After being warmed up by the comforting cloak of Argentinean hospitality the French Pierre and I gleefully continued our journey to our actual destination: Bolivia. Luck was on our side that day, as virtually instantaneously we got picked up by a recently married couple living in La Quiaca, a place that had all the feels of a dodgy border town. Zigzagging passed the lama’s and traditionally clothed cholita women we progressed through the chaotic border control, which is an exaggeration as the concept of ‘control’ is quite abstract in this lawless country. I in fact already physically entered Bolivia when I realized I still needed an entrance stamp to make my stay legal… my second entrance stamp in this passport, as I already visited this country 2,5 years ago on the same trip.     

I just wanted to go to Paraguay, so why not travel through Bolivia as an entertaining detour? 

It’s interesting how land borders change a culture so abruptly.  

From the modern, fashionable, proud Argentino’s, eager to take in everything that’s foreign, I found myself suddenly surrounded by distant, hard-working campesinos, their rainbow-colored attires lightening up the tumultuous streets and their braided hair freely dancing under their high bowler hats. I inhaled the profound smell of coca leaves and listened to the sobbing of infants, tightened to their mothers’ backs with woven cloths. I was back.    

My temporary companion was headed to Uyuni, a place I already scratched off the bucket list years ago, so I decided to move more eastward. There was this one place on the map called ´Tarija´, right in the middle of my current location and the Paraguayan border… that could be something for a day or 2? But I wasn’t there yet. Oh no! Even though places look close by in this country, or maybe they even are, there’s a whole lot of turmoil and inefficiency in between them. Time to row my boat through the streams of bullshit! 

It started with the fact that I apparently couldn’t hitchhike. Well, I could, the tourist office explained to me, but they will charge me the same amount as the bus company does afterwards. Nothing is free here, especially not if you’re a perceived gringo. Ok, so… a bus it was I guess. Once entered in the insanely loud and disorganized terminal, being pushed around by growling vendors putting random products into my hands I didn’t want while instantly demanding money, I came to the conclusion all buses leave at night… arriving in Tarija at 2AM. Well, that’s just a genius example of brilliant planning isn’t it, what the hell am I supposed to do in a city far after midnight? Roam around in the slums surrounding the bus stop as a lost white girl with all her belongings ready-to-rob attached to me? Don’t think so.     

But hey, what’s that? There was ONE bus leaving at 10AM, a woman barked into my ear. Ok fine, I negotiated some price which is still probably double of what the locals pay and pushed some cash in the hand of that loud lady, no idea of what I was buying was legit. I crowdsurfed out again over the masses, facing a new issue I had to solve: accommodation.  

So apparently I was staying a night in this shithole called Villazon and I had no clue where.  

I searched for one helpful soul on the street who wasn’t hissing at me, grabbing my ass or trying to get into my wallet and asked where I could track down some cheap hospedaje. Once in the hostel-street I walked my little round of negotiation and settled with an amazing price-quality ratio… or so I thought. You see, in Bolivia it’s totally fine to randomly download some pixelated photos from Google Images, with zero relation to the product you’re actually offering, and print it on a flashy signboard.     

Those amazing pictures of 5*resort honeymoon suits had very little to do with the dusty cell I was offered… to the point where it’s hilarious. The wobbly bed just fitted in between the crumbling walls, so for the sake of convenience they had thrown that one plastic chair on top of my ragged bedspread. The door-window right next to the lock was clumsily repaired with a piece of hard plastic, as apparently someone had recently shattered it to break in. Feces were floating in the communal toilet. But hey, at least someone with a very big penis slept in my bed before, as that’s what was written on the wall: *both thumbs up*. I looked around me and smiled. I had a private room… shed… for $4 a night, and if it’s good enough for Bolivians, why wouldn’t it be for me? So I paid my small contribution to the land lady, a grumpy wench with lips green of coca leaves, the colored saliva dripping from the corner of her mouth. “Stephi Katzatsky, 40 years old, married, dive instructor, from Poland” I wrote in the check-in book accompanied by a false passport number. I have no intention of leaving my correct data in a dodgy place like this.     

Time for some exploration! Not that there is anything to do here. I just purposelessly wandered around, randomly stumbling on some sorcery market where lama fetuses dangled on washing lines and pills for anything from eternal love to a voluptuous bosoms where sold to potential buyers. I just wanted some avocados, is that okay too? No, it is not, because recently coming from Argentina I accidentally used the Argentine expression “palta” instead of the Bolivian word “aguacate”. Which is apparently reason enough to scold me and spit in my direction. Man, Bolivians can be rude! I almost forgot about that. Well, I’m sorry for trying to speak your language, even though I come from the exact other side of the planet. Somber I consumed my peanut soup, without avocado, the only vegan thing I could find in the market’s kitchens.    

As I was still hungry I cashed out some extra money to buy dinner. But I came back with a utensils-camping-set and a taser instead. Even though Villazon is the arsehole of the country, at least their dirt cheap black market is pure entertainment! A taser in the shape of a torch, which actually also can be used as a torch, but that with a little push on a button can be transformed into a pretty severe weapon (50,000 volt, that’s not to be screwed around with!). Awesome, because of this disguise I can easily cross borders with it without being arrested.  

Gosh, I feel so bad-ass, my very own weapon! I’m almost looking forward to the next rape attempt, I always wondered what roasted testicles smell like.  

I already had my pepper spray, now I’m only missing a carry-on-flamethrower and pocket-battle-ax to complete my girl-traveling-alone-through-third-world-countries-survival-kit ;) So I got the most out of Villazon after all, even if it wasn’t that much… could I do the same with this long bus ride perhaps?     

Well, I must remark, I was quite content I did opt to make that journey during daytime. In the first place because the route cutting straight through the stunning Sama Biological Reserve was in one word exquisite, and in the second place because those roads were really too narrow and the cliffs way to deep. I didn’t even know a vehicle in such miserable state is capable of driving that fast on a slippery swirling dirt road, hanging in the tricky U-turns with 120km/h. I get it, at night the travelers don’t see the rusty bus and truck wrecks slowly decomposing in the blazing valley,  that’s why they offer all itineraries at that convenient time in the dark. But I for sure wouldn’t be comfortable racing over this death road in the absence of street lights… Better to cruise in the hot midday sun, as there was aircon anyway (which is a nice way of telling that the bus didn’t have any windows nor doors). Nevertheless, I felt honestly grateful to be an eye-witness of this hardly traveled route.    

Just a deserted high-quality football field in a 3d world country in the middle of fucking nowhere. 

Tarija, la ciudad de sonrisas, I made it!  

Let’s keep that smile up as long as I can manage… As the terminal was located entirely out of the center I had to take a minibus back to where I just come from, convenient. The exact moment I stepped out heaven cracked open, sharing a downpour that instantly transformed the city into a network of canals… because a sewage system is a first world luxury. Wading through the waste water while the street garbage floated in between my legs I started my search for a hostel, as my complete absence of internet for over 2 weeks had made it impossible to contact any Couchsurfers. That took me 3 full hours, as locals initially sent me down to the Campesino neighborhood for cheap accommodation, which in fact turned out to be the ghetto and nerve center of street prostitution… Ahum, thanks but no thanks. As in the center everything seemed to be sold out somehow, I was really relieved when I finally found a relatively economical and really clean and well-kept private room in a family hospice.    

I was exhausted. [Attention! Some 1st world whining coming up!] Everything was wet and I had no clean clothes left. Internet was off again because of the storm, which meant I couldn’t do any blogging again. There was no vegan food, which meant I either had to eat raw vegetables once again or starve myself. Plus I could hardly walk because some retard in a car had driven right over my bloody foot while I was crossing the road with green light. City of smiles? Well, that wasn’t my facial expression at all. I just wanted to lock myself up in the room and cry. [Boohoo, poor little white girl ;)]    

What a difference a day makes. When I woke up the world had changed. I had slept well, finally in a soft comfortable bed. The weather cleared up. The internet returned so I could cheer you guys up with a new story. Instead of driving over my foot a friendly man gave me a few extra avocados. I had many laughs with the woman that sold me (vegan!) quinoa soup on the street. Things were looking up, today was Tarija’s second chance. A good day for some sight-seeing!    

I kicked off with Teatro de la Cultural which was unfortunately closed, but impressive enough from the outside. Especially for Bolivian standards, where people usually don’t give a damn how a building or house looks like, as long as it serves its purpose. The same prettiness I found in Plaza Principal Luis de Fuentes, an unusual good-looking and well-kept main square marking the bustling midpoint of this colorful colonial town.     

I continued in the Paleontology and Archaeological Museum, which is 100% free (at least, there was no one checking my entrance as they were watching a fútbol match, so I just walked in). It’s really impressive to observe the great amount of dinosaur remains that were found in this region. I could immediately imagine all this antique fauna flourishing around me in all its might, like some modern Wilma Flintstone.    

From there I walked on to the Parque La Costanera, which is indeed a polluted park right next to some tiny pathetic stream where kids played on the many playgrounds and couples furiously made out as they’re still living in with their parents and therefore have no other place to do it. From there I could see a hill with some kind of disco ball right on top, which intrigued me enough to walk towards it. I passed the many street eateries where you can find meals for less than a dollar, mainly consisting of greasy deep-fry with loads of carbs. I guess that’s why people are generally so big here, grabbing my arms and pinching my thighs asking me if I even eat. Back to the disco ball: Copa de las Sueños it’s apparently poetically called, the cup of dreams, reflecting the local cityscape. Nice idea. What else?    

The Mirador de Corazón de Jesus, a tiny climb up to a look-out point where according to a very South American tradition the entire life of Christ is depicted. Religion aside, this turned out to be my favorite spot in Tarija, young breakdancers practicing their moves in front of the endless panoramas of this sparkling town enclosed by the blooming highlands.     

I ended the day with a cheap plate of chuño, a freeze-dried potato type mainly found in Quechua and Aymara communities in Bolivia and Peru. I know, it looks disgusting, but I just want to be buried inside of it and eat my way out again. *angels playing harps descend from heaven*    

I decided to stay another day. And another one. I grew quite fond of Tarija. Maybe it was the cheap vegan buffet restaurant I tracked down, ran by a national animal right activist…        

Or maybe it was the proximity to the local wine region… Yes, I was surprised too.  

Bolivia and wine, is that even a combi?  

Well, I personally sacrificed myself for an extensive field trip for research purposes only and my loud and clear answer is: ABSOLUTELY NOT.  

Mildly skeptic I took the cheap minibus to Valle de la Concepción (leaving from Calle Corrado in between Campero & General Trigo) as for sure I wasn’t going to book a tourist-only ‘wine tasting tour’. Why pay for things that are free if you try a bit harder? I got dropped off in the town of Uriondo, at a bustling bodega called Casa Vieja that was hosting a big folkloric event that day.     

Everyone was dressed up from head to toe, I was wearing a 10-year-old Slash-tanktop full of spaghetti stains. As I was the only foreigner the ‘tasting host’ targeted me as the prime laughingstock, sarcastically asking me amidst the 22 other tasters “if I know anything about wine?” Good sir, you have no idea. In fact, I dare to state that I know more about wine than anyone in this room, including you. I’m a very dedicated hobbyist.     

And whatever the hell you are serving me, that is very far away of being even worthy of bearing the title. Options enough: an impressive 10 cups plus a liquor to top it off were served, distributed in one single cup for all drinkers. And all 10 of them were unquestionably, undeniably and irrefutably D-I-S-G-U-S-T-I-N-G. Ughhh, get that sweet schmuck out of my face, wine isn’t supposed to be liquid sugar, what’s wrong with you guys?!    

Nevertheless, drunk I was. Which might be the reason why I entered Vinoteca Resolana to continue drinking. “No sweet wine, acid, give me dry and acid!”, I roared once I set foot in the winery. Hastily a friendly lady filled my glass. Alright, it was just alright. Good enough to flush that terrible after-taste away from the last bodega, but obviously nothing compared to that pure Chilean, Argentinean and Uruguayan bliss I got spoilt with recently. However, it was on the house, so I filled my glass another time. Okay, 3 more times, ssssht.    

Cheers, on the city that slowly conquered my heart, despite all the country’s complications and challenges! I could never ever live here, but man, it’s good to hang out in the meantime.   

Until we meet. 

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