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| Interesting rocks on the way from Tilcara to La Quiaca on the border to Bolivia |
It seems like forever since I wrote
last, yet it was only a couple of days ago, Bolivia still 500 m away.
Well – we definitely have arrived!
Crossing the border, as always
approached with a measure of apprehension and most certainly expected
to be a time consuming proposition, proved to be easier than it had
ever been before for us in South America. Together with a steady
though not thick stream of people, all of them obviously from this
part of the world, some with bags, others with hand carts that were
for rent along the way, we walked the few blocks from the centre of
La Quiaca to the border station. A sign indicated the window where we
had to stop to get our exit stamp from Argentina – no problem
whatsoever – , and we would have missed the Bolivian 'Migracion',
only a few steps further on, if not someone had knocked on the window
and waved us close. Another stamp, a friendly 'Auf Wiedersehen' by
the border official, and we were in Bolivia.
Immediately the atmosphere changed:
Villazon, the little town on the Bolivian side of the border, was
bustling with activity. Unlike sober La Quiaca, which, admittedly, we
probably hadn't experienced fully since we arrived on a Sunday
evening when most shops and restaurants are closed, this place was
colourful and full of life and immediately reminded us of the Bolivia we
had come to know and like from the earlier trips. The sidewalks were
filled with vendors offering all kinds of products; fruit and
vegetable stands, largely absent in Argentina, were part of the
picture again: Bolivia had rolled out its welcome mat for visitors
from just across the border and far away alike.
In answer to our question where we
could find the bus terminal a woman lifted four fingers of one hand:
four quadras, blocks: we
couldn't miss it, it was straight ahead. Here, the typical friendly
chaos reigned once again: people, packs and dogs everywhere, shouts
of 'Tupiza, Tupiza', 'La Paz, La Paz', 'Sucre, Sucre', etc.: bus
companies trying to collect enough customers to fill their buses.
Nowhere in Argentina had we seen anything like it. Trying to decide
where to go next we had decided on Tarija instead of Tupiza, the two
options closest by. Tarija, praised as a friendly city with Mediterranean climate, is situated in the middle of the Bolivian wine
growing area at an altitude of only 1850m, whereas much smaller
Tupiza is about 1000m higher. My cold had worsened over the last few
days, and we decided it would be a good idea to spend a couple of
relaxed days in Tarija to give it a chance to clear up in the mild
climate. If we felt like doing something there were several options
and excursions to choose from, and the bus ride, at five hours,
seemed not overly long. Little did we know ...
Seats
five and six were in the second row, and at the moment they were
occupied by a woman in traditional dress and a teenage girl, plus a
multitude of bags. The rest of the bus was almost empty, however, and
we assured them we could sit anywhere. No, no – they insisted on
moving to their assigned spots at the very front of the bus: we
needed to sit in the seats we had tickets for. Barely had we settled, however,
when a bus company employee with a list came up and checked tickets
and names, though not passport numbers (for the first time this trip; in Argentina no one had bothered). She told us we
should sit at the very front of the bus, for the view, waving the
woman and girl with all their baggage back to take over the seats
they had just vacated for us. We tried to convey that we were fine
where we were, but there was no arguing, so we shrugged, smiled apologetically at the woman, she smiled back,
unconcerned, and we slipped into the seats with the prime view,
nodding a greeting to the people on the other two front seats. We
have sat in those seats on the second level a few times, and they
afford a great view with much better chance of taking photos, but it
had always been a relatively new bus – and this one wasn't. Here,
the second level was not really a second level, but the whole seating
area was simply elevated so that we were right above the bus driver
and his co-pilot. A metal bar ran all across the window: something to
grab on to. We had not encountered that before either. Pushing the
curtains aside and tying them into a knot to keep them in place –
no handy velcro tie here – we sat back, ready for the trip. The bus
had rumbled to life a little while ago, and at ten on the dot it
pulled out of its parking slot. We were on our way.
The driver certainly drove like someone who wanted to get to his destination within the appointed time, and soon we had left the little town behind and were on the highway. But wait – only a few minutes later we turned onto a gravel road. A detour? 'Didn't you see the sign at the turn-off', asked Johann. 'This is the road to Tarija'. Still we didn't really clue in: the road was good and firm, and we were used to driving on gravel roads, after all. The landscape was what it had been for a long time: dry, with sparse vegetation, from time to time small, dirt-brick buildings, llama herds foraging.
After a little while, however, we entered a rugged mountaineous landscape, with ever-deepening valleys as far as the eye could see. The narrow road, snaking along hillsides, seemed to have just enough room for the bus. What happened if there was oncoming traffic? Small turnouts, usually on the side of the precipice, took care of that, and our driver was obviously not in the least concerned. Hardly diminishing his speed he barreled down the twisting road, around tight curves where it was impossible to see if someone was just on the other side. Thankfully, there was very little traffic, and whoever needed to waited in one of the turnouts. We had been on narrow roads before, but this was a totally different matter: so far they had always been paved, and this one was not, indeed, there was nothing between the wheels of the bus and the abyss, and often the edge was crumbling and looked very soft. To negotiate the tightest curves the driver veered far to the outside of the road before turning, a feeling which was magnified for us at the very front because the front wheels were behind where we were sitting. What a spectacular trip! Johann was a bit quiet, wondering already if this was such a great idea, but for the first while I was just awed by the magnificent world around us. I actually even enjoyed myself.
On and on the road descended, curve after curve, the hills, studded with cacti with huge white blossoms, extending as far into the distance as the eye could see. Once in awhile, at an especially tight turn, we could hear a few of the people behind us gasp while we gripped the bar in front of us. Far, far below we could see a wide riverbed running through a fertile valley, with green fields and villages, the riverbed obviously not always as dry as it seemed now. There was a bottom to be reached after all.
And then, suddenly, at one of the tight outside curves, the bus stopped, its front end hanging over the precipice, it seemed. 'Madre de Dios!' a woman exclaimed behind me, then absolute silence in the bus with its handful of people (we, of course, the only tourists). My heart almost stopped, and for the first time ever I was genuinely afraid for my life. It started to sink in that this could be truly dangerous, and suddenly all the stories about Bolivian buses started to come back, stories that hadn't concerned us because we had never traveled on such a road before. There was room to back up for the bus, however, so if we hadn't fallen down the cliff already we'd likely be safe. But instead of backing up the bus slowly started to move forward, turning: the bus driver, or more likely his co-pilot, after assessing the situation, had decided on this option. Slowly, slowly, we made the turn, and soon were back up to speed.
It continued in this manner, but I had lost my light-heartedness, now fully aware of the situation, always. I was glad when we reached the bottom, although, of course, I knew full well that we would have to climb out again eventually, and it really didn't make any difference if we were going up or down. The road curved along the riverbed now, small houses on the mountain side of the road huddling against the high walls where it seemed impossible to find enough space to build one. At one of those brown dirt-brick buildings, this one looking pretty much abandoned since it had no roof, the bus stopped to let out an old man who slowly limped up a few steps. We watched him remove a few sheets of corrugated metal from a small opening, and out climbed three well-fed goats.
We suddenly realized that the bus was still stopped, and the bus driver had turned off the engine. This, Johann said, meant that it must be something more serious.The driver and his assistant put on coveralls and disappeared into the hold of the bus with flashlights. The passengers used the opportunity to pee, the men right beside the bus, the women disappearing between the trees on the river side. Johann went to the back of the bus to investigate and reported it must be some kind of diesel leak, according to the smell. If we were lucky the drivers would be able to fix this themselves; they certainly must be used to situations like this and could not rely on a repair shop in this remote area where they likely didn't even have cell phone reception.
It
took only about fifteen minutes before the driver started the engine
again, went back to check once more, climbed into the driver's seat
and called, 'vamos' –
let's go! Problem fixed, it seemed, at least for the time being.
Up, up we climbed, a couple of times stopping to make room for a truck with trailer coming our way, but otherwise unhindered. I had developed a strategy to deal with the scariest curves: when I closed my eyes I at least couldn't see what was happening, which made it somewhat easier. From time to time the bus stopped, the assistant leaped out, checked the repair – still okay, it seemed; we kept going. After another hour and a half or so the road started to widen slowly, become less curvy, a bit less steep. We stopped in a very small village for a while, everybody stretching their legs, some buying a bottle of pop at the small 'hotel' a few steep steps down. Right beside it was a sign 'baño', washroom. I checked it out; it was, of course, not one of the more presentable ones. The missing toilet seat was the least of the flaws ... Two big barrels, a pail floating in one of them, contained the water for flushing and washing hands, and a sign reminded users of the bathroom to wash their hands afterwards. The assistant bus driver heaved a tank with fuel into the hold, and off we were again.
Wonder of wonders: the road turned into a paved, quite normal road, and with hardly any delay we arrived in Tarija. The bus terminal seemed possibly even more chaotic than many others, but the closer our taxi got to the centre of town the nicer it looked with its green plazas and well-kept colonial houses lining narrow streets. Tarija, founded fifty years later than Potosi, the silver-mining town that kept the Spanish kings afloat, must have been a favoured location early on in this fertile valley.
For the last couple of days we have not done very much at all, venturing within a few blocks of the hotel. My cold is a lot better, and I feel up to the next leg of the journey which will take us to the small town of Camargo this afternoon, only about three hours or so away on a hopefully much different road than the one we came on. From there, we will move on to Potosi tomorrow, getting ever closer to the Uyuni.
Scanning the schedule at the stall of the first bus company we saw that we had missed the morning bus and would have to wait for the afternoon one. Maybe Tupiza was the better choice after all? But we hadn't quite completed the thought when a woman asked if we were going to Tarija. Yes, we said. She urged us to the ticket counter:
yes,yes, the next bus was due to leave at ten (did I say times are
quite approximate here? The schedule said 9:30). But – it was after
eleven already, wasn't it? I had just re-set my watch at the border.
Of course I had once again converted into the wrong direction: it was
not eleven, but nine – and the bus was waiting outside. Well, that
had worked out perfectly, hadn't it? Hardly any waiting time –
great. We found an empty space on a bench outside, right beside a
couple of people very obviously not from here, and their heavily
loaded bikes. They turned out to be husband and wife at the end of a
6,500 mile bike trip that led them through part of both North and
South America. They had just crossed the same empty, dusty plains we
had traversed by bus and were ready to call it quits now after four
months on the road. We heard a bit about their experiences and
challenges, watched their bikes disappear in the belly of the bus to
La Paz and had just time to say goodbye before we were fetched by the
guy who had loaded our backpack into the hold of our bus (holding up
his thumb – 'one more' – when Johann looked questioningly at him
after handing him a few coins).
The driver certainly drove like someone who wanted to get to his destination within the appointed time, and soon we had left the little town behind and were on the highway. But wait – only a few minutes later we turned onto a gravel road. A detour? 'Didn't you see the sign at the turn-off', asked Johann. 'This is the road to Tarija'. Still we didn't really clue in: the road was good and firm, and we were used to driving on gravel roads, after all. The landscape was what it had been for a long time: dry, with sparse vegetation, from time to time small, dirt-brick buildings, llama herds foraging.
After a little while, however, we entered a rugged mountaineous landscape, with ever-deepening valleys as far as the eye could see. The narrow road, snaking along hillsides, seemed to have just enough room for the bus. What happened if there was oncoming traffic? Small turnouts, usually on the side of the precipice, took care of that, and our driver was obviously not in the least concerned. Hardly diminishing his speed he barreled down the twisting road, around tight curves where it was impossible to see if someone was just on the other side. Thankfully, there was very little traffic, and whoever needed to waited in one of the turnouts. We had been on narrow roads before, but this was a totally different matter: so far they had always been paved, and this one was not, indeed, there was nothing between the wheels of the bus and the abyss, and often the edge was crumbling and looked very soft. To negotiate the tightest curves the driver veered far to the outside of the road before turning, a feeling which was magnified for us at the very front because the front wheels were behind where we were sitting. What a spectacular trip! Johann was a bit quiet, wondering already if this was such a great idea, but for the first while I was just awed by the magnificent world around us. I actually even enjoyed myself.
On and on the road descended, curve after curve, the hills, studded with cacti with huge white blossoms, extending as far into the distance as the eye could see. Once in awhile, at an especially tight turn, we could hear a few of the people behind us gasp while we gripped the bar in front of us. Far, far below we could see a wide riverbed running through a fertile valley, with green fields and villages, the riverbed obviously not always as dry as it seemed now. There was a bottom to be reached after all.
And then, suddenly, at one of the tight outside curves, the bus stopped, its front end hanging over the precipice, it seemed. 'Madre de Dios!' a woman exclaimed behind me, then absolute silence in the bus with its handful of people (we, of course, the only tourists). My heart almost stopped, and for the first time ever I was genuinely afraid for my life. It started to sink in that this could be truly dangerous, and suddenly all the stories about Bolivian buses started to come back, stories that hadn't concerned us because we had never traveled on such a road before. There was room to back up for the bus, however, so if we hadn't fallen down the cliff already we'd likely be safe. But instead of backing up the bus slowly started to move forward, turning: the bus driver, or more likely his co-pilot, after assessing the situation, had decided on this option. Slowly, slowly, we made the turn, and soon were back up to speed.
 |
| Just one example |
It continued in this manner, but I had lost my light-heartedness, now fully aware of the situation, always. I was glad when we reached the bottom, although, of course, I knew full well that we would have to climb out again eventually, and it really didn't make any difference if we were going up or down. The road curved along the riverbed now, small houses on the mountain side of the road huddling against the high walls where it seemed impossible to find enough space to build one. At one of those brown dirt-brick buildings, this one looking pretty much abandoned since it had no roof, the bus stopped to let out an old man who slowly limped up a few steps. We watched him remove a few sheets of corrugated metal from a small opening, and out climbed three well-fed goats.
We suddenly realized that the bus was still stopped, and the bus driver had turned off the engine. This, Johann said, meant that it must be something more serious.The driver and his assistant put on coveralls and disappeared into the hold of the bus with flashlights. The passengers used the opportunity to pee, the men right beside the bus, the women disappearing between the trees on the river side. Johann went to the back of the bus to investigate and reported it must be some kind of diesel leak, according to the smell. If we were lucky the drivers would be able to fix this themselves; they certainly must be used to situations like this and could not rely on a repair shop in this remote area where they likely didn't even have cell phone reception.
 |
| ... and another one |
Up, up we climbed, a couple of times stopping to make room for a truck with trailer coming our way, but otherwise unhindered. I had developed a strategy to deal with the scariest curves: when I closed my eyes I at least couldn't see what was happening, which made it somewhat easier. From time to time the bus stopped, the assistant leaped out, checked the repair – still okay, it seemed; we kept going. After another hour and a half or so the road started to widen slowly, become less curvy, a bit less steep. We stopped in a very small village for a while, everybody stretching their legs, some buying a bottle of pop at the small 'hotel' a few steep steps down. Right beside it was a sign 'baño', washroom. I checked it out; it was, of course, not one of the more presentable ones. The missing toilet seat was the least of the flaws ... Two big barrels, a pail floating in one of them, contained the water for flushing and washing hands, and a sign reminded users of the bathroom to wash their hands afterwards. The assistant bus driver heaved a tank with fuel into the hold, and off we were again.
Wonder of wonders: the road turned into a paved, quite normal road, and with hardly any delay we arrived in Tarija. The bus terminal seemed possibly even more chaotic than many others, but the closer our taxi got to the centre of town the nicer it looked with its green plazas and well-kept colonial houses lining narrow streets. Tarija, founded fifty years later than Potosi, the silver-mining town that kept the Spanish kings afloat, must have been a favoured location early on in this fertile valley.
For the last couple of days we have not done very much at all, venturing within a few blocks of the hotel. My cold is a lot better, and I feel up to the next leg of the journey which will take us to the small town of Camargo this afternoon, only about three hours or so away on a hopefully much different road than the one we came on. From there, we will move on to Potosi tomorrow, getting ever closer to the Uyuni.
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