Barely out of Bolivia

Dessert breakdown

In order to make the connections we'd planned on, we reached the frigid border of Bolivia several hours before sunrise. We rubbed each other’s backs and wore all the clothes we had, including socks on our hands, as we shivered in wait for the first officials to show up and give us the necessary entry stamps.

Two hours later it was still so cold that the ink in our ballpoint pen was frozen. Only once the sun had risen and we had cursed the low temperatures of high altitudes, could we fill out the immigration forms and proceed.

Our first Bolivian destination was the Salt Flats of Uyuni, a mind altering 10 000 square kilometres of bright white, ancient lakebed, an area so evenly flat that allegedly satellites are calibrated as they pass overhead.

As gringos race around in 4x4 jeeps, hardened locals make their living here, painstakingly scooping 6 centimeters of salt a year, for which they earn a measly few cents per kilo.


Stylish

With 70% of locals living under the poverty line, Bolivia is by far the poorest country in South America, a reality emphasized by the fact that it took us three whole days of travelling before we even saw our first paved road.

That’s why, making our way north through the country, we bumped, rattled and jittered along some of the worst roads known to mankind. Semi dry riverbeds have been the best highways, with crowded, geriatric buses rarely averaging above 20 miles an hour.

To make matters worse, public transport around here is largely an unpadded affair. In addition to this discomfort, our stunt driver on one of the ‘river roads’ also chose to experiment with some daring shortcuts, at one point with the whole bus screaming in fear of toppling over. Later, as we could just about see our remote destination on the horizon, the bus spluttered to a dead halt, having simply run out of petrol.


Train cemetery

The next day we visited a phototastic dessert train cemetery, a barren outdoor showroom of rust and dust, where for more than a hundred years outdated Bolivian locomotives have come to die.

After this we made our way to La Paz, a capital that resides at an exhausting altitude of 12 000 feet - more than a third of Mount Everest.

The air is so thin that every few minutes one needs to take a couple of extra breaths, just to make up for the lack of oxygen. The simple task of walking a few floors upstairs requires several breaks, to stop heart palpitations and embarrassing wheezing. Any sustained activity, such as climbing steep city streets, feels like running a marathon.


La Paz

But for all the useless roads and lack of oxygen, Bolivia is beautiful. Breath taking, as it were, in many ways. The landscape is dramatic, the culture is vivid and the people are very friendly. They are also very short (ten bucks says no Bolivian will ever play in the NBA).

The traditional skirted lady with platted hair and bowler hat can be seen in almost every doorway, selling peanuts, chewing coca leaves and generally looking fetching. Propaganda and graffiti is all over, with most surfaces covered in either a face of Evo Morales (the first ever indigenous president of South America) or hand painted murals for everything from spark plugs to fruit drinks.

National politics are notoriously complicated. Bolivia is featured in the Guinness Book of Records for its 188 coups d’etat in 157 years.


Endless

In response to becoming an increasingly popular travel destination, the streets are lined with tourist shops selling an abundance of ubiquitous trinkets – colourful textiles and pan-pipes, as well as daring novelties such as hairy llama fetuses.

Even the tackier side of things is done with style. Che Guevara merchandise, for instance, have been sold in every country we’ve been to so far. But Bolivia actually has a good reason (the CIA executed him here in 1967).


Chores

The day before yesterday we headed for the La Paz airport, at the ungodly hour of 4am, to catch a flight to Sao Paulo. Unfortunately it didn’t quite turn out like we had hoped. Flying in Bolivia wasn’t one of our wisest decisions.

A word of advice if you’ve ever thought of flying with ‘AeroSur’ - don’t. Because within a space of a very frustrating 12 hours we had experienced 4 airplanes, 3 mechanical failures, 2 cancellations and one emergency landing.

On the first flight, from La Paz to Cochabamba, we evacuated our plane on the runway, to facilitate ‘necessary engine repairs’ (which meant a that small man on a tall wooden step ladder appeared and literally took the jet engine apart).

For the second flight, we never even made it into our actual plane, but instead got a ride with another airliner going our way.


Transport

Then, in Santa Cruz, we waited for 4 hours as a gaggle of mechanics tried to 'secure' the door of the third plane, to the plane. When they’d fiddled and banged the door and scratched their heads, and seemed reasonably satisfied that the job was done, an announcement was made that we could board the plane.

Ten minutes after take off, as we’d just cleared the clouds and were about to indulge in a small packet of peanuts, we heard some loud clunks from the fuselage. Aw, shucks, the plane door was loose. The captain executed a dramatic u-turn and the stewardesses started putting trays in the upright position. Uh-oh.

From our small window we could see thousands of gallons of jet fuel pouring from the wings, being hastily dumped in preparation for the sudden emergency landing. Although strangely beautiful, this is a sight no air passenger ever wants to see.

The plane was silent. We banked towards the very airport that we had just left. Everyone held someone’s hand, even if it was a stranger’s.

We hit the runway a little too fast, bounced precariously a few times and then let out a collective sigh of relief. Then, in that well trained tone of voice, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, the stewardesses casually requested that we remain seated until the captain turns the seat belt sign off. Bing.


Town square

A little while later we’d been given consolatory Subway sandwiches and small plastic cups of Coca Cola. It’s amazing how a free snack makes you forgive someone nearly killing you.

Finally, after one more failed attempt at securing the loose door, we were allocated another plane to take us the remaining way to Sao Paulo. We did not object.

According to common safety projections, the average lifespan of a Boeing 727 jet is about 30 years. Ours was 27 year old (we looked it up on the internet). Once upon a time it had been owned by United, but had switched hands several times, eventually ending up in the outback of Bolivia, a place where air safety requirements are clearly liberal enough for operators to inherit such elderly hand-me-downs.

As of last night we're in Brazil, our visit to Bolivia only as short and sweet as its people. Despite our near disaster it was well worth the time and effort.

To explore Brazil, as well as celebrate being alive, we’ve made it to Paraty, an adorable little coastal town, for what promises to be a highly lethargic beach bonanza.

And what could be better than that?


Illusion