This will not be a long post. Had to get up at 6:15 for what was supposed to be a short and direct bus ride (only five hours, short by South American standards) to return from Puno and the floating islands of Lake Titicaca -- on the Peru side -- to La Paz, capital of Bolivia. Of course, it didn't work out that way. My handler, Raul, announced at the bus station there "wasn't enough interest" (!) in a direct trip by enough paying passengers, so they routed everybody through Copacabana. Again. The spot I had left yesterday. And they waited, and waited. Riders gradually filtered in. No real schedule here. They just keep waiting until the bus fills up, THEN depart. It would drive the Swiss nuts.
Made the usual stop at the border. Time consuming, but no problems with paperwork this time. I have learned to say "No Entiendo" (I don't understand)early and often. And then just stand there ... that often gets me pushed through rather quickly. I try to position myself at the beginning of a large group, so the customs officer will get frustrated and wave me through. Usually works. The Spanish speaking fellow travelers get a big kick out of this approach, and are in full support.
As we approach La Paz after 12 hours of driving (not five), a border stop, and a reverse ferry ride back to Bolivia, we suddenly get redirected. Somebody making a political protest has dumped two huge piles of dirt and rocks across the primary highway, and every vehicle hoping to get in or out of La Paz in a northerly direction is forced to innovate. There are no police to assist. Nothing is being done about the dirt and rock obstacles. Just lorries, buses, individual vehicles, taxis, and whatever else has motorized propulsion is suddenly going off into side roads in the barrio -- where the "Campesinos" or peasant class lives. Traffic goes down blind alleys, and has to reverse out. Two buses pass in a narrow lane in opposite directions, and somebody has to back up. Taxis try to wedge themselves between the buses. And get cursed roundly. People hop out of their vehicles and walk ahead to investigate, leaving all behind them frustrated. Initiative goes to the bold. There are many narrow scrapes. Lots of horn honking. Incessant, really. There is no plan. No signs. Just mud, potholes, barrio walls, and amused onlookers. It is what you would best call, "A Chinese Fire Drill." Then one Bolivian lady doesn't like the amount of traffic in her neighborhood, and stands in front of a bus. The bus of course blocks travel in both directions at that point. It is somewhat akin to the lone student blocking Chinese tanks in Tien Amen Square in Peking in 1989. She has her arms folded, is probably swearing, and refuses to budge. A stream of traffic perhaps half a mile long, comes to a complete standstill. We all stand in the bus, to watch the standoff. Other campesinos nearby, decide to pull the same stunt on THEIR corner. I don't know what finally made her yield. But it takes 45 minutes of ten feet at a time, to go the two blocks needed to surmount the dirtpile on the main road. When we finally merge with rush hour traffic beyond the barrier, the driver gets a standing ovation. Luckily, my now chagrined travel agent in La Paz has been in touch with Raul in Puno, and knows I will be late. Very late. Amazingly, he has somebody waiting at the station with a sign bearing my name. I am whisked off in record time and at the hostel in ten minutes, while all the others on the bus must sort out their own dilemnas.
A couple of amusing thoughts. Carmen, my wonderful guide at Copacabana and Isla De La Sol, has in a slow moment told me something that is one of those local truisms. Three Things to Watch Out For (with wariness): a Bolivian policeman, a Peruvian "friend," and a Chilean woman. Got a big laugh out of me, considering my status as a chump with Chilean women in getting robbed. Of course, there are alternate versions in different countries, that collide with this theory. They say further south, that the Argentinian women are the fun ones, the Columbian women are the most beautiful, the Venezuelan women are the ones who win the beauty contests, but it is the Chilean women you fall in love with. And I believe with that, the Chilean women have just about covered the spread and the points ...
Next: "El Camino de Muerte," Bicycling The Road of Death
Made the usual stop at the border. Time consuming, but no problems with paperwork this time. I have learned to say "No Entiendo" (I don't understand)early and often. And then just stand there ... that often gets me pushed through rather quickly. I try to position myself at the beginning of a large group, so the customs officer will get frustrated and wave me through. Usually works. The Spanish speaking fellow travelers get a big kick out of this approach, and are in full support.
As we approach La Paz after 12 hours of driving (not five), a border stop, and a reverse ferry ride back to Bolivia, we suddenly get redirected. Somebody making a political protest has dumped two huge piles of dirt and rocks across the primary highway, and every vehicle hoping to get in or out of La Paz in a northerly direction is forced to innovate. There are no police to assist. Nothing is being done about the dirt and rock obstacles. Just lorries, buses, individual vehicles, taxis, and whatever else has motorized propulsion is suddenly going off into side roads in the barrio -- where the "Campesinos" or peasant class lives. Traffic goes down blind alleys, and has to reverse out. Two buses pass in a narrow lane in opposite directions, and somebody has to back up. Taxis try to wedge themselves between the buses. And get cursed roundly. People hop out of their vehicles and walk ahead to investigate, leaving all behind them frustrated. Initiative goes to the bold. There are many narrow scrapes. Lots of horn honking. Incessant, really. There is no plan. No signs. Just mud, potholes, barrio walls, and amused onlookers. It is what you would best call, "A Chinese Fire Drill." Then one Bolivian lady doesn't like the amount of traffic in her neighborhood, and stands in front of a bus. The bus of course blocks travel in both directions at that point. It is somewhat akin to the lone student blocking Chinese tanks in Tien Amen Square in Peking in 1989. She has her arms folded, is probably swearing, and refuses to budge. A stream of traffic perhaps half a mile long, comes to a complete standstill. We all stand in the bus, to watch the standoff. Other campesinos nearby, decide to pull the same stunt on THEIR corner. I don't know what finally made her yield. But it takes 45 minutes of ten feet at a time, to go the two blocks needed to surmount the dirtpile on the main road. When we finally merge with rush hour traffic beyond the barrier, the driver gets a standing ovation. Luckily, my now chagrined travel agent in La Paz has been in touch with Raul in Puno, and knows I will be late. Very late. Amazingly, he has somebody waiting at the station with a sign bearing my name. I am whisked off in record time and at the hostel in ten minutes, while all the others on the bus must sort out their own dilemnas.
A couple of amusing thoughts. Carmen, my wonderful guide at Copacabana and Isla De La Sol, has in a slow moment told me something that is one of those local truisms. Three Things to Watch Out For (with wariness): a Bolivian policeman, a Peruvian "friend," and a Chilean woman. Got a big laugh out of me, considering my status as a chump with Chilean women in getting robbed. Of course, there are alternate versions in different countries, that collide with this theory. They say further south, that the Argentinian women are the fun ones, the Columbian women are the most beautiful, the Venezuelan women are the ones who win the beauty contests, but it is the Chilean women you fall in love with. And I believe with that, the Chilean women have just about covered the spread and the points ...
Next: "El Camino de Muerte," Bicycling The Road of Death
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