of orange on the horizon and the brilliant stars. The boy, who is nowhere near as winded as I am, sighs and says "Amigo, que lindo noche no?" I smile because he's right, I feel like I've never seen a more beautiful night.

At hour twelve and a half we arrive at the outskirts of Uyuni to a barricade and are told that the bus will go no further. I refuse to sleep in the bus and Kiran and I bundle up to walk into the town. When we arrive we bang on all the hostel doors we can with our frozen fingers. At last we find what must be the only bed left in town. I'm not sure if I'm glad we made it through the barricade. The strike was supposed to be over. I do know that I'm glad to be in a bed and not freezing in that bus.

Southern Altiplano hostages	Location: Uyuni Bolivia
October 19, 2001 - Kiran

When we awake, tourists are scurrying around outside, making a commotion. Something exciting is happening. When we ask, a tourist replies, "you should go to the plaza and write your names on the list, for a space on a bus outta here." We pack our bags and head for the plaza.

There are over a hundred tourists gathered; sitting, standing in groups, cloaked in sunscreen. I hunt for information. Someone tells me the locals have been on strike for 3 days now, and until today no outbound transportation has been provided for the tourists. They are getting frustrated, particularly the ones who have already missed flights. Today's buses were promised yesterday by the town council for noon.

1:00 passes and still no buses. Only one restaurant is feeding us, and we have to hide from the window in case the locals see that they are helping us.

Three tourists who can translate in English, Spanish and French enter a building to negotiate our freedom with the council.

There is a scuffle outside between a local and an angry tourist. It is obvious that the tourists are being held here as a bargaining tool with the government for their cause: better roads and cheaper electricity.

During these "negotiations" all of us call our respective embassies, all of which tell us that some commissioner from the tourism board will be arriving soon to work things out, so will we please stop calling?

As with all governmental word, "soon" means "maybe later" or usually "never". A rumor goes around that Oruro and Potosi, the 2 nearest cities, are also on strike. A newer rumor is that at 8pm there will be a meeting for the tourists.

The mood in town is slowly and sickeningly changing from 'use the tourists for our cause' to 'the tourists are our enemy.'

We are being held as hostages, when all we wanted to do is see the area's stupid salt flat on some stupid tour. How is this cause helping tourism in any way?

We go to the meeting at 8. An Argentinian man has been negotiating with the local militia and has arranged for 6 men to accompany us through the barricade at 11pm, where 3 buses will be waiting to take