I crossed the boarder Argentina/Bolivia, full of excitement and fear.
I got off the bus and was overwhelmed to see children covered in dust and with runny noses. Skeletal dogs who were desperately trying to get inside empty plastic bags which contained something edible, a long time ago, perhaps. Imposing women carrying the equivalent of their own body weight, wrapped in colorful fabric.
"So this is it". I thought. "I am in Bolivia".
I expected to see what I saw. I expected the man at Custom to be mean (why are Immigration Officers always so abrupt, anyway? It's not that I'm smuggling drugs,am I?), I expected to share my taxi ride with two local farmers and a couple from Ireland (no, actually this caught me slightly by surprise).
What I did not expect, however, was to be so utterly, desperately, shamefully sick because of the altitude.
And I did not expect to be one of the worse case the locals had ever seen, either.
Coca leaves help, they say. So I sneaked into a market, checking now and then if I had been followed by the Police and asked some stall holders, in a quiet voice, whether "they had coca". I know, I know, coca is legal , coca is not cocaine, but it still felt weird telling an old lady who looked like my grandma that I was looking for first quality Coca. "Does your mum know what you're up to?" I felt like asking her.
I'm happy to say that my mouth is way bigger than it looks from the outside. My mouth can accomodate thousands and thousand of juicy bitter leaves. I'm like a hamster, me!
I'm less happy to say that Coca leaves did not help me. But Ibuprofen did. All 13 packets of them.
I have arrived in Sucre 8 weeks behind schedule. Mind you, not that I had a schedule. Nor a plan. Nor a remote idea of what I wanted to see nor do, but I have arrived, everyone!!
I was expecting a warm welcome, balloons, confettis, a lot of hugs and kisses from locals. All I got, however, was a lousy dog's bite which send me straight to ER.
Maybe the dog was happy to see me! Maybe this is how Bolivian dogs greet their loved ones! By chewing their legs!
At ER, I expected a little sympathy, some level of understanding or at least some basic first aid. All I got, however, was a bill to pay and a patronizing look from a doctor who literally laughed at my face when I showed concern about the possibility of contracting rabies, then die.
The second doctor was no better. When I told him I feared I would die, he said :"we're all gonna die". I couldn't argue with that, could I? Dr Cheerful also advised me to find the bipolar dog who bit me and ask the locals whether they knew if he was vaccined. I'm sure this is the correct procedure indeed, but come on, Einstein, how the Hell was I supposed to find an average-looking dog in a Country where average-looking dogs are basically at every street corner?!
But I'm not one to give up without a try. Every single one of the 1.367 stray dogs in Sucre were carefully inspected by myself. Every moment of every day I inspected them. Until one day, at the market, I believed I found him.
He was with his owner, pretending to be an innocent, affectionate dog. He was even wagging his tail, to make his disguise more credible."YOU!" I shouted. "It's you!". The owner was proud that her beloved, lying dog got so much attention, until I asked her whether he was vaccined, as he bit me.
For some unknown reasons she did not appreciate that a foreign lady would accuse her pooch to be a criminal and put her under a spotlight, at a busy market, while surrounded by all her friends. How unreasonable.
The lady was confident I had mistaken dogs, her dog " is always with her", he's "never in the street" and all those bullshit that people always say to defend themselves when it is quite clear that they are GUILTY!
It never occurred to me that I might have been wrong: after all, the dog looked average-looking enough to be THE ONE.
I huffed and puffed (in Spanish) and left the crime scene believing I was right, like always.
Until, that is, a week later when I saw the unmistakable jaw of the unmistakable dog who left an unmistakable mark on my previously immaculate calf. I had found my dog after all. And when I did I was so petrified I couldn't even demand an apology for the distress he had caused.
My search for the mischevious creature came to an end. And the search for the innocent one has begun. I owe him a bone and I owe his owner a sincere apology.
As much as I have not felt much sympathy amongst the Bolivians who saw me hurt and crying (I guess it's my fault for having such juicy and attractive Gringo calves), I feel locals are extremely concerned for my body temperature.
It's winter here and people look shocked, almost worried, when they see me walking around wearing a summer vest, especially when they walk around wrapped in blankets.
I swear the tops I wear do not show an inch of my breasts (also because I have absolutely nothing to show off) so they cannot be offended by my attire. I also know they are not admiring my toned, boxer's arms, as the muscles I once had , have turned into Dumbo's wings. I'm sure they are worried I'll catch a cold! Bless them.
I wish to point out that the winter temperature at the moment is 25 degrees and if I was at home I'd probably be wearing nipple tassels, but it's winter, right? I should be cold, what's wrong with me?
My rabies jabs will continue, on and off throughout the month, so whether I like it or not (I don't) I cannot leave Bolivia and continue with my travels.
To put my time here to a good use, I enrolled to school. I thought going to school would be just like 20 years ago, so I turned up to class sporting a hangover, to then realise that NOTHING FEELS LIKE 20 YEARS AGO.
I replied with a German "Ja", when what I meant was "Si" and nearly puked all over my unfinished home work. Forgive me, Teacher, for I have sinned. "Can we just speak English today?", I begged.
Luckily, my teacher is cool. He has kindly agreed to teach me one abusive rude Spanish expression a day.
He also dosn't mind if, in the middle of class, I suddenly jump up and show him some dance moves. Nor he minds when I throw my books against the wall, moaning and cursing, because I don't know how to conjugate irregular verbs.
He's the ideal teacher for a grown up student who act like an annoying teenager. Me, basically.
I checked myself into a beautiful hotel. It's expensive, but I'm injured, so fuck it.
My neighbour for the week was Louis, from England. Louis and I became inseparable.
In a good old British fashion, we spent the entire week moaning. We moaned because it was too hot (whilst our friends back home would have sold an organ in return of a ray of sunshine). We moaned because the beers we were drinking in the gorgeous patio were just a little bit too refreshing. We moaned because the pizzas we were eating every day were just a little too delicious. We moaned and farted and laughed. A lot, especially the farting.
After my buddy left, I left the fancy hotel and moved to a hostel, where I'm hoping I will meet thousands of lovely people who every night will greet me with balloons, and confettis and hugs and kisses.
And if that doesn't happen, at least I'm saving a lot of money which will be spent buying delicious pizzas and cold, refreshing beers. And maybe, just maybe, a long sleeve top.
