Day one in Bolivia.....

Do we laugh or do we cry? Let me start this story at 10 PM last Sunday night.

We were in the front seats, second level of the bus again. We had been warned that crossing the border to Bolivia was a nightmare, and that the buses in Bolivia were not as nice as we were used to. However, the feeling that things were about to get strange did not manifest until I noticed the windshield of our bus was shattered. But Jenna told me not to worry because it had packing tape over it.

I had a restless sleep and woke up at 5 AM in the border town of Quiaca, Argentina. There are no bus companies that will take you across the border from Argentina to Villazón, Bolivia. So you have to walk from the bus station in Argentina to immigration. However if you are Boliviano you can just walk right on through the guarded gates past armed men and mosey on home. Immigration, schmmigration. If you're foreign you stand in a long and chaotic line to crowd into a tiny room (15' x 15') and fight your way to one of the two windows for a passport stamp. If you are American you have to fill out paperwork for a visa and pay $135, "We ONLY accept US dollars". Because we are two months into our trip and have no USD, we had to make our first crossing into Bolivia to go to the cambio exchange and then return to immigration. Without a passport stamp. We cut the line to return to the window with our money and paperwork. "Do you have a photo?" Well no, you didn't mention that. Back across the border (still not legal), make a photocopy, cut the line back to the window. "Now fill out this blue paper." As our new British friends say... for fuck's sake!! This is why it takes people five hours and a large headache to get into Bolivia. The third time we cross into Bolivia we are legal, but I'm already worried about exiting customs. I still remained optomistic that the stories about the buses are exaggerated.

Our bus ticket from the border to Uyuni cost $17 USD. We boarded the bus fourty-five minutes late. It is not a nice one, but we're not being princesses. We go one hundred feet and stop. Ten minutes later we have to switch buses. There are thirty five seats (I counted) on the bus and they let an extra twelve people on. Just a short time into the drive on a dirt road the seven year old sitting in the isle next to me is asleep with his head in my lap. Finally we drop the locals at a pueblo in the middle of the desert and everyone has a seat with the exception of the Argintine kid who has to remain in the isle and decided to just lie down. The stories are all coming true.

At our first stop we were allowed fifteen minutes to eat and use the baño. As Jenna and I are standing there eating our empanadas and helado we see two Bolivianos standing with tools at their feet staring at a flat tire. We also notice the hood to the bus is open. Uh-oh. An hour later the hood is down and our tire is changed. The driver is obviously in a hurry to get back on the road because he jumps on the bus and starts backing up before everyone is aboard. This includes my friend Jenna who has just gone to get a Coke and is no where in sight. Her biggest fear on this trip has been to miss the bus and be left behind. As I frantically fight my way to the front of the bus to scream at the driver "PARE! PARE!" here comes Jenna running around the corner, Coke in hand, the last person making a crazy leap for the door of the bus as it is pulling off. Looks like people were not lying about the bus leaving people behind either.

The bus stopped three times on the dirt road we were traveling through the desert. Each time the fourteen year old kid sitting up front with the driver brought out tools and tinkered with God only knows what. We finally made it to Uyuni together, tired, and with complete confidence that we were in a third world! We decided that was worth a laugh.