Sucre and the Bolivian Lifestyle

Following the shock and awe that is Potosi, a 3 hour cab-ride brought us over to Sucre (Cabs are only a bit more expensive than the bus). Boasting 146,000 residents and a the title of a U.N. world heritage site, Sucre is a real treat for any aesthete. The city boasts massive colonial buildings drenched in white, accompanied by wide plazas and parks. As I entered the city, advertisements for 2 cultural festivals were displayed throughout the city center, as tourists gathered in the main plaza for live folklore music. Any traveler´s dream, right? well, not exactly. The cultural aspects of the city are certainly a treat, but anyone truly seeking to explore the Bolivian way of life would be be lost in this Oz. And so, we decided to trek through the country-side. Before I move forward, i must once again stress the difference between the Average tourist in South America- i´ll stereotype them as being Blonde, European, and all too willing to shell out for outlandish prices, and the Israeli Mochilero- Usually wearing sandals or trekking shoes, always wary of being played for a sucker. Though experience shows that i waver between these two very distinct worlds, I usually lay my fiscal fortune with the latter. Back to
the story...

Sucre, the ´White City´ of Bolivia

After a little research, We discovered that there is a three day trek through the villages to the West of Sucre. The hike is offered by the local agencies as a sterile two day event with a hefty price-tag of 300 Bolivians each. This was utterly unaffordable both due to principle and financial logic. And so, after purchasing supplies and a map, we headed out ourselves. 5 Israelies, 60 bread rolls, 2 jars of jam, 6 bags of cookies, 3 bags of deli meat, 3 cans of tuna, 3 kilos of rice, 2 tents, 2 camp-stoves, 2 ipods with speakers, and some clothes. All together, costs for food ammounted to 90 bolivians a person. We had to cab it out to the first stop, the chruch in Chantaquila. Cost per person = 25 bolivians.


Even in a Roman Catholic chruch, a shrine to Pachamama


From there, a 2 hour hike to Incan cave paintaings, followed by a 4 hour hike down a 600 year old Incan trail, used centuries agho to connect the vast Incan empire, which stretched from Peru to Patagonia. The view was sublime, but i´ll let the pictures speak for themselves. We slept outside Tourist information in Chaunaca, a town of 15 houses and 300 chickens.

View from the Cave



The Inca Trail


We awoke the next day and headed on to Maragua, a town nestled within an immense Crater. Having to ford a river and then make our way up 2-3 mountains, we were quite tired by the time we arrived at the town, though not tired enough to play a little soccer with the locals. I spoke a bit with an Italian Anthropologist studying the cosmology of the local population on beghalf of the University of St. Andrews. He´s been living in this 20-hut town since November, studying the way in which the Incas of the past and their descendants today use the stars for Agriculture, Navigation, Religion, and even to tell time. Many living in these towns (over %70 of the Bolivian population) Lack hot water, electricity or much of an education. Yet there is a massive wealth of knowledge unknown or unimportant to the standard Western person. We purchased some water from a six year old girl manning the only store in the pueblo, and set camp in the Soccer field.

Fording the river...

On the way to the crater...



View from an Incan graveyard onto the crater.

The next day, we got a bit lost...Our ride back to Sucre was to leave at noon, and an easy 3 hour hike became a 5 hour ordeal as we took a few wrong turns in the canyhon leading out of the Crater. We ended up climbing 2-3 too many mountains, and sliding down most of them on our bags. David, one of the travel-mates, and I made it out of the bush first and ran to the church at QUila-Quila in order to stop the truck. Yes, the 2.5 hour ride back to Sucre was aboard a flat-bed truck. At first I attempted to stall the driver by speaking to him about Israel and Bolivia, as well as offering him Cocoa leaves. I held him off for 20 minutes, but as he grew angry I grew desperate. I bribed the driver with double payment for all five of us,. that´s 10 Bolivians instead of 5 per person. We picked up the straglers and headed out to Sucre. I was sitting on a bag of Corn listening to Bob Dylan´s Gas-light sessions as we stopped by every pueblito on the way picking up goods and people. The truck miraculously made it upo and down the central Andes, even fording a river that reached its grill. We got back to the hotel just in time for the European tourists to wake up from their siesta. Oh yea, total cost of the the trek was 138.5 Bolivians a person.

On the truck back to Sucre...

We had to infrom him she wasn´t for sale...

Back in ´civilization´, I decided to explore the city a bit before we head out to jungles of Santa Cruz. Today begins Sucre´s bicentennial celebrations, and the entire city is spotless and white. Within 3.5 hours, I´ve managed to check out 2 photo exhibitions, spy on a dance-troup practicing in the national theatre, and catch a film depicting Aymara (An indeginous tribe) life, as part of the human rights cinema festival. Unfortunately, I won´t be here for the celebrations, But this small taste of Sucre leaves a want for more, and a rejuvinated excitement for exploring Bolivia, a truly astounding and underappreciated Country.


Apparently trance festivals are popular in Bolivia, as well...



All hail Christopher Walken, apparently one of Sucre´s founding fathers...

The long road to Potosi

There´s no avoiding it. The time had come to leave the comforts of Chile and Argentina, and dive into the chaos and adventure that is Bolivia. South America´s poorest nation, Bolivia is ironically heralded as the continent´s richest in natural resources. The country is essentially divided into halves, the antiplano and the wetter lowlands. The antiplano is made up of high elevation-deserts, salt flats, and dry-lands. Miraculously, it holds %70 of the population, mostly scattered in small villages. The lowlands, which constitute most of the country, is made up of pampas and jungles, and is home to about %10 of the worlds birdlife , as well as multitudes of flaura and fauna. The Country is truly third-world, with all its advantages (cheap food, cheap accomodations, cheap everything else) and disadvantages (food-born diseases, non-potable water, crime). As my friend who had been living in Cochabamba for the last 3 years says, ¨you either fall in love with Bolivia within 10 seconds, or suffer through it while doing the gringo trail.¨

We hired a car and guide on sunday, leaving from San Pedro towards the Salar De Uyuni. Now, getting into chile is quite a frightening experience. Apparently their border guards still believe they are living under the Pinochet regime, because those guys go through EVERYTHING. If there is a piece of garlic in your gear, you are fined and not allowed in. Bolivia, quite a different story... Our bags were left in the car.

My homage to Into The Wild, waiting on the Bolivian border...

A quick smile and some jokes in my bad spanish got me 3 30 day stamps, convention being only 1 30-day grant. And yes, i immediately fell in love. My body didn´t. within hours, our jeep catapulted us from 2500 to over 4000 meters, in order to visit Laguna Verde, Laguna Blanca, the Dali Desert, and Laguna Colorado.

En Route to Leguna Verde

The first two are sites are lakes whose colors are an unnatural green and white due to the immense amount of minerals (sulphur, graphite, borax, etc) found in them. The third site was a landscape used by the famous artist for some of his famous works. And the last is a nominee for the World´s new 7 natural wonders. Its name is derived from the fact that algae and plankton cause a red tint to the lake, while 3 types of flamingos flock to it. Now, this all sounds great and worth the walk there, but not when you feel as though you might dissolve at any moment. The Altuitude hit me, and it got me bad. Headaches, shakes, vomits, the whole nine yards. The drugs didn´t work! so I had to move onto the Bolivian method, Cocoa leaves. Yes, it helped, yes it helps. So at least on this one, Evo Morales is right, ¨Cocoa YES, Cocaine NO!¨

The Salar´s celebrities

My weak attempt at getting ¨surreal¨ at Dali´s desert

The next two days were for sightseeing, but i´ll spare you the details and leave it to the pics.

Laguna Blanca turning white...

´Arbol de Piedra´, the Rock-Tree.

Just wanted to give a nod to El Dueñito, the 8 year old boss of the hostel we stayed at the second night. The Kid, destined for glory as a hostel slumlord, marched to each of us personally and declared that it would cost 5 bolivians for a hot shower. After most of us respectfully declined, he changed strategy. About tio head over to my usual pre-dinner pish, the kid charges across the hall and demands 5 bolivians for the bathroom. After a laugh and a feint towards the ádult´ bosses, he grabs my hand and promises me a special deal. I get in gratis (free) because he likes me. I knew my boyish charms would be put to good use sometime. My friend David was not as lucky. He went for the shower option. Other than the fact that the agua caliente (hot water) took a short siesta mid-shampooing, he came back fairly happy. This is when the hustling began. El Dueñito barges in, all 8 years of him, demanding 5 bolivian. My friend is still in his underwear and asks to pay after dinner. El Dueñito gives an unsatisfied look but gets lets his 8 year old mind get distracted by another friend playing the guitar. He begins air-guitaring in accompaniment and forgets about the cash, FOR NOW. Dinner´s over, and after forcing loud bolivian music on us, El Dueñito goes back to the hustling. This time, David pays. But another member of the group, a poor Japanese guy with little english and no spanish, who was unfortunate enough to be sent on a 3 day desert trip with Five israelis, needs to pay as well. NO CHANGE! uh uh, El Dueñito doesn´t take kindly to this slight. David attempts to remedy the situation. He asks for his 5 Bolivians back in return for a crisp tenner. No, El Dueñito shouts, first you give me the ten, then i give you the five. David is a bit leery of this 8 year old bully, and so the battle of attrition begins. Tu! no, tu! no tu! no, tu! This continues for a good 7 minutes, with me off to the side barreling over. El Dueñito is a master strategist, changing facial expressions and octaves. Finally, David breaks down and starts cursing in Hebrew, which only causes the malevolent pre-peubescent to laugh. This farce goes on for a bit more until...yes! the Israeli Mochilero is actually more stubborn than an 8 year old!!! David wins, and we get to sleep.

Dawn at the Salar De Uyuni. We survived el Dueñito!

The conventional Salar photos...

I am currently in Potosi, in Southern Bolivia. It is the world´s highest city, at a sheer 4060 meters. It was also once the world´s wealthiest city. of course this means that the Spanish colonializers extracted enough silver, using indeginous and African slave labor, to finance the entire Spanish empire. for 300 years, over a million lives were lost and 300 meters of a mountain were extracted for the benefit of el Rey. Currently, the mines are a cooperative industry, in which every miner gets paiod for his share of the extraction. No longer is there silver, but rather a mix of different minerals, ¨fool´s gold¨. Many of the miners begin at the age of 15, as the average miner makes much more than other bolivians (50 bolivians as compared with 20). With that, the average miner dies after 10 years of mine-work, whether due to mine collaps, fumes, or other hazards. While in the mines, they subsist on Cocoa leaves and alcohol

(172 proof alcohol, apparently bottles by Canada Dry) They owe their luck and lives to their devil saint, ´Tios´. Yes, it seems strange that in a population that is overwhelmingly Catholic, the belief in spirits exists, but the explanation is quite logical. Tios is the devil, the opposite of Christ, who is the savior of the Spanish colonizers. The inuidigenous slaves hated their Spanish rulers, and thus took Tios as their. In fact, Tios is Quechua for Dios, which is god in Spanish. There isnt a ´D´in Quechua, and so they chose El Diablo as their Tios. El diablo, Horns and all, has the face of a European. He also has quite a large penis, meant to impregnate his companion Pachamama, or mother nature. Their progeny are the minerals in the mountains. Now, these facts beg the question of why worship a European looking devil? Two reasons. The first one is that Tios is the only European with the balls to enter the mines, which was unheard of at the time. The second reason is that he is the devil, after all, and thus the antithesis to the Europeans. And so, the miners would bestow gifts of alcohol, cigarettes, cocoa, and whatever else they deemed proper for their god. And so, we as guests had to follow tradition. Check out the photos below, and wish me luck. its been 10 days without any food poisoning!

The miner´s market, for purhcases of Alcohol, Cocoa, and yes...Dynamite

Dynamite´s already inside. The Americans called him Dubya...time to more on folks!

He calls himself Ivan the Terrible, don´t ask me why...

They start at 14-15 years old...

Tios, the Miner´s devil-saint

A few Cocoa leaves for safe travels...

Suerte, mi gente!

A Hitch-hikers guide to the Atacama desert

Following an amazing 3 week stay in Cordoba, I was craving for a change. After all, an integral part of the journey is the act of traveling, right? Teaming up with Shlomi, one of the guests at the hostel where I was working, we decided to head out to the Atacama desert in Chile, the world{s driest desert and home to some amazing natural treasures. The standard, tourista way of getting to Atacama from Cordoba is to spend 370 pesos on two buses, as well as 30 pesos for a night stay in between. 400 pesos is more or less 120 bucks American, which to some may seem like not too much, but to us it means over 123 nights stay at a hostel. If only on principle, we couldnt buy into this gringo-cheating machine. So we chose the alternatrive: Hacer con dedo aka hitch-hike.

We began our quest for cheap transportation in the Northern outskirts of Cordoba. Cheered on by a busload of school-children, we were dropped off at a defunct gas-station, and within 20 minutes were picked up by couple of artists heading out to fix their car. Chatting with Alpha Blondy in the speakers, the couple brought us 20 km further than their stop, at a gas station North of Jesus Maria. We said our farewells with kisses and gifts (incense and bus tokens) and began work on our next ride.

First ride...

After 40 minutes of waiting, we get picked up by a traveling salesman, who brings us North another 40 km, and leaves us with a tip. Apparently, you can find a bed at any volunteer fireman{s house in the world if you become part of the rapid response team. Unfortunately Dormida, the town we were dropped off at, is little more than a service station and a kiosk. This is where the luck runs a bit dry. from 4 pm until midnight, not one ride. We truly reached a black hole of transportation. Empathizing with our cause, the girl working the pump became our spokesmen to the clients, while the woman at the kiosk tried bribing the bus drivers for a free ride, to no avail. We set up our tent behind the garage, with music from the Jungle Book blaring off some arcade game lulling us to sleep.

Dormida, home sweet home...

The next day, my thumb was already stretched out by 8:30. 2 hours of nothing, and our hopes are slowly draining, when Shlomi walks up to a bus on its way to Jujuy, one of the major hubs in North Argentina.ñ A little bit of haggling and we get a reduced rate for the ride. 100 pesos a person instead of 180. A lot of money but we were comforted by the fact that the drivers probably pocketed to cash instead of serving it up to THE MAN.

Sticking it to the man, one peso at a time...

10 hours, 4movies, 20 free cups of soda and coffee, and 4 meals (spare box lunches are a treasure for the mochilero) and were in Jujuy. It finally hits me that I am about to leave Argentina. The Faces in Jujy are much more indigenous looking, the smells and sounds a lot more chaotic, a lot less European. Planning to stroll a bit in the city and head out to the outskirts for a service station to sleep in, we make friends with a local working in one of the area kiosks. Jose ends up letting us crash in his apartment and drives us to the service station the next day.Life is Good.

These cars still existy and are being used!!!

8:30 on a Tuesday, and that thumb is stretched out again. No Luck. The people are friendly, and seriously wish they could help. Its just that they are all heading South, except for one truck who offered us a ride to Bolivia. At 6 pm,. two tankers show up to refuel. Doubtful of any success, seeing as they petrol companies are quite strict about not allowing their employees to pick up hitch-hikers, i tried my luck nonetheless. With a wink of his left eye, the jefe of the three says no. He then demands 200 pesos. We haggle it down to 150 pesos, and within 10 minutes I{m riding shotgun in a 16 wheeler carrying enough gas to blow up a small island.

The only way to cross that desert

Eduardo, our driver, is pretty much what you{d expect from a trucker. Big, round, serious, but always open to conversation. We offer him so Coca leaves, he bests us with his fresher stash. We share with him our food, drinks, music and words. He maintains a constant pace of 25 km an hour while climbing up the Andes, all the while pointing out llamas, rivers, constellations, and other treasures of the road. Unlike the caffeine-pill guzzling Gringo truckers, Argentina has strict laws regarding the amount of hours a trucker can drive. And so around midnight we settle in Sasques, a pre-fabricated wild-west looking town built solely as a home for a customs office.

We head out towards the Chilean desert at 10 the next day, finally arriving at San Pedro De Atacama at 3 pm, not before making offerings to Pachamama, of course.

Offerings of Coca to the gods...

San Pedro is a 3-street town sitting at the edge of the Atacama desert, named after the tribe who had populated the region for centuries. I wont get into the details regarding all that the Atacama has to offer, as I cannot do this immensely beautiful region justice. So I will let the pictures do the talking...

They always have to remind you who is boss in these parts...

The Three Marias

The culture of Cocoa & El Hermito

It´s deep into the third week of my stay in Cordoba. These type of situations usually occur when you don´t have a stringent itinerary. Believe me, this is a good thing. These past few weeks have been dedicated to studying Spanish, surviving Passover, and taking in a bit of the urban culture in Argentina. Yet this week has taken a bit of a twist towards the region´s natural treasures. The following are a few random stories with little to no common thread...bare with me:


The culture of Cocoa:


You are all aware of Cocoa and its power in our world (some more than others, sniff sniff) More than just disco and Scarface, Cocoa represents the vastly complex indigenous culture of Bolivia, where it is revered as a sacred gift from Pachamama (the nature goddess, AKA Gaia), as well as a daily staple of life. Natives use the leaves as a casual habit, yet it is beloeved to have the affect of heightening one´s sense and awareness, as well as ending pangs of hunger and thirst. Cocoa culture is an integral part of Bolivian culture, as highlighted by Evo Morales´crusade for its legitimacy. The following is an illustrated guide to partaking in this cultural experience, as presented by Geronimo, an interesting Dutch character I´ve met here in Cordoba. Geronimo has been living in Cochabamba with his Bolivian fiancee for the last year or so. Their wedding rings were made by Jorge the artisan (refer to earlier posts)



Step One: offerings to Pachamama









Before enjoying these fruits of nature, one must remember the powers that have bestown this treasure. Three of the best leaves are held in your hand, and with a small physical showing of appreciation, they are thrown into the air, a sacrifice to Pachamama.




Step Two: begin chewing those cocoa leaves, but remember they leave out the stems. After chewing the leaves, move them to the to right part of your mouth.









Step three: Bicarbonate






Chew off a small piece of this catalytic substance. Bicarbonate triggers the active ingredient in the cocoa leaves, causing a slight numbing feeling and an elevation in one´s mood.





step four:

Go on chewing those leaves and bicarbonate. When you are done, remember that all remains of the leaves must be left on the ground. What comes from nature must return to it, not to some synthetic trash bag.



The wad...








The hermit of Costa Blanca:
Thursday morning (more like mid-day) we set out for Hippie beach, an hour or so from Cordoba. 5 Israelis, Geronimo from Holland/Bolivia, and Remy from France. Hippie Beach got its name from the tranquil atmosphere in the area, as well as the rasta-crowned, bracelet wearing populace. Costa Blanca, isn´t exactly what one would call a tourist trap. In fact, most people in Cordoba have never been there. Its a white-sand beach off the main river of the region. Yes, a river, not the ocean or sea. But given its solitude (Its hidden behind mountains and valleys) the area is truly a paradise.

One of main reasons it is so secluded, this is the only bridge to the beach...






Figuring out the way to paradise...










Given the fact that there are nearby weed-fields guarded by armed guards, one ca´n´t help but be reminded of Danny Boyle´s The Beach. Victor, the owner, drew us a nice little treasure map and we set off. So after 2 buses, an hour of hiking, scaling of a dam and swimming, we get there. There are 4-5 others already there, and we are greeted by the Hermit. That´s right, Argentina´s own Henry David Thoreau. Long haired, covered in bracelets, and with a disarming smile, he came right up and greeted us as neighbors.

El Hermito

The Hermit, formerly known as Orlando, had quite an interesting story to tell us, when he was not playing Spanish renditions of The Eagles and Clapton. Born into a wealthy family in Cordoba, Orlando was well on his way to achieving the Bourgeois dream: married, with 3 kids, and a steady banking jobs. This all ended when he was held up and robbed at gunpoint...by none other than a relative of his. The following is what we call a moment of clarity. Having his life flash before his eyes, Orlando gave the thief his money, and then proceeded to give up everything else. His job, his belongings, his middle-class life, everything. He moved into a commune and took up existing´as he called it. His entire family disowned him, including his children who haven't seen him in years. After a while, Orlando realized that communal life isn´t enough for him, and so he moved on to Solitary existence. The Hermit built his tarp & plastic home here on the beach, where he has been living since (10 years!). He exists upon others´goodwill, eating only what they bring. Many have made it a tradition to embark upon a pilgrimage to the Hermit´s home and bring offerings. The Hermit spends his time existing. I can sense your first reaction. It´s okay, quite understandable, really. But ask yourself this, are you happy? he is. GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL...1-0 El Hermito.

If you found this, you´re home...

La Vida en Cordoba

Given the new, easy going schedule i got going now, I´ve been given the time and connections to check out the city and its culture. Some Highlights:



The music scene here is thriving and very student-oriented AKA free to cheap. On Friday, following a long shabbat ceremony attended with the interest of eharing prayers in Spanish, I went over to a near-by venue with one of the bands staying at the hostel. Turns out the band is pretty well known in these parts. Named the Peyotes, they play sixties-garage rock with a surf feel, sort of like the music on the pulp-fiction soundtrack. The band opening for them played rockabily...All in Spanish. The Peyotes came out in matching red oriental suits, commenced the show with a group yell and thrashed through about an hour of fast-paced songs that left no one still. By the way, they only started their set at 3 am! even concerts begin at 1 or 2 in the morning...I still can´t get over that one.


The opening act...










Nothing left standing...












Last Sunday, Hostel Joven aka Casa Reggae (the place I´m working at) hosted its bi-weekly Fiesta de Jazz, up on our roof. Yours truly played the role of door-man, Dj, Bartender, and eventually all-around-borracho (the definition for that one rhymes with crunk). 3 hours of South American flavored jazz, including classics by Tito Puente and Sergio Mendes, accompanied by liter-bottles of Argentinean beer and Fernet con Coco (the unofficial drink of Cordoba). Following the show the people stuck around, eventually dwindling to 8 or so, mostly artisans from the nearby international Artisan fair that had been been going on. For the next three hours, I was fortunate to be a part of a folklore ´session´. We sat around passing bottles of foot-pressed wine and a guitar, as people took their turns singing selections from Argentina´s rich heritage of folklore music. Ever region has its own type of music, and the people, both young and old, have a deep love for the classics. A prime example is Mercedes Sosa, an 80 year-old legendary singer, who still tours around the world. She became an emblem of the struggle against tyranny, after survivng and assasination attempt and living in exile for over 15 years. The gorup was quite diverse, made up of A Mapuche Native from Patagonia (in the South), a few Chileans, and a few artisans residing in Jujuy (North of Argentina). I understood about 35-60 percent of their banter (Chileans are especially difficult) but the sense ofcomradery was immense. It felt as though I was in a scene depicting a social gathering in South America pre-Television (think Motorcycle Diaries). We left each other with embraces and promises of more gatherings before we each go our separate ways.


Latin Jazz en vivo...




Nothing like the opportunity for inter-cultural excahnge







On Break...


When you can´t join ´em...



The zenith...


The Nadir... not me in picture)

Speaking of love for folklore, that same weekend a fund-raising concert was held for the local charities, featuring some of Argentina´s best folklore bands. Now I know that usually folklore is synonymous with old bearded men telling long-forgotten stories around a campfire. Not in Argentina! such music, in which the flute, guitar and accordian take a central part, is usually very fast and is accompanied by an array of dance-styles. These styles include the Chacarera, the Cuarteto, Argentinean Samba, and others. The frontman of this concert´s headlining band is the son of a disappeared artist (see past blog regarding day of disappeared). About 3,000 packed into the veue and stayed all night dancing away.

in midst of cuarteto




Argentinean for bring it on...









This past weekend, Chol Ha´moed for the Jews amongst us, I ventured to a 3-day íllegal´Osy-trance/ Dub reggae festival up in the mountains outside Cordoba. 3 days of continuous music (try lulling yourself to sleep with psy-trance blasting in your ears, i dare you!), outdoors living, and a tribe of Spanish speaking hippies as your hosts. Yes, quite the experience. I plead the fifth as to further stories, and will let the photos speak for themselves...




D.A.R.E to say...






Standard lighting for Beethoven´s 5th...






3 day trance festival, an excellent place to take your kids...






Chacarera and Puchero. The first is a typical Argentinean dance which accompanies the folklore music of Northern Argentina. The latter, a classic Argentinean ´commoner´dish, a recipe perfected over hundreds of years by the Gauchos and pobres of the Andes. My Chacarera needs help, but there are plenty of opportunities to practice it, such as at that fundraiser-concert the other night, or various dance-bars lining the streets by me. Argentinean are quite proud of their dance culture. We all know of the Tango, but there are dozens other music and dance styles, all equally emotive and fun to try.










New phrases learnt, try em at home kids:

Cullarse - to f@ck.

Borracho Cullado - drunk as f@ck

Instertar como un brochet - literally to insert like in a brochet, a type of dish where bread is stuffed...see where that one´s going?

Dos pelos de la concha son mas fuertes que una yonta de bueyes - two hairs of a woman´s... you know... are stronger than a pack of bulls.


yea, my spanish is coming right along!