Samaipata of little feet.

relax there are no kiddies it's just another blog title that's nothing more than a stupid pun. but at least I have a photo of the town.

Our return to Santa Cruz was supposed to be comprised of a few decadent days doing nothing but lounging by the pool and hanging out with the other guests. Like them, we had gotten sucked into the laid back vibe of Santa Cruz and felt no need to rush out especially since we were now staying in a cheaper room. Mother Nature had other ideas and the day after our arrival, the rain clouds rolled in and the temperature dropped 15 degrees. Now it wasn’t just cool it was actually kind of cold, certainly too cold to swim andmuch too cold to visit the waterfalls just outside of the city. So we just hung around the hostel and watched movies while we tried to figure out our next steps. And we weren’t the only ones. Linda was on her way out having just found an apartment for her 6 months in town. Pauline was in her last week of volunteering. Brenno’s vacation was over and it was time to head back to Brazil. Only Stuart and Max were still in no rush. Adrian and I decided to head to Samaipata next. It was supposed to be a picturesque town in the mountains and the first stop on the Che Trail. The Che Trail was a five-day hike that retraced Che’s last steps. While we weren’t up for a five-day hike (we’ve learned) we still wanted to visit the small towns in the mountains where he was captured and killed (well more Adrian than we). Plus, Samaipata was supposed to be a great place to hang out. We made some email enquiries and then asked Pauline if she wanted to join us when she was done volunteering. She was interested but she still had another day of volunteering so she’d email us when she was done to let us know if she was coming.

Rather than take a bus the next day, we remembered the shared taxis (particularly) how much cheaper they were and decided that was the best way to get to Samaipata. It helped that we weren’t in a hurry because shared taxi require patience. We took a taxi to the shared taxi stand and waited 45 minutes for 2 more folks to fill the car. Then we were off. I must have drifted off, only to be woken up when the road changed from paved to unpaved and full of potholes for the last hour. The scenary was spectacular, green hils, deep valleys and misty mountaintops (photo above). I was glad the taxi had to go slowly since it allowed us to take in everything.

At the outskirts of Saimpata, I asked the driver if he could drop us off at the Posada del Sol and he agreed (another plus of taking the taxi rather than the bus). Not that we couldn’t have found it ourselves. Samaipata was a small town and there were only a handful of places to stay but all well-marked. We checked into our room, grabbed a few extra layers to fight the damp chill and then went to town to find a place to eat. Depsite being popular on the backpacker trail there was only one place open. So we had a quick bite to eat and then hurried back to the hostel so we could get under the blankets. We had planned to spend a few days in sleepy Samaipata but with the cold, we decided to leave the next day.

At breakfast we talked to the owners to find out how to get to the first little town on the trail. They told us we were essentially too late to head out that day and in fact to get to the end of the Che trail was all but impossible by public transit. The towns were too small and nothing went there. He offered us a solution though, rather than stay overnight and try to hitch rides, he could help us find a driver for the day who could take us there and bring us back for $100. That was a lot of money (for Bolivia in particular) but Adrian had already jumped up and said yes before we could think it over. And even better the driver/guide only speaks Spanish and that would mean a whole day of translating. Fun. In preparation for this very long day, we did nothing but hang out in the lounge with the fire and the DVD player. Adrian dug up a copy of Che Part 2 and we watched it before heading out for an early dinner and early to bed because tomorrow we’d be getting up at stupid o’clock (4am). We’d chased Jeremy Irons to Conception now it was time to che Benecio del Toro to La Higuera.

The divine intervention of Bolivians.

Back in Copacabana, just as we had decided to drop Paraguay from our itinerary, we’d watched The Mission. It was that movie from the 80s starring Jeremy Irons and Robert Deniro as Jesuit missionaries fighting against the Spanish and Portuguese in the middle of the Paraguayan jungle. It was an awesome movie and got us all fired up to visit the missions. The famous missions were in the area around the borders of Paraguay, Brasil and Argentina but Bolivia also had some not too far away and since we were in the area and there was nothing to do, we decided to take a little side trip to check them out. I realized that a shirtless Jeremy Irons probably wasn’t going to be hanging out there but the missions were supposed to be beautiful and had an interesting history.

The Jesuits had come to the New World over 300 years ago to convert the Guarani Indians. It wasn’t an easy task but with the help of music and the Jesuits’ persistence the natives soon came to trust the Jesuits. The missions they built together housed thousands and were more like communities than churches. Unfortunately for the Jesuits, the Spanish and Portuguese governments didn’t like this. They wanted to keep the Guarani “uncivilized” so they could use them as slaves. But the Jesuits held their ground often fighting the Spanish and Portuguese before being expelled from the area. For the next few centuries the missions were abandoned but only by the Jesuits. The Guarani stayed on at many while others were left to the jungle.

Within a day’s journey around Santa Cruz there were a handful of towns built up around the old missions. There were tours available but they were a little out of our budget so we decided to check out the closest ones just a couple of hours away. Thanks to a wonky bus schedule we’d have to stay overnight as the bus didn’t leave until late in the evening. That should have meant a nice lie-in after last night’s silliness, except that we had to check out of the room. But we were able to recoup by hanging out at the pool all day and catching up with Brenno, Stuart and Max to find out what had happened to them. As expected they had been inside one of the “night clubs” although they admitted it wasn’t easy. They tried to bribe their way into a couple but had no such luck until the third. But rather than enjoying themselves, they admitted it was a bit ego-destroying as the beautiful Glamazon Bolivian models barely glanced in their direction. Ah, poor boys. Although judging by their slow movements and blood-shot eyes they still managed to have a good time.

At 7pm we headed to the bus station and then began to search for a bus to San Javier, the closest mission town. We walked the entire length of the bus station enquiring at every other window before finding the right bus company tucked in a faraway and dark corner. The bus was more expensive than we expected but it was leaving at 7:30 rather than 8pm. And we were lucky enough to get the last two seats. In fact, the bus was more than full as every adult had at least one child sitting on his or her lap, including the old school Mennonites sitting in front of us. They had two seats for the five of them. We were getting off at the first stop 4 hours away but the bus was scheduled to travel all night deep into the Bolivian jungle. I pitied the families until the bus pulled out of the station and the parents took over the aisles, laying down blankets and pillows in the aisle for the kids to sleep on. We nodded off ourselves, bolting awake as the bus came to a stop in San Javier. None of the dozens of kids sleeping in the aisle woke up though and it took a lot of careful stepping not to crush them under our feet as we carefully made our way off the bus.

San Javier was not what I expected at all. It was one street and at 11:30pm everything was dark and closed up tight. I knew there were pensions and alojementos but trying to find an open one at this hour didn’t look like it was going to be easy. We walked down the main street towards a pinprick of a light up ahead. It was a pension and they were just closing. But they had a room available for a third of the price we were paying in Santa Cruz and three times as nice (although the bed was rock hard). There was a private bathroom and tv even – not that we had time to enjoy it since we both crashed within minutes of lying down, hoping that San Javier was more impressive in the morning.

At 8am we awoke still groggy but anxious to begin our mission mission. It was already super hot and very sunny. Although the sunlight made it much easier to find our way around the town, it didn’t improve San Javier. The town was just a tiny village. But behind the one street was the main square where the mission was. The mission was still closed however so we set out to find some breakfast. The only place open was a small café, or rather a courtyard with a couple of tables and plastic chairs, that sold just one thing empanadas. Adrian, the breakfast purist, was a bit cranky about having empanadas for breakfast but when I reminded him that the option was empanadas or nothing he ordered two. Plus the price was right, 4 empanadas and a pot of coffee and milk came to about $2.50. As we were settling up our bill, the bells of the mission started ringing. We followed the villagers inside the doors and were surprised to find it packed. The population of San Javier couldn’t have been more than 100 but there were at least three times that amount inside the church. Rather than fight for a seat, we slipped out of the church and walked around the huge walled compound instead. The mission was being renovated so much of the pretty stuff was under protective tarps but there was still plenty to see, including the old bell tower, intricate carvings and wall paintings, class rooms and smaller chapels (but no Jeremy Irons). When the church service was over we walked back inside the church for a better look before heading out to find the bus to the next mission town, Concepcion.

We walked down the street looking for a micro (mini van buses) but having no luck popped into a bus office to ask. Just as we were asking a bus pulled up which they told us would take us to Concepcion. It was nicer than our night bus – it had airconditionning. And the price was right so we hopped on. The journey to Concepcion took less than an hour through the hills that had once been dense jungle. Just after 11 we arrived in Concepcion and checked when the bus back to Santa Cruz was. It was either 1pm or 5:30 so we decided to to catch the 1pm one. Unlike San Javier, Concepcion was an actual town, a small one but we had to walk a little faster if we were going to squeeze in our tour. There were people everywhere and when we got to the church I realized it wasn’t just because it was Sunday but because today was holy communion for every kid in the area. Everywhere we were tripping over young girls in their white mini wedding dressed and boys in dress shirts and ties, yet none were sweating in the stinking hot sun.

The mission (photo above) here was even more impressive but we went to the museum first and got a quick history of the restoration of the missions in the area. In the early 20th century the Jesuits had finally but centuries of neglect had left the buildings barely standing. One of the priests, Hans Roth, was also an architect and he spearheaded the task of restoring them. He first built a school and workshop to teach the locals how to help him out and provide them with skills for employment. It took 30 years but the Missions were now restored and the schools and workshops are still teaching hundreds of people a year. The story was impressive but so was the work. The museum had before and after photos that showed just how much work he and his workers had put into the project. There was also a lot of history on the Jesuits in the area and I was amazed at how much one of the old priests looked like Jeremy Irons until I realized it was a still shot from The Mission. Apparently, today’s Jesuits were just as inspired by the movie as we were. There were also exhibitions on the importance of music to the missions – the workshops not only made furniture and decorations for the church but musical instruments for the locals, just as the missions had done 300 years ago.

Inside the church our awe continued. The interior had been restored but also filled with contemporary additions. On each wooden pew a different Bible story had been carved in relief. The walls were decorated with others. No wonder, the parents of the children were crowded around taking pictures of their kids standing in front of the altar. We wanted to check out the workshop but when we got there we discovered it was closed on Sunday (of course). That was fine as our time was running out. We fought our way through the crowds and headed through town to the bus company office to buy our tickets. And that’s when the bad news started.

The first company was sold out until the 11pm bus – but that wouldn’t get us into Santa Cruz until 4am. And the other didn’t have any tickets until the 10pm bus. Just our luck to head to Concepcion, during one of the few weekends when the rest of the province did. We knew we could get out of town but we didn’t really want to stick around and decided to head out to the highway to try our luck. We didn’t know what we were trying our luck at but figured a change of scenary might clear our heads. Perhaps we could catch a collectivo or taxi, we thought. We waited and waited and although we saw taxis, something (namely fear of a super high price) stopped us from flagging them down. Eventually, we saw the 1pm bus turn onto the highway. There were empty seats visible and I thought I’d ask the driver. He told us he only had room until San Javier. Since the bus was only half full I was skeptical but at least we were on board and heading in the right direction. Just outside of San Javier however, I discovered who those seats were for. There was a camping area and 20 kids and their adult chaperones piled on board with all their gear. And they had tickets for the seats we were sitting in. Luckly, the ayudante (and the kids) let us sit until San Javier where we got off on the road and wondered what we were going to do next. Perhaps, there were tickets from San Javier on the 6pm bus but just as we were about to ask at the bus office, a taxi driver approached us. He asked us if we were looking for a tour but I explained that we had just done one and were trying to get to Santa Cruz. I thought he’d drive off but instead he decided to help us. He told us about the shared taxis we could take (changing at a couple of different towns), how much they cost (half the price of our bus tickets) and explained where to stand to find one. We thanked him and walked down to the taxi stand to wait. The next thing we knew he drove up and got out of the car to flag down a tiny minivan. He explained our story to the driver and although the driver wasn’t going all the way to Santa Cruz he could take us to the San Ramon where we could connect to another taxi for the final stretch. The first taxi driver was in his car and off before we could thank him. So just in the rare chance he speaks English, is online and is reading this, I want to say thank you.

We got to San Ramon quickly and were let off at another waiting taxi. It was boiling hot but not wanting to lose our seats we stayed in the van roasting for an hour until there were enough people for the driver to take off. Joining us were a professor in the front, a woman with her two young sons in the middle and us in the back all heading to Santa Cruz. The driver obviously thought he still had room for one more and stopped a few times along the way trying to entice more passengers but none were tempted. Adrian and I were surprisingly not bothered by the delays; we were just happy not to be stranded in tiny little San Javier or Conception. Don’t get me wrong, visiting the missions had been nice but after that there was nothing to do in the town.

Just after dark we arrived in Santa Cruz and the driver let off the woman and her sons leaving just the professor and I. I assumed the taxi was going to let us off near the bus station so when he pulled up to a hotel in an unfamiliar part of town, we were confused. I asked him where we were and how to get near Parque Urbano where the hostel was, the driver waved vaguely in a direction but the professor told us to get back in the car. That was near where he wa going so the driver could drop us off on the way. Phew, once again we were saved by the kindness and language skills of a stranger. When the professor found out we were from Canada, he clapped his hands in delight. His daughter lived in Canada and he had many Canadian grandchildren he told us. Me gusto mucho Canada, he told us. Me gusto mucho Bolivianos I told him. And I meant it. Without the help of all of them today we wouldn’t have made it back to the bbq and pool that were waiting for us at the hostel.

All dressed up with someplace to go.

After our overnight bus rides in Peru, the overnight bus to Santa Cruz was interesting. There were no more comfy pillows, no fuzzy blankets and no meals served to us at our seats. Instead we cowered under our jackets and woke up with kinks in our necks. Instead of breakfast, the bus stopped somewhere along the highway in the middle of the hot humid Bolivian jungle where we all got out at a little roadside open air café. While the Bolivians all tucked into the bowls of soup made out of big cow bones, slurping hungrily on the marrow, or knocked back heaping plates of rice with a chicken stew, Adrian and I made do with a cup of super sweet coffee. The one other gringo on the bus, joined us in our choice. She was a young English girl just wrapping up her four month trip and travelling to Santa Cruz to catch a flight to Rio where she would be enjoying some sun before heading home to grey England. When we arrived at the Santa Cruz bus station, we split a cab with her. Well we paid the same as if we had taken two cabs, but there is something comforting about sharing a taxi with someone else after arriving in a new city. Our hostel was located in a residential area just outside of the downtown area and although I had given the driver the address and shown him where it was located he still managed to get slightly lost until I pointed him in the right direction. But it was his loss since we were paying a flat rate no matter what route he took. We said goodbye to the English girl, gave her address to the driver since she spoke even worse Spanish than I did and checked in.

We’d chosen this hostel for its promise of free and fast wifi and great website (I know, we’ve been burned before). The hostel had once been a large house and it felt homey, clean and full of all the good things that make us happy (for me wifi, for Adrian a big screen tv with satellite tv). All good except for the fact that it appeared to be empty. Despite this the only room available was the most expensive. Since we didn’t feel like searching for another option we took it - after all the pool awaited. Yes, I forgot to mention the pool. Santa Cruz was stinking hot and humid and after sleeping on a bus in our clothes we were looking forward to a refreshing dip. The wifi was much better than the La Paz and while we paddled around the pool, the remaining hundreds of photos uploaded which made the hostel 100x better already.

There was a grocery store nearby and while Adrian went to stock up on some grub, the other guests started trickling in, among them Stuart and Max two easy going lads from England, lovely Pauline from Ireland and Linda, a perennially happy German girl. In just a few hours we’d gotten to know more people than we had in our three days in La Paz which is why I like small hostels. And we all had a lot in common – we were in Santa Cruz. No really that was important. The city doesn’t appear on most travelers agendas except as a place to catch an international flight (the airport here is bigger than La Paz’s), or on their way to Brazil to visit the Pantanal. Stuart and Max had only meant to pass through on their way to the rest of Bolivia but had found themselves drawn to the town. Likewise Pauline who had now been here for weeks volunteering at a school. And Linda, well, she was a sweet, giggly student who’d just arrived to start an internship. I immediately assumed it was something to do with international development. But no, she was studying transportation and logistics and her internship was with the Bolivian passenger rail service. I wasn't the only one who found this funny – the notoriously slow and undependable Bolivian rail service would get a free injection of notorious German efficiency, but poor Linda wasn’t going to learn much to help except frustration. Good thing she was the happiest person I’ve ever met – and I wondered if we’d be able to pass through in 6 months time to see if she still was after her intership.

The next day, we left our new friends to explore the city we’d found ourselves in. Santa Cruz is actually Bolivia’s richest and most prosperous city – rumour has it that most of that wealth came from drugs. But whatever the reason, it was now its business centre. Having read that, Adrian and I had high hopes for it. So we walked the 10 minutes into town, finding a French café on the way. I was skeptical when we walked in – French food in what was eseentially the middle of the Bolivian Pantanal - but I was pleasantly surprised by the fancy décor and to hear the two owners speaking French to each other. So we stopped for an authentic French lunch of quiche, coke and éclairs for just 15Bs and then started walking to the sights listed in the guidebook.

Our walking tour didn’t take long – there wasn’t much to see in Santa Cruz. The plaza, the old church, a handful of colonial buildings amongst the typical cement structures and a bunch of shops that sold clothes more expensive than our budget. There was definitely money in the town but it wasn’t being spent by us or on the city. The one exception was a park nearby (photo above) which consisted of an artificial pond ringed by some grass and a handful of palm trees and a large stone pathway/patio. It stood out for its newness. And in fact it was so new, that the ethnographic museum built on an island in the middle of the pond was still being constructed or set up and was closed. Including the time we took for lunch, our tour had taked an hour and a half. So once we’d seen all the buildings it was time to go shopping, but only if we could find something cheap. After 6 months of traveling some of our clothes had started to unravel and threadbare but replacing mine was going to be a bit of a struggle. Not only our women in Latin America at least a foot shorter than me but their also about a foot skinnier. They also like to wear a lot of shiny things – sequins, lame, and crystals – which aren’t really my style. At a large department store, I was lucky to find a pair of khaki casual pants that fit on the sale rack. I have a feeling they may have been maternity pants but they were about $8 so who cares. However, since the rest of the clothes looked more suitable for salsa dancing than hiking, that was the end of my shopping.

Back at the hostel, many of our new friends were back and were now joined by Brenno, a Brasilian on vacation from his job at a hostel in Bonito. Within 5 minutes of talking to him, he’d sold us on stopping by his place and even promised us a discount. It looked and sounded fabulous and hopefully would still be in the two or three months we figured it would take us to get to Brazil. He was a super nice guy – actually they all were. And we got to know each other better at the hostel bbq that night. It was all you could eat meat and all you could drink alcohol. I think it was that last freebie that had us agree to join Brenno to the feria later on. “It’s the biggest one in Bolivia” “It’s a big party” “Everyone goes there on the weekend” were just some of the things he told us making it sound like a nightclub yet it was the local agricultural fair, like the CNE. Max, Stuart, Adrian and I were game (making sure to leave our cameras and wallets at the hostel). And with a bit of prodding I convinced Pauline and Linda to join us too so I wouldn’t be the only girl. But with so many of us now going, we had to take two taxis: the girls (and Adrian) in one and the boys in the other, which meant we never saw the boys again. Little did we know that there were 8 different entrances to the fair which was the size of a small city. No worries there was plenty to keep us occupied without them.

We walked around the displays which were more like trade show booths selling tractors, cars, cell phone plans and giant cows to a mixture of local indigenous folks, partying young people and super-blond, old order Mennonite families. If that wasn’t an odd enough combination, each booth was populated with beautiful Bolivian models two feet taller than any Bolivian I’d met so far and decked out in their designer best. We thought for sure we’d find the boys near any of these women but no such luck. As we continued to wander, we stumbled across some sort of Miss Bolivia contest where 50 even more beautiful women were strutting the stage in bikinis under the watchful eye of a slightly letcheorus emcee. We searched amongst the families and men holding up their cellphones to record the contest for the boys and then decided to just watch the crowning, except the contest was not a contest. There was no winner just an endless succession of beautiful Amazon women, however, none of the men in the audience seemed to mind. I wonder if they were staring because they were wondering the same thing I was – where did they find these giants in a country of munchikin? Um, probably not. And not surprisingly, as soon as the models left the stage the huge crowd dispersed in record time. We still hadn’t found the boys and decided to give it one more shot. I told Linda to practice her Spanish by asking some of the young folks where the party was so we could find the boys – but those she asked just pointed all around. I told Adrian to put his “think like a boy” cap on and he said to follow the women. So we did. Most headed to the trade show booths that were now functioning like night clubs. Beefy bouncers were guarding the entrance while the beautiful people wearing the fancy clothes I’d seen for sale in the shops danced, dranked and partied on the otherside. Unfortunately all of us in our backpacker finest couldn’t even pass off ourselves as cleaners. We figured the lads were somewhere in one of them and in good hands so we did another lap of the exhibits then decided to leave. It was probably for the best as the all we could drink alcohol started to catch up with us.