"Oh, It´s a Long Way to Sucre"

Getting from Argentina to Bolivia is surprisingly difficult. There is minimal contact between the 2 countries. To take a bus from Argentina to Bolivia, you end up transferring to smaller buses, which end up taking you to the town at the border. You get off the bus and walk across the border to the bus station on the other side, and attempt to continue on your way. For that reason, I chose to fly from Buenos Aires to Santa Cruz, Bolivia, and then take the overnight bus to Sucre, Bolivia.

I stayed in Villa General Belgrano longer than I had anticipated, so I had to take a bus from there to Cordoba and the overnight Argentine bus from Cordoba to Buenos Aires. At the Cordoba bus station, our bus was late. When it finally arrived, it´s "platform" was occupied by a different bus, so we had to wait for this bus to pull out. I notice in writing this that I make this sound relatively simple. In actuality, these announcements were being made over a loudspeaker system which, for me, was unintelligible. So, as I´ve grown accustomed, I asked endless questions of every official looking person I could find, at the same time, scanning up and down the platforms for my possible bus.

When the other bus pulled out, it did so so effectively, that it backed into our waiting bus, wiping out its passenger side mirror. The 2 drivers then entered into a very entertaining exchange. Some honcho from the bus company of my ticket insisted our bus would still operate, but that there might be a "short delay." They boarded us onto our wounded bus. the bus took off and drove for three quarters of an hour and stopped at the main shop of the bus company. It was about 11 p.m. They must have woken up the mechanic to come down to the shop. It looked like they cannibalized a side view mirror off of something. Our bus was a wonderfully modern double decker monster with a side view mirror that was a marvel of engineered plastic and mirrored glass. They came up with something that was definitely not the same make or model, but what the heck, as long as it works. As I looked out the window, I could see the bus driver and the "ride attendant" standing over the all-important guy with the tool box, and probably giving lots of totally unnecessary advice. From my vantage point, it looked like a marvelous application of sheet metal screws and duct tape.

As a result, the bus arrived well over 2 hours late in Buenos Aires. I hustled from the bus station to the station for the shuttle bus to the airport and jumped on the next bus. I was kind of proud of myself for knowing my way. I arrived at the airport with about 45 minutes before my flight was scheduled to leave. The electronic signs all indicated that the flight was on time.

It took forever to stand in line at the counter and check by bag, to stand in line to pay the departure tax, to stand in line to go through security, to stand in line for immigration, and then to find out that my flight was leaving from a completely different terminal, and that I had to walk, hurriedly, about a kilometer to the station gate. I arrived at the gate, out of breath, about 5 minutes late. There were 3 young station agents at the gate, busily talking with each other about their social plans for the weekend. I, rudely, interrupted them to ask if the plane was still boarding. One of them looked at me, somewhat disgusted, and said, "When it´s ready, we´ll announce it. Just listen for the announcement." Only then did I notice that about 100 people were sitting around the waiting area. The flight took off an hour late with the electronic sign still indicating that it was "on time." As an aside, going through security, no one had to take their shoes off, or give up their bottle of water.

When we landed in Santa Cruz, I was also proud of myself. I navigated through customs and immigration, changed money, and got onto the local transit bus. The bus driver told me where to get off to transfer to the local bus that would take me to the long distance bus station. I arrived at the long distance bus station at 3 p.m. and bought a ticket for Sucre on the best bus possible. This bus is also called a "bed-bus" but the similarity with Argentine bed-buses ends there. The bus was supposed to arrive in Sucre at 9 a.m. There was no bathroom on the bus. For ventilation, you opened the window, and for light, you pulled out your flashlight. There was a large tv monitor hung above the aisle, and literally every one on the bus bumped their head on it at least once. It didn´t work. There were 2 drivers, who changed off and on throughout the ride.

We left Santa Cruz pulling up into the mountains. We left the pavement and started winding our way through a narrow canyon with incredibly high steep walls. If I had been watching the news, I would have known that Bolivia had suffered torrential rains in the past 2 weeks, there was flooding everywhere, and many towns, roads, bridges, etc., had been wiped out. We drove right next to a river that was very impressive, because the waters were well above the banks and flowing very rapidly. The road from Santa Cruz to Sucre is about 200 miles, of which about 150 miles of it is a one-lane dirt road. Actually, it´s not a dirt road. It´s a mud road. The mud road is narrow with occasional spots for 2 vehicles to pass. Every night there must be literally hundreds of trucks and buses that make use of the mud road to transport people and goods between the main cities of Sta. Cruz, Sucre, and Cochabamba. Where there´s a creek, the road fords the creek. Where there´s a mud slide, the bus climbs up and over the mud. Imagine driving from Quincy to the Bay Area on a one lane dirt road. In addition, there was never a straight stretch of road longer than 100 meters. We wound up switchbacks, up, up, and up, and then dropped into deep valleys in what seemed like an endless succession of steep Andes mountain ranges.

By daylight, the Bolivian countryside was nothing short of spectacular. It is lush and green. The valleys are beautiful with the occasional farmhouse. It seems hard to believe that these lush green valleys are at 5,000 to 9,000 feet. The men wear cowboy hats, kind of like in Argentina. The women wear colorful skirts, like in Guatemala. But they top if off with a large black hat, sometimes an English bowler.

During the nighttime ride, we made frequent lengthy stops. A bus or a truck would get stuck in the mud, and other drivers would go up and help free up the vehicle. The result was that this bus ride took 23 hours!! We left at 4 p.m. and arrived at 3 p.m. the next day. Every one in the bus was pretty ripe by then and the odors were pretty powerful. There was no toilet on the bus. During the night, when men had to go pee, they just stepped off the bus when we were stopped at many of the road slides and did their thing. Women just held it!

One piece of good news. I sat next to a Bolivian lawyer and we talked a good deal through the night. Theoretically, the bus stops for meals and potty breaks. However, when we first reached a pueblo that offered food or a bathroom, it was already so late at night, the driver just kept on going. By about midnight, I was very hungry. We were stopped for a couple of hours at a mudslide and some very enterprising Bolivian teenagers on motorcycles were racing back and forth from somewhere(!) with genuinely hot empanadas and genuinely cold beer and selling them to passengers on the many buses. My attorney seatmate treated me to a beer and 2 empanadas. They were the greatest!

It still boggles my mind that this main thoroughfare of Bolivia is a barely serviceable dirt road. On the other hand, given the engineering that would be involved in attempting to construct a first class 2 lane highway, the cost would be astronomical.

We stopped for breakfast in a poor little pueblo in the middle of nowhere. There were several food stands on the street. You could buy lemondade and drink it out of the common plastic cup. There were all kinds of foods being cooked by old women. My attorney friend dragged me to a cafe where wooden crates were set up in front of a counter. The mamacita offered empanadas and coffee. Against my better judgment, I drank coffee and ate the empanadas. The coffee came in a well-used mug. But I was hungry!

Back on the bus, about an hour later, a young Israeli girl-tourist, jumped up from her seat with her roll of toilet paper and ran to the driver. He immediately stopped (we were in the middle of nowhere, which was the case for 90% of the ride). She went out of sight behind the bus and returned 5 minutes later and off we went. About half an hour later, it was my turn. By now, I had the drill down. The driver and everyone on the bus was very understanding. I suspect this is a frequent phenomenon, particularly for us gringos. Afterward, I popped a couple of imodium, and made it to Sucre without further incident or accident. Fortunately, I never leave home without my little daypack complete with toilet paper, some meds, and hand sanitizer.

When the bus stopped for lunch, my attorney friend dove into barbecued intestines. (In Argentina, they call them morcilla. Here, in Bolivia, they just say chorizo, which I think can include a variety of sausage). I passed up the opportunity, and chose instead to eat a Clif Bar (thank you, Elsbeth!) and some sort of Bolivian soda pop. How does the Mastercard commercial go? The bus ticket cost $12. The empanadas and coffee cost 35 cents. The experience was priceless, just maybe not worth repeating.

In contrast to the ride, Sucre is a marvelous place! More on that to come.