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.