New Beginning

Getting up at 7 in a place like this isn’t easy. Everything is still sleeping in the valley enveloped in fog. There’s one little bird, however, that’s taken on the job of being my alarm clock. It comes to a glass window and starts tapping. Tap-tap. There’s an open window if it should want to come in, but it just sits in front of the glass. Tap-tap. Roxana told me about these little birds. They knock on glass windows until they bleed and no one knows why or how to prevent it. Tap-tap. I get up.

It’s 7.40 by the time I drive off. 4 hours and 20 minutes should be enough to drive 100 miles, fill up on gas, and find the hotel in La Paz, where I need to return the car by 12pm. Halfway between the ranch and the village I run into stopped cars in the middle of the muddy track, people wandering about in confusion. I drive past to the edge of a small stream running across the road. A station-wagon, going in the opposite direction, has gotten stuck by trying to cross on the deeper side closer to the drop-off. This is not what I need!

People are scurrying around, putting large stones under the front tires, trying to lift up the front of the car. I suggest we just push the car backward – seems logical enough. They ignore me but at least stop trying to lift the car and after another 5 minutes of useless fussing about, we give it one big push. The hood feels like made of plastic under my hand and bends a bit, but the car easily gives back and the road is now free. 

There are no other cars this early in the morning, so I push the tires a bit, almost to a screech, on the foggy twisty road up. Every once in a while a strange shape jumps out of the fog. Sometimes it's a few stones piled on in a strange shape, sometimes it's a human being sitting motionless by the side of the road, wearing a traditional Bolivian poncho and hat, just looking at the passing cars.  The first time it happens it really startles me. Something very eerie about a small human shape on the side of the road in the middle of the foggy mountain pass.

It’s 9 when I get to the regional border. I’ve got only 100km to go. At the border checkpoint, the policeman asks about my little ticket with the regional stamps. I hand it over and he examines it. There’s no stamp from this particular checkpoint since no one bothered to stop me on the way in two days ago. Well, that’s my problem, isn’t it? He tells me to pull over and go over to the checkpoint booth. I have the same conversation with the plump officer there.

“Your last stamp is from Copacabana?”

“I know, when I came by here, no one stopped me, so I had no idea.”

“But you don’t have a stamp! I don’t know what we’re going to do. Give me your license.”

I hand over my NY State license. He peruses it with curiosity and shows it to the other officer in the booth.

“What is this? Do you have an international license?”

I trot over to the car and bring the $15 piece of paper from the NY AAA office.

“Aaah, now this is your license,” he says, flipping the pages.

They start talking and laughing, while I wonder what kind of torture they are devising to punish me for my crime. Finally, the plump cop (a sergeant perhaps) turns to me tells me something in Spanish that sounds like instructions. I don’t understand a word.

“You want me to pay? How much?”

He shakes his head laughing.

“You want me to go?”

Now both of them are laughing and shaking their heads. Then the plump one starts repeating and fresca and soda and pointing across the road. Finally, I get it! They want me to go and buy them a large bottle of lemonade from the stand across the street. I laugh with them now and head over. The damage is a dollar. The woman looks me up and down, then checks the 10 boliviano note I’ve given her against the light and promptly rejects it.  I look at it. What could she possibly not like about this particular note? She starts explaining, but I just hand her another, identically crumpled one and take the bottle of soda over to the grateful laughing policemen. As I get back into the car, one of them approaches me again and signals me to lower the window. What now? He smiles and starts asking me friendly questions.

“Is this your car?”

“How much is the guarantee?”

“How much is it per day?”

“Does it drive well?”

I answer all, he thanks me, wishes me good luck, shakes my hand and waves goodbye. I drive off.

Before I reach La Paz, I have another favorite movie experience. As I’m driving along, I see a school with a playground by the side of the road. I decide to stop because I can do a quick workout on the playground. There’re a couple of people milling about, but no one bothers me. Just as I am about to start my last set a couple of strange looking birds appear from nowhere. They look like seagulls, but their beaks are black and shorter than a seagull’s. They proceed to orbit me really low, emitting a very disturbing screech. I try to scare them off by pretending to throw stones at them. That only makes them more agitated and even attracts more birds. I decide not to wait around any more, quickly finish my set and head for the car. Just as I get in, I see the schoolteacher leading a class of small children onto the playground under the screeching birds…

Once in La Paz, I have a message from the Waygoer, written at the bus station in Buenos Aires just to let me know how close he was to not making it to Bolivia on time because of his visa. I shake my head and relax with a cup of coca tea. Tomorrow the Waygoer arrives and the journey starts again.