An Obstacle On The Tracks

Sadly my train journey wasn't to be. I arrived at the train station excited that I was going to be slowly moving through the mountains between Potosi and Sucre on some battered old train that had seen better years. It was 6am and freezing cold, as it usually is before the sun rises at 4000m above sea level. I bought my ticket for the six hour journey and sat in the waiting room amongst traditionally dressed Bolivians.

The train arrived, or what was supposed to be a train. In fact it more resembled a bus with train wheels and in all honesty I was a little disappointed. The major issue arose when I was told that I had to put my bag on the roof, open to the elements and easy to steal by some opportunist little shit. So like any British consumer I kicked up a fuss, resulting in the guy telling me that I could put it on my seat and sit on it for six hours.

The taxi driver whisked me away from the train station with due haste and I found myself on a Sucre bound bus within 10 minutes. I arrived in Sucre, a few hours later and checked into my hostel only to realise that my guitar was still on the bus. The bus had left and I was to continue my travels without the sweet sounding instrument that I had picked up in Rosario.

Sucre was what you would expect of a Old Colonial South American city: colourful old buildings and palm trees under a deep blue sky. The markets were filled with countless fruits, many of which I had never seen before but bought with my new friend Andy for a fruit party later. The evening passed on a swing chair with fruit wine and good music, a stark contrast to the next evening, which would be spent on a shitty Bolivian bus to La Paz. As it was to turn out shitty was an understatement.