A Rant of a Ride
The second I entered Bolivia, all organization seemed to evaporate into the Andean air. My transit was from Cuzco to Puno to La Paz, a 36-hour route that traverses the shores of Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world. It seemed fine for the first two legs; the buses were double-decker ‘semi-camas’ (sort of a bed), near-flat recliners to let you sleep through the night and I woke up to a sunset over the beautiful body of water. Just before lunch, we passed through border control with minimal problems (a few American visas had to be negotiated on the spot) and arrived in Copacabana, Bolivia for what I understood to be a driver smoke break; “one hour, bus goes” I was told.
With this ‘layover’, I took a bier by the lake and rang my Dad to wish him a Happy Father’s Day. Sitting on the waterfront, I watched the boats rock along the shoreline, salivated at the smell of seasoned trout , and laughed as sleeping dogs ignored the seagulls (lakegulls?) dancing around them. The air was fresh and my cares nonexistent. 45 minutes passed and I made my way up the hill to see my original bus gone, and in its place, a single story greyhound looking one. I went into the shop and asked “donde esta mi autobus?”
“Ah, bus changed. But bus goes now.”
I turn around to see my ride rising from its hydraulics, preparing to start its journey.
Brilliant.
Along said journey, we picked up and dropped off several people, de-boarded to take a ferry across the water (where I had to transact my passage using Peruvian soles because no-one mentioned the scenic detours requiring Bolivian bolivanos), and we finally arrived at our desitnation well over an hour late.
Another night bus from La Paz to Uyuni was up next and on it I was struck by a serious tummy bug. Sparing the details, whatever I had eaten/drank/consumed on my voyage did not want to stay with me and for 24 hours I was pretty miserable and pathetic. A fresh night of sleep did me a load of good and I was able to enjoy the crossing across the Bolivian desert (more on that in a bit).
Flash forward 3 spectacular days and 2 bitter cold nights later, I arrived at the bus station to head back to La Paz and find out that I had booked my ticket from La Paz to Uyuni…not the other way around. Some batting of baby blues and kind words from a new friend Javier sorted things out and I took the final seat. Short sleep later and bang, back in the capital.
Whether from altitude, lack of rest, or plain stupidity (house money is on the last), I thought I was running late, and opted to take a taxi instead of finding some wi-fi for an Uber. I told the driver that I didn’t have cash, but he said “Visa OK”. Hop in and after 10 minutes, he pulls over to an ATM; “Visa aqui”, was his prompt for me to fetch some Bolivianos. We had negotiated the normal fare of 60 bolivianos to go the airport so I took out 100 for some coffee and a snack during what I now realized was hours before my flight. ATM fee, foreign currency fee and 15 minutes later, we arrive at La Paz’s airport, El Alto (The High One). I hand over 60 Bolivanos but for some reason the door wouldn’t open.
“Senor, los tarifas de aeropuerto, y highway… es seisante mas,” he said with a scummy smile.
I scowled in Spanish and cursed, first in English, followed by a tirade profanities in German, French, and a few choice words of Italian. The sneer never left his face, the kind that made it keenly apparent who was the prisoner and who had the power. I threw what change remained into the front seat, which seemed to satisfy my ransom and the doors unlocked. After a forceful slam, I gave his shitty red tin can a deft kick, and called his mother a whore in a such articulate Spanish that would have made my friends proud. Seeing the police draw near, he sped off and I was left with a bitter taste of Bolivia to savor for 4 hours before flying out.
