May the Fourth be with you.
The old ones are always the best, eh?
So, after the mine tour I needed something slightly less strenuous and lung-sapping to occupy my last day in Potosi. And what better than a football match.
I saw on the fixture list that Real Potosi were going to play Guabira on Saturday afternoon, which meant I delayed my planned departure by 24 hours. Real Potosi have never been great shakes on the Bolivian football scene, but this season they were punching above their weight and were sitting third in the table.
On Saturday morning I went back to Koala Tours, who had organised a very competent mine tour, to book my bus out of the city for the evening.
My destination was to be Uyuni - in order to do the famous salt flat tour - and the buses there go from a different terminal than 90% of buses leaving Potosi.
The woman in Koala Tours continued her friendly, flirtatious behaviour from the previous day when I walked in - joking that she was coming with me to Potosi, feigning giving me her number, etc. All in good humour, but slightly odd when there were other travellers in the queue behind me waiting to be served.
Anyway, she booked me a ticket over the phone but said I had to be at the terminal in the next 30 minutes to pick up the ticket. Not sure what the rush was, but I hot-footed it the 20 minute walk down to the Ex Terminal to get it.
The way to the terminal passes the football stadium - the turning signposted by the worst football-related statue since Mohammed Al Fayed immortalised Wacko Jacko outside Craven Cottage:
Women were already setting up stalls selling scarves and other paraphenalia, some four hours before kick-off:
I never trust football fixtures out here until I see people arriving for the match, so it was good to know the game was definitely on.
On the way back to town I needed to have some lunch. I'd struggled to find decent places to eat in Potosi ever since my arrival, and so had a bit of trepidation walking into a pizza restaurant where no-one was eating pizza.
But the place was packed out with locals scoffing the Menu Del Dia - the usual soup followed by a main course - and so I decided to join them. It was my best meal of the week: cream of veg soup and a strange beef/onion/chips/pepper combo.
I like these authentic South American restaurants (apart from the one in Cusco that hospitalised me), as you always end up sharing a table with some locals. This time it was with a really friendly dad, son and daughter.
As I've mentioned before, never a day goes by in Bolivia without some sort of parade or other - usually involving the military. The previous night's bash in the main plaza was, you guessed it, a military back-slapping event.
And then, on the walk to the stadium for the match, there were more men in uniform chanting stuff and marching in unison:
South Americans. The world leaders in putting on a parade.
On the approach to the ground were the usual selection of touts carrying wads of tickets for the match. Most of the ones in Potosi were middle-aged woman, strangely, and I paid one of them the obscenely small amount of 11 Bolivianos for a ticket in the Curva Sur. About one English pound.
The stadium looked fairly new, and I walked in without a body search (having left my belt back at the hostel as a precautionary measure).
In Potosi, as with most of the towns that straddle the Andes, when you are in the sun it is nice and hot. As soon as you step into the shade, it's freezing. In the stadium people packed close together in any spot with some sun, and the shade was left for those wearing massive coats or carrying an extra layer of fat.
I didn't spot any other gringos all afternoon. Accordingly, I received the usual staring from the locals and had a couple of familiar conversations with them too:
'Donde vives?' (Where do you live?)
'Vivo en Londres. Inglaterra.' (I live in London. England.)
'Que equipo?' (Which team?)
'Everton.'
'Aaaah, Everton. Me gusta Chelsea'. (Aaaah, Everton. I like Chelsea).
'Boooo.'
And so on.
It could be worse - I could support someone obscure team like Accrington Stanley. In which case I would travel through South America getting quizzical looks, while being constantly reminded that my team lacked any significance in the world game. At least they've heard of Everton.
Back to the match, and if Real Potosi were to win they would go top of the league. It was therefore a big game for the locals and their small pocket of hardcore fans behind the goal were bouncing around and singing before kick-off. There were even some trying to imitate the bare-chested Geordies from back home:
Once the match started, it was easy to see why Potosi were having such a good season. They passed the ball well on yet another shockingly bad South American pitch and were creating chances from the first minute on.
Within five minutes they were ahead. Their right winger cut inside on the edge of the box and smashed a shot low into the corner, the ball hitting the post before finding the net. Cue pandemonium in the hardcore section below me.
Ten minutes later, it was 2-0 as Potosi once again found huge gaps in the Guabira defence and their striker slotted past the keeper:
Game over.
As the teams came out for the second half, the Potosi fans let off purple smoke bombs to match the colour of their club:
And the players soon responded to their support, going 3-0 up after some great build-up play down the right-hand side.
Their fans were great - even though there were less than 100 of them making any noise. They had a trumpeter, a guy with a full-size trombone, and a couple of drummers. I took a brief video of them doing their thing: http://www.flickr.com/photos/26607248@N08/5687140168
I spent most of the second half shuffling around at the back of the stand trying to find the odd ray of sunshine through the stadium roof:
With 10 minutes to go, the biased referee (what? In South America? Never.) finally gave something to the away team - a penalty. I got the camera out and snapped (a crap picture of) them scoring their consolation goal:
So, a 3-1 win and Real Potosi went top of the table - for 24 hours at least. I bumped into some of the hardcore fans on the way out, off their heads on a probable combination of booze, dope and cocaine.
I guessed that particular combo after they offered me all three, one after the other. Nice guys though - and genuinely happy that an Englishman was in their stadium to support their team. And they too had heard of the mighty Everton.
My last two hours in Potosi were spent rushing back to the hostel, packing up, and rushing back to the terminal to get my bus.
At the bus terminal, and on the bus, we waited patiently for it to leave. As we did, a stream of local kids came on to sing us songs in return for money. Nails scraping blackboards would have been preferable, but I tipped them all the same.
The people are so poor here and they do anything they can to get money. It's a pretty helpless situation - at times comparable to India, but with less out-and-out begging.
The bus journey was a cold six hour slog south to Uyuni. I had a rotund Cholita woman sitting next to me (or should that be on me?), squishing me against the window as an icy breeze blasted in through the pane and the frame.
My escape mechanism in these situations is my priceless iPod. I ignored the Cholita's bum taking up half my seat, and stared out the window for six hours listening to my favourite tunes.
I hadn't booked any accommodation in Uyuni. Probably not the brightest idea when you arrive somewhere in the freezing cold at 1am, but there were lots of taxi drivers at the terminal and I got one to take me to a place that someone in Potosi had recommended to me.
At the Avenida Hotel an old man resembling Roald Dahl's BFG (biggest ears ever) opened the hatch and let me in. He had a room off a courtyard that looked like something from Prisoner Cell Block H.
It was the coldest night's sleep of the trip so far. I wore two pairs of socks, trousers, my fleece and my hat and eventually nodded off at some time around 3am.
Brrrrr.
The old ones are always the best, eh?
So, after the mine tour I needed something slightly less strenuous and lung-sapping to occupy my last day in Potosi. And what better than a football match.
I saw on the fixture list that Real Potosi were going to play Guabira on Saturday afternoon, which meant I delayed my planned departure by 24 hours. Real Potosi have never been great shakes on the Bolivian football scene, but this season they were punching above their weight and were sitting third in the table.
On Saturday morning I went back to Koala Tours, who had organised a very competent mine tour, to book my bus out of the city for the evening.
My destination was to be Uyuni - in order to do the famous salt flat tour - and the buses there go from a different terminal than 90% of buses leaving Potosi.
The woman in Koala Tours continued her friendly, flirtatious behaviour from the previous day when I walked in - joking that she was coming with me to Potosi, feigning giving me her number, etc. All in good humour, but slightly odd when there were other travellers in the queue behind me waiting to be served.
Anyway, she booked me a ticket over the phone but said I had to be at the terminal in the next 30 minutes to pick up the ticket. Not sure what the rush was, but I hot-footed it the 20 minute walk down to the Ex Terminal to get it.
The way to the terminal passes the football stadium - the turning signposted by the worst football-related statue since Mohammed Al Fayed immortalised Wacko Jacko outside Craven Cottage:
Women were already setting up stalls selling scarves and other paraphenalia, some four hours before kick-off:
I never trust football fixtures out here until I see people arriving for the match, so it was good to know the game was definitely on.
On the way back to town I needed to have some lunch. I'd struggled to find decent places to eat in Potosi ever since my arrival, and so had a bit of trepidation walking into a pizza restaurant where no-one was eating pizza.
But the place was packed out with locals scoffing the Menu Del Dia - the usual soup followed by a main course - and so I decided to join them. It was my best meal of the week: cream of veg soup and a strange beef/onion/chips/pepper combo.
I like these authentic South American restaurants (apart from the one in Cusco that hospitalised me), as you always end up sharing a table with some locals. This time it was with a really friendly dad, son and daughter.
As I've mentioned before, never a day goes by in Bolivia without some sort of parade or other - usually involving the military. The previous night's bash in the main plaza was, you guessed it, a military back-slapping event.
And then, on the walk to the stadium for the match, there were more men in uniform chanting stuff and marching in unison:
South Americans. The world leaders in putting on a parade.
On the approach to the ground were the usual selection of touts carrying wads of tickets for the match. Most of the ones in Potosi were middle-aged woman, strangely, and I paid one of them the obscenely small amount of 11 Bolivianos for a ticket in the Curva Sur. About one English pound.
The stadium looked fairly new, and I walked in without a body search (having left my belt back at the hostel as a precautionary measure).
In Potosi, as with most of the towns that straddle the Andes, when you are in the sun it is nice and hot. As soon as you step into the shade, it's freezing. In the stadium people packed close together in any spot with some sun, and the shade was left for those wearing massive coats or carrying an extra layer of fat.
I didn't spot any other gringos all afternoon. Accordingly, I received the usual staring from the locals and had a couple of familiar conversations with them too:
'Donde vives?' (Where do you live?)
'Vivo en Londres. Inglaterra.' (I live in London. England.)
'Que equipo?' (Which team?)
'Everton.'
'Aaaah, Everton. Me gusta Chelsea'. (Aaaah, Everton. I like Chelsea).
'Boooo.'
And so on.
It could be worse - I could support someone obscure team like Accrington Stanley. In which case I would travel through South America getting quizzical looks, while being constantly reminded that my team lacked any significance in the world game. At least they've heard of Everton.
Back to the match, and if Real Potosi were to win they would go top of the league. It was therefore a big game for the locals and their small pocket of hardcore fans behind the goal were bouncing around and singing before kick-off. There were even some trying to imitate the bare-chested Geordies from back home:
Once the match started, it was easy to see why Potosi were having such a good season. They passed the ball well on yet another shockingly bad South American pitch and were creating chances from the first minute on.
Within five minutes they were ahead. Their right winger cut inside on the edge of the box and smashed a shot low into the corner, the ball hitting the post before finding the net. Cue pandemonium in the hardcore section below me.
Ten minutes later, it was 2-0 as Potosi once again found huge gaps in the Guabira defence and their striker slotted past the keeper:
Game over.
As the teams came out for the second half, the Potosi fans let off purple smoke bombs to match the colour of their club:
And the players soon responded to their support, going 3-0 up after some great build-up play down the right-hand side.
Their fans were great - even though there were less than 100 of them making any noise. They had a trumpeter, a guy with a full-size trombone, and a couple of drummers. I took a brief video of them doing their thing: http://www.flickr.com/photos/26607248@N08/5687140168
I spent most of the second half shuffling around at the back of the stand trying to find the odd ray of sunshine through the stadium roof:
With 10 minutes to go, the biased referee (what? In South America? Never.) finally gave something to the away team - a penalty. I got the camera out and snapped (a crap picture of) them scoring their consolation goal:
So, a 3-1 win and Real Potosi went top of the table - for 24 hours at least. I bumped into some of the hardcore fans on the way out, off their heads on a probable combination of booze, dope and cocaine.
I guessed that particular combo after they offered me all three, one after the other. Nice guys though - and genuinely happy that an Englishman was in their stadium to support their team. And they too had heard of the mighty Everton.
My last two hours in Potosi were spent rushing back to the hostel, packing up, and rushing back to the terminal to get my bus.
At the bus terminal, and on the bus, we waited patiently for it to leave. As we did, a stream of local kids came on to sing us songs in return for money. Nails scraping blackboards would have been preferable, but I tipped them all the same.
The people are so poor here and they do anything they can to get money. It's a pretty helpless situation - at times comparable to India, but with less out-and-out begging.
The bus journey was a cold six hour slog south to Uyuni. I had a rotund Cholita woman sitting next to me (or should that be on me?), squishing me against the window as an icy breeze blasted in through the pane and the frame.
My escape mechanism in these situations is my priceless iPod. I ignored the Cholita's bum taking up half my seat, and stared out the window for six hours listening to my favourite tunes.
I hadn't booked any accommodation in Uyuni. Probably not the brightest idea when you arrive somewhere in the freezing cold at 1am, but there were lots of taxi drivers at the terminal and I got one to take me to a place that someone in Potosi had recommended to me.
At the Avenida Hotel an old man resembling Roald Dahl's BFG (biggest ears ever) opened the hatch and let me in. He had a room off a courtyard that looked like something from Prisoner Cell Block H.
It was the coldest night's sleep of the trip so far. I wore two pairs of socks, trousers, my fleece and my hat and eventually nodded off at some time around 3am.
Brrrrr.