Well, I have just stepped off the bus from Bermejo at the Bolivian border with Argentina. The bus ride took about four hours and involved a range of obstacle courses. I managed to sleep for some of the journey, making up for the lost sleep on the Argentine section of the trip where I only managed 3 hours sleep.
Crossing the border bridge during early morning.
Going through customs was a standard procedure, after waking the Bolivian officers from their slumber, but unfortunately I missed a bus that was heading for Tarija because of it. Instead I needed to catch a taxi to the bus terminal and board one of the buses heading there at a later time.
Waiting for a bus to be ready
On arrival at the terminal, a lady grabs my bag and races off with it, while another grabs me by the arm and says, "hurry, the bus is already set to leave but we are holding it for you." The bus was not set to leave at all. The driver was sitting in his seat for show. It was 6.30am when I purchased that ticket thinking that I was leaving straight away. In fact, I was one of the very first that had purchased a ticket.
Ticket sellers soliciting people even before they get out of the car.
The ladies assured me that they were leaving at 7.00am now, which was only a short time later. But as the minutes ticked onward this seemed less likely. Every taxi that arrived received the same treatment of a swarm of ladies all trying to sell tickets on their bus. I guess I had become accustomed to the politeness of Argentina, and forgotten about the randomness that happens here in Bolivia.
As more and more people purchased tickets for the bus, there became more people hanging around waiting for it to leave. The driver had long since gotten out and gone somewhere else. Not a soul was seated on the bus. Soon the sign saying 7.00am was changed for one that said 7.30am. This was Bolivia. Schedules here are very flexible.
People waiting around for the bus to leave.
Eventually I realised that the delay had nothing to do with time, but revolved around how many passengers they had for the journey. Once there were enough passengers then we would be leaving. I started to relax, wandering over to a newly established breakfast stall. The lady had some Aji brewing (red thick liquid with a funky taste) and made torta-fritas to order (deep fried pastry/bread), all for $1 peso AR.
After enjoying breakfast and wandering lazily around the terminal, I noticed that people had started to climb aboard the bus. More interestingly was that the driver was now back in his seat again. I wandered over to climb aboard and was confronted with a young girl demanding another $2 pesos BOL which she called a boarding fee. It turned out to be a tax imposed by the terminal on all passengers.
The winding road that we travelled along.
The Winding Journey
We finally left a little after 8.00am. There had been a lot of rain recently, causing the roads to be cut by falling rocks and mud slides everywhere. It had all been cleared enough to make room for traffic again but the rain had started again last night.
Our road wound its way along the edge of the River Bermejo, coming dangerously close to the edges at times. We passed a truck that had tipped onto its side when its wheels sunk into the soft mud on the edges of the road, and a car that had been written off in an accident along a straight section of road. Most of the journey was not always as entertaining.
Smashed car being retrieved.
One time, I was woken from my sleep when the bus stopped and shut off its engine. Ahead of us was another bus and a small truck. The road was cut and there was no way through, but an earthmover was working on the problem. Within moments of getting off the bus there comes a shout and everyone runs toward the bus. It has been declared passable, so we are going to try.
The bus races forward at an ever increasing rate as our gung-ho driver tries to gain the momentum he needs to carry him over the slippery mud section. In negotiating his way, he neglects to allow for the drift that this mud causes. Suddenly our bus lurches wildly toward the cliff edge. Everybody aboard instantly leans back toward the road, hoping that we survive this moment. We do.
The land slip that stopped our bus.
As we pass the earthmover driver, safely back on the road surface again, I see him shake his head. He too looked just as worried as we all had been. Our journey continues, through tunnels, up mountains, into the clouds, and back down into river valleys again. The muddy waters of the swollen Bermejo river raging wildly against its edges below us in its gorge.
Occassionally our bus blares its horn and brakes wildly, with a sharp swerve here and there. It is animals roaming on the roads. Pigs, cattle, donkeys, goats, or dogs. All get in the way, and our bus driver does not like to slow down very much. The rain falls consistently until we reach Tarija, and then mercifully stops.
Our journey takes us up the mountains and into the clouds.
Tarija. I have now reached the end of this, my first journey in Bolivia.
A woman in typical Bolivian dress.
A bicycle workshop in a local town.
Sheltering from the constant falling rain.
Street of the oldest town in the Bermejo province.
Local kiosk along the side of the road near nothing else.
