I cannot afford to dwell any longer on past failures because today begins the build up to our next big adventure (there’s no dawdling on this Year of Wonder). But before we finally escape the insidious clutches of La Paz for Santa Cruz, the largest city in Bolivia, we just have time to explore the city’s cathedral in Plaza Pedro D. Murillo. When we finally reach the square, however, it is awash with police, security forces, and a large, noisy crowd of protesters. We think the rally has something to do with agricultural reforms, although it’s unclear (to us at least) whether the crowd is in favor or against the proposal. It transpires that adjacent to the cathedral is the presidential palace and incumbent Evo Morales is about to give a speech to his compatriots. The president arrives to great applause, but the crowd grows quieter the longer he speaks, so we skedaddle to avoid any potential trouble.
La Paz international airport is tiny, but they make a mean BLT. Christi and I sit contentedly in the O2 lounge, sucking up pure oxygen and feeling pretty euphoric. (I could have done with something like this on my ill-fated ascent of Mt. Parinacota). It’s an hour-long flight over the Andes to the muggy tropical lowlands of Santa Cruz. For a large city, the baggage claim procedures are fairly medieval, though. All the passengers thrust their baggage claim tickets in the direction of the handlers, hoping to attract their attention. The handlers then disappear behind a curtain and reappear, as if by magic, with a suitcase. I’m sure it’s entirely coincidental that those passengers offering the largest tip with their tickets are the ones who are served first.
Taxi to the fading charm of the ranch-style hotel Globetrotter. We get a huge, rather dilapidated, room filled with an odd assortment of juggernaut-size pieces of furniture. A few blocks from our hotel is the pretty, tree-lined Plaza 24 de Septiembre. Our LP guide suggests that the trees here are still home to the odd sloth so Christi and I amble over to check them out. We stumble around, peering up into the trees, and gesticulating wildly. We attract some very odd looks (or maybe we’re the odd ones), but alas we don’t spot any wildlife. Even at 9 pm it is hot and sticky in Santa Cruz and we risk the local ice-cream to help cool off. It’s de-licious.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching tale of love and test tubes.
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