“Minor Complications” by Delia McCrae

The chubby-cheeked Quechua woman with pigtails and a cheerful smile took her place on the single seat by the door across from the driver. She would be the hostess on our bus journey today from Puno, Peru to La Paz, Bolivia, high in the South American Andes.

Adorned in a pretty floral ankle length skirt and bright pink blouse, the hostess drew a small thermos out of her handbag and passed it to the driver. The older man, a seasoned driver, thanked her for the drink and the warm bread she gave him. Promptly, he took a sip from the flask and devoured the bun, his 8 am breakfast on the run.

As we said good-bye to the city of Puno and Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable body of fresh water in the world, where we’d visited the fascinating floating villages occupied by the Uros, the aroma of chicha from the driver’s open flask drifted through the air. What could be more Peruvian than this popular ancient Andean beverage made of fermented corn?

If everything went according to plan, we’d arrive in La Paz, Bolivia, in six hours. We would reach an altitude of roughly 4300 m (14,000 ft) above sea level on this journey through the South American Andes, the world’s longest continental mountain range.

With all bags and passengers loaded, our uniformed driver grasped the huge steering wheel and guided the large tour bus down the highway. After a couple of hours driving, we stopped in Desaguadero, a dusty Peruvian – Bolivian border town on the south end of the lake. We were directed to get off the bus with all of our luggage and proceed to the Peruvian border authorities to surrender our visitor papers. After that we needed to get our passports stamped by a Bolivian border agent.  

At noon the temperature reached 35C, so I slathered on sunscreen, put on my sombrero and took my place with hundreds of others waiting in the sweltering sun.

Accessing the Peruvian border control was easy. But the long line to the Bolivian border agents, housed in a small building, moved at a snail’s pace.

To pass the time I listened to a group of young Colombian exchange students in front of me kibitzing about their travels. My husband and I consumed the snacks we’d packed and purchased a few other items from vendors selling food, water, hats, t-shirts and other goods.

Two hours stretched into three but at long last we reached the one storey run down redbrick building where customs officials were checking and stamping passports. Here we would be granted entry into Bolivia, where we’d spend the night before flying to Santiago, Chile, our final destination. The frustrated group of mostly Spanish speaking travellers in the line continued to talk amongst themselves, pondering what possible problem caused the delay. A handful of foreigners in the group conversed in English and other languages.  

Perspiration from the heat of the tropical sun dripped off us as we finally stepped into the custom building’s dimly lit corridor. I looked around, taking inventory of the cobwebs and filth on the floors and walls, and noticed a faded poster promoting family planning. I was pleased to see an effort was being made to educate people on this important topic and couldn’t help but wonder if something as simple as a bit of paint would help grab the attention of those it sought to reach.

Impatient Bolivians and foreigners, filled with anticipation, crept quietly forward. I saw the customs officer’s booth and felt some relief knowing it would soon be our turn. Then, two young Latin American soccer players dressed in bright yellow jerseys suddenly bounded in and stood in front of me.

“You can’t do that!” I hollered in Spanish. “You have to wait like everyone else. We’ve been waiting three hours.” I heard the muffled sound of agitated agreement behind me.

One of the two young men brazenly replied. “But we’re with them, this is our place in line.” The young people in front of us nodded in agreement.

 “We’ve been waiting three hours – you wait too,” I repeated, unwilling to let these young all-stars win the contest. “In three hours, we haven’t seen you.” Other irate and indignant voices perked up behind me in the line and fists waved in the air. No, they mutteredin my defence.

The young men, obviously used to the combative atmosphere of high states soccer competitions were unfazed and continued their aggressive bullying stance.

Imagine our collective surprise when two Bolivian police officers suddenly appeared at the door and made their way towards where we stood in line. The police officers put out their hands, grabbed the soccer players authoritatively by the upper arm and shuffled them out of the building. Our passports were stamped minutes later by an obliging customs agent. Happy with the outcome, we returned to the awaiting bus.

The next leg of our journey promised to be quite spectacular with expansive vistas of craggy snow-capped peaks. Our aged Inca Express bus groaned and strained as it climbed up the inclines. It seemed that some of the mountains and slopes were almost too much for it but there wasn’t a hill we had to back down from. From my seat I could see oncoming vehicles hovering over the centre line and grew anxious. This was a characteristic driving behaviour I’d previously noticed in Peru’s Sacred Valley when our taxi driver took us up to the market at Pisac.

Through small villages and vast expansive valleys, we wended our way across the rugged landscape that included plateaus as well as mountainous grades. Temperatures inside the bus began to escalate as we drove. Periodically red-faced passengers from the rear approached the driver and hostess to ask them to turn down the heat and put on the air-conditioning. The temperature in the bus was approaching the high 30’s just like outside where the equatorial sun was shining.

I chatted with the hostess who told me in Spanish there was no heat on in the bus, only air-conditioning and relayed this message to the other passengers.

Meanwhile, the driver fiddled with air vents and controls in an effort to reduce the bus’ internal temperature and appease the over-heated passengers. At the same time, he enjoyed a breeze from the small open window by his seat, from which we caught a slight breeze too. But no other windows in the bus opened. With almost no air circulating, those unlucky enough to be seated in the back of the bus nearly roasted.

Despite the discomfort of the passengers, we traversed the miles towards La Paz on a well-maintained paved highway.  Before long I saw the snow-capped majestic peaks surrounding Bolivia’s capital. This jewel, set in a spectacularly beautiful part of the South American Andes was getting close.

As I gazed at the beautiful mountain scenery a whirring and squealing noise caught my attention. The clanging of the motor continued, even amplified as the driver slowed the bus and steered through quiet suburban streets lined with small newly built brick homes. Then he stopped at side of the road, turned off the bus and after a few minutes restarted it. Was something wrong, I wondered.

When the driver kept going, it seemed that everything was alright. But it wasn’t long before he pulled over again. This time both the driver and the hostess got off the bus, as did another gentleman who seemed to have special status, possibly as a reserve driver. I saw the hostess reach for a block to place behind the front wheel.

When I heard her say no air was getting to the engine and it was overheating, and the driver opened the lid of the large engine compartment which was situated between the driver’s seat and the exit door, I could see we needed to act fast. The radiator was only a foot away from us and if it blew, we would be scalded and scarred for life. It could all happen in an instant.

“We need to go,” I said to my husband quietly so as not to incite a mass exit. We grabbed our bags and jumped off the Inca Express tour bus.

 “Are we in La Paz?” I inquired of the driver who was now standing outside the bus.

“Yes, we’re in La Paz, this is the outskirts,” he told me.

“Can we get our bags please,” I asked the gentleman with him.

“Of course,” he responded and obliged by opening the baggage compartment in the rear of the bus. Our bags in hand, we stood on the shoulder of the freeway and flagged a cab to take us to our hotel near the stadium.

Once we reached the city, our first task was to acquire Bolivianos, the local currency so that we could pay our taxi driver. After that we headed towards the stadium area to our hotel only to find there was an international soccer match between Bolivia and Colombia and every access to streets near the stadium had been blocked off.

It had been an unusually trying day and we were tired, ready for a good meal and a restful sleep. Even though our driver negotiated with numerous police officers who were patrolling the stadium area, none of them let us through. The situation appeared impossible and the distance to our hotel too far to walk with our luggage.

At long last, a kind-hearted police officer allowed us through a blockade. Inside the restricted area, game crowds milled through the streets, but our driver persevered and eventually dropped us off at the bottom of a wide staircase. He pointed at the top landing and told us our hotel was located on the street above.

Undaunted, with our accommodation only a short distance away, we wrestled our bags and backpacks up the stairs. I paused to catch my breath. The air really was thinner at 12,000 feet and I knew it best to take things slowly.

When we arrived at our hotel, I sipped a cup of coca tea offered by hotel staff. Having suffered a terrible bout of altitude sickness known locally as soroche in Quito, Ecuador, I learned to appreciate this Peruvian antidote that helped combat, even prevent, lightheadedness and nausea at such heights. The tea helped me regain strength and probably saved me from getting completely knocked off balance. We’d had quite enough complications for one day and definitely didn’t need another.

The area around the stadium was festive, still abuzz with people when we went out to explore. Most restaurants served fried chicken so that’s what we had, fried chicken and fries. It tasted absolutely delicious as we sat and marvelled at our adventurous feat of having arrived in La Paz and the day’s unusual journey replete with minor complications.

THE END

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