Val and I pass through camp as we head over to cross the road and pay a visit to the meat hole. This is where meaty scraps go, both left behind by animals and humans. The hole has only shifted slightly from when I last came to the park nine years ago, with the previous one being filled, most likely along with several other ones too, since then. We now also call it “the bone hole”. When I arrived before, the volunteers had mentioned that a caiman had got stuck in there a few weeks prior. This seems inconceivable this time with the hole being nearly being at capacity. After depositing the leftover bit of bone, we head into camp and shower.

Yesterday evening, Jenn had sent a message around saying that a local, Don Victor, was making their famous tucumanes for us today and that we should place an order with her if we should like some. Having had no appetite for the entirety of the day, I declined, and now find myself disappointed at the sight of lots of delicious food being eaten around me. Nevertheless, Friday is now pizza night, so there is some delicious non-slodgey food to look forward to. Last time I had visited, we only had pizza once, on our final night, as a goodbye, cooked by the incredible Italian Angela, with the assistance of Karen. Now pizza is enjoyed at the close of every working week. This is a change that I truly welcome.

Following dinner on Fridays, we used to do a 20 minute walk to the “cafe”. This is a hut nearby to the camp that the volunteers go to drink at in order to celebrate the day off ahead. It is far away from any animals so that we cannot disturb them. It is also the only place in the entire park that anyone is allowed to consume any alcohol. No one is allowed to work with a cat hungover, so drink is only to be enjoyed with a day off ahead. I am pleased that this tradition continues, though with the cafe having regrettably experienced a few break-ins since my last visit, so we now keep the alcohol locked up where we can keep an eye on it and then carry it with us on the way there. On my walk, I chat with Crystal, the new cafe and Candy Shop manager. The Candy Shop is a cupboard in the Comedor full of chocolates and snacks that we can help ourselves to, providing that we then write our name in the booklet attached to the door. Crystal then adds up how much money we owe. I should have refrained from using the phrasing “help ourselves to”. Like most things in life, this exchange of goods is accompanied by a monetary transaction. Back in my day (less than a decade ago), Julia was in charge of the Candy Shop and cafe. I miss Julia. I do really like Crystal though and am impressed to see that she has now introduced a cork screw to the cafe’s repertoire. We used to push the cork down into the bottle with a pen knife and then try to drink around it. Now we even have cups.

As I arrive, I take a moment to look around and absorb the writing on the wall. This is not a figure of speech; there really is a lot of writing on the walls. In some instances, volunteers would scribe their name on the cafe brickwork before their departure. I see Kev’s name, the old cat coordinate and king of the cafe, and of course Julia’s name written beneath it too. I savour this moment of nostalgia. In my time away from the park, I had somewhat pretended that it was all stilling happening. That it was all the same people doing the same things in exactly the same place, with nothing having changed. For a short time, this would have been true. Being here is giving me a chance to reignite the flame, but equally, the reality of seeing all of the differences and living this new experience has meant that the old flame has now been extinguished. The memories of nine years ago really are just memories now.

I crack open a 35B (roughly £2.50) bottle of wine and get chatting with Jost and Fab. The cafe vibe hasn’t changed a great deal. We play cards; people arrive wearing the most ridiculous clothes that they could find in Cochabamba, the second hand shop, with clothes left behind by previous volunteers; and Pablo teaches everyone to Salsa dance. When midnight hits, we sing happy birthday to Iban, and then Jost, Fab and I walk home. This makes a change from my previous first cafe night, in which I was carried home by Ellie and Guielmo.

It is Saturday 15th February. We have Saturdays, and only Saturdays, off. Some long-term volunteers stick around to do the essential work, whilst the rest of us head into the nearby town Guarayos. We used to hitchhike in lorries. These trips were always fun. A Bolivian driver would thrive in the much needed company and chat at you in Spanish as you smile and nod along. Now, we take the taxi again. 15 of us squeeze in and struggle to get the windows open in order to ease the unbearable heat. 30 minutes later, we arrive in town and all pile out again. I join Marine (a different Marine) and Violette for a cheeky frappé, and then go searching for some food to buy. The woman at the fruit market points at me and says “manzanas?” That’s Spanish that I know. This means apples. I like apples. I nod and reply “si, tres, por favor”. I also ask for an avocado. When I ask if she has change for a fifty, she does not reply and then throws a peach into my bag. I think my Spanish needs some work. In any case, I receive my change, use it to buy jam and a better mosquito hat, and then join Violette again as we wait for the taxi to return.

Our next stop is the laguna. This is somewhere that we used to visit nine years ago too. For 20B, one can spend the day chilling by the water, listening to some music and being able to sit outside whilst taking a break from the mosquitos. The taxi ride there is more unbearable than before, with the bumpy road meaning that there is no chance of picking up speed and delivering a fresh breeze through the windows. We pile out, each open a tab and help ourselves to tepid drinks (for whatever reason, the fridge isn’t on). I take a cheeky dip and then spend the rest of the afternoon resting on a sun bed. The laguna has a flush toilet, which already feels like a novelty. Regrettably, it is not stocked with toilet roll. This is disappointing, but, with some careful planning, next week, I can look forward to a delightful shit. For now, I take pleasure in the simpler things, such as being able to enjoy this now very warm coke.

At 6pm, we head back to the “road” and wait for the taxi. In true Bolivian fashion, he turns up half an hour late. This journey is somehow even sweatier than the previous, and I try to focus on the sunset instead of the smell. I caught a whiff of my shirt by the water earlier, as I put it on after my swim and was somewhat disgusted. I can’t imagine what those next to me are going through. We drive over the bumpy section of road and then stop. The driver lays out an instruction in Spanish and we all start piling out, with most of us uncertain of what is going on. We then gather on the side of the road as he drives off. It turns out that he needs gas and apparently won’t be able to make a purchase with a group of gringos in the car. This feels like an unlikely consequence of the fuel shortages Bolivia is still facing. Nevertheless, I respect his thinking, but do wish he had had the foresight to fill his tank before picking us up.

We enjoy a charming sunset, whilst all enduring a state of confusion and slight anxiety, before the driver eventually shows up again. Then, following a cheeky ice lolly interlude, in which I get sticky, we arrive back at camp for dinner. We used to have dinner out in Gaurayos too, shortly after our no longer necessary visit to the internet cafe, but I am not upset to be back by 8pm. Tomorrow is a Sunday and on Sundays we work. The cats have had their starve day, as they would experience in the wild, but come the morning, it’s back to the grind.