Traveling through Bolivia is always a challenge, and this time was no different. The day I wanted to leave, Cochabamba decided to close down the city to cars in honor of pollution. A worthy cause, I thought, and at least this time I was forewarned. So, I made my way to the bus station early so that I could get through the center of town before the roadblocks started. It was, in fact, really cute--everyone who had a bike in town brought it out of hiding, since this is the one day a year that they could ride without fear of the insanity of Bolivia drivers.
However, as I left Cochabamba on the bus to Oruro, it was clear that not everyone was forewarned about the extent of the roadblock. Indeed, I had thought the event would only affect the center of town, and yet, as we travelled first 5km out of town, then 10 km out of town, I noticed that right behind us were police cars blocking the road behind us to through traffic, and the road was lined with trucks trying to get through. Eventually, 20km out of town, the police had caught up to us and the road was closed...in both directions. An excellent example of extremely efficient Bolivian bureaucracy and a seemingly unsatisfiably Bolivian appetite for roadblocks.
Anyways, we were diverted onto a dirt road with all the other buses and trucks guilty of the crime of trying to leave Cochabamba. After a very bumpy half an hour, we got back onto the main road we encountered a lineup of at least 30 buses scattered before the toll plaza, all with their engines off and an impromptu market set up. The toll plaza, of course, had conveniently closed.
At the front of all the commotion, I witnessed all of the bus drivers in conference with an apparent official, and all looked mutinous. Eventually, the threat of being run over by all 30 buses convinced the police to let us through, to the disappointment of the entrepreneurial women selling pan and chiclets to the bus passengers.
View from the train.
The train was a much more pleasant experience, though I had to wait seven hours in Oruro, mediocre every other week of the year besides Carnaval. Traveling first class allowed me a seat that reclined and also a continual showing of music videos such as Celine Dion´s "My Heart Will Go On," complete with clips from the movie Titanic. Waking up the next morning was beautiful though, as we were chugging through a wide valley surrounded by mountains. Another 5 hours winding through high mountain deserts and we arrived to Villazón on the border with Argentina.
Train station in Tupiza, 2.5 hours from the border.
After collecting our belongings in Villazón, we walked over to the Argentinian customs. The line was short, but only one window was open. As I waited, the window next to me slid open, and a customs agent stuck his head out and asked me, "Australian?"
"No..."
"Where then?"
When I said Estados Unidos, he made a face, said abruptly in Spanish, "I hate the United States!" and slammed the window shut, leaving me to wait, bewildered.
When I was first in line, the anti-American agent seemed to have no role other than "general harrasser"--a role he took on with some enthusiasm. While the other agent examined my passport, the first asked questions rapidly in Spanish, such as,"Where are you coming from? Where are you going? Where are you going after that? What do you do at home? What do you study? What part of the States are you from? Is it nice there? Why are you traveling alone? What kind of music do you like? Do you like Metallica?" After which he paused in his interrogation to rock out to an air guitar.
Despite this special attention, they waived me through with no troubles--indeed they didn't even need to search my bags, which they did to everyone else. Apparently, Argentinian police assume someone from the United States would not try to smuggle in coca products, though some New Zealanders in line with me were not so lucky.
No comments:
Post a Comment