On the Road Again

After being perpetually cold, we were surprised to see the sun peek it’s head out out during our last day in El Calafate. It was a good omen; we loafed around the town, drank lattes outside, and rented mountain bikes. We biked around the lakes with fabulous views of the Andes mountains and flamingos and never saw another soul. We had so much fun we lost track of time (let’s be honest, though, neither of us are wearing watches here which has resulted in a few close calls regarding missing buses) and narrowly escaped missing our 5:30pm flight back to Buenos Aires (it was the only place we could fly to, even though we wanted to get to Bolivia).

Mountain Biking Around the Lake

A note on getting to getting to Bolivia. It seemed that flying there was out of the question for many reasons I won’t bore you with, unless we wanted to spend several, and I mean several, hundred dollars. We didn’t know much about getting there in general because many of our Internet search results were in Spanish. So all we knew is that we wanted to get to Bolivia and were landing fairly late in Buenos Aires.

By the time we landed and got our luggage, it was well after 11pm. We had no plan, and it’s always daunting when you land somewhere late without a place to stay that night. All we knew is that we were tired and run down with colds, hacking and sneezing to a point that if there was any swine flu concerns here, we probably would have been detained. Do we find a hostel or try to catch a bus to Bolivia?

In broken English, the guy at the cab counter seemed to think we could catch a bus to Bolivia that night yet. I wasn’t sure if this was a language barrier micommunication, but I figured it was worth a try. We were tired, but we staggared into the bus station with our backpacks.

We walked past countless windows, most of them dark, and asked the lit ones: Bolivia? Most shook their heads emphatically.

Sometimes the exchange went like this:
‘Bolivia?’
‘Par-don?’
‘Boe-liv-eeya?´
(guy shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, unsure what I am asking.)
I draw an imaginary map on the counter and trace with my fingers, ‘Argentina, si?’
He nods. I point west of my imaginary Argentina.
‘Chile, si?’
He nods again.
Then I point north. ‘Bolivia,’ I state emphatically.
His eyes light up. ‘Ahhhh! Bolivia!’
‘Si!’ I say, while thinking, ‘Isn’t that what I just said?’
But then he shakes his head.

This sort of exchange went on for a while, window after window, lugging our backpacks which feel extra heavy given the hour and fatigue and sickness. Finally we resigned ourselves to the fact that maybe we better try again in the morning. The thought of meandering the streets at that hour for a bed was not a fun one.

We were just leaving the bus station when a guy who spoke broken English approached us. He basically told us that we needed to go to North Argentina to the border and then we could get to Boliva. He said that stall 53 had a bus leaving at 1:00am. ‘Muchos gracias!’ we said as we bumbled our way to booth number 53.

The guy didn’t speak a lick of English but somehow through elaborate charades and map pointing we communicated where we wanted to go. We still weren’t convinced, though. It was a bit haphazard just going North and we questioned making any decisions when we were this tired and run down. Plus, there were no full recliner buses available; only semi-recline chairs which were okay for a few hours, but not beyond that.

‘Arrival?’ I asked him, pointing at my imaginary watch, rolling my rr’s exaggeratedly, hoping that he understood I wanted the arrival time. It worked.
He wrote: ’06:00′ on a piece of paper. Only a 5 hour bus ride! Hallelujiah!

We still debated but it seemed like a smart move, and a 5 hour bus ride was doable. John wasn’t as convinced as me, in part because he was sicker than I was, but did agree to it. So we bought tickets.

As we waited for the bus, we debated taking Gravol, but decided that we were so tired we would sleep like babies. What a mistake that was.

Sleep didn’t come easily. Actually, it didn’t come at all. The bus was dreadfully uncomfortable and worse than that, it was cold. A dampness permeated the air like a bad odor. We tied our hoodies tightly around our heads, hands deep in our pocket, and shivered our way through the night. John, ever the gentleman, gave me his warmer hoodie insisting that he was fine. It turned out to be an act of chivalry that would haunt him for days as he was actually shivering all night long. Despite his warmer hoodie, I barely slept as I coldly stared at the barren roads, feeling every bump on the bone shaker they called a bus. I was so, so thankful that it was a short ride. I couldn’t have hacked it for much longer than that.

The sun finally did come up after what seemed like hours, and I started to thaw a little bit. The sun kept climbing and I thought to myself that the sun must rise early in northern Argentina. Surely it was almost 6am. After more time had passed, I grew suspicious and set out to find the time. 7:00am. A thought of panic hit me. When we determined it was only a 5 hour journey, I commented that geographically that didn’t make sense. But price wise it did and we were tired and out of it so didn’t question it. But forced to face the facts, I reached a dreadful conclusion: The bus was to arrive at 6:00am the following day!

We were ill prepared for a 30 hour journey. We had no water and no food. We had no gravol and no warm clothes. Had we known, we never would have hopped on the semi-recline seats bus. To make matters worse, the sun exposed the filthy bus for what it was. Dirt was caked everywhere.

We did stop briefly about noon and were able to get some food and water, but the bus was dreadfully uncomfortable. We were exhaused and John was getting sicker by the minute. Hour after hour, mile after mile, we started out the window, trying to get comfortable. It grew dark and the reading lights on the bus didn’t work, so boredom was hitting me hard. I honestly felt like I was suffering. John felt like he was on the brink of insanity. My one leg was numb and eventually got so painful I couldn’t sit anymore.

Around 10:00, John turned to me and said, ‘I can’t do this anymore, and neither can you. We’re getting off at the next stop. I don’t care where it is.’ I needed no convincing.

We got off the bus in a city called Jujuy (pronounced Hoy-hoy), found a hostel fairly effortlessly and signed up for 2 nights. John was in a fit of cold sweats all night suffering a fever.

Grocery Shopping in Jujuy

The next day John was still feeling pretty ill, but was restless. We chilled and bought some groceries to make chicken soup. Jujuy has a different feel from the South. For one, it was warm (hallelujiah!) but it was also a little more gritty. Che Guevara paraphenelia was a lot more apparent, as were palm trees. I liked the feel of it, but there was no English anywhere.

That night John went to bed early and I decided that I needed to practice travelling on my own. Of course the first place to make friends is in the hostel with fellow travellers. I grabbed a beer and followed the laughter, but realized that no one spoke English. I meandered around the city that evening, unable to communicate. I would recommend anyone travelling to South America to take some Spanish prior!

It was another rough night for John. He was sweating and feverish and coughing and wheezing. But the next morning he insisted that we continue our journey to the border of Bolivia. Usually a healthy person, he isn’t one to let sickness bring him down too easily.

Happy to Be on a Warm Bus En Route to Bolivia

We were in much better spirits that morning. He was still feeling bad but some drugs helped. The landscape was amazing. The mountains were stunning shades of rust, orange and purple, and cactus sprouted up from the mountains like daffodils in the spring. It was in the desert, and the temperature on the bus indicated that it was a hot day out.

We stopped for a break about 2 hours into the 6 hour journey, but commented after about an hour that it was a bit too lengthy of a stop. We started to get concerned when people grabbed their stuff and got off the bus. Through exaggerated charades and the Spanish dictionary, we concluded that the bus was broken! We had to wait for another one.

What is an Authentic Bus Ride in World Travel Without a Broken Down Bus?

We took a deep breath and sat under a tree. The new bus eventually did come. But it was full. And we were the last ones on. I sat in the stairwell and John stood up, looking positively miserable, his nose and eyes oozing mucous. They promised us it would be like this for only 20 minutes, but of course it was more like an hour.

Eventually we realized it was impossible for me to sit in the stairwell because people kept going up and down (double decker buses) to use the bathroom. John suggested I go up front with the bus drivers, and so we did. We had fun trying to communicate with them. They were quite young and I think they liked the idea of a blonde Canadian girl up front with them. They were rocking out to some latino style music and we shared laughs and tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to communicate.

Goofing Off With the Bus Drivers

Finally we reached the Bolivia border, tired, with John barely functional and not himself.

And it was the beginning of a week of a few highs but mostly lows with some desperate moments. But that’s what travel is all about, right?