The Uyuni Salt Flats

When they`re selling The Uyuni Salt Flats, they talk about the beauty, they thoroughly describe the fascinating mix of climates and nature, and then they proceed to wow you with the kind of amazing pictures that you are able to take home. Until Mikael and I got there... we had no idea it was just going to be one big, huge grown-ups playground:

Potosi

Potosi is officially the highest city in the world. At 4070m above sea level, its reason for being is the discovery of the gigantic ore of silver found in the neighbouring hill, Cerro Rico. In no time at all this previously uninhabited location grew astoundingly to become the wealthiest city in Latin America; boasting a population greater than both London and Paris at the time. Walking around you instantly feel the personality of the place, with small winding streets, multicoloured buildings and lines of street vendors around every corner. This delightful setting is no longer quite the thriving metropolis that it once was, but still has a strong mining presence. Thanks to the lack of Bolivian Health and Safety regulations, it is one of the few mining operations in the world that welcomes tourists to witness every aspect of the process; without tedious restrictions and exhaustive protective gear spoiling the realistic experience.

The first stop on the tour was the miners` market where we were encouraged to buy gifts for the miners. Among their favourite types of gift were bottles of pop, cigarettes, a drink containing 95% alcohol, coca leaves... and dynamite. Unsuprisingly, dynamite was our favourite buy, on a "one for Mr. Miner, two for me" kind of basis. This was real dynamite, the kind you could incinerate solid walls with, for sale to anyone willing to pay up to five sterling pounds for a stick. We later got the opportunity to blow it all up. After 20 seconds of picture taking with a lit fuse, our guide sprinted away with the stick, quickly burying it at 30 metre`s distance. Even from here the shockwave felt through the ground was enormous, as we watched the explosion of dust fill the air.

Entering the mines was unforgettable. A claustrophobe`s nightmare; the majority of the tunnels were tight, metre-tall passageways with water-logged train tracks running along the floor. Every couple of minutes we would hear a mine cart rumbling towards us through the darkness. We would then have about 20 seconds to scramble into a nearby corner to watch the rock-filled wagon roll past with a couple of sweating miners running and pushing behind it. We went down a total of 70 metres into the ground, always knowing that the only way out was the way we came. The air very quickly became very thin and the mineral particles in the air were causing us all to cough unceasingly. Just exploring became exhausting and uncomfortable, constantly struggling to get enough oxygen. We could never have spent a whole day down there. Completely shocked we were, to find out that most the miners we met had worked down here almost every day since they were 12 or 13 years of age.

Our guide proudly told the story of his miner father. His father was working long hard days in a mine, making enough to feed his family, though only just. His brother, an opportunist, had found another mine full of expensive minerals. The air wasn`t quite as fresh in this mine, but the money was fantastic. However, despite how hard he tried, his brother (our guide`s father) refused to join him. He was happy with the amount of money he was making and didn`t want to reduce his life expectancy further just to live richer. Life expectancy of miners is significantly low, not because of accidents (although these numbers are high too), but because the fumes in the tunnels affect when you are expected to die of "natural" causes. Our guide`s father was right; he outlived his brother and the majority of people in the other mine by about 20 years. Our guide was proud to announce that his father lived to the (relatively) very ripe old age... of 52. Apparently an impressive achievement for a Potosi miner!

Sucre

So I arrive in Sucre, and straight away schooling begins. I have been put up with a host family providing me with a cosy little room (into which they later installed cable tv for me - woop!) and two meals a day; breakfast and lunch. The family were impossible not to fall in love with. I lived with my host parents, Carlos and Patricia, and kids, Fabricio and Bebe (yep... never quite worked out this one`s real name). Then every sunday was the family lunch. Grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunties would all get together to have an enormous feast and a good gossip. Only Carlos`s sister Maria and her son Juan-Pablo spoke any English, but this helped my spanish no end. My host parents loved to chat and we would sit for hours while Carlos would tell fascinating stories, marching around the room with his arms waving in the air. My spanish vocabulary was rather limited, but he always managed to come up with ingenious ways to help me understand.

The school itself was just off the main square; a beautiful two-storey colonial building with pillars in all corners and stone clad floors. Classes were four hours a day, covering grammar and conversation practise, and I was lucky enough to have a class of just two people. My partner in crime was Mikael, a danish guy travelling for a year who had already been at the school two weeks. From the second he found out I spoke danish, English conversation went out the window. Trying to improve on both spanish and danish simultaneously was exhausting but very rewarding, especially as Mikael spoke both much better than me. I am proud to say that I have done my best to drag him down to my level on both accounts, and have unfortunately done nothing to help his English.

The school, as well as some fantastic teachers, had lots of social events to get people chatting. Wednesdays were cooking classes, learning to create traditional Bolivian classics (such as "Pique a lo Macho"), but due to the large turnouts generally just involved peeling and chopping one vegetable each while the teacher stirred the pot. Thursdays were the best, with four-a-side volleyball and football in a "raquetball" court (a sport seemingly identical to squash, but with a significantly bigger court and faster-moving ball). We soon made this a three times a week event due to the high demand, and it was usually followed by a big group dinner. With only the first two meals of each day included, every night around 20-odd of us students would head out to eat together, usually followed by an array of delicious alcoholic beverages. Then Friday was Bolivian salsa dancing with Roberto; a guy who really knew how to shake his hips. After which teachers and students alike would move into town to practise their moves and enjoy one of the many salsa or reggaeton (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reggaeton) clubs in the city.

Easily the best suprise was the random arrival of Katrine; my beloved cousin. Not having seen her in almost two years it was great to catch up. She had been travelling for 6 months and her spanish was amazing. She did two days at the school and then joined my friends and I on a fun-packed biking trip to see the 7 waterfalls of Sucre. I only counted two or three falls, but swimming in the rock pools allowed you to quickly dismiss this limitation. The water was freezing and brown, but a five metre waterfall standing tall above it provided the thrill of launching yourself high from the top into the deep water below.

Overall I think that Katrine had an enjoyable time in Sucre, but unfortunately her visit started with a slightly unpleasant experience. Just like many South American cities, theft is a profitable past-time, and many have come up with noticeably unique ways of aquiring tourists´ possessions. Within minutes of arriving into Sucre, rucksack on back, she met a fellow traveller who was equally as new to the city. They quickly got on well; chatting and learning their way around together. Suddenly a plain-clothes policeman approaches questioning the two travellers. Flashing a badge, he explains in an authoritative manner that he has to take them to the police station to review their travel documents. Of course Katrine is suspicious of these kind of situations, but her friend is a worrier and thinks it might be best if they just follow his instructions. Feeling a sense of security in a pair they join the policeman in the first taxi that pulls up, guiding the driver to the local police station. During the brief journey, the policeman begins his investigation by rifling haphazardly through my cousin`s hand lugguage. Then, as if suddenly completely satisfied, the plain-clothes policeman stops the cab and ushers Katrine onto the street, driving off with her new friend still inside. Flustered and worried about her friend, she finds that her camera and money are now mysteriously missing. Soon after, explaining the story to the police, she is surprised to discover how regularly this hustle is used... and understandably is even more shocked to discover that not only the policeman, but also her apparent tourist friend and taxi driver were in on it too.

The city of Sucre could at least be called passionate. The way I understand it, Sucre was the original Bolivian capital until the invading spanish moved it to La Paz. With the government and everything else sitting in La Paz, all the investment that Sucre deserves has been directed at La Paz. This is particularly noticeable when you compare the size of the two cities. La Paz is a huge bustling metropolis, while Sucre is one the nicest, most relaxed, tiny little student cities I have ever been to. That is, until the people of Sucre decided that they wanted the capital status back. Suddenly it wasn`t so tranquil. They have actually wanted the capital back for 100 years now, but only recently has it been decided that they are going to re-write the constitution, which among other things specifies where the government is located. They therefore now have something to fight for.

As my second week commenced, the fighting began.(http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/from_our_own_correspondent/6983681.stm). Students and other towns people had week-long strikes as they marched around the city with banners and coordinated chants. Anybody (luckily except schools and hospitals) not closing shop had their windows smashed, their wheels punctured or their goods vandalised. Students walked the streets with bats and masks. The reason for the masks being that they spent the whole night camping outside the town hall burning rubber tyres. As expected the police soon called reenforcements and their force quickly tripled with numbers sent from La Paz and Santa Cruz. Sucre made the front page in every newspaper in Bolivia. The police attacked with tear gas, automatic rifles and plastic bullets, while the students retaliated with home-made bombs, mainly in the form of molotov cocktails (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Molotov_cocktail). Gunshots were heard all night and day and flames blocked the roads in every direction. Getting to school was a mob-avoidance exercise, but we carried on as normal as we could. In honesty, avoiding real danger was easy, and the people of Sucre are the most welcoming I have met. But despite how the fighting has died down in recent weeks and how friendly the city of Sucre is, it has still just been placed on the Dutch government`s list of places "not to travel to". A list that also contains countries such as Iraq, East Timor, Burma, Liberia and Congo.

Sucre was a fantastic experience; a place I hated to leave and a place I miss terribly already.