Category: Bolivia

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The Atacama Exodus and the famed Chile Border Crossing; Uyuni Day 3

There were no neighbors. Just piles of rocks and holes in the ground. The fart smell of steam, the welcome scent of gas cans in orange pyramids on top of the jeeps. The Atacama Geysers.

This morning was cold, as I mentioned before, and nearly lightless. The geysers that had drawn us out of bed at around 4 a.m. As you can see I was still a little bit punchy.

All the cold and steam and early morning lead up to an amazing sunrise over more wild landscapes.

Driving through the wilds of the Atacama, we were promised a reward of natural hot springs and a delicious breakfast. The hot springs, we were told, had changing rooms built around them to shelter you fromt the wind and cold while you suited up and down. it was a beautiful sight.

The food had been getting better the whole trip. The first day was a little lackluster but had been improving the entire time. Today was no exception, though there is only so much you can do so far from what passes for civilization in Bolivia. From here it was off to the Chilean border. A border crossing that was notorious for not allowing anything resembling food or drink across. Everyone, myself included, was divesting themselves of food items, handing them over to people traveling into Bolivia or just throwing them in the garbage. The border was something of a minimalist statement. Yes, that dot in the distance is a guy on a bicycle. Yes, there are people crazier than me in the world.

For some reason, another girl who had to make the crossing with us thought she could sneak a llama fetus through the border. For a peek of what these look like, check this out. My first impression is that if they are stopping Pringles cans, they may balk at letting dessicated unborn animal carcasses. 😀

The border was pretty tame as far as crossings are concerned, other than waiting around for a while. One thing to note about crossing into Chile, by bus there is no fee. If you are flying into Chile, there are reciprocity fees totaling around $135 USD for a U.S. citizen. Since this whole trip is el cheapo, I’m glad I made it by bus. 🙂

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The Atacama High Desert; Day 2 of Uyuni Tour

It’s cold. The kind of cold that makes you think about what good firewood the bodies of your friends would make. We are all just meat popsicles. I can see my breath in the air in front of computer screen. We had two hours of power earlier from a gas generator somewhere on the premises growling away in the evil night. It was enough to cook some food and drink a toast with our strange band of travelers.

In the predawn flashlight my thermometer reads minus 8 Celsius… inside our hotel room. Yesterday was a picturesque but challenging day.

I first had an inkling of what we were in for when our guide bought a large sweatshirt at a snack stop in the morning. Seriously, the guides will not tell you how cold it is going to be. Our guide did warn us about the elevation; which in itself is no joke. 5000 meters above sea level is the real deal. Most of us had coca leaves and catalyst to chew on to alleviate some of the effects and I had some elevation sickness medication as well.

Even with all this it was quite easy to be short of breath after a short run, people were burning from the sunshine relatively quickly, and the cold was bitter even in full sunlight as there was little protection from the wind. For both sun and wind protection, I resort to bandanas. Again. I would encourage anyone traveling anywhere to bring several bandanas.

We did get to see some amazing rock sculptures while truckign through the desert. It really was this beautiful.

The rest of the day was less impressive to the color impaired people on the trip. We spent a large remainder of the day visiting lagoons of varied colors (red, green, blue, brown, silver, etc) and looking at the flamingoes that were indigenous to each pond.

Parts of the trip truly felt like another planet; As if we were stranded on another planet. Nothing but odd tracks through the rocks for as far as the eye could see. This is not a place to explore on your own unless you are insanely well prepared… and insane. Trust me, stay on the barely beaten path for Atacama and Uyuni.

Now preparing to leave the negative 8 hotel for the last day of our Atacama Uyuni tour, I am glad that I’ll be heading on to Chile instead of trying to make the entire return drive in one day, as many of my compatriots will be doing later.

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Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia

All night bus rides have become something of a specialty of mine. So has getting ripped off.

Luckily, when leaving La Paz for the second time, my wonderful hosts gave me yet another piece of superlative advice. If you go to the bus terminal and buy your bus ticket for Uyuni there, instead of paying for the “tourist bus” you will only pay about 100 Bolivianos (I paid 90) instead of over 200B and you will ride on the same bus in the same seating as the tourist ticket holders. This is a common theme, and if you get upset by it you are only wasting energy. Everyone everywhere in Latin America will charge you more for being foreign, just try to avoid the sincere rip-offs like this one.

Waking up on a bus with the sun leering brightly in and me peering blearily out has become something of a common morning for me. Today is no different. At first glance, Uyuni appears to be something of a hole… a loose conglomeration of hovels and poorly maintained streets.

At second glance, it appears the same way.

In fact, Uyuni truly is a place you don’t want to spend much time. Thus I got to moving. Within two hours of landing in the city I had spoken to over ten travel agencies, picked up three stray Belgians, booked us all a stellar trip through the Salar de Uyuni and the Atacama desert, and was on my way to find breakfast. Highlights as follows:

  1. All tour agencies only want your money.
  2. All tour agencies will lie to you.
  3. You can get it cheaper… but you might sacrifice something.

There seems to be a floor price of about 500 Bolivianos for a decent 3 day tour from Uyuni. Believe me when I say that below that, the bottom really falls out. 600B is a solid average price, though you can pay a bit more and get less people in the jeep with you.

Fair warning: if you are looking to pay less than that, you may likely get some amazing story to go along with your tour… like one of these:

  • 8 flat tires and running out of gas three times
  • No drinking water provided for a three day trip through the desert
  • Wheels falling off the jeep while it is in motion

These all actually happened to people I met down there. Another key point for enjoyment of the Salar tours is the guide. I offer this advice, speak to your guide personally before you pay. Every agency told me they had English speaking guides, but only two would actually let me speak to them before we paid. Of the many jeeps we encountered while on the tour, almost none had an English speaking guide even when the entire jeep was filled with people who only spoke English.

Do not eat at a cheap restaurant in Uyuni. After I had eaten, I walked down the street and chatted with some other travelers at a less pricey looking restaurant. As I sat and chatted with them, one of their group came back from the bathroom with this story:

The waitress in the ladies bathroom was busy unclogging a toilet by hand. thereafter, she simply wiped her hands on her apron and walked straight back into the kitchen.

Everyone at that table put down their forks immediately. Springing a bit for a better meal is usually a good idea everywhere in Bolivia, but still does not guarantee clean food. Use your head, and take appropriate measures should you get sick.

Quick recap on the city of Uyuni:

  1. Shop around. Get a good price around 500-600B.
  2. Verify you are getting a guide who speaks your language.
  3. Don’t skimp on food if you eat there.
  4. Get the heck out of Uyuni as fast as possible.

All things aside, Uyuni did provide some interesting photo opportunities.

I was in the city of Uyuni a total of about 4 hours. I wouldn’t recommend anyone take longer than that. Once our tour got underway, we headed straight for an old train graveyard. You might think this sounds boring, but all you need is an imagination and a camera and you can entertain yourself for hours.

A great deal of the landscape looked like the Southwestern United States…

This was just a brief stop to get everyone warmed up. After the trains, we swung back through the city to pick up our cook. That’s right, most tours will include a cook to prepare all your meals for you on the trip. While none of it was as good as the food on the Pampas tour outside Rurre, it was generally quite palatable and filling.

The key to really enjoying this tour, as with may others, is getting a good group of individuals together. I had a blast with one of my travel mates, Tim, and was largely eschewed by the other two in the jeep. It will make all the difference in the world, especially when going through the Salar where much of the photography requires coordinated and imaginative group interaction. If you don’t believe me, google “salar de uyuni photos” and take a look at what some people have cooked up. It is astounding. My photos of the Salar have a unpolished appeal as well.

At the end of the first day we found ourselves rolling off the Salar and into rocks where we saw a great sunset and found a wild building made entirely of salt… with some interesting choices in decoration…

In places like this, electricity is a luxury. While the showers were heated by gas, the “hotel” only had 2 hours of electricity per night run off of a generator. There was a power strip in the lobby that everyone was expected to charge camera batteries and things off of. This gave me the perfect opportunity to use my light socket current tap to charge electrics in the privacy of my own room.

All in all, the Salt Hotel was novel and comfortable. One thing to note: when they tell you that breakfast is at 7… you need to set your own alarm. The guide will not wake you up until it’s time to leave. The second day of the trip goes up to ridiculous heights of around and over 5000 meters above sea level. More on this later…

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Rurrenebaque and Bolivian Magic

Rurrenebaque is the best part of Bolivia. Aside from dynamite, because dynamite is just all around excellent.

This includes the surrounding jungles and is, of course, a sweeping generalization. Getting to Rurrenebaque is rather easy from La Paz if you are willing to invest either the time or money; 20 hours on a bus, or$ 60-75 USD for the plane. Two companies fly on specific days, TAM and Amaszonas, and are often canceled due to weather so Amaszonas is your best bet, with 4 flights daily, if you are on a tight schedule. Their office address is not listed in the Lonely Planet, but they have English speaking staff and are located at 1649 Avenia Saavendras in the Miraflores district.

The plane is something of a flying machine with egg crate seats inside one seat to each side of the tiny aisle with no head or leg room. Luckily it is barely an hour flight. Getting off the plane at the “airport,” read as large grass field, was a very rewarding experience. Leaving the cold and altitude of La Paz for the blessed warmth and 300 meter elevation of Rurre was enough to put a smile on my face. The fact that there were almost zero taxis as well was even better. Grab the Amaszonas shuttle into town for 6 bolivianos; the mototaxis are madmen and everyone knows two men on the same motorcycle are gay.

Once you get into town, have a blast! As soon as I arrived in Rurre, I took off to find a hostel and a tour group. Walking through town I saw many questionable places to stay, but just as many that had beautiful courtyards, perfectly clean rooms and hot water. If you get off the bus and take a left, walking due west, you will get to the only park in town. I stayed across that park at Hostel Oriental. Nice place, all in all.

After I checked in to my room, I came out front to ask the owner about tour companies. Instead, I met the second Argentinian I had ever encountered; Evelyn.

After some brief conversation with the owner of the hotel, the two of us decided to take off and go for a hike to one of the miradors overlooking the jungle and city. It wasn’t a cakewalk. The hike was it’s own reward and the view was quite nice. At the top, we ran into a couple of German girls, Monique and Anika, and decided with strength in numbers to go hunting a tour into the wild for the following day.

Rurrenebaque is not an easy town to get lost in. It is a grid, and though many things look the same, there are landmarks you will quickly come to recognize. Maps are available in nearly every hotel and tour agency, of which there are many! Take your time and walk around the town talking to every tour agency you find. You will quickly memorize the schpiel, as it is the same everywhere, and just get down to prices. Dolphin Tours is located very near the only bank in town. We managed to land a decent price of 400 Bolivianos per person for the full tour package with food, water, transport, etc; the same thing every other agency was offering for a bit more money. Prices can vary wildly, so check around.

There are almost no cars in Rurre. However, there is an absolute flurry of motorcycle traffic on every street. Motorcycles are available for rent from several different Mototaxi booths around town, recognizable by the thatched roofs and dozens of small displacement bikes in various stages of disrepair sitting underneath them. The key to getting around Rurre is either walking or renting a motorcycle; you can get one for about 20 Bolivianos an hour, or 150 Bolivianos for a full day.

Check the brakes first.

Then the horn and lights.

Seriously.

Take an afternoon or three and get up to the swimming pool mirador above the city. It’s a walk, or a rather sketchy motorcycle ride. Taking a bike up or down that “road” is not for the faint of heart. Once you are there, though, it is lovely. Evelyn and I spent the rest of the day just hanging out above town and finally retired to get ready for the Pampas tour the next day.

Punctuality is not a Latin American strong point. Don’t sweat it. Our tour left an hour or so behind schedule, riding out of town in a jeep that looked like it had seen better days. We knew we were in for a three hour jeep ride. We didn’t realize just how much shakin would be going on. The first half of the ride, we all spoke and laughed with one another, until the ride started to shake the teeth out of our mouths and we grew silent. After a while, even the thoughts were shaken out of our heads and we all became zombies. Towards the end it shook the very life out of our bodies and everyone just passed out.

When we arrived at the park entrance, we sat around and stared at one another as brains came back online. I had expected to be dripping sweat and swatting at mosquitoes, but the day was warm and a mild breeze came in from the waters and tempered the warmth of the sun. There were almost no mosquitoes and everything seemed perfect. We traded the jeeps for longboats with outboard motors and slid into the waters like vipers.

Erick our guide spoke near perfect English, if a little slowly. The ride through the Pampas was a godsend; warm sun, lovely breeze, amazing colors and wildlife. I had been waiting for that ride for a very long time. We stopped on the bank at one point and squirrel monkeys came out of everywhere. Not once, but twice one of the monkeys climbed up on top of my head and hung out. We drove past a few different encampments and finally arrived at ours and there was a large cayman sitting securely in the middle of the area. And as we pulled the longboat up onto the shore, another large cayman shot out from under the front of the boat as we ran over it in the shallows.

The food was delicious. That night we went to another building nearby and talked, joked, made duck faces with Pringles, and watched la puesta del sol.

The morning came eeeaaarlyyyyy. We woke around 4:30 and shuffled out to the longboat. I had slept fully clothed and under a mosquito net. The boat slipped into the water with allt he noise our 6 h.p. engine could muster, breaking the near crystal placidity of the water and air of the Pampas.

There was barely light to see the trees lining the banks, luckily for us, Erick knew the waterways well. Eventually, we entered a small lagoon where another boat was already silently floating. Erick positioned us and cut the engines, using the emergency backup plan, an oar, to put fine tuning on the boats relation to the sunrise.

I have been largely very lucky in my random assortment of tourmates. This morning is no exception, of the 7 members of our tour group, not one is antisocial or out of place. We all have a great time chatting, joking, and waiting for our own private Inti Raymi. The stillness off the water reflects the dawn into our eyes with startling effect. Even as the river life around us stirs into action we are silent; praising the coming of the dawn. I even forget to keep swatting at mosquitoes.

Minutes stretched by and we just sat and listened and absorbed the world made new around us. Erick eventually pulled the engine back to life and broke the spell. We were all quite hungry. Breakfast came in a splendid fashion and afterward we were all off to a special part of the river: to swim with dolphins.

In the Amazon, one of the few places these amazing freshwater dolphins exist, they are the ultimate force. Dolphins hunt cayman, eat pirhana, they simply dominate everything. There are parts of the river where it deepens and the dolphins tend to congregate and kill off other would be predators. How did the guides learn what parts of the river was safe? By jumping in. If they made it back out, chances were it would be a decent swimming spot.

Once we pulled up into the lagoon, I was the first one in the water. Not because I was brave, just tired of waiting. The water was cool and lovely, and I was swimming for a few moments when I felt something glide across the bottoms of my feet. Part of my brain started calculating the distance back to the boat and waited for the first bite. It never came.

Others jumped in the water soon thereafter and other than a glimpse or dorsal fins and blowholes from several meters away and repeated swipes at the bottoms of my feet, I didn’t get much face time with the dolphins. On the upside, I also didn’t lose any digits to less friendly water creatures. I think that’s a net win.

The rest of the day was planned for Anaconda Hunting, an activity I am told is rather fruitless and uncomfortable. The Alliance, we few who booked our trip together, had sought to avoid this particular brand of unpleasantness and had booked a return trip to Rurre with another group a day earlier than our current compatriots. After arriving in the pampas, I was a little sad that I had cut this trip short, it was just that beautiful, but I was on a short schedule to make it to Buenos Aires and if even one thing went wrong, I would miss my necessary arrival date. Cutting the pampas short by a day was a way of giving myself a little cushion. The one thing I did miss out on, which I am sad I missed, was pirhana fishing.

The ride back was lovely. The strangers occupying the forward seats in the boat were smoking pot and chatting amiably amongst themselves. I just sat back and enjoyed every second of the amazing boat ride. Even as I write this, some weeks later, this is still one of my fondest memories of all the geography of the Americas.

The ride back to Rurre in the jeep was near identical to the ride out to the Pampas. Once back in town we all took off for the hostel and a hot shower! It had only been a couple of days, but it was a very welcome treat. Evelyn spent the remains of the day at the Mirador pool while I ran around on motorcycles and tried to get some laundry done at the #1 Laundry.

What does it take to be #1? Apparently not much as they lost my favorite bandana and replaced it with a pair of small knit gloves. Either the laundry in Bolivia is as poorly functioning as nearly everything else, or they have some magical new technology that can fabricate new clothes on-the-fly out of old clothes.

With a day left to kill in Rurre, I set off to explore the town a bit more, again choosing to rent a motorcycle. The gentleman who agreed to rent me his bike asked me to prove I could ride it first. I followed him a short distance to a road and jumped on the bike. I ripped off with all the fury of a 125cc engine and quickly reached third gear, maybe 40 mph, before I realized that a large section of the road simply was not there. I grabbed the front brakes and they collapsed to the post. Nothing.

Panic is not an option at that point, so I just jumped on the rear brake and luckily it engaged and i left a wonderful fishtail swipe down the road, letting off the brake and straightening the bike  just before it and i pitched off the embankment through dirt and mud before bouncing off the half constructed road and up on to pavement again where I could stop the bike with the rear brake effectively.

When I finally circled back around to the owner of the bike, he was still laughing. He smelled drunk. he laughed and laughed and eventually sputtered the Spanish equivalent of ‘That was awesome!’  before he produced a small wrench from his pocket and adjusted the connection to the front brakes again so they would engage again. He had disconnected them on purpose. As a joke. Seriously.

Rurre was lovely; at night, during the day, whenever, the weather was deliriously good and the people were unique. If you are ever in Bolivia, make it a point to go there. I can’t really explain how great it felt to be out in the middle of nowhere after being caught up in the feeling of a big city like La Paz. The freedom of so much nature was refreshing and inspiring. It is times like these that remind me that travel and experience is a good thing. That we wander for a while to collect new sights, flavors, ways of thinking, and impressions of mankind and his relationship to other men and the world… so that we can bring all this back to our family, or own country, and refresh old ideas… remove what has grown stagnant and enliven our relationships with people and with the world around us. This is worthwhile. This is it’s own reward.

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La Paz, Bolivia

I have heard from many people what a nice city this is. Then upon further probing, everyone seems to say they thought it would be a rathole and it turned out to be decent. I came into it the same way.

Let me tell you, you may not want to spend extended amounts of time in this city, but if you are here between stops, take a couple days and look around. I rode llamas, witnessed indiginous people versus riot police, discovered new foods, made great new friends, and wondered what in the hell was going on around me at least 4 times a day. That last one could have had something to do with the altitude. The altitude here is no joke at over 3600 meters above sea level; be ready for it.

I also know almost nothing about lodging in this city as I had a wonderful couple hosting me and giving me ideas of things to go do everyday. Eventually, La Paz became a cross between a playground and a transport hub for me. I wasn’t blown away by it, but I did enjoy my time. Here are some fun photo highlights.

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Cocaine, the Peruvian Police, and bus companies that Suck!

Never, ever, ride with the Litoral bus company. Also, please plan ahead when attempting a border crossing. Details as follows.

In the lobby at Loki I caught a glimpse of possible one of the most unique faces I have ever seen. I remembered it from the thermal baths near Machu Pichu, both Mauricio and I were staring and trying to figure out what part of the world she was from. Turns out she is Finnish.

Irja is a hippie. Pure and simple free spirited loverly and ready with a great smile at the drop of a hat… And she can curse with the best of them.

Irja and I were both heading for Bolivia at 10 p.m. but to different cities with different bus companies. Unfortunately, no one bought tickets for her bus to Copacabana, so another company, Litoral, bought those passengers from them and then double booked a staggering amount of seats on my bus leading to mass confusion and turpitude. Irja played Rosa Parks and refused to leave her seat when the completely inept Litoral worker told her to move to another seat. I was active-aggressive, if there is such a thing. I followed the Litoral workers around harassing them until they situated everyone properly and had seats for each person and had loaded their bags. This did NOT endear me to them. This becomes important later.

As with most night buses, there are two drivers who alternate sleeping and driving. This particular bus had a man and woman which I hadn’t seen before. All night we slept fitfully in a bouncing jungle of speed-bumps, dirt roads, and checkpoints. Towards early morning, Irja and a number of other people debarked to connect to Copacabana and points beyond. I feel it important to reiterate here, that I was not one of them.

Continuing on, we reached the border of Peru and Bolivia around mid-morning. I knew this was going to be a bit troublesome and I was ready for it. Or so I thought.

The line to get checked out of Peru was not short; probably around 200 people when I joined the queue. This part went as expected; slow and routine. I must also say that the Peruvian side of the border had the most organized moneychanging operations I have seen at a latin American boder crossing. A number of people seated at desks under sun umbrellas simply waiting for people to come to them; not ONE person yelled “Cambio!” at me. When attempting to cross the official border, I was stopped by the Peruvian Police and asked to come in to their offices for a “random” security screening to ensure I wasn’t smuggling cocaine. This involved them sifting through my daypack (my main pack still being on the bus) and emptying all my pockets to check me for illicit substances. Eventually, they were satisfied that I was not a coke mule or carrying explosives and they helped me put all my belongings back together and ushered me out.

While walking to the Bolivian area, I swung by a stand to grab something to drink and reached in my pocket to pay for it. This is when I noticed that I was the equivalent of about $30 USD short on money. Money that the Peruvian Police had counted about 5 minutes ago. I wheeled about and walked back to ask “WTF” and was answered with “We have guns.” Classy.

Not thrilled about this I marched over to Bolivia to get signed in and get the hell out of Peru. I know it is hard for people from the U.S.A. to enter Bolivia. This is due to a few different reasons:

  1. The U.S. makes it difficult and costly to obtain a Visa.
  2. Political ties to Venezuela and Brazil
  3. It means more money for the Country.

Currently it costs $135 USD for a U.S. Citizen to enter Bolivia for up to 90 days. Since the ATMs in Latin America also disperse dollars in $20 increments, I paid my attending officer $140 and asked for change. I was told to go across the street and make photocopies of my passport for their records. After doing so I came back and supplied the officer with papers and again asked for my change of $5. He then directed me to another room for a stamp and finalization. I walked there with him for the conclusion of formalities and spoke with another officer to get my stamps finalized. Once this was finished, I cast about for the first officer and he was gone. When I asked officer number 2 for my change he said I would have to go talk to the other guy. The door was locked and I was quickly ushered out of the building by a nearby guard. It was around this time, while heftily cursing thieving bastards that I realized my bus was nowhere to be seen.

This is just a small reminder from the Universe that there is always a bigger problem ahead, so stop freaking out. When I asked some of the locals taking part in the Latin American all time favorite sport of standing-around-in-the-street, a couple of them pointed to a white bus perhaps a mile away rounding a bend out of sight. Remember, the frequency with which I am told the truth in Latin America is something akin to the number of times a Playmate spontaneously combusts during a breast augmentation operation in Antactia. Sure it might happen, but don’t hold your breath. This in mind, it is time to assess options:

  • Believe the men in the street and freak out
  • Don’t believe them and go look for the bus
  • Hire a collectivo to take me to La Paz and try to find my bag with the agency when I get there
  • Take matters into hand immediately with the help of a questionably sane taxi driver

I went with the last option. I grabbed the closest bicycle taxi and I told him to get me to a car taxi as fast as possible. When he did, I told the taxi driver, his tongue lolling out in the head offsetting one lazy eye, to get me to the Litoral bus as fast as possible. This may have been a mistake.

If you know anything about physics, you know there is a certain point at which some vehicles become inhibited by their own inherently poor aerodynamic nature and simply cannot produce the power to move faster in teh face of air resistance; this is referred to as drag limited. I believe that a similar phenomenon exists in such places as Alabama and Latin America, however it has something to do with the frequency and quality with which a vehicle is serviced; we will call this principle “Mechanic Limited. It is my firm belief that it is because of this rule of physic that I am alive today.

The engine of his Toyosa station wagon (yes, I said Toyosa) screamed and cried; thrashing at it’s mortal bonds like Cerebrus in chains. Hurtling down the freeway in the back of a station wagon of indeterminable age, as the cabin began to fill with fumes, I looked around for a seatbelt and found it. Unfortunately, the clips to attach the seat belt to had been removed or destroyed long ago. Mercifully, the brakes work as the taxi driver pulls up to the first police blockade on the highway. Yelling out the window, my max charioteer informs the police that my bus left me in the dust and asks him to radio ahead to the next police officers and make them stop the bus. The Officer answers in the affirmative, and raises the gate so we can once again attempt to commit suicide by speed.

A solid 10 minutes of terror follow as the engine screams and emits Sisyphean smells of torment and suffering and cows, children, and adults fly by uncomfortably close to the paint on our side of the road. Finally, somewhere in the distance a shape becomes noticeable. The Bolivian National Police have stopped the bus and are holding it until I get there and can rejoin my fellow travelers and, more importantly, my backpack.

Upon our arrival, the car shoked and the engine ceased, I couldn’t see if the driver did it on purpose or not. He quotes me a price in Bolivianos which means absolutely nothing to me as I have none and have only been in the country for less than an hour. I offer him $5 US and he hesitates. Reaching in my back pocket to get my $5 bill out, I suddenly remember that particular currency is not at my disposal anymore thanks to the dutiful border police earlier. My only monetary recourse is a $20 bill. The driver is elated, and I am a little upset as teh bus ticket only cost me $18 to begin with.

Mounting the bus, I spare only a stiff middle finger for the two bus operators before heading back to my seat. I am met with a chorus of voices telling me that they had asked the drivers to stop, but the drivers insister I had already left the bus earlier at Copacabana. I don’t know who to believe and I don’t care. I know that being aggravated with the drivers will net me absolutely nothing. I iPod aided silence, I wait.

Upon arrival at the La Paz bus terminal, once I have my bag safely in hand again, I pause to ensure that the drivers receive yet another finger from me before I head inside. Now to find the Litoral office, explain what happened and ask for a $20 refund to cover my taxi fees.

Not suprisingly, when I explain the situation to the woman at the counter, her response is to call me drivea liar. When I ask her to call the drivers in question that are inexplicably unable to be reached. She tells me I am welcome to wait in the chairs in the terminal. I decline and stand at her counter. When she continues to insist I walk away, I simply sit down at her counter window with my bags and turn on my iPod again. The next several people who walk up to the window over the next 2 hours or so, I breifly explain all I have witnessed in the last day and they go elsewhere to buy tickets.

The ticket lady begins yelling and threatening to call the police, which I encourage her to do. She makes no move for the phone, explaining that she does not have the equivalent of $20 to reimburse me. She continues to try to shoo me away, even resorting to calling me “malo’ and “malo turisto” or “bad tourist” in much the way one would shoo away a stray dog. At long last, an argentinian man and his girlfriend come up and agree to buy tickets in USD, removing the latst arrow from ticket lady’s quiver.

One often hears that it is important to have photocopies of all important documents. This is one of many reasons why. Ticket Lady tells me she must have a photocopy of my passport for her records in order to issue a refund. She then directs me down a nearby street where I can get photocopies made, assuring me that she will wait for my return. Her face when I pulled out the requested photocopy from my bag was laughable. Quickly asserting that she needed one she could keep, I told her she could keep it, writing the requisite information on the back of the paper, handed it to her and received a $20 bill for all my hard work. 3 hours of sitting on the floor in a bus station netted me barely above the U.S. minimum wage for my time. Smiling like a champion, I grabbed a taxi and took off for my friends’ house in la Paz.

Quick recap of the lessons learned here:

  1. Make friends with someone on the bus so they will ensure the driver waits for you
  2. Organize your belongings the day of a border crossing
  3. Count your money before crossing the border so you know exactly how much you have
  4. You CAN get your money back… you just have to be a bad tourist.