When Bolivia Is On Strike, It´s Good to Find Some Hippies–May 8-9

After our frustrating attempt to get a Bolivian visa in Salta last week, gaining entrance at the border proved to be much easier than we had expected, but we were not to know at the time that the border was only the first of much larger challenges in exploring Bolivia.  We left Argentina early on Tuesday, May 8, and rode the bus for about 4 hours to the Argentine border town of La Quiaca.  After exiting in a matter of minutes, we filled out the visa application, submitted numerous American bills for inspection before gaining the amount of crisp, perfect dollars necessary to purchase our stamps, and were walking into Villazon, Bolivia within the hour.  Our hopes of an easy day, however, were utterly naïve.

Our first order of business was to locate an ATM in order to draw as much cash as we could because ATM’s are few and far between in Bolivia, and working ATM’s are even more rare.  Having accomplished that, we headed to the bus station in order to buy tickets to Tupiza, the town from which we could arrange a tour of the Salt Plains, a series of stark white plains and beautiful lagoons that are one of the most highly recommended places we’ve heard about from other travellers who’ve toured Bolivia.  Upon reaching the bus station, we thought that we would have no problem as over 10 companies advertised buses to Tupiza; however, each time we approached a window inquiring, “Tiene unos boletos a Tupiza por esta tarde,” we were always met with a negative shake of the head and a thumb pointing towards the next window.  Eventually, we ran out of windows and walked, frustrated and confused, across the street, but only international bus companies were located there.  We probably should have loaded our bags onto one of those buses or walked right back into Argentina right then and there.

I ended up being able to explain to one of the workers at the international bus companies that no one would sell us a ticket to Tupiza, so he directed us to the coach office down the street.  We found that we could pay for a shared taxi with several other people and get halfway to Tupiza, but that some sort of roadblock would keep the driver from going past.  We would have to walk through it and then pick up a different cab on the other side.  Many of the provinces in Argentina have border checks that taxis cannot go through without a special license, so we assumed that something similar must be occurring here.  In any case, we hopped in with a bunch of Bolivians who seemed perfectly fine with this method and were soon on our way up the highway.

Once we got to the roadblock, maybe 40 or 50 kilometers into the 90 kilometer trip to Tupiza, it was clear that the problem was not a border control but a political protest. Rocks and thorny branches were strewn across the road, and many people were camped out beside the blockade.  A group of young men playing a makeshift game of futsol on the road behind everyone else seemed to be the strike enforcers that would keep people from passing.  Another cab full of tourists were opting to return to the border because no one was willing to give them a ride on the other side since there would be more blockades up the road.  We thought about turning back as well, but both the driver and a nice Bolivian couple about our age who had been in our cab thought that we could probably get a ride after an hour or two of walking; we just needed to get past another roadblock or two.  After a few minutes of deliberating, Sarah and I agreed that we should give it a go, joining up with our new Bolivian friends, Carlos and his wife, Leni.

Although we were at around 3,400 m above sea level, it was still pretty darn hot, and the four of us were sweating as we climbed up and down the rolling hills of the dessert highway that offered little shade.  Fairly often, we would meet up with Bolivians carrying heavy loads in their arms and chewing coca leaves while moving in the opposite direction; Carlos, who spoke about as much English as I speak Spanish, would stop and ask them how long it might take us before we could find a ride before translating for us…answers varied between two and five hours.  Most people agreed that we had to pass four blockades, but no one knew how far they spanned.

On and on we went, trekking down the silent highway and lugging our heavy bags.  We rationed our water and both wished that we had eaten more than a banana and a few crackers earlier in the day.  After about an hour, we hit the next blockade, where Sarah was actually able to buy helados (ice cream) from a bicycle vendor on the side of the road.  The next blockade was about another hour down the road, and this one clearly had a group of enforcers who had stopped a motorcycle that was trying to get through.  As we walked, I talked with Carlos a bit, and he told me that people were striking mostly for higher pay but also for better medical options and education.  I was glad, though, that they harbored no ill will towards people trying to walk across the lines.

The guy on the motorcycle managed to get through the blockade, and we found him stopped a little ways down the road.  He agreed to take us two at a time up to the next town for 10 Bolivianos (about $1.50) each.  The girls rode off while Carlos and I continued walking up the road.  About 20 minutes later, the guy returned and took us six km up the road, letting us off a few minutes before the next blockade.  I can’t say that riding on the back of a motorcycle with two other guys while wearing 50 pounds on my bike was fun, but I was thankful for the time that we saved.

By this time, both Sarah and I were doing plenty of second-guessing our decision to continue after the first blockade.  We began to discuss some different options we had, depending on whether we could get to Tupiza; there was always the option to make the long walk back to the border the next day and head back to Argentina before making our way to Chile or flying north.  In any case, neither one of us felt like spending the next month walking the highways of Bolivia.

Our trek took us another two and a half hours, for a total of five hours on foot that day, and we were both tired, hungry, sore, and sick with head colds…not to mention thirsty.  We came upon a school and stopped off to inquire about getting some water before continuing towards Tupiza, still hoping to reach the last roadblock and find a ride to town before dark.  The last person we had talked to, though, said that the highway was totally blocked until morning.

To our surprise, a large group of hippies…15 young French, Argentine, and Peruvian travelers decked out like flower children…had arranged to stay at the school for the night and purchase some local food for dinner.  They invited us to join them, and the local teacher encouraged us to stay as well.  Tupiza was still 16 km away, and it was getting pretty late; we were both done in after a physically and emotionally trying day and decided that the traveling hippies were our best bet, so we said goodbye to Carlos and Leni, who continued up the way.

I know that I have at times been known to rail against the hippies of today, mostly because I think that they are mainly posers who think the clothes look cool (they’re wrong) and enjoy rebelling against nothing rather than actually standing for something that they believe in (other than stupid looking clothes and rebellion for the sake of nothing).  However, the 15 people who took us in were amazing, and I hereby promise never again to utter the phrase, “damn hippies,” or “friggin’ cheese stealers” again.  J  Having met only recently for the most part, they realized that this would be a challenging journey and so banded together to make things easier and more fun.  They graciously invited us in and made every effort to include us despite the fact they we were by far the most limited in speaking Spanish of anyone.  Several of the village children were hanging around, and the hippies were tireless in entertaining them with juggling and music.  Most of them were in poor shape and had been walking for two days with shoes better suited for the mall than the highway, but their spirits were indomitable despite their blistered feet.  We did our best to pitch in with preparing dinner before laying out our sleeping bags in the school and watching the world go by before dinner.  One of the hippies invited us to try the national Argentine obsession of mate (an herbal tea), which was a first for us, and several of them began to play their guitars and even a cello.

After sharing a borrowed plate of rice, maize, potatoes, and onions, both Sarah and I felt a lot better, and being with so many positive people helped raise our spirits.  We did our best to keep up with the school teacher’s lessons on Bolivian foods and places to visit, and then we slumped exhausted into our sleeping bags on the dusty school floor, but not before everyone passed the hat and did right by our generous Bolivian hosts.

Wednesday the 9^th marked 13 months since our wedding, and we never would have predicted that we would start it by waking up next to 15 hippies sprawled out in the single room of a school house in Bolivia, but then again, this year has been anything but an exercise in normality.  Sarah’s cold was getting worse, and I had almost totally lost my voice after being sick myself the past week, and so we said goodbye to the hippies and hit the fresh air as soon as possible.  It’s a cliché, but this has got to be one of those things we will look back on and laugh about someday.

We walked that morning for another four or five miles along the highway, finally able to appreciate the beauty of the land around us.  The morning sun is always amazing as it lights up the mountains in glowing red, and we later learned that this portion of the highway is actually considered a highlight in itself.  The road was filled with Bolivian families making the long trek that we had undertaken the day before, and we would greet each other in Spanish and often receive toothless smiles in return for our own.

When we were nearly to the final roadblock, the hippies came flying by…all 15 of them loaded in the back of a flat-bed cattle truck that they had happened upon and convinced to take them as far as it could.  We caught them right at the final roadblock, only to realize that they were a large enough group to fill up the two trucks waiting a few 100 meters down the road.  So it was that Sarah and I passed the final blockade at a virtual sprint with our giant bags bouncing up and down on our shoulders while the hippies banged on the windows of the trucks trying to get them to stop while also cheering us on in at least two languages.  Finally, we reached the tailgate of the truck and jumped on right before the driver finally stopped and helped us find a place in the truck.  As we rode the final 10 km into Tupiza at 8:00 in the morning, all I could think was, “damn, I’m glad we met those hippies”!

PS: Bolivia is no longer on strike, and Sarah and I are doing fine.