|
2 day Transit Visa |
This story has been told in part but never
as a whole. At the time, February 2008,
I could not process or appreciate how chaotically, confusionally (yep I made
that word up) and yet, perfectly and poetically these events unfolded. Let’s
start nearly a year earlier with a random conversation that resulted in the
tale I plan to tell. To confirm the accuracy of the title I ran into Justin at
lunch a few weeks ago and he and I have totally different versions of what
happened at the Argentina/Paraguay border.
Justin Kirkham and I went to High School together. We ran around in the same group of friends
but truthfully it was a 9 or 10 degrees of separation type thing. I would never call him or vice versa but if
the right mix of people decided to go rabbit hunting or to a party we’d hang
out. No ill will between us just not the best of friends. I didn't talk to him
for about 10 years after graduation. Then through happenstance our paths crossed
through work. We’d run into each other
at events, exchange pleasantries, make fun of our mutual friends, but little
more than that. When I decided to quit
my job and drive the Pan Am, I graciously gave my boss 6 months’ notice. Yeah I
really just wanted to finish our FY07 so I could collect a bonus and have some
more cash but it also gave me time to prepare.
Word spread about my plans and Justin caught wind of it. At an event in
August we ran into each other and he started to pick my brain about what I was
doing. He had been to Paraguay on an LDS mission and had returned a few times.
He said “I want come join you when you get there so I can see the more remote
areas I haven’t seen in 15 years.” I thought “sure I hear that all the time and
you are just an acquaintance. Nothing will come of this.” Well January rolled around and I was starting to make plans
for my friend J to join me for a trip through Chile. I can’t remember if I
reached out to Justin or the other way around but I do remember emailing him
something to the effect ‘If you can get to La Paz, Bolivia by Feb 18, I’d love
to have you join me.’ Fast forward 6 weeks and I was picking Justin up at the
terminal in El Alto, Bolivia. I was
pretty unsure exactly how the next few days, hours, weeks would unfold. Or in
our case, unravel. Truth be told I wasn't quite sure about myself or my
friendship with him.
Let’s look at me. I hadn't spoken
to a native English speaker since leaving Panama three months earlier. I spoke
almost entirely in Spanish for most of Colombia and all of Ecuador. In Peru I’d
stumbled across a few tourists but rarely more than a ‘hey, how are you?’ was
exchanged. I’d been by myself in my car since early December and aside from Ben
joining me for 16 days in Central American I’d been alone for over 4
months. The need for intimate and
meaningful conversation was one of the more difficult challenges I faced over
the six months I was on the road. My attempts at Spanish improved greatly and I
could get along quite well with my limited vocabulary if the topics centered
around where I’d come from, where I was going, ordering food or checking into a
cheap motel. I could rarely add any depth beyond that because the conversation
would always digress into explaining words I didn’t know, or me lacking that
one word to advance it. And then Justin
arrived. As mentioned we were friends
but adulthood had made us more like acquaintances. I had no idea if we’d have
anything to talk about. If things go stressful how would we react? It was a big
question mark.
The route from downtown La Paz to
the airport was miserably congested and not the slightest bit safe so I left
Ruby Claire in the hotel parking lot and took a taxi. El Alto sits at the foot
of the Andes near 14k feet. So when Justin arrived he was instantly out of
breath. I’d been above 12k feet for almost a month and had acclimatized by that
point. We returned to the hotel with the
hope of hitting the road shortly thereafter.
Justin abused our taxi driver with questions in his fluent Spanish and I
was instantly relieved to have him in the truck with me. After a painfully long call with ATT Global
Blackberry support to try and figure out why my data service wasn't working we
hit the road. It took us nearly an hour to get out of La Paz because of the
horrendous El Alto traffic. Once free of the stress I opened my mouth in English
and couldn't shut up. We made the trip down to the disgusting Oruro rather
quickly and I still couldn't stop talking. The dude in the car with me spoke
English. I couldn't contain myself.
After negotiating barricades of burning tires and loosely piled rocks we
hit the dirt road south toward the famously beautiful Salar de Uyuni. This is where our two weeks of hilarity and
confusion began.
|
The metropolis of Huari, Bolivia |
The town of Huari, Bolivia is the
anomaly in a country of exquisite natural beauty, oppressive squalor and
disgusting apathy. The cobble stone streets are swept perfectly clean. Fresh
paint covered each and every building in town.
It felt like a movie set and not reality. I lost my way from the main
route through town, there we turned a corner and spotted a red bearded Gringo
sporting a KC Royals hat. I locked up
the brakes and rolled down my window. He
beat me to a witty greeting “how the hell did you get that thing here from
Utah” After a lengthy conversation we discovered he was there with the Peace
Corp and there was another member in Huari. Even more unbelievable all Peace
Corp volunteers in the region were in town and meeting that night for dinner. Huari was the last town we’d see before the
Salar so we decided to check into the $8/night motel and have dinner with them. 2 hours later I’m sitting around a table with
7 other Americans. All of them were thinking, but none had the courage and/or
courtesy to say. “Who is this bald guy and why won’t he shut the hell up?” Yeah
I had diarrhea of the mouth. I had a shotgun approach to my questions. Get as
many out as I could and without boundaries.
I was asking them, especially the cute ones, why they’d joined the Peace
Corp, what were there motivations, did they really think they were making a
difference, about their families back home. I couldn't shut up. It was an
instinctive reaction. Not only could I talk to these people but I could
actually communicate with them. It was amazing. We discovered that Huari was
the home of the regional Cervezaria and in exchange for their water, the
company agreed to maintain the town’s infrastructure. It was close to a movie set in that it was
all fake. People were paid to maintain the town, not something the locals did
out of pride. Unfortunately dinner ended
and we said our goodbyes. Justin and I returned to our room just a few doors
down from the restaurant. Our unheated, unlit, un-plumbed room with the 5’ high
door had turned bitter cold in the Altiplano twilight. As I returned from using the communal
bathroom, a bucket in the corner of the courtyard, I ran into Lacey. (I have her
last name written down somewhere) She was a Fulbright scholar studying gender
roles in native Andean cultures. Oh and she was hot. I ended up talking, more listening this time,
to her for about an hour as the stars came out. When I finally decided to go to
bed it was in the high 20s and I was exhausted from a long day of not shutting
up and mental stimulation I hadn't experienced in months.
The next morning on the way out of the motel Justin slammed
the diminutive door and shattered the window.
We apologized to the owner and gave her money for the replacement. The
Salar de Uyuni lie just a few hours south and one the iconic places I’d dreamed
about for years was close at hand. The
drive was short and fast and before long we were following the local guide out
onto the salt flat toward the Salt Hotel.
Oh and guess what we found along the way. A bunch of Americans
again. An 80 full of friends from
Seattle mentioned how miserable their trip had been going and wished they could
join us. We persuaded them to shoot some action shots of us bombing across the
reflective surface. At the hotel the
typical Land Cruiser conversation ensued with the local guide. He was driving a
3F (carb’d) powered FJ62 and told me how much he envied my coil springs and
motor. Then he started dropping mechanic Spanish on me. I asked him to slow down
and Justin to translate to figure out what he was talking about. I pulled my
FSM so we could point at pictures and try and diagnose first, what he was saying,
and second if I could help him fix it. I’m still not sure he understood what I was
saying, despite pulling out my spare and showing it to him but I think he had
an issue with a relay. I can hear some of you laughing now, ‘you helped him
with electrical issues? Yeah right.’ I was probably way off base with my
diagnosis but it was my best guess.
I’ve written about the Salar more
than once so no need to rehash it here but the place is impossible to describe
and just as difficult to process. The mind and body can’t make apply any logic
to the sensory overload. It’s amazing and truly one of a kind place. The key is the elevation. It’s the element
that changes everything and causes so much of the confusion. Cold as hell but
instantly sunburned, blinding white yet full of color and contrast.
|
Sunset over Tupiza, Bolivia |
After a day on the Salar we
grabbed some food in Uyuni, paid $4 for the best car wash Ruby has ever had and
hit the road south toward Tupiza. As we the descended from the Alitplano the
tales of Butch and Sundance entered my head, we drove through the town of their
ultimate demise (or did we?) and everything began to take on a familiar feel.
That of the Southwestern US. It makes sense why they would settle there. Aside
from the elevation the landscape was eerily similar to their US haunts. We rolled into Tupiza under a blanket of
yellow, orange and purple clouds. The red rock protected valley was glowing
warm with the soft light. Only a few
hundred yards after we entered the town of 20k people, we stumbled across two
more gringos. Mormon missionaries. We
chatted them up for a bit, learned of the town, offered to buy them dinner,
they declined and we set out for the motel recommended by Lonely Planet. And by recommended, I mean it had secure
parking. Parking sufficient enough to park not one, but two Unicats, full of
adventure travelers. And by adventure travelers, I mean stinky Europeans that
had been trapped in these 4x4 buses for over a month and seemed to not be
enjoying themselves. I chatted up the cute guide, however, (in English!) about
the route South. We were warned about how miserable the roads were, that
flooding had wiped them out and we’d be better off waiting a few days before
heading out. Okay. Apparently they
didn't see Badass Ruby Claire parked in the back. The tourists told use we’d
never make it. I don’t accept that kind of doubt very well. We were going. We grabbed some pizza for dinner and again
were warned by even more travelers from the Unicats that we’d never make
it. In retrospect I think they were
jealous and/or bitter that Justin and I could do as we wanted and not limited
by a guide. I don’t want to use the word indignant but at this point I was
doing my best to toot my own horn in a very loud and disagreeable fashion. That
is not like me and I was able to bite my tongue but my thinking was, ‘’I’ve
driven here from the states by myself and have more off-road experience than
all of you and your guides combined so kindly shut the hell up about how we
can’t make it.” There was just an awkward attitude accompanied by a
condescending smirk from every single one of them that I still can’t figure
out. Bizarre.
The next morning we hit the road
toward the Argentine border with a bit of apprehension of how rough the road
would be. When we hit the border by lunch time Justin and I spent 20mins trying
to figure out what portion of the road had given the Unicats so much trouble
the day before. There were a couple of washouts and some muddy sections but I
never even used 4low. I was prepared to spend the day winching and
digging. It made the conversations the
night before even more bizarre. I had glanced casually at the map but not too
closely. In my mind we needed to head toward Salta, Arg then we could turn east
toward Asuncion, Paraguay across the Gran Chaco. Well I should have looked a
bit closer. Just north of the border I
should have turned east, instead I turned west. Both routes lead to Salta down
either side of a very long and large mountain range with no roads traversing
them along the way. The road to the west
added only two or three hundred miles to the route. Fun. Normally I wouldn't care, just go where the
road took me, but Justin was meeting some friends in Asuncion on Sunday and it
was now Saturday afternoon. The border took two hours because of crowds not
inefficiency. I’m glad we were driving, not on foot or bus. That line was
easily 6-7 hours. Justin and I couldn't
help but talk about how nice people in Argentina were after only a few
hours. It was shortly after the border
that I discovered my route finding mistake.
Luckily the roads were fast and smooth as we traveled South around the
tip of the range then circled back north. We stopped to get gas in Jujuy and
asked about the condition of the Gran Chaco road. We were assured it was long
straight and boring but needed cash for fuel as using credit/debit was nearly
impossible in the rural areas of Northern Argentina.
This is where the nightmare/24 of
the most awesome hours of my life began.
So not only can you not use cc/debit in Northern Arg but apparently ATMs
never have cash. We wasted almost an hour trying to get enough cash to fill the
tank of Ruby Claire twice to get all the way to Paraguay. The equivalent of $40 US from this ATM, from
a wall of 4 machines we got $30. Drove a few miles to a different bank and got
$25. Seriously an hour of hunting for
cash. Around dusk we finally turned east
and into the Gran Chaco. I wouldn't
fully understand what we were seeing until a few days later as the lush forests
and fincas of Jujuy faded with the sunlight. The Gran Chaco road is a remote
two lane road that is straight and smooth. When I say straight I mean straight.
I don’t think it had a turn for over 400 miles. That’s not an
exaggeration. It was bizarre. Never
experienced anything like it before or since. Seriously look it up on Google
Earth. Crazy. About half way to Paraguay
we pull into a gas station about midnight to fill Ruby’s empty tank. I go
inside to get a few bottles of coke as it’s a no brainer that we are driving
through the night at this point. I figure Justin speaks fluent Spanish so there
won’t be any issues with filling the tank.
We’d already done it a few times since he arrived. Gasolina is
gasoline. Simple. Except in Argentina.
Nafta = gasoline. Gasoil= diesel. Guess
how we learned that fact? Ruby wouldn't start. It only took 2-3 cranks before I
knew something was wrong and very quickly guessed the problem.
The attendants
and Justin had suffered a breakdown in communication and we’d filled my entire
tank, 26 gallons, with diesel. $100 worth.
Awesome. I put the tranny in
neutral and we pushed her back under the lights near the pumps. We rounded up 3
five gallon buckets, the attendant and I crawled under the truck with a wrench
and pulled the plug on Ruby’s tank.
After 15 gallons I stuck my finger in the hole and my new friends at the
gas station dumped the diesel into on big drum then came back to empty the
remaining 10 gallons. I was soaked in
diesel and covered in dirt but the kindness of the Argentinians had me in good
spirits. They were eager to help and helped
find humor in the mistake. They, of
course, took another $100 (pretty much every bill we had left) from me for 26
gallons of Nafta. We posed for a pic, shook hands goodbye and hit the road east
again.
|
Covered in diesel fuel but still smiling |
Around 3am we strolled into some
tiny little town and again went on the hunt for cash from EVERY SINGLE ATM IN
TOWN. I think we managed to scrounge up
about $80. I also learned my first
lesson about young Argentinians and how little they sleep. People everywhere, loud music blared, kids walked the streets, people sitting on car hoods on
every corner. I would find this to be true in every town I visited in Argentina.
People were active all hours of the night. Satisfied we’d tested every ATM we
hit the road to Formosa and ideally a few hours of sleep in a cheap motel. Formosa sits on the Paraguay River about an
hour south of Asuncion. Just outside the
town we came to a police checkpoint. It was about 4 am, I was exhausted from
driving all night and not in a good mood because of the mistakes made that day
with map reading and the diesel fiasco. I need to apologize to my fellow travelers,
Justin (again) and my mom who raised me to be a better person than the one I’m
about to describe. But first some explanation. Aside from Mexico, I didn't have insurance on my truck the entire time I was on my
trip. Most countries don’t require it
and for those that do I just showed them my current but invalid State Farm
card. I figured if something happened
I’d figure it out. When I got in a wreck in Peru I paid cash out of pocket.
When I got side swiped by the bus in Quito I just accepted the damage and went
on my way. Argentina requires insurance.
We rolled into a police checkpoint
outside Formosa and this fat, greasy, 17 yr old cop with horrendous acne (Is it
obvious I still harbor some anger toward the kid?) came out with his older,
professional partner and started asking for my documents. We went through each
one of his requests, one by one. I could
tell he was going to keep pushing until he found a problem. He just had that
way about him. He wanted something from me and wasn't going to settle for
letting me go. Title, yep. Driver’s
license, of course. Passports, got em. On and on we went then he asked for
insurance. I went to pull out my card and couldn't find it. Justin and I looked
and looked and it had gotten lost. I found one but it was expired. That was his
chance. He made us get out of the car and go into the shack on the bridge
leading into (and out of) town. He proceeded to rail at me in Spanish about not
having insurance and he should haul us to jail blah blah blah. Just a young
punk kid trying to act tough because he had a uniform and a badge. I basically
ignored his pomp and bullshit posturing waiting for him to give me his bribe
request. When he said ‘doscientos’ I thought ‘fine, that’s only about 40 bucks,
I’ll just pay it because I want to go to bed.’
Then in broken English he said ‘not pesos, two hundred dollars.’ Dumbfounded I asked him again and he
confirmed $200. Well as you know from reading this far we didn't have anywhere
near that amount on us and out of pure principal I was not going to pay it. And
I told him as much. At first I was very
polite in my Spanish but internally I was incensed. He puffed his chest and told me I would have
to go to jail if I didn't pay. Then I
lost it. I tore into him in English and used every single profanity and insult
I could muster. However, I did it all
with a smile on my face and laughing, probably maniacally, because I knew he
couldn't understand a word I was saying. He sat there with a blank stare on his
face as I continued to insult him for over 10 mins. Justin kept trying to interrupt and provide
translation but I would cut him off as I was NOT going to pay this prick
$200. Said prick kept speaking to Justin
in Spanish and I would yell at him in Spanish “don’t talk to him, talk to me.
It’s me you’re trying to rip off, it’s my car, not his! Look me in the eye and
tell me you are not ripping me off.” Then I would go back to smiling and
laughing while I mocked him in English. Not my proudest moment. His partner just sat there and didn't say a
word. This went on for about 45 mins. At
some point I just settled on the fact that I would pay the fine but he would
have to write me a ticket, then I could go to town, sleep in a motel and get
some food. For those who have never experienced a Latin American shakedown the shtick
they give is essentially ‘if I give you a ticket you’ll need to come back and
see the judge but that will be few weeks, or you can just pay me now.’ They
know most tourists are on a limited schedule so that is how they’ll get you. I
kept telling this kid over and over, ‘it took me 4 months to get here and I
have nowhere to go, give me a ticket and I’ll wait around and pay it.’ At one
point he was literally begging me to pay the fine after he knew I wasn't going
to budge. Around 530am the sun started
to come up and a supervisor showed up for his shift. He told me to pay the fine
to the kid and I looked him square in the eye and said ‘I will pay anyone else
in this building, but that fat fuck is not going to get a dime from me.’
He of
course had no idea what I said so in my most polite Spanish I pointed out that
the kid was unprofessional and a jerk, I will gladly pay any requisite fines
but it would not be to that kid and someone would have to write me a ticket. He
too tried to engage Justin and I gently reminded him it was me they were fining
me, not him, and to issue ME a ticket.
The key being once it’s on paper (at least in my mind) it goes to the
government and not to the person soliciting the bribe. During this whole interaction Justin went
from laughing, to trying to help, to calming me down, to telling me to shut up,
to just sitting in the corner and trying to sleep. After about 2 hours of me being an asshole I
got my way and they gave me a ticket. The fat little wannabe slowly and
painfully scribbled out the fine while I smiled at him victoriously. $200. I’ll take it. I pointed out to them that we had no cash so
we’d go into town and come back. I did
have plenty of US cash hidding on Ruby but was always reluctant to use it, especially
in this case. I was not proud of my behavior
and that poor kid suffered my wrath because of 50 other times a cop had tried
to extort a bribe from me along the way but the fact was he was not going to
see a dime of my money. I broke their law and I was more than happy to pay the
fine for doing so but I was going to do it the right way. A quick stop in town for some breakfast and
fuel at the mini mart and Justin and I figured it was time to head to
Asuncion. He had people to meet and we
might as well hit the road. Maybe we could sneak by the shack and head north.
Well we didn't sneak by, we were stopped. Justin got out of the car. Took in
some random number, like $42 worth of Argentine pesos, and told the guy ‘hey
look, we’ll be back in a week or so or you can just take this and tear up the ticket,
it really is all the cash we have.’ The acned super cop had gone home and the new guy figured he just made $40 and
agreed. 45 mins later we were at the
border. I was tired, physically and emotionally, and could see the city and the
hotel room waiting for me there. Little did I know my day of negotiating with
petty bureaucrats was not over quite yet.
I’d done 12 border crossings by
the time we hit the Paraguay border early on a Sunday morning. South American
crossings had all been efficient and organized and I didn't expect it to take
more than 45mins to an hour. Exiting
Argentina took less than 15 mins. We arrived
at the Paraguay side and started the paperwork process. Then he asked for our visas. I had not done any Paraguay research as I
didn't really plan on going there until Justin offered to join me. All other countries give you the visa at the
border. Not Paraguay. They said we’d have to return to Formosa and get our visa
from the embassy. Which would be open
Monday morning. Awesome. Justin then started to take on a bit of my
persona from the police shack a few hours earlier. He had flown 6k miles, driven straight
through the night and was meeting friends in 3 hours. He was not going to accept the answer. He decided to flip the payoff protocol on
them and started to talk bribes with the customs officer. After about an hour
of smooth talking and pleading the guy relented, ‘wait til my boss leaves,
she’s won’t let this happen, but I’ll do it.’ The grand total was $68. However it was made up of $30 in Argentine
Pesos, $18 in Bolivianos and a US $20.
The guy gave us a weird look as we paid him off in a closet behind the
customs building then explained to us ‘oh by the way I’m only able to give you
a transit visa because if you have a real visa someone might ask for the
document.’ Okay that’s fine, what the
hell is a transit visa? It’s exactly
what it sounds like. A visa meant for truck drivers just passing through. We
had two days to get back to Bolivia. We
were both exhausted and just smiled and agreed knowing there is no chance
in hell we’d only be in country for 2 days but we’d figure that out when we
left.
Justin had warned me about the
poverty and rough state of Paraguay but it had been a while since he’d been
there and after Bolivia and Nicaragua I found Paraguay advanced and clean. Hell
they had pay at the pump gas stations and fountain drinks. That is progress in
my mind. I’ll wrap up Paraguay quickly.
We ate breakfast at KFC since it
was next to our hotel and it was open.
I slept for 14 hours after not
sleeping for the previous 40.
We crossed illegally into Brazil
twice to see Iguazu Falls after the park was closed on our first attempt
WAY too many tourists at the falls
including the two of us. Worth seeing however.
I ripped my big toe nail in half
at a gas station parking lot.
I went to an ATM and pulled out
$5m Guarani. Big Pimpin. I know Spanish
numbers but when a gas station attendant asked me for $1,345,500 I just held
out a bunch of bills and he took what he needed and gave me change.
We stayed in a hotel run by a
Swiss family near the Brazil border. Had strudel for dinner.
There is a town in the middle of
the Paraguayan Gran Chaco called Filadélfia.
Look it up. All Amish people. It
was bizarre and awesome.
|
Sunset over the Gran Chaco |
Spider webs in the chaco can be 10
feet in diameter.
The bugs at night in the chaco are
the loudest I’ve ever heard. I slept better at the O’Hare Hilton, it’s somehow
quieter there.
The chaco is hot and unbearably
humid.
At a gas station in the middle of nowhere
we asked the attendants if they’d ever met American before. At first they said
no, then they said ‘si, los mormones.’ Ironic.
Paraguayan roads are smooth and
fantastic.
The star gazing is incredible from
the middle of the chaco.
The Gran Chaco is like no place
I've ever been. Part jungle, part desert and wholly frightening. I would not
want to get lost in there. I can’t even begin to describe it. Imagine a typical
thistle bush but instead of 18in tall make it 20 feet tall. And instead of a
few of them imagine a forest like the pacific nw. Then just for fun throw in some pine trees
and some palm trees. Why not some grasses every now and then as well. Lastly
make it the size of american southwest with even fewer people and then you the
Gran Chaco. Beautiful but in a very ugly
way. Or perhaps ugly but in a very beautiful way.
At the border we met a German
couple in a converted 75 series that had been traveling for a couple of years.
I fell in love with their truck. Too big for a single guy but still awesome and
the ideal platform.
Upon leaving Paraguay the smooth
pavement ended and the rutted mess of Bolivian roads returned. At Bolivian customs the agent, who
couldn't speak a lick of English, asked us if we were going to vote for Hillary
or Obama. Awesome. Neither he nor his
Paraguayan peer even flinched at our two day transit visa that was now 3 days
expired. We were getting low on fuel but the town of Boyuibe, Bolivia was
within range. But just barely. We
thought there would be fuel at the border town but nothing. We set off down the awful road laughing about
our time in Paraguay and how truly impoverished Bolivia is and how modern, in
contrast, Paraguay had been. The road
was wide and flat but really rutted from the rain so our pace was somewhat
slow. After about an hour I was starting
to get worried about the amount of fuel left in the tank. Then we came to a
river crossing. The recent flooding had
not totally receded. What I imagine was
normally a simple crossing was now about 100 yards across of unknown
depth. The water was full of silt and
reminded me of the Colorado River back home.
I stared at it for about 2 mins and decide we had no choice but to try
it. We were within a few miles of the
town and our only hope of getting gas. No chance in hell we could make it back
to Paraguay. I put Ruby in 4 low and
eased my way down the slope. The first 30 feet the water was slow moving and
only 18 inches deep. We got this no problem. Then the descent began in earnest
and suddenly the water was over my hood and flowing up the windshield. I
slammed Ruby in reverse and hoped the pressure from a redlined 1FZ would keep
any water from back-flowing up the exhaust and backed out as fast as I possibly
could. Now what.
|
A swollen river blocks our path to Boyuibe, Bolivia |
Justin: I think I saw a road about
a mile back going off into the trees
Me: Really? That looked like a
foot trail
Justin: do we have any other
options?
Me: Nope.
|
The Goat Farm |
So we turned around and sure
enough there was the slightest hint of a road heading north. Off we went and all of Ruby’s clear coat
along with it. About a half mile later we pulled into a goat farm, they waved
and smiled then pointed to the road exiting their property. Another half mile after that we pulled out
onto a newly paved, perfectly straight and fast paved road. WTF? Seriously? How
did we miss it? Simple. I was using my Paraguayan guide book for maps on the
Paraguay side and once at border just took to the road strait into
Boyuibe. Had I pulled out my Bolivian
guide book I would have seen this new paved modern road paralleling ours. Why
not on the Paraguayan side? Because it literally stops at the border about 2
miles north of where we crossed. There is no Paraguayan equivalent. Just more
Latin American charm. I literally coasted into a gas station. Ruby was bone
dry. We parked the truck, informed the attendant we needed to find an ATM and
took a walk. We found some cash, ate a quick meal then walked back to the gas
station to fill up the tank. We were
hoping to get to Sucre that night but knew it would a long night if we did. The
poor navigation and conditions of the road had cost us most of the
afternoon. They guy at the gas station
said it was about 14 hours. Confused I asked again, it’s only about 250 miles.
14 hours? Yep. Okay fine, this guy
doesn't own a car. I can read a map.
We took a nicely paved road north
for a 100 miles or so and stopped to get some food about sunset and asked
again, how far to Sucre? 18 hours. What? Yep 18 hours. Okay, she must mean on
the local bus, no way. So we asked
another guy, 4 hours. That makes more sense.
Just to be sure we got gas an asked again, 11 hours. Okay none of these people have ever driven a
damn car how would they know and why on earth am still asking them for
advice. Just follow the map and go. (seriously, I can’t count the number of times
I asked advice or guidance from a local fully aware they’d never left their own
town or driven a car. It makes no sense but it just felt like the right thing
to do.) We left the paved road and took off into the hills on dirt/mud toward
Surce and the darkness. It took us about 4 hours to make it the next 100 miles
or so. Washouts, slicks climbs, numerous river crossings and a general lack of
direction made for an awesome night of driving and some confirmation of why the
locals were all confused. We checked
into a place, not sure what else to call it, to sleep. No bathroom and our two
beds were essentially one huge bed as they were separated by less than a foot.
Sun rose on Tomina, Bolivia and we found it to be a small charming town in the
middle of the jungle. A bit concerned about
the road condition we hit the road early and found more of the same. Slick mud
made everything more exciting but nothing over the top difficult. The route
through the jungle was luscious, gorgeous and green. And green. And yes, green. The small towns were idyllic and despite
stopping for a washout to be repaired for about an hour we still made it to
Sucre by mid-afternoon. A far cry from the 14 hours we’d be told the day
before. Then we realized the route we took was not the preferred or recommended
route. We didn’t care as we had a blast
and saw some beautiful country.
Sucre is a nice, clean, advanced
town, by Bolivian standards, with great food, a nice open air market and
fantastic colonial architecture. Our motel was clean, parking was safe and we
really enjoyed it there. The next day we hit road toward La Paz so Justin could
catch his flight home. We stopped in
Potosi for some lunch and a view of history.
Amazing history and a very ugly town high in the Andes. Once the richest
city in the world it’s mining history had taken a toll on the desert and the
people. Also some of the worst traffic outside of El Alto. We had a typical Andean meal, took some pics,
Justin chatted up some locals about the benefits and negative effects of
chewing coca leaves and then we made the drive to La Paz.
I was coming down with a cold and
we settled into that ‘drive home’ phenomenon of riding comfortably in silence,
reflecting on our own thoughts. We were
graced with a blazing, orange smear of a sunset beneath a slowly drizzling storm
and the clarity of the altiplano air sharpened the beauty of the evening. We
rolled back into the same hotel I’d been in two weeks before. I felt like a
lifetime had passed and yet nothing had changed. I don’t remember if I took
Justin to the airport the next morning or if he took a taxi. I do remember sleeping most of the day and
catching up on email and trying to rest before J would arrive the next day and
my adventures in Bolivia would be renewed. The two weeks I spent in Bolivia, Argentina,
Paraguay and Brazil were two of the craziest weeks of my life and never would
have happened had Justin and I not ran into each other a conference room in
Sandy, UT. I’ve only talked to Justin a handful of times in 6 years since but I
know that if we hit the road tomorrow it would feel perfectly natural, like we
hadn't skipped a beat. It’s weird how
the world works sometimes. You never know when or where you’re going to find
adventure, or beauty, or friendship. You never know when or where you’ll find
that your crazy and romantic ideals about life on the road are indeed true. I
found it in the chaos, and in the confusion, of a fortnight spent on the road
to Ushuaia.
a bunch of pics to help develop the narrative...
|
Protests in the Oruro District |
|
We look like giants |
|
The one and only Salar de Uyuni as photographed by a Seattleite |
|
Best car wash ever |
|
my normally orange Chaco flip flops and feet coated in salt from the Salar |
|
Poor pic of one of our many late night river crossings |
|
green and gorgeous |
|
nice little work truck |
|
traffic jam |
|
typical government, always doing road work... |
|
The road to Sucre |
|
Yep, blue ducks in Tomina, Bolivia |
|
Into the hills of Bolivia |
|
How far to Sucre? Really? |
|
The 'road' leading through the trees to the goat farm |
A few pics of the 75 we met at the border...
|
Factory Snorkel? |
|
Looking back from Bolivia |
|
Leaving Paraguay |
|
lost? At a gas station outside Filadelfia |
|
Late night fuel swap |
|
61 Series. Had to take a pic |
|
hola, que tal? |
|
Troopie at the same gas station |
|
Spiderwebs in the Chaco |
|
Sunset over the Chaco |
|
Gigantic Ants on the Chaco road. they had to be the size of a quarter |
|
The incredibly straight Gran Chaco road and a stack of Bolivian toll receipts |
|
Searching for an ATM |
|
Milestone |
|
Poor navigation in Argentina made for some excellent scenery |
|
Getting ready to leave to Tupiza for the 'impassable road' south |
|
Southern Utah or Southern Bolivia? |
|
makes me long for the road |
|
Justin shopping for pigs feet at the Sucre market |
|
Sucre, Bolivia |
|
On the streets of Sucre |
|
Potosi, Bolivia congestion |
|
Justin chats up some coca chewing locals |
|
West of Potosi |
|
Farming on the Altiplano |
|
A dirty Ruby back safely at the hotel in La Paz after two weeks of Chaos |
Below are some random pics of Bolivia and Paraguay
|
Some random bus images from Bolivia |