Beware of the last bus

While the weekend in Cochabamba was highly enjoyable and quite interesting, the highlight of the trip was actually the bus ride, both to and from Bolivia’s third largest city. I’ll take a few minutes later to write about the stuff I actually did and the food I ate, but this session is devoted entirely to the transit turmoil.

The way to CBA is your typical, detestable 7-hour bus ride: dirty, creaky, infested with crying babies and body odor, packed to the hilt (including a filthy, white dog named Violetta). And a kung fu movie from Thailand, which, no joke, featured the best and only tuk-tuk chase scene I’ve ever watched (see left for a tuk-tuk) . At first I thought the movie was just to help pass the remaining four hours, but I soon realized it’s true purpose is to distract you from the treacherous, narrow, winding road through the mountains that your big, double decker bus is trying to navigate in pitch black darkness.

But, the experience was mildly worth it – everything from the La Paz bus terminal where bus companies hire people to yell their destinations at you, to the random $2Bs extra fee you pay to get to where the buses depart, to the vendors who hop on and off the bus during your journey to sell drinks, snacks and ice cream. It’s almost like being in a moving baseball stadium. Almost.

After the kung fu movie ended, I tried to look out the front to see the road, but the oncoming trailer trucks, the freaky cliff drop to the left, and the way the bus clunked on the severe curves (the same way my old Nissan did when the mechanics told me my axle was about to snap) all made me a little nervous, so I opted to watch the sky. Good move – I quickly became enamored with the all the stars, and it was as though I’d never really seen the night sky before; the way it’s deepness opens up over the mountains; the Southern Cross; how stars sprinkle light upon the landscape … Unfortunately, I think the magic of the moment was lost on my travel companion, Orieta, who was understandably suffering from motion sickness. I, however, dozed off with the pinpricked image of the sky in my head....

And then there was the return trip.

We booked ourselves on the last “red eye” bus out of CBA at 9:30 p.m. (This is a highly important piece of information and you should remember to never, ever, ever take the last bus. Ever. )

The trip started out deceptively normal. Crowded terminal, people yelling, full bus, crying babies, smelly bodies, dirty dogs. But after we left the terminal, our bus paused just before turning onto the street and a few more people got on. Except that there weren’t any seats for them and they sat in the aisle. Now, my first reaction was, oooo that SUCKS to sit there for the next 7 hours. But the other people around me were annoyed and they started to call out the window, “We’re full, you can’t pack people in like this. Let’s get going!”

So, away we went … until the bus paused again and then again in other parts of town, where there were (I kid you not) at least 50 more people waiting, all with gigantic and heavy bags, suitcases and packs. Most of them were poor, indigenous background and in “chola” dress, with their babies strapped to their backs in colorful blankets. And the fun began. The people who paid full price were outraged – and they really started to yell. “It’s not safe! You can’t put more people on this bus! Get moving! Go!” They were yelling out the windows, they were getting up and yelling down to the door, they were riling each other up. Whoa. Being a little naïve, I started thinking, oh what’s the big deal? These are poor people who need to get back home and this is the last bus (I told you that was important info). And then I started thinking about an overcrowded, overweight, overstuffed, double decker bus rushing around the violent curves of the mountain road. And I decided that I would prefer not to die on a bus in a mountain crash in Bolivia.

Orieta went down to see what was going on and came back to tell me that the driver was drunk and was actually packing people and their stuff into the baggage hold under the bus! And that three months earlier, a bus had gone off the road because it was overweight for the same reasons and more than 20 people died. Fabulous. Now, the aisles were more full, people were calling the police, Orieta told me to start taking photos out the window to document, and everyone decided that when the bus arrived at the toll booth, we’d yell for the police and get the driver to stop.

Which is what we did. So the bus pulled over, we got out and found ourselves faced not only with the driver and the solitary police officer, but with another 20 or people who wanted to get on our bus. I started snapping photos of the bus license plate and the bus, which angered the Indians because they thought I was taking pictures of them. Luckily, they were quickly distracted by all the bellowing around the police officer.

I’ve never experienced anything quite like it – the yelling started out about the safety issue. Then it turned low-blow, an outlet for pent-up anger and frustration, just plain ugly. One woman shrieked that this was her country and even though she was poor, she had a right to be on the bus – which didn’t go over well, since nearly everyone else on the bus was also Bolivian-born. Others were howling for respect, others for fairness. In this one evening, I felt the fuel that has caused Bolivia to experience more coups than any other South American country, that causes the thick line dividing rich from poor to burst into flames. No wonder, then, that a poverty-born, coca leaf grower, Aymara man named Evo Morales was elected president of the country.

Back at the toll booth, the vein-popping, face-reddening screaming continued to escalate and then a man started to yell out “Let’s blockade the bus! We can block the bus right here, form a line of people to blockade! Blockade! Blockade!”

Oh, please, no.

The next thing I knew, we were being herded back on the bus, still with the yelling all around. I heard some woman scream out about “La china” (me) taking photos and some other woman came over to kick me in the back of the legs. Which was rather ineffective and I just looked right at her quizzically. She didn’t have anything to say, so I just gave her a disgusted look and boarded. The police officer came through to make sure that everyone actually had a seat (although he made a few exceptions). And when he left, the second, sober driver snuck a few people into the bottom of the bus. I rationalized with the butterflies in my stomach that at least the aisles weren’t completely packed.

Needless to say, the stars didn’t exactly provide the same relaxation as the first trip. Times like these, I’m so glad that I believe in a God who listens. I was praying like crazy, but figured that the Jesus guy who calmed the wind, rain, and sea could probably get me back to La Paz. I eventually settled into a restless sleep that was interrupted by the periodic snoring snorts of the old woman across the aisle, the oncoming trucks that honk at you just to double check that you know they’re coming, and the bumps of the road sections that aren’t paved.

After dumping our stowaways and all their luggage out of the bus a block from the bus terminal, we had finally made it to La Paz and hurried into the first cab available … only to find that our cab driver was more than a little drunk and babbled the whole way about Venezuela, how much he pays for gas, and how he doesn’t fight with his wife. Oddly enough, the ride didn’t seem any less spastic or horrifying than a normal taxi ride with a sober driver in La Paz rush hour. At 5:37 a.m., I finally crumbled into bed, safe and sound.

After that, a ride down the Road of Death next weekend should be a cakewalk.