With the careworn skill of the parent of a toddler, we coaxed St. Phoenix to the Peru/Bolivia border, and that was where the trouble started. Though our Peruvian visas themselves were valid for ninety days, a spherical potentate of a border control agent condescended to alert us of a grave sin we had committed; on our little entry slips, we’d written that we planned to stay in the country for 20 days. In fact, we had blown it, torn it, messed up and perpetrated a floater. It was day 21. There was a fine, he told us, a fine of one American dollar, which we could pay at the bank. Which bank? The one outside. So we tracked down the bank--ten blocks away--and paid our fine. On our return, I stopped off to use a public restroom (.5 solas) and when I rejoined the lads, they told me that the corpulent border emperor had ordered them to make three copies of each passport, along with the receipt from the bank where we had paid our fine.
When we came back to the office with our copies, we discovered that--on account of Aaron displaying frustration when we left to make the copies--we had displeased the rotund demigod of international crossings. We had displeased him, and so nothing could be done for us. We would have to return to Puno, they told us, because Aaron was a bad boy. His highness had tried to help us, but now, nothing could be done.
So Aaron set to beseeching forgiveness, and I put on my best customer-service manners and between us, coming up just short of genuflection, we softened the granite folds of his chins into a look of righteous condescension.
And additional six copies each later, we were back in the sun and the dust and the town, we congratulated ourselves that things would be easier, now. We rolled St. Phoenix across a bridge, pulled up at the Bolivian border offices, and commenced to duel the paperwork. At first, things swam along fantastically; the car papers were no sooner mentioned than complete, we found our visa forms, we filled them out, we asked (although we’d asked before, and changed all our Peruvian money to Bolivianos because we’d been told it was best to pay the visa fee in local currency) if Bolivianos would suffice for the visa. The assembled agents of the crossing regarded us with astonishment. Of course it wouldn’t work. It was a visa fee for American citizens, wasn’t it? Well, then, it must be paid in USD.
So Aaron changed our money to USD in the street, and in the process discovered that the money changers who changed our funds from Peruvian to Bolivian had skimmed $30 off the top, leaving us $8 short. So we ransacked our baggage for any trace of money more, and could find none. In the end, Sheldon and I were obliged to walk back across the bridge, and through the Peruvian town to find an ATM, and withdraw the necessary money to complete the transaction. At last, three hours later, we pulled away from the border.
We reached La Paz with relative ease, having been stopped at checkpoints three times, but only being obliged to bribe a police officer (who pointed out quite reasonably that moon-crater windshields are not permitted in his country), found a garage for the car, and a hostel for ourselves. The most notable incident of the evening was when we footed the dinner bill for a homeless gentleman who accosted us in a restaurant offering to shine our (unshinable) shoes, and he proceeded to take his dinner out to the sidewalk, and share it with others of low estate. Our hearts, to say the least, were warmed.
Next morning, we tracked down a reputable mechanic, described the symptoms of St. Phoenix’s ailment, and asked if they would mind checking/replacing the fuel pump. After a bit of symptom-confirmation, the friendly old man who was our mechanic unhooked a fuel line from the carburetor, and asked Aaron to start the car. The car rumbled to life. The fuel line gave one great spurt of gasoline, and then subsided into a steady trickle of fuel, all over the top of the engine. Mechanic nodded, then covered the opening with one thumb, as folks do to transform a placid garden hose into a high-pressure shower-stream. About 1 second after he did so, all of the gas he’d been spraying onto the engine erupted in a merry sheet of flames. Sheldon and I, looking on, were not a little disturbed. Mostly because the mechanic, although anyone could have easily predicted that spraying gas all over a running engine will produce an inferno, seemed horribly surprised and all in a fluster. For a moment, he ran about the shop frantically, found a large bucket of water, and came charging back.
I’d always been told that pouring water on fires caused by A) electricity or B) oil was a bad idea. The other mechanics seemed to agree, as they came running, one of them brandishing his beer bottle shouting “No water, no water! Beer!” A familiar cry, no doubt, from mechanics, but not necessarily when attempting to douse a fire.
But the deed was done. The bucket was flung. The water cascaded all over the battery, and the petroleum fire. And everything went out. And no harm was done. And the mechanic told us that we could pick it up in the morning, new fuel pump and all.
Spending the next morning picking up the car necessitated a certain change in our plans and an extra day in the smoggy clutter of La Paz, but that seemed a small price to pay in return for a more-or-less functional car, so we delightedly agreed. The rest of that day we took advantage of cheap restaurants, caught up on various little bits of bookwork, journaling and blogging, and arranged our Death Road bike tour for Monday morning. To finish off, we ate gyros at a tiny restaurant on the street, sucked down some freshly pressed juice from another stand, and -in my case-stayed up until 4 AM uploading photos to the blog, hindered by slow internet.
Saturday, as a day, is largely lost to my recollection. Other than an uneventful trip to the mechanic’s to pick up St. Phoenix from her surgery (which fixed the sputtering, but left her somewhat anemic) my day was spent twisting upon a bed of sickness, racked by the effects of we-still-know-not-what-but-we-guess-it-was-the-gyros. Aaron and Sheldon did a bit of puttering, a bit of exploring, and a bit of shopping, and brought me back apples to eat when my gastrointestinal system would permit no substance else.
We spent the full next day at Ceja, La Paz’s open-air market. We went there principally hunting after cheap souvenirs, and a certain South American instrument, the Charango. We’d been told that out of all South America, Bolivia’s prices were the best, and out of all Bolivia, there was no place with Charango deals like Ceja. Imagine a sea of small tarp-tent booths stretching literally for miles, up streets, down streets, through alleys, filling plazas and shutting down roundabouts. Hardwear, headwear, footwear, toiletries, pastries, laundry, car-care, second-hand-clothing, furniture, piles of junk, knock-off athletic gear, music…Ceja trounces Wal-Mart in size, options, and low prices (but only on Thursdays and Sundays). After hours of hunting, we found our Charangos, and after several more hours of shopping, we squeezed into a taxi loaded down with plastic bags of Bolivian merchandise.
Next day was the Death Road Tour. We rose at 7:30, and made our way to the touring office, where we ate a pleasant breakfast, and signed one of the most thoroughly binding waivers I’ve laid these luckless peepers ‘pon. It explained, in essence, that if anything went wrong for any reason whatsoever, including negligence of the company, they were absolved of responsibility.
Thanks, we’re sure to your prayers and Providence, we successfully navigated the World’s Most Dangerous Road, first whizzing--no word will fit but ‘whiz’--down 21 k of asphalt in 25 minutes or so, and then spending a number of hours raging--no word but ‘rage’--down the gravel remainder, some 40 k. The ride was bouncy and treacherous, full of large rocks and infinite drop-offs, but the riding was a rush, and when we reached the restaurant at the bottom (they have these things for tourists) we were sweat-drenched and satisfied.
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