So some 15 hours on a crap bus comes to an end and we’re pulling into Sucre terminal. I have no idea where Paddy is, and I’m not convinced I want to stay here a night at all. I jump a cab into town and set up shop in a gringo cafe. It’s not long before the Irish head is learing in through the door and we’re discussing options. It’s even shorter before we’ve decided to move on tonight.
Sucre is a pleasant town with that typical colonial feel to it, whitewashed buildings and sunny plazas. It’s a Bolivian Popyan. We’ve seen it, done it and got the hangover. After dumping the bags at Paddy’s hostel, we book a bus to Potasi and then for some reason end up in a Dinosaur foot print park. It’s going down as Paddy’s idea as we take a short taxi ride outside the city to see a plastic T-Rex.
An oil refinery close to the site discovered over 5000 Dino tracks cut across a huge slice of rock. It’s actually pretty impressive to see where these creatures walked millions of years ago, but it’s definitely one for the kids only. That is unless you’ve packed two wrestling masks to take stupid photo’s with. We’re desperately trying to get a snap of us trying to body slam a Diplodocus, but the guards pacing the museum are on their toes. We just have to settle for looking like idiots beneath a Brachiosaur. Jurassic Park it ain’t, but it’s still a laugh so long as you have Nacho Libre homosexual gimp face attire.
Time for a couple of coffees overlooking the sunny Plaza Del Mayo in Sucre. It’s a lovely spot, and one that you would want to spend a little more time in if you could. Indeed one advertisement is seeking a flatmate for 450 Bolivianos a month. That’s around £45. £45 a month for a flat. The question is, what are you all still doing in Europe/America etc, etc? Then again we’d probably miss solid faeces and hot showers.
It’s only three hours to Potosi, which means Paddy is on a mission to get sauced by the time we arrive at just after ten. This is a Miners town, but having said that there doesn’t appear to be your usual amount of boozers compared to it’s Irish counterpart. We find one semi-decent eatery, then wind up in a terrible Karaoke bar. As usual the selection is limited to classics such as “Sing Gin in the rain”, ” Withou You” and “Summer of 64.” I attempt a poor version of “Loosing my Religon”, while Paddy and myself team up to murder Unchained Melody. After chatting with a Bolivian by the name of ‘Ivan’ who has spent much time in Russia, supports Osama Bin Laden and would happily kill an American, we’ve drank enough to know better. If we don’t get a taxi home we’re likely to be ‘knifed’, which I’m up for because I’m swinging our empty bottle of Singani over my head and challenging all comers. Somewhere in between Paddy has nearly flown for a young English kid who sang the wrong Irish national anthem, and keeps chanting “you can shove your fucking thistle up your arse.” The last thing I remember is being told to be quiet by the Dutchman underneath my bunk because I was belting out the ‘freedom’ speech from Braveheart. It was a memorable evening.