Desperately seeking Uyuni

If there’s anything I’ve learned in the last 7 months of traveling, it’s that you have to be flexible and patient. Things don’t happen they way they do back home whether it’s a bus trip that takes twice as long as scheduled or dealing with taxi drivers. The best way to deal with everything is to just relax. Over the next three days, I had to learn this lesson all over again.

Our last stop in Bolivia was supposed to be Uyuni, a small town that’s the jumping off point for tours of the famous Bolivian salt flats. After a good scrub and a good meal last night we booked our bus tickets to Uyuni. After she sold us our tickets, the clerk warned us that the bus hadn’t been running the last few days because of a blockade. Apparently, the entire town of Uyuni was blocked off by protesting locals so no buses were getting in or out. When I asked her when she thought the blockade would be cleared she said Mañana. Adrian and I crossed our fingers and hoped she meant that literally (meaning tomorrow) but prepared ourselves if she meant it the typically Latin way (meaning some vague time in the future) Of course, the next morning after we had packed all our gear up, the clerk notified us that there would be no buses to Uyuni today, the blockade was still up. We checked back into our room for another night and hoped that tomorrow would be our day. Just in case we discussed a plan B.

The next morning, the buses were still not running. Bored of Potosi (and maybe wanting to put as much distance between us and Julio) we decided to get out of town and head to Oruro. There was a train to Potosi from there and we hoped perhaps that it would get in, even if the buses couldn’t. Oruro was a big town and hopefully, there’d be some more information about the blockade and something to do while we waited. It was also fairly close to Potosi so we were able to catch a bus that got us into town early afternoon.

Oruro was not very impressive, actually it was ugly, particularly after Sucre and Potosi. It looked like a huge jumble of bad wiring and dusty cement blocks. We bypassed the hostel across from the equally ugly bus terminal and headed to a small hotel downtown. The hotel was full of convention delegates but the super nice owner had a room with shared bath still available. We checked in and told her that we were trying to get to Uyuni. She hadn’t heard about the blockade but wasn’t surprised because they happen all the time. She handed us a train schedule and pointed out that one was scheduled to leave tomorrow. We followed her directions to the train station only to find a room full of empty chairs. A lone clerk came out from a backroom. Before we were able to complete our request he pointed to a notice board. There were no trains due to the blockade at Uyuni. Great.

We caught a bus to the bus station and confirmed that there were no buses to Uyuni. We had just a handful of days left to stay in the country and the one place we wanted to visit was closed. Do we go back to Sucre? Maybe but we’d have to find a place to stay. What were our other options? La Paz? Too far. We looked around at the different schedules and found a bus going to Iquique, Chile. That would solve our visa issue and with just a slight detour we could still do our salt flat tour starting at Chilean end rather than from Uyuni. That would send us back to Bolivia with a new visa and down into Argentina. That wasn’t our original plan but the other option was staying in Oruro. There were 5 different bus companies all going across the border the next day and all around the same time. So we planned to come back tomorrow and buy tickets for whatever bus was leaving first.

There was really nothing to see in Oruro. The main attraction was the carnival but that wasn’t on until February. The woman at the hotel told us we’d have to come back to see it. And as much as I wished we could, I knew we’d be long gone by then. Instead we headed out to the most highly recommended restaurant in the city. It was a posh place with linen tablecloths and bow-tied waiters ready to attend to our every whim. Adrian order the che’'s speciality which turned out to be the biggest plate of lamb ever while I stuck with rice and chicken. It was tasty but our choice of beer spoiled it a bit. Adrian had spotted an unfamiliar brand he had to try. But on first taste we realized it was more of a sweet malt drink than beer. Imagine sweet guiness and you’ll have an idea of what it tasted like.

The next morning we had breakfast at the hotel. It was a simple continental one but the bread was fresh baked with real butter, the sweet bread came with dulce de leche, and there was juice and real coffee with real milk. And it was included in the cost of our room. We still had some time before the buses to Chile were leaving so we headed to the internet café to find out a bit about the new country and city we were heading too. Our first shock was the prices. In Bolivia we would think twice before spending $20 on a room but in Chile it looked like we were going to have to spend that much each. I hoped that was just my bad math and picked out some cheaper options close to each other for us to check out when we got into Iquique.

Even taking our time we arrived with lots of time to kill. We bought our tickets for the 11 oclock bus and then found two seats to read and wait. As we were sitting there, a German couple approached us. They had been to the train station already trying to get tickets to uyuni and were turned away. They only had three weeks to try and squeeze in a salt flat tour, and northern argentina and were a little panicked. They asked us what we were doing. I told them about our plan to do the salt flat tour in reverse hoping that the blockade would be over by the time our tour arrived in Uyuni. But we also let them know that Sucre was really nice if they wanted to visit another city and wait. They thought for a moment and decided to take the bus with us. They bought their tickets then headed back to their hostel to get their bags. I hoped that it was going to be worth it since we had no idea what Iquique was going to be like.

Bastien and Anita turned up with their bags and some provisions for the 8 hour bus ride. They had bought some beers and a jealous Adrian took off to get his own supplies. I reminded him that the bus may not have a toilet which scared the couple but didn’t stop Adrian. With beers in hand we boarded the bus and began our border run. There was a toilet and it worked. And the roads were some of the nicest ones in Bolivia. So far so good. I was even optimistic that we might make it to Iquique before dark. That didn’t last long once the bus turned off the highway and onto a sandy road through the desert. The driver barely slowed down sending huge plumes of dust over the bus. In an attempt to keep the dust out of the bus (and our lungs), we all closed our windows and the ayudante locked the bathroom door much to Adrian’s chagrin. He squirmed with his very full beer bladder for 30 minutes before I told him to just ask the ayudante for the key. It worked and he was able to enjoy the ride to the border.

I had no idea which border we were at. Once we left the highway, the map I was following was useless. We were at some minor border post just before immigration, the bus stopped to let us off to exchange money. Adrian bought a minimal amount of Chilean pesos and then got back on board. Just a few minutes down the road was a shiny new immigration building. In the midst of the Bolivian desert it stood out and quickly reminded us that we were leaving the third world for first world Chile. The building held both Chilean and Bolivian immigration so it was easy. The only hiccup was the customs inspectors. Chile has a very strict import policy. All grains, fruits, veg, dairy and meat were forbidden. They xrayed all luggage and the mostly indigenous passengers were a bit confused. Many of them had their quinoa and bread as well as other grocercies they were carrying with them. When we’d all been thoroughly checked and stamped we were allowed back on the bus.

The difference between Bolivia and Chile were immediate. Although the landscape looked the same, on this side of the border the roads were paved. Notice I didn't say well-paved however, the endless construction signaled that would soon be fixed and take more than a few hours off the trip. Unfortunately, at the moment the road was a little treacherous and at one point we had to stop when we came upon a crash. There was a bus overturned on the side of the road. As we got closer we saw that there had been a collision with a truck. There were no emergency officials and all the passengers appeared to be okay as they stood at the side of the road waiting for someone to pick them up. They climbed on a truck ahead of us to the nearest town while we were waved through the accident zone to continue our journey. I noticed that our driver reduced his speed after that. Well I thought it was because of that, as we chugged along it became apparent that the bus was having issues. The driver plodded on though the mountains getting us to the highway where he alternated between trying to make up some time and stopping to work on the bus. We may have been in a new country but it was the same old story when it came to buses.

Around 9pm the bus got to Iquique, or so I thought. It was a big sprawling town full of stoplights and modern buildings. But in fact this was Alto Hospicio, the suburbs of Iquique. I only realized where we were when the bus reached a cliff. Two kilometers down a steep series of switchbacks lay Iquique all bright lights and tall buildings that hugged the coast of the Pacific. It was an amazing sight but as the bus got to the city the awe of the lights changed to a turned up nose. The city looked grotty and rundown. Unlike old Bolivian towns which were just the victim of ugly architecture and building materials, Iquique looked rundown. The buildings were better built but were now grotty giving the town a very seedy feeling. In the midst of this the bus pulled over on a street and let us off. We had no clue where we were. The Germans managed to find a cab to take them to the hostel in town they picked out. We were headed in the opposite direction so we said goodbye and wished them luck. Now it was our turn to find a taxi. We lugged our bags to a busier road where we eventually flagged down a free taxi to take us to Cavancha beach where the hostels we had chosen were located. It was a good choice, as we got out of the centre of town, the homeless people disappeared replaced with landscaped lawns and palm trees. Our first choice of hostel was booked up. They recommended another place 4 blocks away but we couldn’t find it ending up at a small hotel described as a surfers’ hangout in our guidebook. It wasn’t great but it would do so we dumped our bags, grabbed a quick bite to eat across the street before heading to bed. It didn’t matter about the accommodation, all that mattered was we had escaped from Bolivia, for now at least.

Arsenic and old lead.

It was hard to believe but just a few hundred years ago, Potosi (and Bolivia) had been the richest city in the world. No really, poor crappy dusty Bolivia had once been the envy of the world with Potosi at the centre of it all. This wealth came from the crappy dusty hills surrounding the city. Or rather one hill, Cerro Rico (literally Rich Hill). For almost 500 years, miners had been pulling silver out of the ground of this looming bump. These days the search for silver may take years unlike the minutes it did back in the beginning and the miners must make a living selling lesser minerals like zinc and tin but mostly by giving tours of the mines. Although Potosi was nice to look at, it was small so the mine tour was the only reason to stay in Potosi. And today that’s what we were doing.

The night before we’d booked our Engligh tour through the hostel figuring that the favourite hostel in town would have a pretty good tour. They promised small groups but when they picked us up there were double the number in the mini bus. Hmm… But we still were only about 18 of us and our guide Julio was soon joined by Jhonny who was going to help out. Julio either had a very weird sense of humour or was about to go postal. I hoped for our sake it was a sense of humour but when he told us that before becoming a guide he’d worked in the mines for 20 years I began looking around the mini bus to make sure he didn’t have a duffle bag with a rifle and boxes of bullets.

The bus dropped us off at the office where Jhonny and Julio handed out protective jackets and pants as well as rubber boots and helmets, headlamps and battery belts. All the sizes were European and it took Adrian and I a couple of guesses to figure out what our sizes translate into. Even then, we both ended up walking around in boots at least a size too big. But the last time we changed our boots, Julio started twitching and yelled that it didn’t matter. So we decided not to say anything and clomped across the street to the miner’s market.

At the miner’s market which wasn’t actually a market but a street with a handful of modest shops, Julio gave us a little background on the mines. Until the 80s the mine of Cerro Rico were a huge part of the Potosi economy, even after silver ceased to tumble out of the shafts. Then the price of tin and zinc and silver fell and the government pulled out. The rusty industrial equipment they left behind still pockmarked the side of the mountaim unused and abandonned. But without the mines the people of Potosi had nothing and no way to make a living. The miners decided to continue mining on their own and formed small mining cooperatives (photo above), each claiming a portion of the shafts as their own. It was one of the dozens of cooperatives we were going to visit to meet some of the 20 miners that worked for it. They mined everything by hand. Life was short and hard. And the returns for their effort were even smaller. That’s why they did the tours. And to help them out, we were now at the market to buy them some supplies as a gift. We all put in 20Bs each and let Julio choose what to get. At the first stall, he piled up coca leaves and cigarettes before directing our attention to the lighters. There were typical Bics and as well as shelf of those decorated with pictures of half-naked women.

“If you were down in the mine, which lighter would you rather have?” Julio asked. The lads in the group immediately grabbed a handful of the half naked ladies. Julio approved and added them to the pile, holidng on to one just a little too long before dragging us down the street.

“We have to buy different things at different places because only certain people can sell certain things,” he continued. “Back there we bought coca leaves because she had a license to sell coca leaves. But we couldn’t buy too much because she could go to jail.” We were all confused so he explained. If a licence holder sold more than 500kg a year, she could be arrested and accused of selling to cocaine producers. That was unfortunate for the locals because with all the tour groups coming through and all the miners desperate for a little buzz while they worked, she probably could have sold a lot more and made a lot more money.

The next shop was licensed to sell dynamite. And alcohol apparently. Interesting combination of products. And perhaps it was the alcohol that explained Julio’s weird behaviour. He threw sticks of dynamite to all of us causing us to yelp when half of the folks missed and dropped theirs. That just made Julio laugh sadistically.

“They’re harmless without these,” he said holding up fuses and blastic caps. But not all of us were convinced reading the large warning on each. He roughly gathered up all the sticks and put them in a pile before adding a dozen bottles of pure alcohol to the pile. One guy made the mistake of grabbing some water too. Julio tossed it aside. “If you were down in a mine, would you want to drink water,” he scoffed but he replaced it with some bottles of non-alcoholic but super sweet orangeade as if trying to appease us.

With the shopping done, Julio hustled us all into the mini van for the drive up to the mine entrance. On our way up, Julio began barking at us about safety. “My word is the word. You must do exactly as I say. And if you don’t like it tough sh*t. Complain afterwards. I don’t care.” Oh boy, this was going to be a fun outing. His mood didn’t improve at the mine. He divided us into two groups. He took one group and Jhonny took the other. Adrian and I were pushed into Jhonny’s group. That would have been fine except Jhonny spoke no English. I told Julio we had paid for an English tour. He glared at me and told me to complain to the office and then ignored me. Luckily Leoni, a Dutch girl, was fluent and said she would translate for our group. It turned out she was the only one who had signed up for the Spanish language tour – the rest of us were all expecting English. I was happy to be away from Julio but still angry about the incident. It wasn’t the language barrier (I could understand and translate for Adrian) but it was his unapologetic attitude that ticked me off.

But I had to forget about all that as we passed the entrance. Overhead the sign was barely visible under the sticky film of llama’s blood that covered it. Jhonny explained that it was part of a blessing ceremony that took place twice a year. It was a blessing we all wanted once we stepped inside. It was impossible to step upright in the tunnels, built for the vertically-challenged Bolivian miners. We were instructed to move fast to avoid the full ore carts due to come speeding down the narrow tunnel. But our progress was hampered by the uneven ground as we tripped over deep holes filled with murky water. Of course, it was as I was hunched over and trying to speed walk that I discovered my helmet was too big for me. It slid over my eyes and I couldn’t see unless I held my head up awkwardly. If you want to recreate the moment, blindfold yourself, bend from the waist and try to run. Not easy. I considered taking the helmet off until I banged my head on the overhead pipes and realized I’d rather stumble than knock myself unconscious.

After 15 mintues of walking into the heart of the mine, Jhonny pulled us into a small cave. It contained a statue of Jesus. This was a place where the miners blessed themselves before heading in. But it was also marked the point where miners left religion behind. Inside the mine was considered the underworld and this statue was a way of announcing “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” Cheery. Jhonny let us catch our breath before taking us further into the mine. There was another cave not too far ahead. Inside this one was a grotesque statue. This was Tio, the god of the mines.

Tio, Jhonny told us, wasn’t a Quechua god, he was actually a Spanish creation. When the Spanish had first built the mine, they had forced the locals to work in the mines but found they weren’t very productive in the horrible conditions unless someone was watching over them. Of course, none of the Spanish had wanted to volunteer in the deadly depths so they called on a higher power. They placed a statue in the mine and called him Dio (God) which the Quechua pronounced Tio. The workers, probably terrified by the figure, worked harder under its gaze and now it was considered the god of the mines. They made offerings of cigarettes, alcohol and lit candles to it, praying to survive longer than the average worker.

After we’d all had a moment to take in the story and the statue, Jhonny got us back on our feet and led us further into the tunnel which had somehow gotten story. We were passed by Julio, leading a girl out to the entrance. She was obviously upset unable to take the claustrophobic conditions. When he came back he pointed at me and told us we were now to join him. It was a case of be careful what you wish for. Sure we were now in the English speaking group again but we were back with Julio, the jerk.

My mood didn’t improve as the air got hotter and thicker the further into the mine we went. (And Julio’s certainly didn’t) In the humid conditions my glasses kept fogging up and I had to take them off. It wasn’t like I could see with the helmet slipping over my eyes anyway. Julio saw me struggling with my helmet and then yelled at me for not wearing one that fit. I wanted to remind him that he said it didn’t matter if everything fit but wisely bit my tongue. We met up with the rest of the tour group and Julio led us to an opening in the ceiling. I looked at the height and then at my short little legs and knew there would be a problem. I tried to assess how I’d be able to climb up the slimy walls to get through the hole wearing rubber boats that were too big, unable to see, and worried about breaking a leg or two, only to have my thought process interrupted by Julio.

“What’s taking you so long? Get up there now,” he barked at me as he grabbed my arms and pulled. Now I had no way to support myself so I wrenched my arms away from him, and told him off. I took my time to get up the hole conjuring up everything I had learned about caving from Patrick back in the caves of Belize. It worked. Up above we were in a small chamber in the midst of a group of miners as well as Jhonny and his group. As we were gathered around them, Julio took the time to yell at me in front of everyone. “If I tell you to move, you move. If you don’t you can just leave. If you think this is bad think of the miners who work here every day.” He stared at me and I glared back not breaking my stare. He blinked first and then encouraged the miners to ask us questions, the ruder the better. So the miners asked the girl with short hair and no boyfriend if she was a lesbian, the guy with dreadlocks if he was gay, and wanted to know why I hadn’t given Adrian any babies, etc. He seemed to think it was funny and when anyone objected he told us to be sensitive to them. For Julio, working in the dismal conditions of the mine meant one could be as rude as possible. This was the first time during our time in Bolivia that we’d encountered any sort of bad behaviour by the locals. The highly indigenous population were normally quiet, shy and reserved. But down here, things were different. Down here they had Julioto egg them on, Julio who obviously hated us tourists. Hoping to ease the mood, we passed out our gifts of dynamite, coca leaves, and pure sugar alcohol. The miners immediately opened the alcohol and began to pass it around. Julio told us all we had to drink or the miners would be offended.

Around the fifth round, Julio came over to sort of apologize to me, claiming that safety was the reason for the outburst. But I wondered why, if Julio was so worried about safety he was forcing us to drink. It was only the voracious thirst of the miners that kept us from all getting completely drunk. He probably hoped that the alcohol was going to soften my mood but I simply glared at him and he moved on. The miners polished off the alcohol before going back to work. The five of them were trying to insert a beam above their heads to support the roof of the cave. Julio then asked who wanted to go further, everyone but Adrian and I put up their hands. So we stayed with Jhonny and the miners. For some reason we felt safer with the drunk miners hammering at an unstable roof than we did going down to the next level with crazy Julio, even as chunks of the roof fell around us. With the help of Jhonny we were able to talk to the miners a bit more honestly. Most were under 30, married with at least one girlfriend on the side and a couple of children. They were proud of their girlfriends; the more they had the more successful and manly their peers considered them. But I wondered how many of them were telling the truth and how many were lying to keep themselves amused while they worked 12 hours a day in these mines. They’d all started working underground in their teens and admitted they’s probably die here. Jhonny was only 23 but had managed to get this tour guide gig. Unlike the rest of them, he actually smiled. I would too once I made it out of the mine, whenever that was.

I was getting anxious to leave, especially when Jhonny explained that the dust and slime in the mine was full of arsenic, lead, asbestos and other fun things. I pulled my hand out of the pile of gunk, however, I was already covered in crap and pretty sure I’d be blowing black boogers for the next week as it was. We had to wait 45 minutes for the others to return before we could leave the toxic mess. None of them looked happier or satisfied. In fact they looked worse. Now rather than just one miserable guide there was one miserable guide and 18 miserable tourists. Julio couldn’t make any of us feel any worse, so he considered his work done and began to lead us out of the mine. The thought that the tour was almost over, made the return trip a lot easier. And there was the sound of deep breaths being taken when we reached the wall of fresh cool air just before the entrance.

Outside of the mine we all whipped off our helmets and opened our protective jackets. But Julio had one more activity planned. He took us to an open area and ordered Jhonny to blow up the last stick of dynamite. He proceeded to tell us the story of buying dynamite. You never used to need a license to sell it or buy but a few years ago a tourist bought some and then took it back to his hostel where he promptly used it to commit suicide, injuring a few guests in the blast. I wondered to myself if he killed himself after taking Julio’s tour. Jhonny lit the fuse and we all stood a safe distance away only to notice that Julio and Jhonny were nowhere in sight. A guy turned to me and said “Do you think it’s odd that they’ve left us hear while the dynamite goes off.” Actually no, I wouldn’t be surprised if Julio was trying to get rid of us. We put our helmets back on and took a few more steps back just as the dynamite went off. It was loud but fireworks are a bit more exciting.

Julio and Jhonny were waiting at the bus to take us back to the office where we shed our layers of muddy clothes and deposited our helmets and battery belts. Despite being the thing to do in Potosi, no one was talking about the tour in an excited or satisfied way. No one was talking at all. We’d gotten to see what working in a mine for almost no money was like. It was grim and depressing. But the tour was even worse. I’ve always said the tour guide makes or breaks a tour – and Julio had definitely broken this one. When we got back to the hostel, the murmurings began. Everyone had hated him and was happy to see the back of him. I immediately showered trying to remove the layer of gunk off of my face and hands. But like Julio’s attitude it wouldn’t go away and for the next few days all I could smell was the nasty metallic scent of the mine.

Penitent in Potosi

Our time in Sucre was over just as we were really beginning to like the city. We could have stayed but with the clock ticking on our visa, we decided to move on to our next destination Potosi. If we spent 2 days there we’d get to our final destination Uyuni with just enough time to do a 3-day salt flat tour. A Canadian-Aussie couple staying at the Sucre hostel tried to make us feel better by assuring us that Potosi was a nice town too. I wasn’t so sure. Potosi was the world’s highest city and in the middle of the dry mountains. It had a rich history but that history was based on the mining that had gone on in those mountains for the last 400 years and mines aren’t really known to be picturesque. However, visiting the still-operational mines was high on the gringo to do list so we were off.

Our plan was to take a shared taxi however our taxi let us off at the bus station instead of the shared taxi stand down the road. But as we were getting out of the taxi, a ticket seller approached us to let us know that there was a Potosi bus leaving in 2 minutes. It would take longer but the price was cheaper and we weren’t in a hurry. Potosi was only 5 hours away which after our journey from Samaipata was nothing. So we hurried to get on. The bus took us up and up through the bare hills. Rocks and sand and more rocks. The view so far was mesmerizing for its nothingness but didn’t make me hopeful for Potosi. And when we got to the outskirts, my low expectations were met. The town was another ugly cement Bolivian town of low shacks and dusty roads. Looming over the town were the mines adding to (or should that be subtracting from) the view.

The bus left us off on one of those dusty roads and we grabbed a taxi to take us into the centre where our hostel was. It was described as an old colonial building which I assumed would be easy to find. But once the taxi turned down into the heart of the city, I wasn’t so sure. While the vast suburbs had been ugly, the centre was nothing but pretty and old (really old) colonial buildings. The taxi driver most also have been a little confused as he let us off in front of the wrong colonial hostel far away from ours. Actually it probably wasn’t that far but since we were back at altitude after a week down in Sucre we were out of practice and we were carrying our heavy packs. Not the best conditions for our first walking tour but Potosi still made a good impression on us. It was like a miniature and older version of Sucre.

The hostel was nice and since we weren’t planning on spending too much time here we weren’t too bothered about the weak wifi signal. Although Adrian did insist on upgrading to the room with the tv so that he could watch Monday night football. But he surprised me by not turning the tv on and instead insisting that we go out to visit a convent – “there’s a display on flagellation” he said with sick glee, hoping for a display of whips and other torturous objects.

Walking through the square past more pretty buildings and churches, we arrived at the convent just after 4pm joining the last tour group of the day in progress. The guide took us around the convent for a lengthy 2-hour tour that explained the history of the cloistered order and took us through all the rooms and how they lived. Adrian got impatient about an hour in but remained hopeful that we’d soon see the gruesome objects. However, somewhere between the museum and and the crypt, he began to lose hope. We shouldn’t have been surprised, the order was still active and our guide was a nun herself; I couldn’t imagine her showing and explaining the tools of self-flagellation. I tried to prepare Adrian for this but he held on to the Lonely Planet description he’d read as The Word. I finally took a peek at it and realized he’d misinterpreted it. The writer had meant the tour was for those who wanted to torture themselves not a tour of instruments of torture. In the end both descriptions were wrong since the tour was a good albeit thorough one even if it wasn’t what we expected nor about what we were interested in.

So what did we learn about the convent instead? Well, cloistered nuns take their segregation seriously. They weren’t allowed contact with anyone from the outside world. Family visits were held behind screens. Priests were separated by confessional-like windows. Supplies and food were delivered to special drawers. And it wasn’t like the nuns were living it up on the inside either. They sleep on wooden boards, knelt on stone floors. And wore itchy wool tunics. Prayed to gruesome figures of Christ on the cross. Yet despite all this, families encouraged their daughters to join the order (photo above) and these daughters considered it a privilege. Yikes. Perhaps the torture the guide book had been referring to, had been their strict disciplined lifestyle. Whatever the reason, it definitely wasn’t for us and as soon as the tour was over we took off.

On our way back to the hostel we stopped in at a funky café for a tasty pasta dinner. Then it was back to the hostel so Adrian could watch his Monday night football. While searching for ESPN, we came across Much Music and it was playing actual music videos – something that the Canadian version hasn’t done in many, many years. Unfortunately, one of the artists they played was Daddy Yankee, and his song Gasolina which we had heard on every bus ride in every country, and at every restaurant, bar and café. It was torture. If the order of nuns at the convent ever decide to practice self-flagellation, I think non-stop Daddy Yankee would be the modern version of whips and chains.