I realized, as our taxi raced up on a semi hauling logs going ten miles an hour for the third time, that if I don ´t die of natural causes, I will die with my eyes squeezed shut. But I ´m getting ahead of myself.
Our stay on the Bolivian side of the border in Guajaramirim ended without much fanfare. Since we planned on exiting Sunday morning as early as possible, we went Saturday afternoon to get our exit stamps. After much inquiry to the police at the ferry dock, and several taxi drivers offering to take us to immigration (two blocks down the street), we finally found the building, doors closed and padlocked. Some fellows were sitting around a cart outside playing cards, so I asked them if they knew when office opened. Bolivian accents, especially in the lowlands, are near impossible to understand unless that ´s where you learned Spanish. If you ´ve ever seen Snatch, with Brad Pitt, you know what I ´m talking about it. The film features a group of Pikey ´s who speak English so muddled that the whole movie is sub-titled. Anyway… once I realized the men were saying the office was only open on Tuesday (lunes) and not “in the evenings” (luna means moon, and I thought it might be a colloquial way of refering to the evening hours), it didn ´t take long to understand that the only way to get a stamp on any day but Tuesday is to go to the passport official ´s house. OH. THAT ´S why all the taxis were trying to take us to immigration. And somewhat strange… this woman is like the mayor. Everyone knows where she lives and what she does.
So, we hailed a moto-taxi cum chariot, with a canopied-cart meant to seat three.
Youd think maybe youd feel safer in a nice big cart instead of clinging to the back of the moto taxi driver. Not so.
We bumped our way across town until we hit the outskirts. Finally we pulled up outside a walled-in, compound-esque house (almost all houses are like this all over Latin, Central, and South America) with a HUGE party going on. Pink and Yellow balloons hid every inch of wall space and plenty of dressed-up folk roamed with drinks in hand as music blared from an impressive sound system. The taxi driver kind of left us to our own devices, but thankfully the gringos were quickly noticed and dealt with. The passport official held out her hand for our passports, and we hesitantly turned them over. She disappeared into the house, and came back a few minutes later with paper work, a stamp, and an ink pad. On her kitchen counter, next to the raw chicken, she flipped through our pages, recorded the appropriate information, stamped us, and sent us on our way. Thanks for visiting Bolivia. Come Again Soon!
Thanks to the advice of one of the other hotel guests, a Brazilian who looked mid-twenties and told us he was an undercover cop investigating a drug trafficking investigation, we decided to wait until Monday to leave. Our guide book, although occasionally inaccurate, promised no boats until Tuesday. We wanted to check for ourselves, but assuming they weren ´t wrong, we ´d be spending lots of money unneccesarily (sleeping and eating are lots more expensive in Brazil). So we stuck around for another day, during which time we got quite a bit more suspicious of Samuel (the Brazilian undercover-cop). Why would he tell us he was an undercover cop? Why would he offer to drive us around São Paulo when we get back there? Why would he offer to take us to the airport (!)? We think we won ´t be calling him.
So, we burned another day sitting around the plaza watching all the families on motorcycles – everything from dirt-bikes to mopeds. We never saw more than four people on one bike, but shockingly we saw women hauling around plenty of tiny babies. Even newborns! Eating at a cafe, we watched a woman and her friend crawl into their SUV, both carrying 18 month-old children on their laps. I couldn ´t figure out why that looked so weird to me until I realized that I never saw it in the U.S. because it ´s illegal! We also got treated to a military parade (both the land and sea units) marching around the plaza, albeit sloppily (according to Pat and all his army expertise).
Monday morning we finally escaped Bolivia by ferry, if you can call it that. Everyone loaded on to a 25 foot boat with bench seats all the way back, and then we motored across the Rio Mamoré with the top edge of our boat inches from the water ´s surface. Sketchy!
When we set foot on shore, we were checked for Yellow Fever Vaccinations for the first time ever. You ´d be crazy not to have one – the sickness is potentially lethal, and if you don ´t die, you ´ll wish you would the whole time you ´re sick. After getting entrance stamps from the Policia Federal, we walked the mile and a half to the bus station in the sweltering heat. Funny, because we didn ´t have a map of the town… just lacksadasical directions from a Canadian biologist we met. So, we kept asking the ice cream vendors (soft serve on every third corner). They kept saying, “Oh! It ´s so far! So, so, so, so far. You just go and go and go and go. Ask when you get closer.” Finally, we asked one of these people to quantify for us, after we ´d walked over a mile. I said, “Like a kilometer, or what?” She said, “oh… no, not that far. But ten blocks at least.” Funny to see the different perceptions. Maybe it ´s the tropical climate; nobody ´s crazy enough to walk more than four blocks in the heat.
At the bus station, thanks to a bicycle companion we ´d picked up along the way (people love practising their English here, and jump at the chance to speak with us), we managed to quickly assess our travel situation. Our intended destination was three hours away, and we needed to arrive as soon as possible to stake out the boat situation for the following morning. The $17 bus didn ´t leave for seven hours, but the $22 dollar taxi was ready to jet. So we sprung for the extra expense and headed back to the ferry dock (retracing the entire distance we ´d just walked) to pick up two more passengers. The condition of the road was astounding in both great and terrifying ways. The first hour or so was heaven compared to Bolivia ´s highway offerings.
However, the potholes that reared their ugly heads for the last few hours made for a heart-pounding experience. Our driver (not to mention all the other cars on the road), kept it steady between 80 and 95. We don ´t slow down for potholes. We just swerve. Usually towards the center of the road (although not the center line – they don ´t have one of those). If there ´s oncoming traffic, we swerve towards the outside – my heart leaping into my throat each time as there is no shoulder. I ´m not a very fearful person, and I (perhaps moronically) believe that I will not get hurt, a requisite personality trait for every risk taker. However, as we swerve within millimeters of a sure crash, or race up on a semi nearly running under the back end, I continue to think everything will be fine until the second before I think death or injury is certain. Then I involuntarilly squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath. The long drive gave me plenty of time to think, and after several of these experience, I realized I am almost certain to die with my eyes squeezed shut.
Our arrival in Porto Velho was sudden and unexpected. Suddenly we were dumped out of the cab with every tour agent looking to make a buck trying to get us to buy a ticket to one of the many boats floating at the end of several steep and somewhat ramshackle staircases.
Right before my brain exploded, we settled on the AlmTE Alfredo Zanys and set about stringing our hammocks. With much luck, we found an incredible dinner of rice, beans, meat skewers, farofa, and veggies for $1.25 a plate and ice cream for just as cheap. The peanut butter is my favorite! Back on the boat, we got acquainted with Anthony from Austria and Prash from London. Anthony had just spent a year and a half in Bolivia doing his civil service. He told us about all the women in his williage who would go to wisit the other willages, yah. Anthony liked to hear himself speak English, but never really had much to say. Prash was really awesome… a 19 year-old college student with an easy going attitude. We watched a really terrible movie about vampires (BloodRayne) dubbed in Portuguese and subtitled in English. Great for learning Portuguese, and you hardly notice the cheesiness when you ´re so focused on learning how to say “We are starting to lose our strength, Maldone!” Afterwards, we had a few more beers with the two gringos (do you have to be white to be a gringo? I guess so…). We got to rub elbows with the both of them, and plenty of other folk, for the next couple of days. With a promised departure of noon, we woke up the next morning after our first night in our hammocks (not bad!) and hustled to the village for supplies and breakfast. Three o ´clock rolled around, and we were wishing we hadn ´t hurried so much. By five, we finally cast off down the Rio Madeira, embarking on our first Amazon boat trip.
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