Bolivia: Off The Map
By Pat Mohr

A gentle breeze blew against the exposed skin of my ass as I squatted behind a pile of rocks in the middle of a llama field. The soft tickle of the air felt good, a relief from the midday sun. I peered out from behind the rocks at our teal Toyota Land Cruiser parked in the middle of a green pasture between two small streams running down from the nearby hills. There was movement from our party, and I heard a honk signaling our eminent departure. I finished my hygienic duties, picked up my boots, threw my jacket over my shoulder, and grabbed the bag of toilet paper.  By now Carlos, our guide, had begun to start to honk repeatedly and shout ‘!Dale¡ !Dale¡’. My walk evolved into a sprint, and I could feel the cool damp earth as it sank under the pressure of my feet.

The engine was started by the time I reached the door. I threw my things in the backseat and leaped in. Carlos kicked the jeep into gear and accelerated over one of the clear streams as I fell face first into the back seat.

“La noche está mal,” said Carlos. He repeated this several times and muttered something else unintelligible under his breath.

I inched my body up the seat and turned around to see John. He smirked and offered me a ‘magic pill’. Initially I had bragged about my ‘iron stomach’ and scoffed at the thought of taking antibiotics when there was an abundance of bathrooms in the cities of Argentina; now I found myself in the confined spaces of a jeep on an unmarked trail in the middle of Southwest Bolivia having just deposited my lunch behind a pile of stones.

“Yes!” I said. “I’ll take one.”

The two American girls with whom I shared the backseat snickered as I took the pill with a defeated expression on my sweat soaked face.

“Make sure you stay hydrated,” said one of them.

“Eat rice and bread,” said the other.

Everyone in the car chimed in with their own advice on how to combat my digestive maladies.

“Ojas de coca,” mumbled Carlos as he gnawed on a wad of the green leaf and offered me some to chew on.

“¡Poquito! ¡Poquito!” He said and smiled at me with his yellow stained teeth peppered by dark green fragments of chewed leaf. I thanked him and took five or six of the ear sized coca leaf and stuffed them into the back of my mouth.

I sat and gazed out the window at the surreal, landscape of green and red mountains towering over azure lakes inhabited by flamingos, some with their heads buried in the water, others standing erect with their images mirrored below them. No one spoke. We raced onward to the sound of Carlos’ radio blaring static infused Bolivian pop music that became as familiar and soothing as the crib-like sway of our jeep across the rocky path to our unknown destination.

We stopped every half hour to take pictures when the scenery overwhelmed one of us or to relieve ourselves; and Carlos used this time to fortify his makeshift repairs of the damaged rear axle of our jeep. A piece of something had snapped loose a half hour into the trip destabilizing one of the back tires.  Carlos was filled with a sense of urgency about ensuring our arrival to the nameless town before sundown. He checked his watch, wiped the nape of his neck with an oil-stained handkerchief, and hurried us back into the jeep.

“!Dale¡ !Dale¡” he shouted.

He stood on the front seat to project his voice to the two American girls and our Italian travel companion who were taking pictures of a snow capped volcano and peach colored lagoon below. They hurried back, and we sped off.

“La noche está mal,” Carlos reminded us.

Valeria, from Italy leaned over the seat to ask Carlos how far we were from the town. Carlos turned around with a tight lipped expression and mumbled a response.

I asked Valeria what he said.

“Chinkwenta minutos amor. Chinkwenta,” she said in her sing song mix of Spanish and Italian.

             

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