Chapter Thirteen

AFTER spending our rest-time in an old-fashioned hotel, operated by an even more old-fashioned couple, it was up early to catch a bus for the 20-hour bus journey to the Bolivian capital, La Paz which, incidentally, is the highest capital city in the world at 3,660 meters or 11,350 feet above sea level.

Our bus was a primitive one, of indeterminate age, with narrow well-worn seats, and full to capacity. One lady passenger carried a box on board which contained a small, beautiful puppy, who never once complained to its owner or other passengers about the conditions on board or the lengthly journey he was being forced to endure! Again, we were the only white people or tourists on board. That did not trouble us.

Not once have we ever encountered hostility or any hint of racism. Most of the time those who were our fellow-passengers were shy, quiet, gentle, and poor. But sometimes, it has to be said, their standards of cleanliness or hygiene did not measure up to what we in more developed nations might consider acceptable. Be that as it may, they were always polite to us and each other, with never a trace of unruly or aggressive behaviour which is more than can be said of public transport passengers in much more developed nations.

Before we began our journey, we first had lunch in a nearby Bolivian cafeteria frequented by the locals. It was an experience. The main course was chicken with pasta. Trish says she saw the cook use her fingers to lift the the pasta out of a saucepan onto the lunch plates. Starter was a chicken soup which my wife described as akin to supping greasy lukewarm water.

Our bus was full for the 5 p.m. start. First stop was around midnight which passengers used to purchase food from street sellers. We declined the opportunity. But we did avail of the toilet facilities, known as Banos, for which one Boliviano or around 10 cents is charged. These toilets were in a small building at the side of a street, purposefully built for passengers on buses passing through the town whose name at this stage escapes us.

On journey resumption, passengers settled down with their blankets, coats,hats and gloves and prepared for the night ahead. Needless to say, there was no heating on the bus. But cold, cold air from the high alti plano on which we were driving crept through every crack, crevice and panel on this decrepit old bus we had the dubious pleasure of travelling in.

Despite our heavy fleece jackets, we shivered and shook from the cold. We stuffed our hands into our pockets to minimise heat loss. But it was little comfort. We were in what was virtually a travelling coldroom about which we had no prior knowledge but for which other passengers had made elaborate preparations.

The journey through the night was non-stop. The sheer cold prevented any attempt at sleep but other passengers managed to doze intermitantly. Well wrapt babies and young children had no difficulty with the constant motion of the bus.

With every window closed the air on board grew fetid. Trish believed that, from the smell, some of the passengers urinated into plastic bottles from which the top had been cut off.

Two bottles of water which Trish carried on board to avoid the possibility of dehydration got colder and colder. We were torn between satiating our thirst and making our bodies even colder by drinking it, or not doing so and risking other consequences. Not even two hours after sunrise had our liquids lost their frigidity.

Throughout the journey, our drivers had as one of our friends is prone to say, "given it the gun" and we arrived in La Paz two hours ahead of time, much to our relief. It was the first time in any journey we had taken in South America that we had arrived ahead of or even on schedule.

We could not believe we had arrived. But because all other passengers disembarked before us, we figured we must, after all, have arrived at our final destination. An elderly taxi driver approached us and offered his services. To be sure, I asked him: "Aqui, La Paz ?" to which the man replied: "Si, Senor".

First impressions were ones of shock. We were in city that lay in a valley surrounded on all sides with hills on which every scrap of land was used to house the less affluent citizens of this city of 1.4 million inhabitants. For once, the poor had the best views, with the rich living in the bottom of the bowl and the poor physically, though not financially, looking down upon them. It was the reverse of what one has come to expect for, generally, it is the rich who occupy the best high-rise sites and the poor the bottom of the trough.

Our hotel room on the sixth floor gave us a great view of this city. At night the inhabited hills around us shone like Christmas trees. But beautiful though it was to look at, we had heard and been warned of the dangers that confronted strangers venturing into these neighborhoods alone and at night. We forewent the experience. But we did go to many of the street markets, bargained and purchased from the locals. We each got T-shirts that cost the equivalent of 2 Euros each. No attempt was made to rip us off by either the traders, taxi drivers or shop keepers- they were just glad to have our business.

Despite this, we daily and nightly heard the sounds of gun shots ring around the hills of the city. It was not clear to us where lay the source of such firing. Several hours seldom passed without such sounds. It was certainly different to go to sleep at night to the echoes of gun shot.

We were told beforehand to expect sights that might shock us. But the only surprise that greeted us was the sight of a woman squatting in the street, over a metal kerbside shore and peeing to her heart's content, oblivious of all those around her. It did not bother her.......so why should it bother us and others. In any case, men frequently relieved themselves publicly in urban and other environments in this continent.

Each morning we had breakfast in the penthouse of our hotel which gave us a 360 degree view of the city. In the distance, snow covered mountains peeped their heads over the surrounding sun-bathed city hills as if to remind us of the tough, sub-zero landscape that lay beyond our warm 'bowl'.

In all, we spent three days in the Rosario area of this city. But soon it was time to move on, this time to a small sleepy town called Copacabana on the shores of Lake Titicaca, and not to be confused with the area of Rio de Janeiro bearing a similar name. Instead of taking a bus, we took a Nissan Urvan-type vehicle with our luggage and that of our fellow passengers, piled onto the roof.

Inside, 14 passengers and the driver, 15 in all, were crammed into this vehicle which is similar to a Toyota Hiace. The driver was a madman, driving around bends on the wrong side and testing the tyres of our vehicle and gravity to the limits. It was another miracle that we and our fellow passengers survived this suicidal pilot! The whole trip,over a time frame of about four hours, cost us seventeen Bolivianos each, the equivalent of around one Euro and 70 cents. But the unscrupulous madman charged us the equivalent of around 2 Euros to deliver us to our hotel in Copacabana, at the end of our trip, a distance of about 200 meters from our final terminus!

Here in this lakeside resort, we sunbathed and chilled out, and bought some presents. Even though we sun-tanned by day, we shivered at night with the cold. One dare not go out without being wrapt in a warm jacket.

Our next task was to say 'goodbye' to Bolivia with its life-threatening roads and dreadful buses, and to renew our acquaintance with Peru in the form of a handshake with the city of Puno (population of around 150,000) on Titicaca's shoreline.

We were back in Peru, a second time in our journey around South America, and looking for new experiences. We didn't have to wait for long.

More next chapter.