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The gateway to the Bolivian Southwest is the small city of Uyuni. There are several ways to get to Uyuni but the easiest way is by the express train which runs twice weekly between Oruro in the north and Villazon on the Argentine frontier. We left for Oruro on August 4th, the day after Anne finished her Spanish classes. After the easy, 4-hour bus ride, we checked into the Hotel Repostero, a hotel I'd stayed in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. It had changed little since my last visit 30 years before. The same German owner sat in his office still separating himself from the hotel with a half closed door. When I was a volunteer, he had been a man of great mystery. How had he come to live here? Had he come to escape the NAZIs...to hide from Allied prosecution...maybe something more prosaic, a broken heart? It was too much fun wondering about him to bother finding out the answer.

We arrived in Oruro just in time for the Independence Day (August 6th) celebrations - which last a lot longer than just one day. In fact, we'd chosen our exit from Cochabamba to avoid the long parade of school children marching and drumming their way through the barrio streets. It is doubtful that they'd learned anything of late - they'd spent weeks practicing for the event. The chauvinistic fervor had descended upon Oruro the same as it had on Cochabamba - the city was loaded with visitors and vendors, noise and traffic. There was the promise of parades and celebratory events.

On Sunday (August 5) we shared a cab with a family of Bolivian tourists and went to a nearby hot springs named Obrajes (another old haunt) to take a nice warm bath. It seems that just about everyone in Oruro had the same idea - it was impossibly overcrowded. We skipped the bath and to took a hike in the countryside instead.

In the afternoon, we went to an outdoor concert; "Norte Potosi" was playing and it is our favorite Bolivian group. The concert, which was supposed to start at 2 o'clock, finally cranked up at 4. The guy who runs the Marka Tambo Peña (a Peña is a folk music night club) in La Paz was the concert's MC and he brought his usual impressive list of Bolivian stars.


Shades of America! The giant inflate-a-coke was prominent at the concert. In fact, there are Coke signs everywhere in Bolivia, you'd think it owns the place.	Shades of P.T. Barnam! This is the impresario of the concert and the Marko Tambo Peña in La Paz. He is a bombastic promoter of his dancers, musicians, and shows.	Shades of Geraldine! There was a comedy skit making fun of both Cholas (market women) and the military. The Cholas in the audience found it hilarious. It's probably fortunate that the military was not well represented.

Shades! The Coke stand was left high and dry by the lack of an audience. It was a very good concert but only a few attended. Probably everyone was busy marching in parades.	Regional dances were a part of the program.	Voces del Viento, a young group from Santa Cruz presented a fusion of modern and traditional Bolivian music.

Due to the late start, the concert ended long after dark. On the eve of Independence Day, Oruro had become a place transformed...it was as if "PacMan" had metamorphized into a giant, living game. High school bands were everywhere. Each was led by baton-wielding majorettes and banners and was trailed by long, long files of people. There seemed neither rhyme nor reason to their routes; there were bands here and there marching randomly through the streets. And wherever they went, they created havoc - traffic jams of desperate cars, trucks, and pedestrians.

It was only after scarfing a pizza that the full magnitude of this nefarious game became apparent. We emerged back into the street and headed toward the Repostero. We had to pack; the train south left the next morning. A few blocks from the hotel we were confronted by a wall of people - those random-moving bands had deceived us; they had congealed into a long parade - no one could cross the street!

We headed east, we would go around the the tail end of this serpentine monstrosity. We met a another wall of people, here by the market, the parade route was now north to south. There must be something hardwired into the genes of the audience, a gene that says, if you're watching a parade - "DON'T LET PEOPLE PASS!" Ironically, there is no corresponding gene that says, if there's a parade - "DON'T TRY TO PASS!" - it was not just the genetically deprived gringos that were trying to cross the parade, there were hoards of Bolivians, as well, desperately attempting to claw their way through a line of folks determined to prevent them passage.

And it is not as if we were interrupting anything. A band would pass by - the majorettes, the banners, the band, the trailing civilians - then there would be minutes of excruciating nothing. Where was the parade? Was it over? Then another band would appear, pass by, and again the confused lull. The very formula was enough to put one to sleep - a seemingly endless series of very similar bands separated by long hiatuses of nothing. But for all this, the genetic imperative seemed to dominate - each time the integrity of the line was threatened the maniacal group determination would re-emerge - DON'T LET THEM PASS!

"Hay niños" (there are children), they would tell you - sure that that explained everything. "They have legs," I suggested to one burley guardian, "they can move aside for a moment so we can pass. There's nothing going on now anyway." An uncomprehending look crossed his face. We and a group of would-be-parade-crossers stood around wondering what to do. Mr. Burley Guard became bored; he wanted to go home - we blocked his way. "We are leaving, let us through," he announced. "Hay niños," I told him. "Ya, but...," he stammered. We let him just squeeeeze out of line.

We headed west - surely the parade would disburse once it hit the main plaza. We weren't taking any chances now; we made a wide loop around the plaza. Once again we were moving toward the Repostero. Alas, at the plaza the route changed course again. We were trapped; Oruro had become the Berlin of South America - it was completely divided.

Finally, we took one poor soul by surprise and made it through the line. ...we were now trapped in the parade route; there was one more line to cross. We joined up with others similarly situated who were attempting to go our way. Suddenly, a group coming from the other direction made a major incursion and started pouring onto the parade route. Our group made a dash for the breach and began to fight our way through the other way. The guardians began to panic. Major pushing and shoving ensued. A screeching chorus of "hay niños" could be heard in the background. Finally, I popped out...then, somewhat disheveled, Anne popped out behind me. We walked the peaceful streets of Oruro to the Repostero. We could hear the bands bleating and banging away long past midnight. ...we wondered, how many envied us in our nice warm beds?

We got an early start toward the train station. It was a mere four blocks away, but we had no idea what parade route etiquette awaited. After all, last night was just the warm up; today was Independence Day. To our relief we arrived at the station unimpeded. At 11, we hopped the Expresso del Sur and headed for Uyuni.

The ride to Uyuni was great. It was a beautiful sunny day. To the west, we passed Lakes Uru Uru and then Poopo - two shallow, saline lakes - large flocks of flamingoes sloshed about ignoring our passage. To the east, was the eastern cordillera of the Andes. All along our route were villages, estancias (a small hamlet), and herds of llamas, sheep, burros, and cattle. There were some surprises - the campo (countryside) had been electrified - there was no electricity when I lived here thirty years ago. Some house generated their own power with windmills. On one thatched, adobe house was a bank of solar cells.


Anne awaiting the train at the Oruro Station.	The Expresso del Sol being prepared for the journey south.	A church and village along our route.	The train was full of gringos, one of the most fun was Tracy, from England. The cars were too warm so she hung out in the "loo." Here she is eating a doughnut.

In the early evening, we arrived in Uyuni. When I lived in Bolivia, I took the train that passed by Uyuni many times, but neither I nor my friends would have ever considered stopping here. It is a non-descript, flat, dusty, adobe place with a reputation for cold and wind. Its one claim to fame is that it was Bolivia's railroad center. It was here that the train from the Pacific Coast and Chile met up with the train that ran between La Paz and Buenos Aires. A few miles to the north, a spur of the La Paz/Buenos Aires line veered off to Potosi and Sucre. Today, however, the Bolivian southwest has been discovered. There are hordes of gringos, rows and rows of tourist agencies, internets, and western looking restaurants.

	Main street Uyuni. The white building in the foreground is the Hotel Avenida. Because it is both mentioned in the "Lonely Planet" and is across the street from the train depot, it is the first stop for most arriving tourists. We headed to the "Mirith" on the outskirts of town after seeing the long line awaiting rooms at the Avenida.
	An internet café, and next door the Kactus Café, one of the many restaurants that attempts to be hip and western. The Kactus boasts that it has a cool atmosphere with heating.


The city of Oruro was Bolivia's mining center. This is an Oruro street. The scars from abandoned mines can be seen on the hill in the background.	A chola with an ahuayu on her back leading her four burros through Oruro.	Obrajes, jam full!	We came across this structure on our walk at Obrajes - it looks like a misshaped "chulpa" (burial chamber) but the locals had no idea what it was.	Altiplano cactus and Paja (coaisrse Altiplano grass.)

Bolivia, 2001