Bolivia: Part 1

My headache is pounding to the beat of loud Incan music. I can still hear it resonating from my neighbor’s house. I vaguely remember stopping there on the way home from the bar and dancing some kind of traditional cueca with the locals. I take a quick inventory of last night’s drug and alcohol consumption. As I allow the committee in my head to beat me up, I focus intensely on major issues. For example:  Do I still have my passport or did I lose it in the taxi? Did I manage to burn any bridges during my escapade? My mouth is so dry it feels like I was chewing on a Bolivian guinea pig in my sleep. I catch a glimpse of the dried llama fetus that I was gifted by the neighbor. I feel my gag reflex trigger. I am supposed to be getting on a bus in an hour. This gypsy bus will supposedly take me out of La Paz, I cannot miss it. I have been stuck here in Satan’s hideaway for the past three weeks. I have been told that there are protesting campesinos blocking all major roads due to some big politician’s threats to resign. Frazzled from last night’s festivities, I consider falling back into my hostel bed and taking one for the team. Then I realize this might be my only chance to leave this crazy ass city until who-knows-when. I force myself awake.

I throw all of my shit into my dirt-encrusted-and-partially-dilapidated backpack. I remember the day my brother lent it to me before leaving Cape Cod. That was almost a year ago now. The red pack was still pure and unscathed. Now, after a whirlwind of hair-raising adventure in the southern hemisphere, I am beginning to resemble a very lost carny with some kind of sick attaché on my back.

I race to meet the bus.  I am suddenly haunted by the memory of telling some creep-show guy from the bar where I was headed today. Rule number one, destroyed. I remind myself that I am in Bolivia, which in and of itself breaks rule number one for most. Following my usual routine, I throw caution to the wind and board my absolutely unsafe and unregistered chariot.

Now on the bus I take into account my surroundings. Unsurprisingly, I am the only non-Bolivian here. Everyone stares up at me in obvious and uncensored bewilderment as I shuffle towards a seat. I am accustomed to this kind of treatment now. As we take off I securely latch my arms through my backpack (theft prevention) and drift into dreamland.

I wake up to the bus keeling to the left and right. Looking out the window I realize that we are nowhere near an actual paved road. We are travelling over sheer dirt and bramble patches, over large rocks, mowing down all shrubbery in our path.  It is dark out, people around me are tense. I scream and the others tell me to be quiet. We go over a large and profound bache in the ground and we lurch to the left. It feels as though we are about to topple over. Now everyone is screaming. The bus driver is yelling in Spanish for everyone to get off the bus as we are about to cross a treacherous area. As if what we have been crossing was not a big deal. As I step off the bus I see ten or fifteen bolivian mamitas, the ones that wear what I call the “pointless top-hat “. It is usually a black bowling or square silk hat that sits right atop the coconut. I don’t know how it stays on. Their beady eyes peer into the night as they hike up their thick layered skirts and urinate publicly, encouraging their children to do the same.

As much fun as this all sounds I decide to use the bathroom. I give some pesos to a little boy cum bathroom attendant and proceed around the corner. This is where I find the “toilet”.  It is a dugout hole in the ground with a lit candle right behind it. It almost resembles a Mary in a bathtub shrine so commonly seen roadside in Latin America. This hole must be where you can make a small sacrifice to God. It is very dark in the stall. I am afraid of missing the hole, I am afraid in general. I can hear the chirping of unidentified creature very close to me. I think that I will be lucky to make it the hell out of here without contracting some deadly plague from a poisonous rodent or snake bite.  In an instant said creature reveals himself, meanwhile I am mid-stream. A huge horny toad lumbers across the top of my foot pushing me to my absolute limit. I shriek out loud and fling myself out of the stall in a moment of temporary insanity. The little boy who so kindly took my pesos charges around the corner followed by three nosy mamitas. I see the fat warty rana hobble off to its next unsuspecting victim. “Que paso? !!!“  Once the Bolivian bathroom brigade realizes why I literally just freaked, they crack into peals of laughter. So now I, the crazy gringa, have caused another major uproar. My popularity on this bus ride is dwindling…