Turning a bling eye on the smugglers' route

It's not that I object to the bus' airconditioning being broken. I actually prefer traveling without being chilled to the bone. But the entire ventilation system is pushing it. Especially when ambient temperatures rise above 38 C. And it's raining so badly, the windows can't be opened without being soaked. Add my knees being smashed every time my front neighbour moved in her seat, and you're starting to get the picture. Welcome to another bus journey from hell. This one a 56+ hours one, all the way from Iguazu falls in Brazil to La Paz, Bolivia. Thus breaking my longest non-stop travel ever record.  

I guess I had it coming
In stead of detouring through - expensive - Argentina, I decided to brave the - cheap - Paraguay shortcut. Thus ignoring other travelers' warnings to strap my passport to my inner leg. And my travel guide mentioning this route was for the adventurous only. As it turns out, adventurous was not the appropriate adjective; endurance was the name of the game. The first two buses plus Brazilian/Paraguayan border crossing passed surprisingly smoothly. And then, twelve hours into the trip, the proverbial shit hit the fan. The (only) road from Asuncion in Paraguay to Santa Cruz in Bolivia is also known as the smugglers' route. Unfortunately for me, the military was well aware of this nickname. Stopping the bus every hour or so, flashlights around the bus, flashlights in the bus. And always the guy from seat #25 that got called outside. Paying bribes to the extent he needed to borrow money from other passengers. Dodgy, dodgy.  

Pitch black desolation
But let's not jump to any conclusions yet. First I present to you the facts. The journey started by circling the Asuncion terminal for about half an hour. Then, after another half an hour of slow driving we stopped for thirty more minutes. Because the bus drivers were eating... now, why wouldn't they do that before setting off?! A hopeful twenty minutes of displacement were followed by another delay, in an obscurely desolate spot next to the road. Turned out we had to wait for the spare tire, which we apparently shared with the bus coming from the other direction. And thus we continued all night. Stopping ever so frequently in the pitch black, voices, cargo compartment opening and closing and opening and closing. Not a fact, but I'll allow myself a slip: very unkosher to say the least.  

Customs' hut
Trying to leave Paraguay and enter Bolivia was another feast where it came to travel experience. The Paraguayan border crossing doesn't have a migration office. So we stopped in the last town, around 2.30 am. Not at my very best I tried to assess the situation. Which wasn't easy as neither the bus drivers nor the military staff uttered a single word. The dusty parking lot and locked communism-inspired buildings not disclosing any clues. So sleepily I stumbled along behind some locals (as in case of doubt we're lemmings, all lemmings). To a little office, well outside of the fenced migration compound. From where our names were barked out one by one - or something which should pass for names: try catching Geiske with a Paraguayan accent. At least I got my exit stamp, pfew. A full four hours later we hit Paraguayan customs: three old oil drums, some wooden poles, two armed officials, and seven stray dogs. And 45 minutes of checks of course. Then, a few hours later the Bolivian side. Where immigration was housed in a clay hut, featuring a single table and chair, and a fifteen year old computer. Only things in sight: a kiosk selling drinks and cookies, and three people chanting 'cambio, cambio, cambio' (money exchange). For some reason my passport caused lots of scurrying about, but stamped I got. Albeit only for thirty days and not the customary ninety. Thought we were there, didn't you? Not before we passed yet another checkpoint where the entire bus was unloaded, everyone had to pass through an office to show our stamps, and then reloaded again. The most curious of all this being that passengers embarked and disembarked randomly during these hours. But that apparently didn't phase anyone but us handful of Europeans.  

Forward and backward
Bolivia brought me no peace however. Every one to two hours the bus hit yet another military control. Guy #25 now being left alone for some reason. The road itself featured many a random pithole, ninety degree angle, and natural and man-made speed bump. At every such an occasion our busdriver enthousiastically hit the brakes at full force, and subsequently tried to kick the gas pedal through the cabin floor. Launching us forward and backward, and slamming the seat in front into my knees, again and again. But the strong and patient will prevail. And a mere twenty plus five hours delay later, I could finally stretch my legs at the Santa Cruz terminal. Unfortunate side effect of the delay: by now I was too late to join the city's famous carnaval celebration, as people were already leaving town. Two more buses, many more lies - bus terminal open/not open; travel times - and some theft (not my stuff) along I finally made it to La Paz. To some food and sleep. And to new adventures.  

Honesty obliges me the confess there was nothing wrong with the other five buses. But hey, that would make a boring travel story, now wouldn't it?