Category Archives: history

Two-Up Gambling with the Aussies on ANZAC Day

The crowd get ready for the result at a two-up game in AustraliaI lost it all. All the money in my wallet went in the time that it might take to make and drink a cup of tea. All I’d been trying to do was join in, to be part of a rowdy Aussie crowd, to feel and immerse myself in this annual event.

So I didn’t lose it, as such, I just gambled it away in a game where skill, poker face and celebration style are unimportant. Thankfully.

Known as two-up, this game sees people bet against each other on a heads or tails majority of a two or three-coin throw. Using a wooden coin cradle AKA a kip, the spinner stands in the middle of a 3-metre circle and flips the coins out of their paddle onto the ground. The ringkeeper announces the result and the crowd goes wild, swears, shouts.

Someone always wins. The tails better – the person who has held the money throughout the action – either hands over the cash or pockets it, depending on the game outcome.

Then it all repeats. Again and again. Hours of it, apparently.

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Originally played by the soldiers in the trenches of Gallapoli during the First World War, two-up is now legally only allowed to be played on the 25th of April every year – ANZAC day  – which ‘marks the anniversary of the first major military action fought by Australian and New Zealand forces during the First World War‘.

But why only play two-up one day a year?

It does make some sense. With patrons of the places where the games take place betting each other and not the house, there is little to no commercial profit, other than the income from extra drinks. But this doesn’t address the legal issue.

More likely, though, is that Australia wants to be responsible in keeping problems associated with alcohol and gambling to a minimum. Two-up certainly offers the opportunity to win and then lose a lot of money, very quickly.

Back to the game. Every now and then the ringer would hand out freebies and call for a charity shower, and the ring would get pummeled by silvers. I imagined that later in the day the donations would be more generous as drinks flowed and spirits were charged in an ebb and flow of energy and excitement.

A flawlessly made up woman dressed in a silver summer dress hung with one arm to the metal barriers surrounding the game circle and waved banknotes around with the other, tipping them to her forehead. Her eyes struggled to focus yet each time they opened the game up to the next round of betting, she was in, waving those notes. First she collected a few wins but then I saw her starting to hand it back. Finally she slunk away, all spent up, I assumed, or otherwise in need of a friend or a glass of water.

After observing others place bets with neighbours and people across the room I felt ready to test-drive a bet. I played D-man $5, and I lost. ‘I’ll give you it as a test run,’ he teased and gave me back my note. I tried it against another guy close to me. The coins were flung in the air and fell to the ground. I lost. Only $5 again, but I lost and someone else was up $5. It all adds up.

‘One more go,’ I told D-man and I found myself another opponent and upped the bet. $10 this time. Third time lucky, right?

Wrong. The coins fell and I walked away a loser. A very un-Australian loser, at that.

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Wordless Wednesday #7: Tourists lost in time

Tourists looking at a map in a square in Hereford, in front of a 17th century black and white building.

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The secrets of Amersfoort

I’m standing inside a room, if you can even call it that. It measures maybe two by three metres. My shoulders are hunched, my head lowered, and I’m listening to the house owner tell me how an entire, extended family used to live in this room.

In geographical context: the historic, medieval city of Amersfoort

In geographical context: the historic, medieval city of Amersfoort

Just a few days earlier I was gliding along the canals of Amersfoort, onboard a boat, huddled on wooden benches with my aunt, uncle and a handful of strangers. A burst of budding leaves and flowering trees lined the waterways as the sun shone down on cobbled walkways and historic buildings.

I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day to explore this ancient Dutch city.

Listening to the tour guide, I tried to pick out words but often referred to the English cheat sheet, noting dates that aged Amersfoort back to the late 1200s.

Seeing Amersfoort, Netherlands from the water

Setting off by boat

The western boat route took us by houses built into the first city walls and provided glimpses of Onze Lieve Vrouwetoren, a 98m high tower that not only provides a visual reference point within the city but houses the middle point of the Dutch grid reference system. We slipped under bridges and floated alongside water gates and the birthplace of the famous Dutch painter, Piet Mondrian.

Houses that make up the city walls, Amersfoort, Netherlands

Houses that make up the city walls

Sturdy water gate entrances, Amersfoort, Netherlands

Sturdy water gate entrances

Onze Lieve Vrouwetoren,  Amersfoort, Netherlands

Onze Lieve Vrouwetoren

Drinking in the age of this little city, it was apparent that she had been well looked after. Despite her years, she was neatly presented, breathing out secrets of a long, knowing life.

Now, some days later I find myself as a guest inside the tall windowed grandeur of one of Amersfoort’s oldest houses, peeking in through secret doors and into the more recent history of the Second World War. A Jewish family hid away inside this little, little room.

It’s this kind of history, the human component, which really resonates with me. I stay for a short while, hunched and imagining how one lives a confined life, and a life full of fear.

And then the owner pulls away some wood to reveal a tiny window with views directly over to the synagogue. There, within those views, I realise, must have lain some comfort.

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5 things to do in London in a day

Over 30 million tourists visit London every year. 30 million. That’s nearly half the UK population (and doesn’t even take in to account the residents). One city with so many people? Somehow it works.

As a Brit, I’ve had a bit of a love/hate relationship with the city, and after brief breaks to the place I’ve always been happy to retreat back to ‘normal’ England. Now, though, I was seeing it through tour guide eyes, showing D-man around and trying to pack in as much as possible within a short amount of time.

So here is a list of what you could do in a day. More realistically, you will probably want to spread the activities out over a couple of days. I’ve not even included museums or galleries, gardens or markets or shops. The Science Museum, Tate Modern, Kew Gardens, Brick Lane, and more and more and more. So much more. Ah, another time, another list.

For now though, let’s run with this very standard tourist list of things to get the London experience started:

1. Start your day by swinging by some famous streets, sights and places

Watching the shooting of a Bollywood music video in Trafalgar Square

Watching the shooting of a Bollywood music video in Trafalgar Square

Trafalgar Square cliché?

Trafalgar Square cliché?

Picadilly Circus curves

Picadilly Circus curves

Of course it exists. At King's Cross train station.

Of course it exists. At King’s Cross train station.

Big Ben put into perspective

Big Ben put into perspective

2. Squish in amongst the crowds to watch the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace

When did this become such a HUGE tourist attraction?

When did this become such a HUGE tourist attraction?

Crowds start to gather outside of the palace

Crowds start to gather outside of the palace

Fighting our way through the crowds at Buckingham Palace

Fighting our way through the crowds at Buckingham Palace

Perfectly in time.

Perfectly in time.

3. Boat trip down the River Thames

Let's go join to procession

Let’s go join to procession

Spying St Paul's Cathederal

Spying St Paul’s Cathederal

Tower Bridge and the Shard

Tower Bridge and the Shard

One less thing to worry about at the Tower of London

One less thing to worry about at the Tower of London

Every room has a river view

Where every room has a river view

4. Watch the sun set over the city from high on board the London Eye

Ready to join the queues?

Ready to join the queues?

Views down on to the South Bank

Views down on to the South Bank

Time it right to get the best dusk views.

Time it right to get the best dusk views.

5. Wind down in one of London’s many theatres

Cultured. We can but try.

Cultured. We can but try.

And then you could finish the day and party on until daybreak at Fabric or one of London’s many clubs or squat parties. We didn’t. Wiped out from a day of flights and now a day in London, D-man, me and my mum headed back to our comfy airbnb find.

My guess is that at the end of the day you too will be tired. Your feet will hurt. You may decide that you don’t like the shuffling crowds, that this city of 8 million people and hoards of tourists is too chaotic and the depths of London’s underground belly too claustrophobic. You may groan about high prices, about sold out shows, about the fact that this city doesn’t seem to sleep.

But stop. Take a breath. You can’t really deny that London is a bold, beautiful city, alive with diversity and culture, can you?

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Can’t I just get drunk and dance (or should I really find out what Australia Day is actually about)?

Flag of Australia

Flag of Australia (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So it’s my second Australia Day in… erm… Australia. And guess what? It’s raining and blowing the start of a storm. Again. Mid-summer? Pah! ‘So what exactly are you celebrating on Australia Day?’ I asked a friend. ‘Er… something to do with our independence’. ‘You don’t even know what you’re celebrating?!’ ‘Yeah, yeah I do…’

And so I became determined to find out what Australia Day was really about. If I’m going to pause my travels for a little while to be here, to explore this place, I definitely want to have some idea of what’s going on (and why).

Dubbed by some as Invasion Day, Wikipedia gives a bit more insight into the event: Celebrated annually on 26 January, the date commemorates the arrival of the First Fleet at Sydney Cove, New South Wales in 1788 and the proclamation at that time of British sovereignty over the eastern seaboard of Australia.

But what about the impact of the British arrival on indigenous communities? Surely Australia Day is far from a day of celebration for communities who were robbed of their land and rights? As one website states, ‘To many Aboriginal people there is little to celebrate and it is a commemoration of a deep loss. Loss of their sovereign rights to their land, loss of family, loss of the right to practice their culture.’

There are efforts being made to be more inclusive and redress the situation (as much as is possible), for example The Australia Day National Network states that On Australia Day we recognise the unique status of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. The National Australia Day Council (NADC) is committed to playing a part in the journey of Reconciliation by helping all Australians to move forward with a better understanding of our shared past, and importantly how this affects the lives of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples today and how we might build a better future together’.

I later read a little more into modern views of Australia Day and came across a good few grumbles about the Australian flag that with prominent inclusion of the Union Jack is not deemed to be sufficiently Australian. It made me think: is the wish to have a separated, unique identity so unreasonable?

Further discussions on news sites focused on nationalistic behaviour and accusations of  ‘the “boganisation” of Australia Day”. Is Australia Day really ‘all out bogan day, get drunk, wear a flag cape, cause some violence, be racist, get arrested and vomit’? It makes me think of football finals in the UK, cars covered in scarves and banners, houses draped in giant St. George flags, bloody faces on sore losers. Just a matter of patriotism? Hmmm…

On the alcohol side of things, there definitely is some truth.  ‘It’s about barbecuing with friends, and drinking until you can’t stand up’, said Sam, a Melbourne based guy in his mid-thirties. ‘We usually go for a surf, then head back for a barbie and beers’, said another friend up in North New South Wales.

It would seem that for many Australians, the way to celebrate this day is by spending time with friends and family, barbecuing, beaching and drinking. It is, after all, suggested as being the ‘largest annual public event in the nation’, so why not get together?

It also seems that for many, many people, Australia Day is about Hottest 100 parties, The Sydney Morning Herald claiming that the countdown event ran by Triple J (a popular ad-free and government-owned station)  ‘brings us together’ whilst Triple J themselves talked up the day weeks in advance, generating hype and giving shout outs to registered parties around the country.

On my way back from a trip out into Byron Bay I stopped at the off-license (or bottle-O, if we want to keep things Australian), expecting to find myself in amongst a last-minute booze scramble. But the only hint at Australia Day was the seller’s insistence that I buy the organic Australian vodka over an imported brand, and maybe the guy who was slurring and paying up wearing only a pair of tightie boxer shorts was my second sign? My first bogan sighting? Quite possibly.

And then I drove on through oncoming storms, home to a veranda of bodies huddled out of the reach of driving rains, to a barbecue sheltered by parasols, to music blasting from the radio, to eskies crammed with ice and beers, to over 30cm of rain in one hour (noted when we were still level-headed enough to check).

The beach party, I guessed, wouldn’t be happening. Maybe next year.

So what are we celebrating again? Oh yeah. Independence. No, invasion. No, the British landings. Ah, it’s getting a bit fuzzy. Now, where is my drink?

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Bus travel in Bolivia that I’d really recommend

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Leaving Pucara

MAYBE I WAS JUST GLAD to be getting out of Pucara and away from the prospect of a marriage of convenience that would have seen me living small, Bolivian village life, running three rental houses and caring for an old husband who would surely be well on his way to incontinence. Maybe my favourable account of the bus journey from Pucara to Villa Serrano and then on to Sucre was therefore skewed.

But hang on. The landscape was beautiful and the variation in terrain as we descended from high altitudes to the warmer climate of Villa Serrano was well worth noting.

Steep, winding mountain roads wound down past cacti the size of trees along rubbly ground where a sparse covering of shrubs with exposed roots clung on to dry, stony earth.

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Rocky landscapes on the way from Pucara to Villa Serrano

Cacti bushes and trees along the way to Villa Serrano

The crowded bus continued on through dusty canyons and alongside wide, dry rivers. Dust swirled through the bus, coating everything. The teenager in the seat in front of me sat hugging an old school ghetto blaster whilst he puked out and down the side of the bus, the warm, sweet fumes filtering back in through my open window.

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Herding by the river

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Dry river at dusk

At parts, the road was really terrible, huge chunks missing. The bus momentarily crawled alongside browny-orange landslides and inched across and around gaping cavities whilst I held my breath. We always made it. Skilled drivers, aided by the sign up front that stated seguir a Cristo. As on most South American public transport, we were being looked after by the total trust in religious iconography. All good.

As dusk set in, mountains silhouetted against a clear sky. The guy next to me got off the bus, no houses in sight, the middle of a dark nothingness. I wondered how far he had to walk still. It was gone 20:00pm.

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Night arrives on the way from Pucara to Villa Serrano

A little boy jumped into his seat. I dozed a little, waking only when he started to blow raspberries at his friend and screech and clamber over me to look at the moon. ‘¡La luna es aqui!’ he babbled, and his friend joined him by the window, which was also my seat and my lap. Two unknown three year old kids with knees and elbows digging into me? At least I had somewhere to sit.

A little later, having reclaimed some space, I woke up to my hair being stroked. The little boy next to me was now singing gently and playing with my hair, no inhibitions.

Within another hour we arrived into Villa Serrano and I wandered through dark streets with my head torch trying to find somewhere to stay.

Electricity in the town was down. My little venture away from the modern, English speaking world with all its comforts and trappings was set to continue for at least another day, and I certainly wasn’t about to complain.

After a short night’s sleep and a chilly shower, I was back on a bus headed from Villa Serrano to Sucre through a landscape of hills covered in grasses and trees.

It was an early morning start. Wisps of mist hung in the valleys and mountain peaks stayed hidden in the clouds, shadows streaking across their green, grey bodies. The sun shone out gentle, light rays onto little mud brick buildings with grass roofs and red tiles, waking up the folk in the farmsteads that we passed.

It was flatter and greener in the valleys, dry rockiness visible every now and then alongside corn fields. Yellow sunburst flowers on long, leafy stalks sat next to short, fluffy tufts of plants, delicately blowing in the fresh morning breeze.

On board, women sporting plaits and wearing warm, woolly hats carried small children bundled up in blankets. I played peek-a-boo with a little girl in front of me whilst a young boy looked on shyly, smiling when I caught his eye. Again, the only gringo on board. The elders were politer but the children were curious. I tried to remember being that young, but all I could really recall were my mum’s stories about how I chatted away to everyone.

The rest of this journey took us past more cacti; some small and spindly, others still the size of trees. Amazing towers of red rock rose up on the roadside just over an hour into the trip before we finally arrived at flatter farm land and paved, concrete roads. The bus sped up, onwards to Sucre.

So what was so special about this journey?

Predominantly, this was about the amazing, varied scenery but also the experience of being in amongst the locals with not a tourist in sight. It was also a much more interesting way to get to Sucre, and a cheap way to cover some substantial ground.

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Pucara to Villa Serrano cost 30Bs. (£2.70/US$4.34) for a six hour journey and Villa Serrano to Sucre cost 25Bs. (£2.25/US$3.62) for a four and a half hour journey. Villa Serrano to Sucre was a much smoother journey with better roads and a comfier bus, although the scenery wasn’t quite as impressive. Apologies for lack of photos for the second day – my camera battery died! Disappointed. From Villa Serrano to Sucre I travelled with Trans Turismo Señor “La Mision”. Buy tickets in the office on the square, which opens at 06:30am. The bus leaves 07:00am.

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Che all over

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Che graffiti in La Higuera

ENJOY A PHOTO COLLAGE OF stencilling, murals and scrawlings around La Higera, Bolivia in honour of Che Guevera.

From my little La Ruta del Che adventure. To be continued.

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Maybe I should I have waited for an English speaking guide

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Let sleeping dogs lie outside of my room in La Higuera, Bolivia

IT SOUNDED AS THOUGH THE entire village had gathered outside of my window for an early morning chat. I checked my watch. 6:25am. Surely it couldn’t be morning already? I was having such a delicious night’s sleep after a few days on La Ruta del Che that had thus far led me to La Higuera, a hamlet five hours from Samaipata, Bolivia.

I dozed a little while longer, laughter and chatter mixed in with half-cooked dreams.

By the time I got up, the old school house was deserted save for a few stray dogs who wondered around Che’s room and sat guard in front of his mural.

I spent an hour walking back and forth through La Higuera looking for my alojamiento hostess and the woman with the key to the museum, but both were elusive. I guessed that, like the trip to Che’s execution site, this was another of those things that wasn’t meant to be.

Maybe I should have waited around a few days in Vallegrande for an English speaking guide to be available? Maybe I would have actually got to experience something a little less hit and miss?

But no, this was actually far more fun, more random, more adventurous. The experience of being in places and close to places where Che and his men had hidden and hung out was good enough to get me into a reflective headspace.

I still felt close enough to the story.

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Inspired and protected by the man himself

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Views from on the road to La Higuera

I think it would be better for you to return here’, said an Argentinian I met in Casa la Cultura in Vallegrande. He’d just got back from La Higuera, which he said was well worth the two and a half hour journey but where he could not recommend spending the night.

It’s very, very basic’, he told me. ‘Are there places to sleep? Somewhere to eat?’ I asked. ‘Sure’, he said. ‘Then I’m all good with it’, I said. I guess I didn’t fully anticipate just how rustic things would be.

There wasn’t a guide available for my trip from Vallegrande to La Higuera but Gonzalo at the Casa la Cultura sorted me out a taxi and assured me that the driver would take me to all the places on the Che Guevara trail, most importantly the school house where Che was held captive for a couple of days, and the execution site to where he was marched off, hands tied, to face his shotgun death.

Would organising it independently work out for me? In a way, yes.

The journey over to La Higuera took me along pitted mud roads, making for a bumpy ride. Dust swirled around inside the car, coating my teeth and skin and drying my eyes. Upfront, the woman covered her babies face. Once again I had a driver with a partner in tow.

We climbed higher and higher, winding up into the mountains, driving close to a steep drop edge. Painting views stretched out into the far distance, a vast, green mountainous vista that my little compact camera failed to capture with any conviction.

I realised that had I wanted to trek this stretch of trail, as I’d initially hoped to do, it would have actually been pretty straightforward due to the regular signposting for La Ruta del Che. But at a distance of 58km it would have required at least one camp out. I had no gear (and very little idea) so maybe the recommended way of the taxi was the best way after all.

At around 2,500m the road flattened out to a rocky, tough shrub landscape peppered with little yellow flowers and dead trees. Cows paused in our path, skinny donkeys munched on foliage and the occasional pig ambled along the roadside.

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Dead trees on the road to La Higuera

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On the road to La Higuera

We stopped by some guys carrying farm tools heading home after a day’s work on the land. The driver and his wife started a shout conversation with a guy belted on to an electricity pylon, doing some repairs I guessed. Or just hanging out. Who knows. Smile sounded speech got the driver’s eyebrows twitching before they all exchanged goodbyes and we continued.

Just before La Higuera, the driver stopped at a little shrine with three plaques. Our first stop-off. It was a little underwhelming, predominantly because I didn’t really understand what I was looking at. An English speaking guide at this point would have been great.

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A random little memorial outside of La Higuera

And then we were in La Higuera, a little cluster of fifteen houses, nearly all bearing homemade signs offering beds for 20Bs. but few showing any sign of being open for business.

The driver turned off the engine at the top of the village close to the statues of Che Guevara and buildings grafittied with quotes and stencilled images. He went on the hunt for the key to the museum.

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Statue at top of village of La Higuera, Che’s place of capture and death

Two young girls approached me about a place to stay. Their mother came out. ‘Tomorrow is better for the museum’ she said, ‘Do you want a bed?It was in the old schoolhouse, right in amongst history.

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Che´s room on the left and my room on the right

After an impossible attempt at trying to ask where Che’s assassination site was and trying to ascertain whether the driver would take me as intended, I gave up and the taxi driver, his wife and their three month baby set off.

Dusk was falling and I was hungry. ‘Is there somewhere I can get some food?’ I asked my hostess. ‘Si’, she said, ‘come with me’. I followed her through the village to her friend’s kitchen and sat down to a candlelit meal of rice, eggs, chips and sliced tomatoes – a tasty, plain dinner that more than satisfied my unintentional day of fasting. All was silent save for the chatter of insects, the sound of me eating and the occasional clanking of cutlery as the owner pottered around the kitchen. Her husband sat close by, watching, occasionally talking quietly.

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Waiting for dinner as dusk sets in

I was glad that I’d replaced the batteries in my head torch back in Samaipata because the walk back was country dark and unfamiliar. The warm glow of candlelight shone out of some houses and a small generator disturbed the peace in one place. Along my way I passed a few villagers. ‘Buenos noches’ was repeatedly exchanged.

Just before I got back to my private six bed dorm, I saw a little shop sign. Craving some sweetness, I stepped inside to see someone’s living space and a few shelves to the side stocked with basics and biscuits. Dessert came in the form of some coconut wafers which I sat and munched sitting on the step between my room and the open fronted school house room where Che spent his last couple of days.

Bed time came early. I blew out my candle and lay wrapped up cosy in the dark, imagining how not that long ago, in 1967, Che must have been lying next door in his cold, concrete room with an undoubtedable awareness that he was about to die. I wondered if he was ready for death; whether he was scared; whether he felt he’d made his mark or whether he felt that he’d  failed.

Sometimes I’m scared of the dark and quiet, but not this night. In a room full of Che pictures, with a doorway by which is painted a rainbow representation of Che, I knew that if any ghost haunted this place then I’d be able to learn even more and count myself privileged for having the experience. I almost wanted to believe in ghosts.

And that night I felt calm, centred and open to life. I slept heavily, dreamt lots and my mind was filled with great ideas about where my future could lead and what little bit of good I might be able to offer the world. One day.

This place had some power. Che might have been killed but somehow his energy lives on in the walls and in the earth of La Higuera, and I was lucky enough to tap into it for a split second in time.

So, another random day filled with precious moments. And you know what? The complete lack of tourists, of electricity, of warm showers, of English ability; it was all wonderful.

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The taxi ride through the Casa la Cultura in Vallegrande cost 300Bs. but I had been approached by another street taxi driver who said he’d do it for nearly half of that. Under the promise that I was going to be shown ALL of the sites, including the execution site, I did feel a bit short-changed when it was pretty much a pick-up and drop-off situation.300Bs. covers a return, although I decided to continue on a different route to Sucre. Food in La Higuera cost me 10Bs, and the alojamiento 20Bs. Had I been able to access the museum, it would have also cost 10Bs.

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Where Che lay rotting, lost in a shallow grave

I WAS PARTLY FOLLOWING La Ruta del Che, the trail within Bolivia that Che Guevara is said to have taken shortly before his capture and execution at the age of 39. Che and his men were in Bolivia to try and win support from Bolivians and the surrounding countries, but overall reports suggest that his efforts weren’t wholly successful.

After Che was killed, his body was moved from La Higuera to Vallegrande where it was laid out across the hard, concrete basins of the hospital laundry, the lavanderia. He was half naked, his eyes were forced open, his body mutilated. A warning to other wannabe political rebels.

I stood for a while in front of the open fronted room and took in this scene. Graffiti covered every inch of the walls, messages of appreciation amongst modern day fighting talk. The simplest scribble states Gracias Che.

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The hospital lavanderia in Vallegrande where Che lay for a couple of days on display

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Painted on the outside of existing hospital buildings

A small group of us headed to the next part, the memorial. Why we needed three guides with us, who knows. Maybe they just wanted to visit the site again themselves?

The memorial, under lock and key, is a well preserved little place only accessible through booking with the Casa de la Cultura. Inside the light building are carefully framed photos from throughout Che’s life and newspaper clippings from various events connected to Bolivia.

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World class sign for Che Guevara’s memorial, Vallegrande

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Che and his crew’s well-maintained memorial, Vallegrande

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Che photos in the memorial building

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The guides tried to convince me that this was Che shortly before he died.                         He sure looks old for 39!

The centre piece is the shallow grave where Che and six of his men were hidden for thirty years before being discovered and sent back to their respective home countries. In 1997, Che’s body was exhumed and repatriated back to Cuba.

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The shallow grave

Not really the place for big smile or thumbs up photos, one of the guides was insistent to photograph me in front of absolutely everything. ‘Now here’, he’d say, grabbing my hand and dragging me to the next part of the room to stand awkwardly in front of yet another a photo display whilst he took ownership of my camera. ‘And now here, he said physically positioning me in front of the grave, ‘now outside’.

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Me and a load of revolutionaries. Oh yeah.

I felt that this little part of the trip was partly being hijacked by a snap happy helpful, so I turned the camera on him, and he loved it.

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Drama and more with the additional guide

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The Casa de la Cultura is located on the main plaza, Plaza 26 de Enero, and is full of Che cuttings and information. Here they can provide you with a wealth of information and help to organise onward trips to La Higuera (the place of Che’s capture and execution). Entrance the memorial and the lavanderia costs 30Bs. It is possible to book tours that take in the two Vallegrande sights and then explore the other places en route and within La Higuera, but costs are high and it can be worth organising your own transport, as I did.

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