(new) Muchas Gracias

There was still no sign of our etickets in my email. But rather than phone South African Airways again, I decided to take a break. It was time for a trip out of town, something we hadn’t done in a while. The phone call to SAA could wait until tomorrow.

Cordoba was an old Jesuit town, even older than the missions we’d visited in Bolivia. And many of those old Jesuit missions still existed in town and even more could be found in the small towns just outside the city. We were headed to one of them called Alta Gracia. But not just for the mission, we’d certainly seen enough of those, but because Alta Gracia was the childhood home of Che Guevera which Adrian was really excited about.

Getting there was easy. We caught a bus from the bus station and an hour later we were in the town. It was bigger than we expected and we had no map. So once we saw what looked like the main street (lots of shops, old signs) we got off and hoped that there would be some signs to point is in the right direction. And we were obviously getting good at figuring our way around these Latin American city because we stumbled upon the old plaza and the original Jesuit mission (called an estancia here) easily. Unfortunately despite the sign that said it was open for another hour, it was closed for the afternoon siesta. We checked out and the small church (photo above) that was open. And then popped into the tourism office just across the street in the old clock tower. With the free map and the help of the woman at the desk we were off to chase Che.

The Gueveras had moved to Alta Gracia when Che was just a 6 and lived there off and on for the next 10 years. The museum was housed in the old family home that had been and still was the leafy rich part of town just behind the fancy-schmancy resort hotel. The museum was small and contained lots of information related to his youth, including photos and copies of his school reports as well as postcards, maps and writings relating to his youthful motorcycle journey across Latin America that looked an awful lot like ours.. They even had a model of the motorcycle he rode on the famous legs and the bicycle he used for another less famous one. Adrian ran around with glee while I was happy with the free admission price.

Somewhere in the middle of the house, a familiar voice called out. Fancy meeting you here. It was Stuart from Santa Cruz but without Max who was still back in Bolivia awaiting a money transfer so he could pay his hostel bill. The two lads were at the tail end of the trip and while Stuart still had cash, Max had overextended himself. It had been 3 months since we’d first met them and another month or two since we’d bumped into them in Uyuni and here we were meeting up in Argentina. We chatted for a bit and then left each other to explore the museum before saying goodbye probably for the last time.

The mission was still closed so we stopped at a café for a little lunch of giant lomitos (beef sandwiches) which killed just enough time until the mission opened as well as filling our stomachs.

Then it was time to walk around the mission. There was a small museum to start filled with a mish mash of old objects from the history of the mission from a Jesuit farming estate up to the time of its life as the home of the local governor. The most interesting was a chair fashioned from the pelvic bones of a cow. Gruesome and yet totally cool – I think Adrian and I both decided we wanted one. The mission itself was lovely and nice and thankfully completely different from the ones we’d visited way out in nowhere Bolivia. But what was just as nice was the free postcard that the attendant gave me when we left. She saw me looking at them and just told me to have one as a regalo. A small gift but it was definitely the thought and gesture that counted and meant a lot. And with a alta gracia (high thanks) we said adios to Alta Gracia.

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.

Breathless in Bolivia

This Copacabana was about as far as you could get from the Barry Manilow song you’ve probably now get in your head. The shores of Lake Titicaca (stop snickering) were beautiful to see first thing in the morning but there were no showgirls named Lola nor gangsters named Rico what there was however was a show every Sunday in front of the cathedral. Every Sunday there was the blessing of the cars, and buses, and vans, and taxis by the priest. We had heard it was a must-see so we were going to must-see it.

On the way out of the hostel we ran into Colombia Geoff checking out of the hostel on his way to catch a bus to La Paz. We said hi-bye and then continued on our ways. In front of the Cathedral there was a line up of vehicles wrapped around the small plaza. And in the plaza there were numerous stalls all selling flowers and beer and devotional objects which the proud owners were using to decorate their vehicles. Beer? You may be asking. Well, the beer was the most important part of the blessing. The owners were spraying their cars and the ground with alcohol as a blessing following it up with a chug of the beer for themselves – it was the Bolivian version of "one for me and one for my dead hommies" complete with the tricked out rides. At some point the priest was supposed to come out and officially bless the vehicles but he was still a little distracted with the Sunday service which was heaving today as it appeared to be the confirmation or communion day for every kid in the region.

While we waited we found a spot to sit and watch the local indigenous folks in their beautiful costumes as they entered the church. Inside the cathedral we could hear church music but there was a twist. Instead of typical droning church music the songs sounded indigenous. The women were singing in Aymara to Aymara music. We popped our heads inside to check it out but respectfully kept the camera in the bag. Around the side was a small votive room. Inside the walls were thick with smoke and candle wax and thousands of candles being lit the room as people made offerings. We could hear the service ending so we went back outside to wait for the priest. But after an hour he didn’t appear and the high altitude sun drove us back to the hostel.

After a quick pit stop at the hostel, we headed back out to conquer the daunting hill behind the hostel. We aren’t climbers, hikers or trekkers but this hill was more than just a great vantage point to check out the surrounding area. Like that morning’s ceremony at the Cathedral, the hill was a place of worship, where the locals mixed their Aymara culture with Catholicism. The hill was called Cerro de Calvario, as in Cavalry, as in something to do with the stations of the cross. After visiting the stations, the penitent practice some of those merged beliefs at the top. But before we could experience those we had to get up the hill and that wasn’t going to be easy. Even making our way through town to the path was tough. The streets were so steep that we walked up backwards in an attempt to relieve the burning in our thighs. Then we were at the path, or rather on the path because when we looked at the station numbers we were already 4 stations in. Goodie four down, only 7 or 8 or was it 9 to go. But before attempting to climb them we had to take a short rest and luckily there was a clearing with benches where we could relax. As we caught our breath we took in our first taste of the hill ceremonies. Next to us an indigenous holy man was performing blessings for a couple of families. For one he had a miniature house full of grass that he lit on fire. He tamped down the flames so that the grass just smoked and then passed the house over and around the family. For the other family he chanted some sort of prayer and then blessed them all with a bottle of beer that he shook and sprayed over their heads – much like the car owners had down at the Cathedral. Just behind all this, we spotted an older Aymara couple on the side of hill facing the lake. They were performing their own much quieter ceremony that involved laying out rocks in a pattern/message on the ground and building a fire. As the next families appeared for their blessing we stood up to conquer the path.

Now before I continue, I want to spend a moment describing the actual path we were supposed to take. At one point some enterprising fellows had out stairs made out of rocks. But these rocks were more like boulders and very uneven so you could only tell they were stairs if you squinted. Of course squinting makes Adrian and I look like Angelina and Brad, so that really doesn’t mean anything. Needless to say this uneven, sorta, maybe path was not going to make the climb to the top any easier. We were passed by little old ladies wearing heals and kids that were running at full speed oblivious to the danger. But we were happy to hear that many of the locals were huffing and puffing too, sure many of them were carrying large rocks which they would drop at the various stations on the way up. In the end it took us an hour to get to through the 14 stations as we had to stop every five feet to catch our breath in the thin air. It was a good thing we were now spending more days here to acclimatize before our trip to the Isla del Sol, an island that’s all hill and where there are no vehicles.

I worried about how we were going to get down put that out of my head so we could enjoy just making it to the top. But being so high up on such a tiny path did give me a bit of vertigo and the urge to throw up. So I stopped looking over the edge and that helped. And once we got to the top of the mountain the beautiful view of the city far below killed all the vertigo. We could see the Peruvian side as well as the Isla del Sol that I noticed was about the same height as this hill (oh great more climbing). We decided to celebrate with a beer that was readily available to buy from women vendors at the top of the hill. Adrian was in awe as he realized that these tiny women carried up crates of stuff everyday to sell to the believers on top. And it wasn’t just beverages for sale. The stalls also had miniature cars, houses, hotels, wads of fake money, suitcases and even fake diplomas for sale which the locals burned as an offering as they prayed for success in whichever they choose (home, career, school, money). It was really an interesting sight.

Once we were suitably refreshed we began the descent. It was easier than I thought although my knees were burning by the time we got to the bottom. There would definitely be no trekking tomorrow.