The mission: join forces with other strong independent woman and crazy, so-hilarious-my-entire-body-needs-to-recover-from-hearing-you-recount-your-interaction-with-that-cute-Cholita, human-loving, gender-role-tearing-down-ing friend from my university, who I had previously never actually hung out with one-on-one, for two legendary weeks of conquering Bolivia.

 

 

Step One: Sleep on a Paraguayan airport bench still wondering which city to go to.

Day 75 (am)

“My body feels broken. I travel in such a painful way.” —My trip diary.

Remember back in Rio when I said nothing was planned for Bolivia? Yeah.

So began the final chapter of my summer. I couldn’t let go of what could be my last good wifi for weeks so I only slept two hours. But if I were to sleepover at any airport in Latin America, it would be this one. Small, good bathrooms, benches without armrests and nearby wall plugs.

A Brazilian boy my age approached and asked if I was going to Bolivia as well. He knew because he had seen me wolfing down gelato in the São Paolo airport (flight to VVI Bolivia with connection in Paraguay $165). Plus we were the only majorly loopy and bed-head-ed ones in the terminal. We realized our travel plans were quite similar, and were both trying to meet with friends in Sucre.

 

 

Step Two: Take a terrifying night bus halfway across the poorest country in South America.

ATMs in Bolivia are terrible. I had landed in Santa Cruz, and grabbed the green micro just outside the green terminal. The lovely driver dropped me at a random stop for Bus 74 to the terminal, $.90 and $.25 respectively.

It appeared that all the more reliable bus companies departed for Sucre at 4:30pm and I showed up just as they were sold out. With no order to the system, I found one for 5:30. They asked for 200 Bolivianos because I was a foreigner. I talked it down to 150B, or $22, but it should be $14. Whatever, I just needed to go see my girl Marcela.

They promised cama, or first class, but I already knew there was no way. Confirming this, the bus was late, and gross.

As I waited, empanadas and hot chicken dinners were being rapidly passed between vendors and commuters. I befriended  two girls sitting by me on the bench, 18 and a 19 years old . They gave me cunapi , the cheap cheese bread rolls that was being sold everywhere. They told me they go to high school in Sucre, and for their two weeks of holiday they served as cleaning maids in Santa Cruz. For tuition. They asked if we do the same in The States.

They accepted my Trader Joe’s chocolate.

Taking public transit here felt like selling my soul. As we got out of the city the driver floored the gas. Being the only backpacker to brave this particular vehicle that day, I figured at least the TVs wouldn’t work and play horror films as they’re infamously known to. But no, they did, and awful screams of God knows what blared for hours. I joked that I was back in the lands where life was affordable and everything was covered in crap, but everything really was covered in crap.

 

 

Step Four: Find a bed, food, bad wifi, and wait with zero certainty.

Day 76

The only way to survive a Bolivian overnight bus was to refuse to think about what was happening.

I was too cheap and my body was too youthful for a taxi so I walked to The Beehive Hostel ($8.53 per night) using a map. The wifi was in and out, but it was enough for me infer that Marcela didn’t make the busses yesterday and would be a day late, giving me the day to take care of myself and become a human again.

$2 could by me French toast at the hostel, or chicken stew with giant corn, giant papayas, and chirimoya. If waterfalls make people happy, then so do food markets.

 

 

Step Five: Put solo travel on pause and love.

Day 77

I was relishing in the phat raisins and coconut sprinkles on my warm spiced oats when I hear “Vivian?”

Thinking it was hostel staff, I turn to find beautiful Marcela. We fling stories at each other for hours.

She’d completed her first Workaway and solo traveled through Peru. The biggest lesson she learned was to “never trust a fart.” Matt, the Australian surfer from our room, walked in as she shared this while we spooned a giant papaya. He soon after walked in on her meditating.

A popular activity in Sucre was learning Spanish from local tutors who came to the hostels, taught for a couple hours, and assigned homework. The three of us sat in my bed reading children’s stories from Matt’s book until the bonding devolved into Marcela and I arguing about the difference between our preferred outdoor organizations from university and Matt calling us both Girl Scouts.

More markets. We walked far away from the tourist areas to hand-beaten ice cream, dinosaur telephone booths (there was a park of dinosaur footprints just outside the city), and used denim.

We came back to the main food shops. Marcela introduced me to pit-less avocados, or deditos (little fingers), a fruity phenomenon that made the world a better place. To keep up with the theme of miniature foods for dinner we purchased quail eggs.

Just like life back home, were our dumb selves cooking in the kitchen. I handed Matt a single sunny-side up quail egg who proceeded to split it with four others.

Marcela had a gift of bringing out the emotions in strangers and Matt opening up to her was no exception. It was crazy watching a 19-year-old be the confidant to a 26-year-old, pushing the right questions at just the right time.

He kept repeating  how we were the only Americans he’d ever met who could take a joke. And that we both had “such cool hair.” There was just one problem. You would think explicitly telling us to add him on social media five times indicated that he wanted to be friends, but no. Ignoring us wasn’t enough. He hit reject.

 

 

Day 78 (am)

M asked if she could sleep another hour, a silly question. I dragged her out of bed, walked her across town, and got us on a bus bound for Potosí.