Tarija and Sunshine

July 26, 2009

Sunday was designated a day of relaxation. The daytime weather in Tarija was fabulous (i.e. not freezing), nearly everything was closed for the day, and our overnight bus for Sucre didn’t leave until 6 p.m.

We woke up around 11, and checked out of our hostel, then headed to a Mediterranean restaurant on Plazoleta Sucre for lunch. I had vegetable-stuffed cannelloni covered in a delicious mushroom sauce (mushrooms, another food that’s difficult to find in Argentina).

Then we strolled up to the mirador Loma de San Juan, and spent some time chatting in the sunshine, looking over the city.

A little later, we headed back to the main plaza, where I gave into temptation and ordered a sinful coffee/whiskey/ice cream drink.

The bus ride to Sucre was fairly tame in comparison to our previous run. The seats were more conventional, as were our fellow travelers. There were also fewer random stops, and most of the road was paved.

Tarija: Wine and Culture

July 25, 2009

Saturday morning we woke up to confusion. Tammy and I both had different understandings of our itinerary for the following day and too many blanks in our research to figure out which route was a better option.

So, we made phone calls, trekked around town, and finally decided to stay another night in a cheaper hostel and go on a wine tasting/trekking excursion with Viva Tours.

The guide was nice, though terribly inefficient in both English and French (our tour group consisted of us and three French men), and didn’t attempt much as far as explanations: “These are the vines.”

The trek was short, but nice, the wineries were something else. Far from the state-of-the-art Argentine bodegas, or even the scenic tranquility of the Peruvian ones, these vineyards had no official opening hours for visits nor manufacturing facilities to show off.

At Valle di Vino the owner showed his vines, spoke of wine being a sacred beverage, then had us bless the vineyard while sucking new wine through a 2 meter hose.

The three French openly expressed their discontent.

The second bodega we visited, Casa Vieja was slightly more refined, offering wine for sale and a drive-thru tasting of about eight different wines, all in proper glasses (though shared glasses, we each took a sip and passed the glass to the next person). Unfortunately, most the wines were syrupy sweet, with one red, which was not a dessert wine, and instead lacked any flavor, whatsoever. (High altitude wines are typically sweet due to being closer to the sun, and rapid growth due to the additional light.)

After sipping and wincing at the sugary wines, we were served singani, the Bolivian grape brandy, similar to pisco or ouzo. We sipped, then sampled grapes marinated in pungent alcohol. And quickly checked it off our Bolivian to-do list.

We left, empty-handed, and with my faith in Bolivian wine nearly crushed.

That night we dined at the Taverna Gattopardo where my eyes immediately zoned in on the tacos with lettuce, cheese, guacamole, sour cream, and black beans. I ordered it without the chicken, which apparently prompted them to double the portion sizes of everything else.

The feast would have easily served 2-3 people, with authentic guac and pico de gallo, something that I haven’t found in Argentina, and aside from being unfortunately over-salted, it was delicious!

After dinner, we hit a bar, La Candela, for some Huari beer, where we met a really nice Chilean and a REALLY drunk Bolivian.

Ignacio, the Chilean, was in Tarija to offer his expertise in viticulture, and offered some valuable insight into the horrible wine we’d tried:

Both wineries are family establishments, carrying on family traditions, as opposed to commercial vineyards selling a product. They lack the benefit of educated experts and share their vineyards out of their love for their family roots, without an end goal of making a profit. Seen in that light, Tammy and I felt a far greater respect for the juices we’d swilled. It’s still not good wine, but the experience wasn’t about good wine, it was about Bolivian culture.

Entering Bolivia via Villazon

July 24, 2009

Crossing from one of South America’s richest countries to its poorest offered surprisingly little contrast.

Friday morning we saddled up our luggage in preparation to cross the footbridge leading from La Quiaca, Argentina, to Villazon, Bolivia. Upon arriving at the border, we left Argentina with predictable ease and entered the Bolivian border patrol station to fill out visa applications and our $135 fees, in cash.

The little immigration room was unheated, and I was seriously concerned for the well-being of my toes by the time our papers were processed.

Once our money was inspected and approved, we trekked on to the bus station in search of 11 a.m. tickets to Tarija. Like most border towns, Villazon is best used for crossing the border, and moving on. However, there was nothing leaving before 7 p.m. We bought our tickets and the bus company kindly stored our luggage for us, and we set out to kill the next nine hours.

Villazon is fairly tranquil for a border town, but aside from selling lots of basics for less than half the price of the other side of the border, it doesn’t have a whole lot to offer. We had a light breakfast, caught up on internet tasks, lunched, wandered the markets, and finally had a light dinner, all the while pondering our night’s bus route along a “spectacular unpaved road.” Spectacular leaves quite a bit up to the imagination.

Even so, we were totally unprepared for the reality. Our luggage was stored on top of crates of juice, toilet paper, and other nonperishables under the bus. We boarded, finding the bus teaming with short, round Bolivian women in their brightly colored native dress, packages of produce, and bundles of goods (including babies) spilling out in every direction.

The headrests on the seats hit the top of my shoulders, so I slouched down to get comfortable. Bolivian music pumped over the sound system, only occasionally drowned out by the engine of the bus struggling up a hill.

The unpaved road at times massaged our back with its vibrations, but overall wasn’t as bad as I had feared.

We arrived in Tarija at 3 a.m. (despite being told we’d arrive around 5 or 7 a.m.), and headed to our hotel. Tammy admited she couldn’t remember how she’d ended up choosing something so fancy, but we both enjoyed our shiny, modern bathroom before moving out into a hostel in the morning (or rather, later the same morning).