Day 229: Hello and Goodbye (14/09/2011)

With the Inca trail fast approaching, gloves and socks were in short supply.

Calle Sagarnaga is a steep cobbled street that provides for the aspiring trekker.

After shopping, we walked further down the hill and through a corrugated chicane and out into the square of the church of San Francisco. The ornate 16^th century church boasts an beautiful doorway with spiral columns. As we left, the first rain started to fall since we arrived in South America. It was light and short lived and did nothing more than remind us of how much drought-stricken land we have crossed.

Walking back up Sagarnaga, we were passed by a convoy of the city's distinctive microbuses. Dodge 400’s crawl up the city’s hills belching thick black smoke. Smaller sandwich vans, halfway between a bus and a taxi, ply the streets calling out their destinations from the open sliding door and stopping only when hailed.

They fight for priority at the junctions and might is usually right.

Reaching the outer limits of wearable hygiene we opted for the hotel laundry service and carefully bagged up  our load before handing it over at reception.

Washing in South East Asia was a case of accepting that your clothes would be dunked in river water, hit repeatedly with a stick and the left to dry in a sealed plastic bag for three days. Here we hoped for detergent and a washing machine.

Walking away in our last best hope at acceptably clean clothes we strolled back down Sagarnaga, passed the small army of knitters who occupy the steps and kerbs at every turn. Brightly dressed in traditional skirts puffed out with a dozen layers of petticoats to ward off the chill and brown velvet bowler hats, they are Bolivia’s indigenous people with dark faces -  more American Indian than the Spanish par-venues.

They carry their possessions and often their children in a colourful strip of material that knots across the shoulders like a rucksack and sit for hours at a time selling knit wear, nuts and bottled drinks.

After lunch we wandered to Placa Murillo in the centre of colonial La Paz. Orange juice sellers sit by their trollies, peeling the fruit before pressing it into large tanks. The zest carries on the breeze and fills the air with the tang of citrus. The peel comes off in a thin strand a metre long and the un-pressed oranges sit in a bucket like a carved wooden Christmas decoration.

The square houses the Cathedral and the Parliament building and so is heavily policed. We passed a tough looking police officer, fingering his night stick in anticipation of trouble. His side kick held a handful of lollipops and grinned a broad toothy grin at us as we passed, lollipop stick protruding from his mouth and the ball lodged firmly in his cheek.

The Parliament is a colonial structure of columns and pediments but is painted typical South American white and red. The cathedral is a tall Italianate-Gothic structure. For a Catholic church in South America it is almost austere in its lack of gold and ornamentation. The dome is compact and economical. The square columns that support the round arches complete the architectural confusion.

We wandered back to Sagarnaga as the clouds began to gather and turned into the Witches Market. Lama foetuses sell for good luck and often are buried beneath the threshold of a newly acquired house to bring good fortune.

Cameron was parked up in a La Paz truck stop for the next few weeks and we were facing the prospect of the emotional wrench of two timing with her sister, Cindy on the way to Lima. With Cameron, Dave and Ivan gone, we felt cast into an emotional vacuum that would take time to fill.

Izzy and T.J. were their replacements and they limped into the upstairs salon, noses dripping for the introductions meeting.

But goodbyes were imminent.

We chose the Steak House as a suitable place for the send off and ate Chorizo that surpassed anything that we had experienced in South America. Vanessa fended off the tears that had made an appearance at lunch time and we hugged and said farewell with promises of future visits.

Jade, despite her sling and bruises, was not finished and downed her last drink as the 6am taxi arrived to take her to the airport. Pain relief comes in many forms.

Dave’s advice is stop at three beers when drinking at altitude.

He never followed it so neither did we.