I’ve said before that I don’t like saying a city is boring or “doesn’t have anything to do”, so my account of Santa Cruz is purely MY experience with the city, and not a comment on the city itself.

After crossing the border from Corumbá in Brazil, I took a bus from Quijarro to Santa Cruz – leaving at about 7:30pm that night. I’d heard about the “Death Train” but learned this was just a name given to the train as it was previously used to transport victims of Yellow Fever, rather than a particularly dangerous or exciting trip.

The bus was pretty comfortable so I slept in parts for most of the night. I woke up at about 5AM with everyone getting off the bus, so I presumed we had arrived. Pitch black and pouring down with rain, I grabbed my backpack and headed to the nearest taxi driver – only to find none of them had any idea where my hostel was. I stood for about 10 minutes literally thinking “What am I going to do?”, then remembered I had saved a Wikitravel article about Santa Cruz on my phone, so there was bound to be another hostel address on there. 

I found one other address for a hostel, so we drove through the flooded streets of Santa Cruz, only to find the hostel doesn’t exist anymore! He took me to another nearby hostel which was thankfully open, and I slept on their couch until the sun came up. Then, I grabbed my bags and walked across town to the hostel I initially intended to stay at.

On the first day I was lucky enough to get a break in the rain (mostly) to wander around the city for a couple of hours. The city seems to lack the vibrance and relaxed happiness that I was so used to in Brazil. Strangers I tried to ask for help or directions appeared timid and unwilling to help, and the dull buildings amidst the flooded streets and grey sky didn’t give Santa Cruz a welcoming feeling.

I was lucky however to make a friend off Couchsurfing, who was able to provide some much needed company, as well as a bit of an insight into the city and it’s people. We hung out for lunch, then went back to her parents place where I met her family. I watched a movie with her brother Rafael then listened to Frances play piano whilst I “read” (they were all in Spanish) some books on Bolivia.

I almost didn’t take any photos at all, which I wasn’t happy about. But on the last day, a few hours before I was due to go to the airport, the clouds opened up just a little. I walked into the main square and took a few snaps, but sadly they all look kind of gloomy. Which in a way is kind of fitting for my experience of the city. The best picture however, was this one, taken at Frances’ house: