By bus from Asunción, Paraguay to Santa Cruz, Bolivia: have we finally seen it all?

Jodanga Hostel, Santa Cruz, Bolivia

Even with the fan running incessantly it is just bearable in this nice and spacious hostel room. I tell myself to enjoy it, because as of tonight it will be much cooler: we are going to take a plane to La Paz this afternoon, shortening the travel time from about 20 to only one hour. It's a bit sad that we'll have to miss the 'Bolivian bread basket', an important agricultural area, but we felt we needed to speed up our travel in order to not be in a panic later. Also – and this might be the more important reason – we needed a break from bus driving after the latest trip.

With a few phone calls Thomas, the very helpful owner of the 'El Jardin Hostel' where we stayed in |Asunción, found out that there was indeed only one way to get from Asunción to Bolivia, information confirmed later at the tourist information downtown: one bus every evening, leaving at 8, arriving about twenty hours later in Santa Cruz. Looking at the map it doesn't really seem to make sense to go to that particular city: Sucre and Potosí are closer, but lack the economic importance of this modern, fast growing city of more than 1.5 million people. We had no choice, then: either take the only available bus or take a plane.

About eight hours along the way, we read in our travel guide, is an area with several Mennonite communities. They have kept their German customs and language, and, it said, were happy to show off not only their tidy little towns but also their well run farms, mostly dairy and cattle. We would have loved to interrupt our journey there for a day or so, but the little information Thomas could find out was not very encouraging: Filadelfia, the main community, lies about fifteen kilometres off the Chaco road – and we would have arrived there in the middle of the night. Not only that, but we would need to flag down the bus at the same late hour the next night. There is no guarantee, of course, that it really does take eight hours to get there for the bus; it could easily be ten or twelve. The prospect of standing at an intersection in the middle of the night, waiting for a bus with uncertain schedule, proved too much even for our sense of adventure. If only we could have found out more! Logic told us that there had to be a way to get to and from the intersection, there might have been a truck stop or even a hotel there – but it seems to be such a little pursued route for tourists that it was all too vague for us. Twenty hours it would be, then.

Together with a group of other travellers we awaited the arrival of our bus at the huge terminal in Asunción. As far as we could see there were four other backpackers among them, two German girls and a young French couple. Given the fact that this is not one of the most frequented tourist routes (though not supposed to be dangerous, as far as our information went) it was reassuring that we weren't the only foreigners on that bus, especially since we again had to cross a border.

Eagerly every new bus arrival was inspected – no, still not the right one. We hadn't been able to find out much about this bus beforehand: would it be 'cama' (fully reclining seats) or 'semi cama' (partly reclining)? How about air condition? With such a long trip ahead these questions become somewhat important. Finally, an older model bus with the awaited 'Santa Cruz' sign pulled into the station. A few people were already on board, and – the windows were open. That answered the last question. One look at the bus had already convinced us that the first two questions were a non-issue as well. This was the worst possible scenario regarding the comfort level. But there was no turning back now.

Bigger luggage was stowed in the belly of the bus, and almost on time we left the terminal. A quick look around assured us that there was no use hoping for a couple of empty seats so that Johann could stretch out his legs a little more. We'd just have to make the best of it.

After the inertion of the hot afternoon the city started to come to life again, and the warm air streaming through the open windows carried the fragrance of grass and blooming trees mingled with the smoke from asados of roadside barbecues. One more time we stopped to load supplies at a small tienda (shop) before the driver shifted his way up through the gears until he had reached travelling speed. As best we could we found a position that felt reasonably comfortable and settled in our seats. The assistant bus driver wasted no time to deliver our supper, a plastic-wrapped tray of spaghetti with two pieces of meat, a bun and a small package of cookies plus a bottle of pop. Not sure what to expect we had not wanted to leave our provisioning to chance and bought some buns, cheese, peanuts and, of course, a large bottle of water, but they would keep. This was an unexpected bonus.

Soon after the inside lights were switched off, and most of us slipped into a fitful sleep. A few times the bus stopped beside dimly lit shacks: police control. The bus driver walked over to the group of heavily armed members of the Policia Nacional with a sheaf of papers, then opened the door to the baggage compartment so that they could inspect its contents with a flashlight. Once a policeman came inside, too, walking slowly along the aisle. One by one he asked the travellers for their name and seat number, comparing the information with that in the passenger list he was holding in his hand. Other than that, there were no interruptions, no stops to disperse or pick up passengers in the small villages we passed through hardly slowing down, most certainly not anywhere near the posted speed limit of 40 km/h.

At 3:30 we were awakened by the call: Migración! Border control – here? We couldn't be anywhere near a border yet, could we? Rubbing the sleep from our eyes we looked for our passports and, stretching our cramped limbs, got off the bus as instructed. The assistant bus driver collected all of our ID and disappeared in the office which, we could see through a big window, contained two officials.

A 'baño' sign around the corner of the building soon had us all lined up to take advantage of the opportunity to use a bathroom: while the bus offered that much luxury, at least, I have so far been able to avoid using bathrooms on busses – the smell coming from the back of the bus whenever the door to the bathroom opens is enough to reserve this as a last resort. This was a well organized place: a woman was sitting beside the entrance to the bathroom, a stack of carefully folded sheets of toilet paper and a bowl filled with coins on a small table beside her. For each sheaf of paper she collected 1000 Guaranís (25 cents); those not in need of paper didn't have to pay. Contrary to many other bathrooms this one was quite clean, too.

Meanwhile the border officials had been checking each document carefully, and one by one we were called into the office to pick up our passports or identity cards. I looked around for Johann but could find him neither in the group of people waiting to get their passports back nor in the second group back at the bus already. Finally I noticed him engaged in conversation with a tall, fair-skinned man in a checkered shirt beside a pickup marked 'taxi' in the parking lot. When I walked over I realized to my amazement that they were speaking German: the man was from Neuland ('New Land'), one of the Mennonite communities. Johann had seen him standing there and asked him the standard question: “Do you speak English?”, which the man answered in the negative. “How about German?” (most often more a joke than a serious question). “Yes, I do”, he replied. So after the disappointment of not being able to visit the Mennonite colonies we were to find out at least a bit more, after all. While it is highly unlikely that we will return here – though one never knows – maybe the information will be useful to other travellers inquiring about this possibility at Thomas's hostel. Jakob Rempel (that was his name, a name that could just as easily belong to a Canadian Mennonite) told Johann that the settlements had grown from previously established settlements after the second world war by Mennonites from Ukraine who had had to flee from the Russians. These communities have German schools, and Mr. Rempel spoke excellent German. At home, he said, they speak Low German. There are two main communities, Filadelfia, the bigger one, with a population of about 5000 people, Neuland half as big. There is also a third settlement with Canadian connections, named La Plata. Here, at this border station, we were 75 km past Filadelfia already; Neuland being a bit closer.

Mr. Rempel had taken someone from Neuland to meet the bus – for them, too, the only route to get to Bolivia – and said it would have worked the same way had we wanted to visit Filadelfia: we would have had to make arrangements with a hotel (there are several) or the tourist information, and they would have arranged for a taxi to pick us up. It would have been nice to take this little side tour, but obviously we were lacking information how to go about the planning and organizing, and it would have needed longer preparation.

Finally we all had our passports back – including the Paraguayan exit stamp – and could be on our way again. So far the ride had been relatively smooth, but this changed almost immediately. In retrospect, the border post seems like the 'last frontier'. Now, the road became extremely bumpy, and the speed was not even half of what it had been. Nevertheless, most of us soon were asleep again after arranging our legs in some remotely comfortable position.

I woke up at first light. The first thing I noticed was the sound of many different bird voices announcing the impending sunrise. I sat up and gazed at an impenetrable wall of green. Small birds dashed back and forth, a group of bright green parrots with metallic blue heads rose screeching from a bush, large raptors had chosen higher treetops for vantage points. White butterflies covered small bushes like a mass of quivering blossoms, the real blossoms – tiny, delicate sprays of white – left behind when the butterflies rose like a cloud. Red, green and blue dragonflies kept pace with the bus, escorting us through this paradisiacal landscape. How glad I was now that this was not an airconditioned bus, that I could take all this in through the open window. The air was still soft, cooled off a bit during the night. Nobody else was awake yet. Breathing deeply, taking it all in, I treasured this special gift. Behind us the sky took on the deep golden glow promising the arrival of the sun – and there it was, transforming even the cloud of dust following us far into the distance into a thing of beauty.

But what a road it was! Now that I could see it became clear why we were driving so slowly, why we were shaken about so much. At some point there might have been some kind of firm surface, maybe even a form of pavement, because bits of it were still visible from time to time. Mostly, however, this was a hard-packed dirt road interspersed with powdery dust, with deep holes the bus driver did his best to avoid. He changed lanes – not that there were any – frequently, trying to negotiate the smoothest course, using part of the embankment when necessary. For several kilometres cows and calves had left their tracks in the deep, soft sand, at other times the tidy little marks of bird feet had created intricate patterns. Other than that, we seemed to be the only ones travelling along the Chaco road. How long could this go on? When would we finally reach the real border?

Around eight we stopped beside a few little houses to pick up some supplies: our 'breakfast', it turned out, consisting of a package of cookies and a juice container. Thankful for the opportunity we stretched our legs and walked around a little. Our fellow travellers from Paraguay filled their thermoses with ice water (supplied by the bus company, too) for their tererés, the drink favoured by Paraguayans, consisting of yerba mate and ice water, often with an addition of herbs like lemon grass and a mint-like plant. No place far and wide where to buy a coffee, of course, and no bathroom either.

The road veered off to the left and finally became smoother again. The bus picked up speed, but this didn't mean that the bus driver could relax his vigilance: deep holes still occurred from time to time, but at least they were visible from a distance, and the overall speed had much increased. Now, there was a bit more traffic, too: trucks, mostly, carrying fuel or farm supplies. The landscape changed noticeably: the lush green and seemingly undisturbed nature gave way to open pastures with herds of cattle. Once we passed a group of well-fed Hereford bulls. From time to time a gate marked the entrance to an estancia not even visible from the road. Strange looking trees, their bottle shaped trunks displaying a menacing looking armour of small protrusions, were part of the flora now. Bushes were thorny and covered in a profusion of small feathery leaves, not unlike the creosote bushes we had encountered in Arizona in the spring.

It was much later when we pulled off the road and parked in the shade of a high-roofed building that obviously awaited a promising future of something bigger: another inspection station. Armed, camouflage-clad men and one woman were awaiting us. We had to unload all of our bags, lining them up on the ground. Four tables made from cable rolls had been set up, each one manned with a customs official; a cage with a German Shepherd stood off to the side. One by one we were asked to bring our bags to one of the makeshift tables where they were taken apart and inspected. 

Oh, great! This was one time when our one-backpack-for-both-of-us method would not serve us well. Were they really going to empty the whole thing?? Johann heaved the big backpack onto one table while I lugged the two smaller packs to another one. Yes, they were fairly thorough, but we were no worse off than anyone else. In fact, one older woman who had brought two large suitcases plus a big cardboard box, nicely sealed with tape, had the box cut open and its contents inspected. The bus driver had a roll of tape to re-seal it; obviously this was nothing new.

Meanwhile one of the custom guys had brought out a mechanic's trolley and proceded to inspect the underside of the bus, taking a lot of time with it. This was no ordinary customs inspection, it finally dawned on us: this control served to turn up either weapons or drugs, or maybe both. Thankfully neither was found on this trip, and after maybe 45 minutes we were finally able to continue. This wasn't all yet, however. Twenty minutes or so later we pulled again off to the side, again had to unload all of our bags and carry them over to a small building where we were handed forms to fill out. This time we had to state our names, nationality, passport numbers, means of travel, point of departure and destination, and how much currency – foreign or otherwise – we were carrying. The only 'insignia' this customs official displayed was a peaked cap with the inscription 'Aduana'; otherwise he was clad in jeans and t-shirt. Nevertheless he, too, took his job seriously, made sure all the forms were filled out correctly and rooted through all the bags again, even cutting open the just-sealed box of the older woman. We tried to snatch a piece of the meagre shade the building provided, rubbing aching, swollen feet, trying to get the circulation going again. What about our passports, we wondered. 'Mas tarde' – later -, replied one of the women in our group – but no more controls now.

At a small collection of houses just as unlikely looking as the other inspection stations the bus pulled into a dusty side road. A small restaurant sold local food, and 'cambio, cambio' greeted us from a row of chairs: the first opportunity to exchange Guaranís for Bolivianos. The border official arrived on a red motorbike, sat down at a table under an open roof and stamped our passports. NOW, finally, we were officially in Bolivia!

From here it was smooth sailing. The road was free of potholes, and we made good progress. Once again we were served a meal on sealed plastic trays, this time consisting of rice, chicken and French fries plus another bottle of pop. It's not as if our stomachs had to suffer much hardship. Water, too, was available throughout from a cooler at the back of the bus that the assistant bus driver refilled from time to time from a big water bottle, adding a chunk of ice with his hands .... (and no, we didn't get sick on this trip!). Once we stopped to fuel up, finally able to use a bathroom again and splash some cold water on our faces.

Now once again we passed through the typical small towns with their many small shops and restaurants, people sitting in the shade, dogs, hogs, and chickens wandering around. For the most part, however, enormous cattle ranches stretched to the left and right, with huge herds of long-horned white Brahma cows. This didn't change until we arrived on the outskirts of Santa Cruz at about seven pm. We had set our clocks an hour back at the border, so when we finally pulled into the extremely busy bus terminal we had been on the road for 25 hours. What a relief to have finally made it!

It took some searching until we finally found a taxi driver who could take all six of us (the German girls and the French couple had the same hostel in mind as we did), but we managed that, too, and the hostel had room for all of us. I'm not sure when I had last craved a shower and a bed to stretch out on quite as much.

Would we have embarked on this trip if we had known what expected us? Now, with a day and a half distance, I think we would. Would we do it again? Maybe ask us in a few months or a year ...