The reports of the breakfast yesterday at the Mirador had been greatly exaggerated.
We arrived in the restaurant at a respectable 7.45am in time for the truck departure at 9.00am. There were one or two people there but the place was empty. Every table was a jumble of half-finished food, dirty plates and empty coffee cups.
Somewhere in the kitchen, someone stirred but the coffee urn was empty and the bread basket bare. We sat and waited for someone to come but no one did. I ventured into the kitchen and mustering my best Spanish, asked for Café y Pan. She nodded in acknowledgement and I sat down again.
The sun moved across the sky and the uneaten rolls began to curl at the edges. I tentatively wandered to the kitchen again but it was empty.
The sun moved across the sky and the uneaten rolls began to curl at the edges. I tentatively wandered to the kitchen again but it was empty.
Walking up the short staircase to the reception, I asked the man for some food. He smiled and nodded and, more hopeful I sat down again with a cup of hot water.
As has happened before, species evolved around us and empires rose and fell but food did not come.
Concerned that my beard may interfere with the passage or traffic on the small road outside, I slung it over my shoulder, picked up the urn and basket and walked purposefully to the reception, having found no one in the kitchen for a second time.
Concerned that my beard may interfere with the passage or traffic on the small road outside, I slung it over my shoulder, picked up the urn and basket and walked purposefully to the reception, having found no one in the kitchen for a second time.
“Pan?” I said confidently with an upward inflection to denote a polite question, gently waving the empty basket by way of illustration.
“Café?” I added with a rattle of the long since dry urn.
He smiled again, nodded and beckoned me to return to the restaurant, gesturing with every sincerity that a veritable smorgasbord of breakfast delights would follow me in short order.
It was twenty minutes to departure and the La Paz laundry fiasco was starting to resurface in my mind. Bolivian time is not the same as normal time I reminded myself. Self-sufficiency had to be the order of the day. I could walk next-door and buy bread for all of us for a fraction of the price that we had paid for the Mirador breakfast that never was.
Fifty minutes later, after Cindy had failed to start and insisted on her fuel lines being drained, we were away with a bag full of freshly buttered jam rolls and a banana, waving goodbye to the showers that electrocuted us, the freezing water, the lack of towels or toilet roll and The Shining impression that only stopped short of an axe through the door.
Mirador – I salute you!
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