Road to perdition
The 40-hour bus journey from Santa Cruz, Bolivia to Buenos Aires, Argentina was a lot less painful than I had expected. The previous, very lazy week in Santa Cruz could well have eased the journey, having provided excellent training for remaining seated with nothing but sleep, movies, conversation and snacks as entertainment.
Of course, there were a fair few annoyances on the bus that took some getting used to. First, there was the incessant blaring of B-grade movies. Stuck in our seats with no way of ignoring the audio, we were all but forced to watch movies of a surprisingly adult calibre, as they featured what a casual observer might assume to be a little too much violence and nudity for the few pre-teens on the bus. Cases in point are the shockingly bad
Battle Royale remake,
The Condemned, and a local soft-core movie about a group of poledancing women.
During our first very uncomfortable 12 hours on the bus, our only reprieve from the audioscape would be periodic announcements that were broadcast unnecessarily loudly, and in
Castellano (the most commonly spoken Spanish dialect). By the time we had finally lost enough of our hearing to be able to fall asleep, we were awoken almost immediately to carry our bags off the bus and across the Bolivia-Argentina border.
On a more positive note, there was some beauty to be found in driving through the darkness on the top deck of our double-decker bus, watching the night quite literally pass me by. We moved in a capsule beyond space and time, with the splash of our headlights to casting a surreal halo on a blurry backdrop of gravel, shrubs, and the occasional run-down shack.
Jim and I seemed to be the only non-South Americans on the bus, which did afford some insight into local tourism. Our outlandishness was blatantly obvious at rest and meal stops, during which the conductor would have to come up the stairs to communicate the purpose of our stop and any instructions in a flurry of hand motions and the simplest of
Castellano vocabulary.
Besides our first dinner, which was served in a tiny plastic container on board the bus, we were fed set meals restaurants of relatively impressive quality. Sadly, being seated beside fellow travellers with that lamentable language barrier between us made for many an oddly silent dining experience.
At around noon on August 20, two weary travellers dragged their grimy bodies from a Santa Cruz bus and onto the pavement of Buenos Aires' bus station. But our tribulations were not over yet. Having foolishly shunned a money exchange desk at the Bolivia-Argentina border, Jim and I had absolutely zero Argentinean pesos between us, leading to an ATM hunt with our taxi driver, followed by a scramble from corner shop to corner shop in search of change for 100 pesos (US$31). I suspect the driver was merely being difficult in hopes of us giving up with change and just letting him have an extra twenty or so pesos, but there really wasn't much we could do besides comply.
It was well after two in the afternoon when we arrived at the door to what would be our home for the next month. Disappointingly, we were informed that it was a public holiday so cleaners were scarce, and it would be another two hours before the owners would have the apartment ready for us.
After two hours of gorging ourselves on coffee-and-chocolate ice cream by the poolside of our apartment block, we were very much relieved to be welcomed into a beautiful, if small, studio. The place is well-lit and equipped with a brand new kitchen and bathroom, as well as a high-speed connection to the Internet. Only quarrel was with our balcony that opened onto the busy Avenida Cordoba, which unfortunately meant that we were assailed by traffic noises at all hours of the day and night.
But it was our apartment. Our new home. With our own computers. Our own schedules. Our own goals. Our own rules - or lack thereof. Many a day was spent wallowing in the freedom of our new arrangement. Dinners and breakfasts were home-cooked, improved and consumed. Hours upon hours were spent catching up with our lives on the Internet.
Sleep-ins were simply an everyday, unavoidable truth.
Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows
An undulating sea of sand stretches into the horizon. Devoid of colour, motion, and sound, the landscape is like a canvas not yet touched by the artist's brush. Sitting cross-legged atop a sand dune in the heart Santa Cruz de la Sierra's national park, it was as if I had entered limbo.
Santa Cruz is an south-eastern Bolivian city that is 13 hours by road, or one hour by air, from the country's administrative capital, La Paz. Having already reached the limits of my capacity for torturous bus rides through the Andes, I was happy to fork out US$110 for the latter option.
But catching a domestic flight in Bolivia is not quite as painless as one might expect, especially for a couple of Spanish-language-disabled backpackers. Even though we arrived at the airport in La Paz no less than two hours before take off (and an hour before our travel agent's recommendation), our misinterpretation of "pre-boarding" announcements left us sitting in the airport terminal, confusedly watching our plane taxi away.
Fortunately, flights between La Paz and Santa Cruz leave relatively frequently. Airport staff were understanding and helpful, so it was barely another hour's wait before we were on our way.
It took 30 minutes by taxi to get from the airport to the city centre, during which time I became immensely glad that I was not travelling alone. In the darkness, we were driven past sleazy, neon-addressed clubs, along streets that were surprisingly deserted at only 11pm. Our taxi driver seemed to be leaving us to our fate in a dark alley about two blocks from the town square. We were much relieved to find our Lonely Planet recommended hostel behind a locked, unmarked gate across the road.
In the light of day, however, Santa Cruz takes on a new atmosphere altogether. In stark contrast with grey, metropolitan La Paz, Santa Cruz has the look of a geographically displaced tropical oasis. Palm trees line the Plaza 24 de Septiembre, which is the city-centre town square where all-day coffee carts service relaxed
cambas (Santa Cruz residents) along with the city's few tourists.
For Bolivia's most populous city, with a population of 1.3 million, Santa Cruz seems surprisingly laid back. Streets are wide and uncongested, and all around are seemingly content people strolling along meandering paths. It is near impossible to get anything done between the hours of one and three in the afternoon, when most stores shut for a siesta. This was somewhat of an annoyance for Jim and myself, as we would often only emerge from sleep during this time.
Santa Cruz's majestic sand dunes lay a 20 minute drive from the city centre, in the Parque Lomos de Arena. The recently restructured national park is said to be a popular weekend destination for local families. However, when we visited on a Thursday morning, the park was completely deserted but for a few rangers and other staff.
Without the use of a four-wheel drive, arriving at the dunes is a challenge in itself. It takes about an hour to stroll from the park entrance to the dunes, but the walk is well worth it just for a whiff of the surreal blankness atop the mounds.
By night, Santa Cruz is as quiet as ever - at least, until at least 2am when the city's nightclub strip, Equipatrol, comes to life. How
cambas keep themselves entertained between dinner time and nightclub hour remains a mystery to me. Unable to find much with which to amuse ourselves in the interim, Jim and I limited our nightlife experiences to the average-sounding Santa Cruz Rock festival, and a visit to the rather infamous Caesar's.
I very much enjoyed the relaxed feel of Santa Cruz, but was definitely ready to leave by the end of our week-long stay. And what an adventure leaving would be - we were bound for Buenos Aires, Argentina on 40-hour-long bus ride!
Brave new world
The bittersweet tang of freedom mixes all too well with loneliness. I couldn't help feeling at a loss as I finally awoke to an activity, and authority, -free Sunday. The next three days were spent chilling and regrouping in Cusco, with much sleep, magnificent dinners, and unhurried conversations over glasses of wine.
It felt amazing to relieve myself of all unnecessary baggage at the local post office, and to finally have all my possessions fit neatly into one backpack again. It is somehow strange and wonderful to know that I am responsible for this backpack alone, and that I could be comfortable just about anywhere as long as I have it with me.
After some discussion and many hours spent online, Jim and I have decided to head southwards through Bolivia on our way to Buenos Aires, Argentina, where we would spend a month on Spanish lessons and culture immersion - our way.
We left Cusco on an uncomfortable five-hour Wednesday morning bus ride towards Puno, of which memories had faded into surprising nostalgia. This time, being less affected by altitude sickness made Puno seem all the more accessible. Jim and I were easily walking distances that Joel and I did not while on the tour. And somehow, we managed to navigate the town with only instinct to guide us. We quickly sought out, and miraculously stumbled upon, the hotel-sauna of our last visit to Puno. Sadly, the sauna had shut by the time we returned from lunch.
Thursday began with a mad rush to the bus station, at which we arrived with only three minutes before our bus to La Paz, Bolivia, was due to depart. As we have already proven multiple times on this trip, punctuality does not seem to be a forte of this duo. Fortunately - or not - our bus was delayed by two hours. At that horrid pre-noon portion of the day, a wait could only spell one thing: coffee. We had an excellent coffee-and-cake breakfast at Rico's Pan, in between the old moral debates that had long become our in-transit staple.
We re-visited our old favourite Mexican restaurant, Mongos, that night in La Paz. Vivian's afterwards was successful also, although it did lead Jim to lament a lack of "decent strippers" in the Bolivian administrative capital. A total of three days were spent in La Paz, during which Bolivia became, to my mind, a land of dreams. Purchasing air tickets to Santa Cruz de la Sierra and laptops were achieved with surprisingly few hassles. In fact, the land seems to answer my every desire as I wish it; Saturday morning, for example, took us coincidentally past the perfect cafe with iced coffees and Wi-Fi access while we had our laptops on hand!
Less exciting, however, was our airport experience enroute to Santa Cruz. Fooled by a "pre-boarding" screen, and unable to comprehend audio announcements, Jim and I ended up watching some Beyonce-Shakira music video in the airport lounge while our 7.10pm flight taxied down the runway. And all this, despite having been two hours early! Fortunately, being in beautiful, idyllic Bolivia, airport staff had us booked on the next flight with no worries at all. Lovely.
Farewell to you my friends
We kicked off our final week of the project with another Sunday morning visit to Casa de la Gringa's shaman, this time with Bill and Nikki in tow. While still entertaining, however, the new revelations of Saint Peter were not quite as breathtakingly awesome as the first visit for Joel, Jim and I. Worse yet was our late return to Cusco's city centre, which spelled trouble for making it back to Umanes in time for dinner.
Fearing the worst, Jim and I opted to remain in Cusco for the night, sending our love and apologies to the group via the other three. An excellent dinner of pepper steak, chicken fingers and cosmically-enabling strawberry daiquiris followed. I'm glad we stayed. When we did return to Umanes the next morning, we were greeted with the grumpiest group of volunteers imaginable. I was disappointed - but not surprised - to find that Joel, Nikki and Bill had indeed been left without dinner or breakfast, and had still been pressured into a full day of work.
Slavery, much?
The rest of the week only served to amplify my volunteering discontentment, as altitude sickness and stomach problems began to take hold. The others did not fare much better, resulting in a leapfrog pattern of visits to the doctor by group members. By mid-week, I had resorted to popping aspirin on a regular basis to alleviate the pains of altitude. Still, making appearances at the digging site in the morning and school in the afternoon were made mandatory. Of course.
I was very much surprised at our students' excitement about their final lesson on Thursday afternoon. Jim, Nikki and I entered the classroom to chants of "ex-am! ex-am!", and pens and test papers were almost immediately ripped out of our hands and distributed by the more impatient of our students. Some were so enthusiastic that they even completed multiple copies of the exam paper, making for a rather difficult grading session afterwards. Sadly, being mobbed by overexcited kids while sick was not the most pleasant of experiences, forcing Jim and I to physically throw one exceptionally disruptive boy out of class. That'll teach him to respect my authority!
With the sickness, grumpiness and general anti-establishment notions that the week had instilled in me, Friday could not come sooner. And when it did, our final day in the village turned out to be as disappointing for me as any other. I awoke reluctantly to sit - sick, cold, bored, and tired - through a speech-filled farewell ceremony. I returned to bed as soon as my presence was no longer obligatory, but my peace was short-lived thanks to a misjudged dogpile involving Dick, Bill, Joel, Nikki, Jim and I that resulted in one very broken bed.
I slept through the night's festivities to awake with dread for our final return to Cusco, where I had been promised a visit to the doctor. Thankfully, I emerged unscathed besides being 150 pesos poorer and having to drink some awful stock-standard anti-bacterial medicine for a week. The medicine lasted about four days before somehow finding its way into the bin.
Our Madventurer-sponsored final dinner at the pleasant Mandela's restaurant was disappointingly, but once again unsurprisingly, short on food. I had great plans to pull an all-nighter with Joel and Nikki, as they were leaving for Lima and home the next morning, but we eventually turned in at about four in the morning. Sleep was sporadic as I was awoken intermittently for goodbyes - first Bill with the Madventurer tour group, then Nikki, and a rather sad and lost farewell to Joel.
And so begins a new chapter!
