C O N T E N T S

 The Gringo-Boneshaker to Santa Cruz [Jul 18th 1999]

Asunción's bus terminal, lined with small shops selling useless tacky plastic gifts, was full of people; the majority of which (I'm sure) weren't waiting for a bus. Brazil were playing Uruguay in the Copa America final and as an example of the obsession this continent has with "the beautiful game", locals had filled the lines of plastic seats to watch the match on the televisions at the station. (Q. What's the most popular sport in South America? A. Basketball - football's not a sport, it's a religion.) Our bus was soon to leave so we stepped outside into the slightly chilly evening to look for it just as Brazil went 3-0 up amidst much cheering.

Of the many buses lined up outside the terminal, two belonged to the company through which we had booked our tickets and these were parked next to each other in exaggerated stark contrast. One was old, rusty, and filthy and had all manner of junk piled up on the dashboard (old newspapers, plastic cups and three or four grubby dented thermos flasks). It was the complete opposite of the other vehicle, which was clean, shining, modern, and roomy, had a television and looked fresh out of the die. A chubby looking man with glasses was loading luggage on to the decrepit bus and as Jayne walked over to ask him which was our vehicle an imaginary coin was being tossed in my head. - Heads it's the leg stretch luxury, video entertainment cruise to Bolivia, tails it's the Gringo-Boneshaker. As she turned round towards me, the look on her face said it all - it was tails.

Getting on the bus was a real scramble, for once we felt like we were carrying very little as the people around us crammed the shelves and seats full of bags, blankets and boxes of food. The space on the shelf above our seats had already been taken so Jayne placed her daypack on the shelf in front only to discover that two minutes later an elderly couple were trying to remove it. "Permiso, permiso" she said to them in a polite but annoyed voice, which they totally ignored. Time for me to demonstrate my command of foreign languages: "hey, Hey, HEY!" I protested loudly. They looked at me and immediately put the bag back - I think they got the message.

With all the passengers squeezed into the dusty, brown plastic seats and the luggage filling the remaining space, the bus pulled out of its parking bay and into the chaotic traffic of the Paraguayan capital, this was it then - we were about to leave the country and make our way to Bolivia.

Our first stop was made before we had even breached the suburbs of Asuncion; only half an hour had passed when we pulled into the dusty forecourt of a run down looking supermarket. As soon as we came to a halt, it seemed as if everyone alighted to buy even more stuff to clog up the aisles and floor of the bus. We sat for another half hour as bottles of coca-cola, cardboard boxes full of cereal packets and roast chickens were purchased. At one stage, I peered out the window to see two large blocks of ice being loaded into the luggage compartment in a polystyrene box. I am fully aware of the trade in illegal narcotics prevalent on this continent but had no idea that smuggling ice across borders was such a big thing. This is of course a flawless and cunning scheme as by the time it reaches the frontier it would have turned to water and no one can prove anything. "Honestly Senor Customs Official, it was liquid when I bought it."

With the journey at last underway, Jayne helped me recite my Spanish verbs as the unpleasant stench of urine wafted through the bus from the toilet at the back. A toilet, I hasten to add, which I went nowhere near during the course of the journey - the back of the bus seemed an even scarier place than the front section we were in. It had become quite dark outside so Jayne twisted on the overhead reading light only to have a portion of grit fall out of it and into my eye. I blinked and rubbed until I could see properly then realised the glow emanating from the bulb was useless - a tiny pinprick of dusty light with which to read. We settled down to sleep except a baby at the front of the bus kept making an extremely annoying, repetitive crying sound as if it wanted to do a full blown wail but kept cutting short "wah, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa". Jayne tried to return her seat to an upright position but it was firmly stuck, the thing was buggered, knackered - well and truly busted. I think the imaginary coin that came up tails just slipped down an imaginary drain as I stooped down to pick it up.

The bus comes to a halt again while passports and identity cards are collected so we can be stamped out of the country. We are at least ten hours away from Bolivia but as the border where we cross is practically uninhabited all the official paperwork has to be done now. While a couple of immigration staff dressed in army uniforms casually prod and inspect bags, one of the drivers, a dark haired man with stubble, holds a passport in front of my face and says "Paul". Thinking he has read one of my middle names I reply "Si" then realise the photograph cannot possibly be me. The light is very poor but the face in the picture has far too much hair to bear any resemblance. I couldn't understand a word the driver was saying, I had no idea what was going on and suddenly thought I may have stumbled across a bizarre immigration scam - doctor the foreign passports with wigs then don't let the passenger out the country until they pay a bribe! It turned out to be nothing quite so sinister, there was an American called Paul on the bus who didn't have an entry stamp to Paraguay in his passport. He ended up settling the situation with a bribe (of course) to the officials before we continued on our journey. Shortly afterwards we were served a meal, in a flimsy white plastic tray, of cold spaghetti with a couple of lumps of chewy beef. I think if Egon Ronay had scored the dish he would have awarded it minus two stars with a "must try harder" comment. I ate a bit of the spaghetti, chewed and spat out a piece of beef, pushed the contents around with my fork for a while then deposited it all in a large black plastic bag that was carried along the aisle by a short curly haired woman - another member of the "bus team". The "bus team" being two drivers and a woman who put left over food in bin-liners.

By now we were welcoming the prospect of some semblance of sleep so made ourselves as comfortable as we possibly could in an attempt to get a bit of kip but, just as we were drifting off, just as the sandman was about to begin his rounds, just when we were crossing the snooze boundary - the driver turns on a fluorescent blue strip light at the front of the bus! "Surely they can't leave that on" we thought - ten minutes went by and it was still there beaming, luminous and in your face. Jayne caught the attention of the co-driver and ran her index finger across her neck a couple of times whilst pointing to the brilliant glow. He nodded as if he understood then left it on all night.

 Sliding through the Chaco [Jul 19th 1999]

At 1:00am I remember stopping at a grimy Esso petrol station where I got off to use the toilet. This was unlike the rest of the men on the bus who stepped off and urinated where they felt like it. A bush, a tree, the gas station forecourt, the wall of the pay booth or, "hang on, how about that petrol pump" - yup, that'll do. Returning to the bus it looked like the interior had turned into one big bed. There were snoring bodies everywhere, most were slumped back in their seats, others had their legs stretched into the aisle, some covered in blankets and nearly all with their mouths wide open. Everyone was bathed in a faint blue glow emanating from the annoying strip light. I clambered over the legs and luggage back to my seat and tried to join in the group slumber.

The next thing I was aware of was around seven in the morning, we were on a dusty track that stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction. On both sides were yellow grasses, bushes and dry looking scrub but most notable of all, an assorted array of particularly spiky looking cacti. This is the Chaco, a vast plain that encompasses most of northern Paraguay with almost no striking characteristics. We were in the high Chaco made up of drought-enduring scrub and thorn forests. There was nothing else, no electricity poles lining the road, no lights in the distance or houses just tyre tracks from previous vehicles that had used this route. I looked around to see a few of the female passengers clambering awkwardly from the bushes having relieved themselves whilst the men did the same in full view of everyone. Perhaps in a couple of day's time this section of the route will boast a few patches of lush vegetation?

At 10:00am we pulled up to a large shabby, bare-looking one storey building painted white and with no glass in any of the windows. There was a dirt volleyball pitch with a torn, limp net and flying in the dusty yard in front of the building was the Paraguayan national flag. Given that there were a few soldiers wandering around outside, I guess this was a small army outpost. They either drew the short straw or did something bad to be posted here - it was a very lonely and dilapidated looking place. We stood around and got talking to two Americans who were on the bus, Paul and Kate, who as it turned out had both had to bribe their way out of Paraguay. I discovered they knew the assistant expedition leader who was on our Antarctica trip, they'd only met him briefly in a restaurant in Chile and helped him out ordering some food but it was a bit of a strange coincidence - here we were in the middle of the Chaco talking to people we've never met before only to discover we have a mutual acquaintance. It turned out they had also met one of the chefs we had encountered while we were in Ushuaia.

So now it's my turn to use the toilet or rather the closest tree but my timing is far from impeccable. "Honk honk HONKKK!" I turn round to see everyone has climbed back on the bus and the driver is going for it on the horn - letting me know as loudly as possible that he wanted to go. Jayne's waving at me to get a move on and I'm sure a few passengers were pointing out the window at the stupid gringo who's holding everyone up. When I eventually return, sheepishly, to the bus, I'm hardly through the door before the driver puts his foot down and once more we head into the dry dusty Chaco.

Through the grubby window I see many more cacti in various states of health and some huge ones stretching twelve feet or more in height. We pass herds of emaciated looking cows, their skin hanging and flopping round their necks and all appearing in need of a drink. Fields full of Bottle Trees, the closest thing you'll get to an obese tree, looking cartoon like, as if they've swallowed a huge orange that's become stuck in their trunk. It looks as if the earth has blown them up like a balloon. I almost didn't notice the border crossing into Bolivia, an unceremonious concrete pillar with the Bolivian and Paraguayan flags painted on either side. No checkpoints, no fence or barrier - just a dirt road in the Chaco. Shortly after this we came to a small army outpost where cattle and mangy looking dogs could be seen wandering around. Here we had to show our passports to a man sat behind a rickety desk under a wooden canopy wearing a green camouflage uniform. He scrutinised each one, checking our names off on a separate piece of paper but no entry stamps to the country were handed out. The next stop was what appeared to be an army training ground with soldiers practicing their drills on basketball courts and soccer pitches. Again we had to queue to have our documents checked by another soldier but again, no entry stamp to Bolivia. We warmed ourselves by a log fire burning inside an old oil drum then boarded the bus again and continued along a dusty reddish road with dry brush either side.

Just as I was reciting some Spanish verbs the driver changed gear with an awful crunching sound: "If you can't foind it, groind it" I said to Jayne in a broad Hampshire accent. The crunching sound continued then turned into a horrible, scraping grating din - it did not sound good. We came to a standstill and the driver and co-driver climbed out to peer underneath the vehicle. Meanwhile, the woman who worked on the bus retrieved two bin liners full of rubbish from the back of the vehicle. They were full of plastic meal trays, knives and forks, paper cups, half eaten meals, sweet wrappers - all the garbage we had amassed since leaving Asuncion. She dragged the bags outside and just dumped them in the scrub by the side of the road. We had both been meticulous about placing our trash in these bin bags, as we always are when it comes to waste disposal - seeing the rubbish lying at the side of the road was like completing an exercise in defeat. It was a pointless waste of time just as trying to explain to her that what she was doing was wrong would have been. The drivers were still busy making adjustments but eventually reappeared and surprisingly got the bus started again. Things did not sound as if they were running smoothly but at least we were moving.

More dusty road, scrub, dry bushes, cacti, Bottle Trees, cattle and then the first sign that we were getting close to some form of civilisation, an oil refinery with a huge flame spouting forth from a tall metal chimney. About half an hour later we came to the first place that qualified as a town. We were in a place called Villamontes that boasted a single asphalt road, one-storey mud brick dwellings and a few trees that had most of their branches sawn off. The buildings were pretty shoddy and in various states of disrepair but there was also a small pizza restaurant with folding chairs and tables stacked against the wall inside. The bus parked by a mud wall and more fiddling about was done underneath it. I looked out the window to see what had caused all the grating noises - a large mangled exhaust pipe had been removed and laid on the road. Just as I was wondering how the bus could be repaired a mechanic turned up in a car that could have belonged to any mechanic the world over. There were patches of plastic filler all over the bodywork, a stick-on sun visor and, for some reason, a screwdriver jammed in the passenger door. He drove off with one of our drivers and the broken exhaust and all I could think was "How are we going to get a new exhaust? We're in the middle of nowhere, houses made of mud, people driving around in vehicles held together with string and no windscreen, flea bitten dogs scampering about - you can't possibly buy parts for a bus around here - can you?"

While we waited, the pizza restaurant with no pizza was temporarily converted into an immigration office - only in Bolivia. Some army personnel had appeared from god knows where with immigration forms and other documents, unfolded a few chairs and tables and set themselves up in the windowless restaurant. This was a first for me; never before have I officially entered a country through a commercial food establishment. We passed the time talking to Paul and Kate again, discussing the possibility of being stuck here which almost sounded preferable to getting back on the bus.

Two hours later the mechanic returned with the same exhaust but, remarkably, bent back into shape and patched up. I watched as three men climbed under the bus with it then emerge twenty minutes later - despite all their efforts, it didn't fit - what happens now? Brute force is what happens now. The exhaust, which was effectively an 'L' shaped piece of pipe, was held up by two of the men whilst the third and largest of the three, swung on the end of it. A primitive yet effective technique that seemed to work as this time it fitted and we were soon on our way again.

From here on, the scenery went through a gradual change; dry scrub was replaced with lush green bushes, Bottle Trees became few and far in-between and instead, patches of palm trees filled the landscape. A dusty, barren panorama became dense jungle, perhaps the sort of terrain where Che Guevara met his demise. As the evening began to close in we made a stop at another of Bolivia's many checkpoints and road tolls. Having parked the bus just in front of a red and white striped barrier on a slightly muddy slope the driver stepped outside to deal with the formalities. Within seconds the atmosphere on the bus changes to high drama - all around me people are screaming, a woman in front of me grabs the baby with the annoying wail and holds it tightly to her chest while shouting something incomprehensible - it takes me a moment to work out what's going on in the sudden pandemonium but then I realise what it is. The bus is rolling backwards on the muddy incline - the driver has left the bloody handbrake off! The portly co-driver and part-time exhaust straightener waddles at speed from the back of the bus, dives into the cab and puts the brake on. The alarming commotion is over within a matter of seconds but it doesn't make it any more tolerable. Che Guevara may well have died around here but I'm beginning to wonder whether the same can be said for coach loads of South Americans and western tourists? Past the checkpoint another scream is heard as the bus tilts dangerously to one side on the uneven road - I really would like to get to sleep now, to slip into a bliss of ignorance to my surroundings and wake up in Santa Cruz. However the driver, in his all embracing enlightenment, has once again decided that all passengers will benefit from having the irritating blue strip light turned on.

The change in scenery seemed to run parallel with a change in the weather. It had been raining for some time now, transforming the dry dirt road into a veritable mud highway. Judging by the speed he was driving, this fact appeared to have completely escaped the driver. Sometimes I could feel the back end of the bus sliding uncontrollably left and right as it skated over the top layer of sludge. The non-stick bus continued on into the night, a night with a faint blue aura emanating through the windows from the completely unnecessary strip-light. In a last ditch attempt to get some rest I pulled my neck gaiter up over my eyes, my black woolly hat down over the rest of my head and finally managed to seize some brief moments of sleep.

The bus stops again and I awake disorientated having no idea what time it is, It's still dark outside and as I climb off the bus I see we have parked among a few dimly lit wooden stalls on a muddy street. Something is not right and straight away I know what it is - I can't see properly... nothing is in focus - the elastic in my neck gaiter has been pressing into my eyes while I was asleep and now everything around me is blurred. The lights hanging from the stalls all have a soft halo around them, people pass me by surrounded by a hazy fog and no matter how hard I try, it is impossible to focus on anything. I'm not fully awake and feel like I'm in some bizarre, half waking dream. Climbing back on the bus I notice that somehow we've managed to accumulate more stuff. The aisle is almost unnavigable meaning I have to place my hands on the seats to lift myself over the cardboard boxes, suitcases and other crap that's blocking the way. To my left I spot a woman fast asleep who has instigated her own "Strip-light avoidance tactics" by placing a large pair of shorts over her face. I finally manage to clamber into my seat then look out the window to see an out-of-focus Jayne walking around in the semi-darkness.

"Smack! Smack! SMACK!" - Now what's happening? SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! My seat is jerking backwards and forwards slightly because the person sat behind Jayne has finally become fed up with the seat being stuck in the layback position. He's really going for it, laying into the backrest with heavy punches. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Another person across the aisle leans over and starts tugging at the chair lever then begins to whack it with his palm. CRUNCH! CHINK! WHACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! I do my best to ignore what's going on whilst being jolted about among all the punching, slamming and thumping. After a minute or so they admit defeat - this chair is not moving - it was specifically designed to be placed into the lay-back position then stay like that forever. Jayne returns to her seat having missed the WBO Man versus Pew title bout and once again the bus continues on its odyssey.
 

 Made It! [Jul 20th 1999]

My first recollections were just after 4:00am when I woke to find we had become bogged down on a road that was now basically a mire. There were other vehicles in front and behind us making slow progress revving their engines and spinning mud from their wheels. To our right were a couple of trucks stuck firmly and going nowhere. The drivers had abandoned the vehicles so they now became obstacles blocking the road and reducing the traffic to a crawling, sliding single-file. One of our drivers was outside in a pair of overalls covered from head to toe in mud; he was placing bits of wood, stones or something under the wheels to help get us moving. Every now and then we would move forward with a sudden jolt then wait for five minutes or so while the vehicle in front moved or our wheels managed to get a grip again. This process continued for about an hour until we were finally free, our co-driver climbed aboard looking like he'd just returned from a Woodstock concert and we were on our way again. I am now at the point where I'm wondering what is going to happen next - this was supposed to be an overnight bus trip and already it's into its third day, Santa Cruz seems like a long way away. The blue light seems brighter than ever and I can't get to sleep so I just look out the window at the mud and passing tangled forest.

We come to a single lane bridge shared by both road vehicles and trains but before crossing it the bus has to climb a short steep bank. As the driver negotiates the incline Jayne wakes with a start and grabs me while the bus rocks wildly from side to side. We tip heavily to the left then right causing a bag to fall off the parcel shelf on to a passenger then the violent left, right sway is repeated as we line up to cross the bridge. For a brief moment I felt like I was back on a ship crossing the high swells of the Drake Passage to Antarctica. Just to add to the excitement the bridge itself was incredibly narrow with only just enough room for the width of the bus. At one point I thought I could make out a river down below but we were very high up and in the end all I could see was darkness. We crossed slowly and cautiously with steel girders passing by the windows and the hollow sound of tyres thumping over wooden planks. From where I was sat, I couldn't see what the floor of the bridge was made of and I really didn't want to know - the noise alone sounded unsafe. We made it to the other side, "another obstacle out of the way" I thought as I peered out the window at more wooden shacks selling sweets and soft drinks. I was feeling so tired now that it was impossible not to sleep and so, without any effort, that's exactly what I did.

7:00am and at last we have reached Santa Cruz - I can't believe it, we're almost at the end of the journey, the prospect of life off the bus is looming on the horizon. A few passengers are dropped off on the outskirts of the town near a water purification plant, along with a myriad of luggage. Almost predictably this is not straight forward as the disembarking passengers start having an argument with someone about money. Among all the shouting in Spanish I can hear them quoting figures at each other in US dollars. The argument didn't appear to be resolved and we drove off leaving the family and their belongings on a small traffic island looking like they were the beginnings of a mini refugee camp.
As we got closer to the centre of this frontier town the surprisingly wide streets and single storey buildings were replaced with narrower one-way roads and taller constructions. Outside it looked cold as people made their way to work in woolly hats with hands in pockets and their heads down into the wind. We stopped a couple of blocks away from the bus terminal where everyone began to get off - we'd made it, the journey was over and as if to celebrate that fact, Jayne's seat righted itself when she pushed the lever forwards - no force or thumping and punching was required it just decided that after 36 hours of being firmly stuck now was the time to become unstuck. All that remained was to retrieve our bags then we could go and find a room and relax. Our backpacks came out of the luggage compartment completely covered in a light red dusty earth, it seemed like a large portion of the Chaco was inside them - my bag also had a rip in it but I wasn't really concerned since we were now officially "Off the bus". In a moment of madness, Paul and Kate considered getting another bus straight away to a town called Cochabamba but then, sensibly, changed their minds and decided to stay in Santa Cruz.

The entire afternoon and part of the evening was spent in a friendly bar with Scott, a Canadian who was staying at our hostel, Alistair, a graphic designer from Manchester and Paul and Kate. As we recounted the story of our journey we made the same toast over and over again, our glasses raised and meeting in the middle of the table. Here's to being: "Off the Bus!"