Posts Tagged blerg

My bus was leaving Sucre at 7:00, so I took a cab and arrived at the terminal at 6:30, al punto. I cruised through the station, found my bus, tried to walk outside, was told to pay the “terminal tax” to get to the waiting area, which I stood in line to do, made it outside, and was all set to go. I’d bought my ticket earlier in the day at a tour agency near La Dolce Vita, and had splurged for super cama, as the only other option was semi, and I keep hearing that Bolivian buses are, like, the worst. So I asked the nice man standing next to my bus if it was indeed the 7:00 bus to La Paz, which it was, and then I asked him where I could put my mochila. He told me to go back inside and exchange my voucher from the tour agency for a real ticket, and they’d check my bag onto the bus for me there.

Entonces, I went back inside, upstairs, to find the El Dorado window, handed the nice senorita my voucher, and was told that the voucher I’d bought was for tomorrow, not today. Blerg. I’d told the friendly woman at the tour agency earlier that I needed a ticket for the 7:00 to La Paz. She didn’t ask me, and I didn’t tell her, which day; I’d just assumed it was the same day as my purchase. So, here I was at the terminal with all my possessions in the world, a ticket for the wrong day, no hostel booked for the night in Sucre, and a pretty desperate look on my face. I asked the senorita at the terminal if it was possible to change my ticket for the later bus, but she showed me on the screen that every seat in both the 7:00 and 7:30 bus was filled, and I was pretty much out of luck.

Except. Five minutes of me trying to look as pitiful, yet friendly and gracious as possible, later, she had an idea. Apparently there’s a semi-truck-style bunk behind the driver’s seat in some of these buses where the co-pilot can catch some zeds during the trip. Senorita actually had a picture of one on her computer to show me, and, of course I said I’d take it at no extra charge.

So I retrieve my mochila from the dangerous descending hook manned by two 9-year-olds, toss it into the bus, and settle into the seat next to the driver (offered to me by one of the co-pilots). It was fun, and a bit scary, to see the road from this perspective. Sometimes it seems like bus drivers in South America are a bit reckless, even from the comfort of a reclining seat in the back of the bus, but you don’t really know how reckless they are until you’re sitting next to one and watching as they careen through tiny streets at top speed and barely avoid killing pedestrians and domestic animals while joking around and gesturing wildly with their (multiple) co-pilots and buddies and the little Chola woman seated at my feet. And about a half an hour into the 12-hour trip, they busted out the 96% alcohol, which made me a little apprehensive. But, to their credit, all it was used for was to give a few drops to Pachamama out the window, and to bless the steering wheel with an alcohol baptism of sorts. And the driver crossed himself with it maybe a dozen times.

A bit later one of the co-pilots asked me if I wanted to retire to the cabin. So I climbed back there over another guy and found the bunk a bit small (my feet stuck off the end about a foot and a half), a bit stinky, and a bit claustrophoby, but a decent way to pass a night. It was a space about 3 feet wide, five feet long, and two feet high, with a blacked out window and a blanket with a picture of (I think) a sweet wolf on it. So I turned my iPod on and prepared for a boring, dark, stinky night alone. Until a stop in the middle of nowhere at which I got out to stretch my legs and came back to find a bedmate.

It’s two in the morning. You’ve been sleeping for a couple hours in a small dark box, being thrown around by a superstitious (maybe drunk) driver’s erratic driving, listening to cumbia antigua, and smelling a scratchy wolf blanket that you’re using as a pillow. You’re woken up, you stand outside for three minutes, and you go back to your little box to find another guy in there. What do you do?

You know what I do? I climb back in. I spoon. I sleep like a baby. And I arrive in La Paz still comfortable with my sexuality.

La Paz Terminal: