On the Road – La Paz to Rurrenabaque, Bolivia
Round 3 - attempt to get to Rurrenabaque
An arrival to Flotilla Yunguena by taxi. Makeshift buildings with crumpled walls, vendors touting bags of apples, bags of waterproof something.
Under an armada we wait for the bus – an alternative to taking a plane since the weather deemed flights unlikely.
A clean-cut man with a white ball cap and metal framed glasses is eyeing Papa’s backpack leaned against a fence. He leaves.
Ladies with pleated skirts, bowler hats, and baskets. Wrist watches for sale, backpackers -- their facial hair long, shoes dusty -- pass by.
“Esta es el bus de Rurrenabaque.” The clean-cut man is back, points in the direction of a violet bus.
Following his pointed finger, we look.
He leaves.
So does Papa’s backpack.
The thief now has a couple Lonely Planet books and dirty socks. Papa still has his safety and good spirits.
*
On the bus - accompanied by locals and backpackers. Rosa Maria Ruiz with a beret, long braid, and green khakis appears in the aisle a little while later. She looks like the classic image of a revolutionary.
The ride mounts up the Andes, past a graveyard and a small town where I pick up cookies and a beer for Papa. The bus rolls slowly uphill. At times, the road disappears from sight replaced by a thick fogginess. It feels like we’re driving above the clouds. The sheer walls of mountains come into view, thin waterfalls trickling down.
Sidebar: The way to Coroico compromises of 2 single-lane-width dirt roads (unbeknownst to me at time of travel) – the Yungas or “Death Road” -- one labeled as the world’s most dangerous road -- and the one we’re on, notably as dangerous. One study estimates that 200-300 travellers are killed annually on these roads.
A pass by an anti-narcotics station, we throw coca leaves out the window just to be safe. A man in camouflage fatigue boards the bus, grabs things from the overhead compartment. Papa has a bag of wafer cookies in his lap. I have Monkey -- she's hidden in my shirt.
A horror movie is shown on the TV about human trafficking. The pleas and images of women getting raped. There are children on board the bus. I feel queasy. Papa is snapping photos out the window with a disposable camera. Views of chartreuse and lime green foliage, mountain peaks, and a vertical plummet off the roadside. Papa taps me, smiling, and points downward out the window, “Did You see? It’s got be 2 to 3 miles down.”
The bus continues, zipping past corners, speeding downhill. Squares of coca fields on the steep Andean slopes. A child has been abducted by a demented, perverted, piece-of-shit fuck. The film is getting me pissed.
The bus halts to a stop.
“Mierda!”
“Puta!”
A mélange of angry shouts and loud, rapid discussion. Out the window, a pickup truck has run into the side of the mountain, the bus cornered against it, a crowd gathers.
Passengers disembark. We’re informed that in order to get past, the bus will need to go in reverse, but we’re right on the ledge of the mountain, and it’s dangerous. Maria is calmly reading a book. I hop off, Papa stays on board.
The narrow road is muddy. A large cross marks a grave of forty-four persons who departed due to a bus accident. Flowers are placed next to two graves, regards are given. A local informs that the day before yesterday seven people departed and a few days prior, seven more.
sheer drop
The bus is moving forward and backward, trying to pull the pickup truck out. Cars from both directions are piling. At one point, three cars are trying to squeeze past on the thin road.
An hour or so later, we’re back on the bus rolling along the edge of the road. The driver continues to speed downhill; the movie continues to piss me off.
“Despacio!”
“Por favor, tranquilo!”
Passengers shout to the driver, their heads alert, poked in the middle aisle. Maria still reading her book, lounged in her chair, a sense of serenity in her stance.
“Get me out of this fucking bus!” a backpacker woman says.
The bus speeds down the mountain. Passengers are yelling for the bus to stop, to let the woman off.
Eventually the woman and her partner are deposited in the middle of the road -- a long way from La Paz, a long way from Rurrenabaque.
The ride continues. At one curve, a car heading the opposite direction squeezes past, the bus tilts. A woman is sobbing.
This driver’s mad! I’m out of cookies! I’m picturing the position I’ll brace myself in should the bus go toppling off the cliff.
Papa, his head pasted to the window, is clicking photos on his disposable camera.
This continues for 19 hours, over the same steep road, with the same wild driver, into the night with no road lights, accompanied by the screams and morbid images of the same damn movie played over again.
...at the moment, Cafeteria El Balcon
it just started raining outside.. or maybe it's been raining?
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1 comment:
DO!! Your rendition of traveling on the death road and Papa's rendition of traveling on the death road are completely opposite, apart from the point that many have perished along the way...and recently! Just you mentioning Papa snapping pics admist the horrid film, women crying, bus wildly traveling down the road--I can see exactly what you're talking about. Must have had some sense of peacefulness seeing Maria Ruiz's composure... Do, be careful!! I think the danger of your trips are amplified 10x whenever Papa comes to visit you... Love you! Be careful! Your sister Mo
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