I asked the couple if I could be dropped off in the center of Putre. “Everything here is more or less the center,” they explained. “It’s a very small town.” We soon stopped on the main road–the only road that connected to the highway we left behind–to share some last words before saying goodbye. Low wooden buildings sparsely bordered each side. A motley group of dogs sniffed along with no apparent destination. They provided the few signs of life.
I sought some shade and waited for Jose to ride up. In time, an old woman ambled by with a small herd of sheep, then a man rode by on horseback. I said “Buenas Tardes.” He nodded in response. His dog easily kept up with the horse’s languid gait. The surroundings beckoned no urgency.
When Jose did arrive, he pressed on to check out the town. It was inevitable that our paths would cross again.
Some investigating led me to a hotel where I gratefully accepted a glass of water from the manager, the oppressive sun had urged my thirst. I unloaded my bags in the simple but comfortable accommodation that overlooked the same path the woman and her sheep had come down. Then I stepped back out to explore.
A couple I saw in the distance approached wearing large safari style hats and khaki travel attire–clearly tourists. We only exchanged hellos. Each of us seemed reluctant to further disrupt the still air with our foreign tongues or tales. I would see very few tourists here.
I could understand how the lack of activity might dissuade people from visiting Putre, but it did not deter me. The air was fresh and welcome after the abundant exhaust fumes in La Paz. A breeze picked up as I passed a local eatery I would return to that evening. The quiet was soothing. I stayed a few days before heading to the coast.
When I discuss traveling on my own to far off places, particularly with people I do not know well, they are often very curious about the dangers I faced and what, if anything, went wrong. I cannot blame them.