Sucre Hotels
|
  | |  |
Dutch Courage
Entry 17 of 42 | show all | print this entry |
As we marched our way into Sucre, full of the joys of a Bolivian spring, we found ourselves checked into the same hostel as our official South American stalkers, Joanna and Dave. Jo and Dave have been travelling through South America for the past 6 months, and thanks to our friend Sarah (Jo's sister), Marge and I were lined up for a meeting of minds and bar tabs in Sucre. They put up with our terrible Spanish, and we in turn turned a blind ear to their stories of hardcore trekking, and between the four of us we spent a misshapen week of wildness in Sucre and Potosi.
I'd love to be able to wax lyrical about the fabulous cultural heart that beats in the white city of Sucre. I wish I could tell you of all the wonderful markets and museums, the side streets and back alleys, the local eateries that we stumbled upon.
However, the Dutch got in the way.
Here's the thing - since we arrived in Bolivia we've found that the best gringo bars and the safest restaurants (ie those offering less than a 20% chance of dysentry with every main course) are owned and operated by Dutchlanders. They appear in all the towns we've been in to date and they seem to have paid off the Lonely Planet editorial team, because it is almost impossible to avoid their recommendations of laid back Euro style bars in odd little side streets around Bolivia. As a result, Sucre will be forever tied to our memories of the Joyride Cafe on Nicholas Ortiz, and it's menu of steaks and pisco sours will be forever imprinted on my drink-wizened mind.
Delighted with ourselves having met up after successfully negotiating a bit of gmail stalking, facebook wall writing and serendipitous hostel selecting, Jo, Dave, Marge and myself decided to celebrate with a fine meal and a drink or two. Or three. We started off in the aforementioned Joyride at 6ish, ordering steaks and drinks with gay abandon. At around the time when we reckoned the barstaff had had enough of four increasingly drunk Irish people (even the Dutch have limits), we took ourselves off to the only nightclub in the area that was open...apparently.
Dancing from street corner to street corner, we finally stumbled upon this recommended dance-a-thon and rocked on in to what seemed to be a small miners union night on the town. Picture a confused looking bartender, five drunk looking Bolivians with gobs fit to burst point with coca leaves and a couple of pitchers of beer sitting in the middle of it all. Of course, this struck us as perfect - things like this tend to when you're full of Bolivian beer - and we proceeded to introduce ourselves to the locals and try to communicate in some way, shape or form.
Dave is an excellent communicator. I don't care what anyone else says. I mean, it takes a man of talent to realise that the quickest way to bridge the gap with the locals was to start pole dancing. It didn't seem to bother Dave that the pole in question was actually a bit of scaffolding, nor that his audience seemed to enjoy it a bit too much too quickly. Limberly, he shimmied up and slid down the pole much to the delight and confusion of the rapt group of onlookers.
Well of course, we all had to have a go. Like the indian peace pipe in days of old, the pole was passed from person to person and the language of DANCE helped us bond with these coca-fuelled locals. Photos of the evening remain (although I'm convinced the one of me trying to tip a semi-naked male dancer were photoshop-ed in some way)....and the fact that we didn't pack up and go home after this club, but instead decided to find another watering hole gives you some indication as to what condition the four of us finished up in. Suffice to day, Mrs Marge McGuinness had to spend the following day 'recovering' in bed. Tired and emotional. Poor love.
And the best part of this 12 hour long crusade to find our own Dutch courage? It cost Marge and I the princely sum of € 40 (and a headache from hell). Bolivia - land of culture, coca and cheapie nights on the tiles.
After a recovery day or two, we signed up for a day of dusty downhill mountain biking. Meeting at (you guessed it) the Joyride Cafe, we were taken by our guide up some of the local mountains, given a bike, a helmet and some outline safety advice and told that the van would pick us up at the bottom of the mountain. And for the rest of the day, we repeated this again and again and again. It was exhilarating, scary and elbow grazing. Marge and I had a regulation sized tumble (I havent had such good scabs on my elbow since I was six) but neither of us let them get in the way of a day of adrenaline soaked scenery. What also sort of reassured us was that both Jo and Dave had done the famous Death Road cycle, and told us that it was actually a lot less dangerous than the mountains we survived in Sucre.
Sinead and I have subsequently been in spending time wind tunnel testing to maximise our streamlined shapes so we can set new speed records down this so-called ´Death Road´.
I look forward to updating you from hospital in a few weeks.
Latest Comments (2)
|
Do take care (reply)
Jul 15, 2007 17:48 EST by jimmywee
on the Road of Death.
Jaysus, I have problems even writing it.
I suppose on bikes you at least have the chance to stick to the cliffside...
|
|
Death Road (reply)
Jul 15, 2007 17:38 EST by judy_mcg
Death Road? You promissed, no Death Road, or Mum'll kill you ;-)
|
 Post a new comment |
|
If you like this entry, search for other entries from Bolivia or try a new search. |
| |
Back to Entry - Back to Home
|
24 votes 
This is a top pick!
