The trip that probably changed the course of my life to travel is probably when I traveled to Bolivia at 17. I signed up with an adventure travel company, Where There Be Dragons, and off I went with a dozen other teenagers to South America.

This trip was certainly more adventurous than any other I have done since. In Bolivia we hiked through the Andes for weeks at a time reaching peeks of more than 16,000 feet. We stayed in villages with limited electricity and running water. I seriously shared a rock bed with straw underneath a straw roof with hanging corn. I bathed every few days in a bucket of freezing cold water. I herded sheep at ate a bland grain for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Of course I stuck some Mike & Ike’s into each meal since I smuggled them all the way from Miami.

I picked out one photo that really sums of this trip. During our 5th day into a two week long trek we arrived at a very long river. The only way around was to walk far out of the way. Our group, including three leaders stopped, thinking about what to do.

I can be pretty lazy so i’m not going to pretend I did this for the adventure but because I really did not want to make this trek any longer than it had to be. So I suggested we jump across and before anyone could really argue with me I jumped.

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I could not wait to leave Bolivia. For all of its spectacular site-seeing activities that I have written about, the country is one that can frustrate and make even the most seasoned of travelers overjoyed to leave and never return.

My utter dislike for Bolivia really hit me towards near the end of my trip after while in Bolivia’s second capital city, Sucre. A country that has two official capital cities should indicate that something is a little off with the country. It makes little sense just like a person with two heads would seem strange.

I met a friendly French student on summer break from studying in Canada on my bus to Sucre and together we took a taxi to the city center to share a hotel room. That is often what happens when traveling and I was glad to already have a buddy in Sucre.

We found ourselves at a cafe overlooking the city one afternoon.

It was sunny with beautiful views and awful service as usual in Bolivia. As one of 10 patrons in the cafe I waited 20 minutes for a menu until I gave up as usual and walked to the register to ask for one and order my food.

I sat in a lawn chair and waited for a nearly half an hour until I could not be patient any more . I walked back to the register and inquired about my order.

“Oh sorry we are out of eggs. Do you want to order something else?”

I walked out.

The French student, I, and an American girl we met had dinner and then attended a folkloric concert that night for “traditional” Andean music and dance.

The production was wonderful but some of the rules for customers make me scratch my head.  The theater had a sign posted that any pictures taken would cost $1 each, and videos $2. Instead of promoting the show to other travelers on my blog I cannot because I have no pictures to show.

The next day I opted for fast food having learned my lesson not to order food at a regular restaurant (note the long wait happened many times before in other places).

“Excuse me, can you please where tell me where Kilómetro 7 is located?”

I asked this question to two strangers on the street. Kilómetro 7 happens to be a well known street so its a pretty simple answer. Both times the people ignored me completely.

I did find the street with a fast food restaurant and this time I ordered fried chicken from a fast food chain and to my surprise I was handed a tray with chicken but no eating utensils. In Colombia they provide plastic gloves to eat fried chicken and in the United States they provide a fork and knife. In Bolivia they provide nothing as I noticed every other customer eating with their bare hand.

I went to the bathroom to go wash mine. There was no soap. 9 out of 10 times in Bolivia a restaurant’s bathroom does not have soap or toilet paper. I did notice half of the restaurant patrons wearing disposable masks to prevent swine flu though. Little do they realize that the mask only protects a person from spreading the virus and only for 1 hour.

Sucre was a disappointment overall even without the irritating occurrences. I made my decision to leave Bolivia having seen nearly every city and done every activity that interested me. It was time to leave and I was glad.

The bus to the border of Bolivia and Argentina was a straightforward 10+ hour ride on rough, bumpy roads.

For once in a long time I felt fortunate because the seat next to me went unoccupied. But the two men sitting in front appeared unfriendly asking me questions I had trouble understanding in an uncomfortable tone.

8 hours into the ride close to midnight we stopped in a tiny town for a quick meal. This is usual as the bus drivers deserve a break and its a place to pick up more passengers. I re-boarded the bus and this time a short, middle-aged Bolivian man sat in the unoccupied seat next to me. His teeth were missing and he smelled somewhat funky but overall I judged him as harmless. I initiated a short conversation since we would be spending the next 6 hours sitting next to each other.

“Hi, how are you” – me

“Very good and you” -him

“A little tired but ok -me

“Ah a gringo. Where are you from”

“The United States”

“Oh that is nice do you like Bolivia so far? Where have you been”

Our conversation was innocent. During a lag in the conversation I asked,

“What are you going to Villazon for? Do you have family there?” – me

“No, I don’t have any family. I work there. I bring products from Bolivia and resell them across the border in Argentina.” -him

Our conversation died off soon after so I turned on my music and closed my eyes. An hour or so later I noticed he was sitting awfully close to me. I looked over to him but he looked fast asleep. Oh that makes sense. He is asleep and does not realize he is taking up a lot of my personal space, I thought.

Then he placed his right hand to rest on on my left shoulder. I shifted further to my right and lowered my shoulder to gently remove his hand. For the time being I felt comfortable enough to close my eyes.

But as I shifted my body further to the right he took up the remaining space. I had enough and boxed him out to regain my lost space.

His hand went right back on my body, but this time to my groin area. I countered this move placing both of my hands underneath his and then shifted to the right some more giving up the space I had recently taken back.

You have to keep in mind that it was past 2AM and the bus was nearly pitch dark and quiet with most adults, children,  and this man asleep.

He rested his head on my shoulder. I shifted even further to the left and put my hands up on the armrest to hold on to my seat. At that moment he began a gradual move towards putting hind hands on my crotch. I blocked this move putting my hands back underneath.

I felt strongly uncomfortable but sat in this position for a long time, counting the hours until we would reach our destination.

But then he turned aggressive and moved faster. My hands were blocking my crotch but he powered through to place his hands underneath, at nearly 30 separate times.

I snapped.

“Stop it now”, I screamed looking at him straight in the eye.

He retreated to the normal position and I regained my composure.

Just  a half hour later he went at it again. We played the same games until I snapped for a second time and physically pushed his hands away with strong force. The two men in front of me turned around and stared.

As a foreigner riding a freezing, bumpy bus having to stay alert way past a reasonable hour these men made me paranoid. I started plotting my exit from the bus. I would grab my stuff an immediately walk fast to the border.  The dirty old man understood that I would not accept his creepiness any more and so after 3 hours of torture he left me alone.

At the time I felt uncomfortable, violated, and had a extreme dislike for Bolivia in general. I no longer feel uncomfortable or violated but my extreme dislike for the country remains.

It was light out now and I starting recognizing the scenery which meant less than 2 hours until my destination: Argentina. The bus later entered the Bolivian border town of Villazon and I quickly grabbed my bag from underneath the bus and walked briskly to the border. I was not prepared for such cold temperatures. I don’t think anyone can really be.

As my hands and feet grew numb I reached the border. I entered the long line sandwiched between Bolivians and Peruvians with their applications to immigrate to Argentina. I put my bag down and closely watched it as I approached a border official to make certain I was waiting in the correct line. He said yes and I got back into line. I waited a long time for each person to be processed since the paperwork to move to a new country is long as it should be. When it was my turn the angry blond hair Argentine border official pointed the other way and said,

“You need to get an exit stamp from Bolivia first”

I felt morally defeated as I took a step backwards to wait in another line for the exit stamp. Once with my exit stamp I passed the curious Bolivians and Peruvians to the front of the line for my entry stamp into Argentina.

“Everyone move back. This.Is.A.Line.You.All.Need.To.Stand.Behind.This Line.Okay?”

The border official was referring to everyone behind me as he yelled, talking down to them in an an attitude only meant for children.

I handed my passport through a window and was given a form to fill out. Writing with a pen when my hands are numb may be one of the more difficult accomplishments in my life that I have completed. The officials closed the window for the next 10 minutes as I imagine they took a much needed break to complain about their horrendous jobs. The men working here in the poor, cold, and small town of La Quiaca are in the military and for some reason were stationed here out of all places in Argentina. That assignment could make even the most positive person hate life.

Once they returned I answered a few basic questions and was led to a security checkpoint where another guard opened my bag to check for contraband. Minutes later I crossed the border from Bolivia into Argentina and experienced one of the most relieved moments in a long time.

Never again Bolivia. Never again.

“Please can you at least give me something? Look at me. I can’t even afford shoelaces. They shut down the tours and now I have no way of making money. I have no family or friends. Nothing.”

That’s what Sebastian (cell phone number: 2324002), a prisoner from Holland in the world famous San Pedro prison in Bolivia said to me as I waited by the bars for a prison guard to call my name so I could exit the prison.

The San Pedro prison in Bolivia is a world famous prison renowned for being a society within itself. Just like my visit to an Ecuadorian female prison, inmates at San Pedro have jobs inside the community, pay or rent their accommodation, and often live with their families. Way, way different from being detained in London.

The book Marching Powder made this place even more well known to tourists as it best describes the experiences of the British inmate who became known for offering prison tours to tourists. The book is even being made into a movie as I write this. The only thing is tours have been suspended indefinitely as newspapers, blogs, and youtube videos have spread the word making it more difficult for Bolivian authorities to ignore whats happening.

When I visited in July 2009 the tours had stopped and tourist staff and travelers confidently told me I will  not get in.  I took a taxi to the plaza to see for myself. I circled in 5 or so times hoping to make eye contact. I heard people sometimes wait in the plaza to help people like myself get inside. No such luck.

A few days later I tried again because it was visiting day. I took a taxi and was dropped off at the back of the plaza. I waited a while.

“Your shoes are dirty. Let me shine them.”

They actually were dirty and because in all of my time in Latin America I had never gotten my shoes shined I agreed. The kid, around my age, was outgoing asking me questions. At the end I asked him if he knew about how I could get inside.

“Just go wait in line!”

I did that and got in line, sandwiched between men visiting their friends and family. At the last minute I bought a surgical mask when I found out it was needed to get in. Bolivians are paranoid about the swine flu. Instead of surgical masks people should be buying hand sanitizer because you never find soap or toilet paper in a public bathroom. That would help a lot more.

If I remember correctly, there were 3 checkpoints. At all 3 of them I stood there stiffly, so nervous to enter the prison because I knew I would likely get turned away, embarrassed in front of everyone. The first checkpoint was a pat down. The second to log my details. I handed over my passport and hand wrote my information into a check-in book. My name, passport, number, who I was visiting, etc. I put down “Jose P.” as my friend?

“What is Jose’s last name?

“I’m not sure, he is a friend of my friend,” I responded.

I was done for, I thought. But when the guard asked me where I live he recognized the name of my hostel. He smiled and told me he had worked near there for a while and set go ahead, with a smirk.

After going through a metal detector I was stamped a few times and finally entered the prison.

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Wow. I stood there shaking, but rather calm if that is even possible. A few dirty looking prisoners asked me who I was looking for.

“Somebody that speaks English”

One prisoner ran off and a few more continued to barrage me with questions, most ending with give me money or buy this craft I am selling. Soon enough a middle aged man introduced himself as “Barba”, which is his nickname meaning “beard”. He was actually Bolivian and barely spoke English. I was glad enough to have someone willing to show me around so I agreed.  The Bolivian people speak the most clear Spanish of any Latin country I have visited so I felt confident I would understand most of what my new guide wanted to tell me about.

I will skip to the most interesting person I met during my three hours inside prison. My guide Manuel took me to meet a political prisoner under the guise that I was a journalist wanting to write about his story. Manuel told me that otherwise he might not want to meet me. So I played my part and met Leopoldo Fernandez, a candidate for vice-president for one of the opposition parties, and the former prefect (governor) of  the Pando Department. At the time I had no idea who this man was and doubted his background as a politician. Rather,  I thought he must be a loony with some crazy political ideas.

Low and behold this man has been inside the prison for more than a year without charges filed against him.  Leopoldo was a well spoken and passionate as he explained that he was being held in prison for speaking out against the current government. He handed me a pamphlet of 20 some pages and continued to tell me about the erroneous ways of the current government led by Evo Morales. While I did not follow much of his rant I did notice that he was especially passionate about his beliefs using lots of hand gestures and I could see that he was frustrated with his imprisonment. At the time I could not tell whether he really is being wrongly imprisoned or just delusional.

Since meeting Leopoldo I have done my own research and it shows he is now

being charged with the crimes of terrorism, murder, homicide, conspiracy and serious injury

It turns out

Leopoldo Fernández, the opposition candidate for vice president and prefect of the Pando province, is in jail stemming from another violent confrontation between Morales’s supporters and his political foes. Weeks before the incident, Quintana condemned Fernández’s advocacy for autonomy for Pando (which was the object of an upcoming referendum). Appearing alongside Morales supporters who were involved in the subsequent violence, Quintana declared, “We will bury [Fernández] in the deepest place on Earth. . . . [Fernández], may you rest in peace and rest with the worms.” Two weeks later, on September 11, nine pro-Morales protestors and one opposition supporter were killed in a violent clash in Pando. Morales immediately ordered that Fernández be arrested and brought to La Paz–even before any charges were filed–despite the prefect’s immunity and in violation of the law requiring a local investigation.

Here I thought this guy was likely a conspiracy theorist and then I learned he is legitimate.  Since meeting him in July he has gone on to lose against Morales in the election. He cast his vote from jail too. Can you imagine McCain in America with a say Palin his vice presidential candidate running for election from jail. You can read more about the situation and his role in this CNN article.

With that more interesting anecdote out of the way I will continue back to where I left off having just met Manuel, my guide. He explained the basics of the prison.

The San Pedro Prison is governed completely by the inmates; guards simply ensure that no prisoners leave the facility. The relative order is the result of inmates ability to operate businesses and own their own cells, which provide the resources necessary to invest in capital for protection and day-to-day living. The inmates are left pretty much to fend for themselves. The prison officials only tasks are to provide a gruel-like meal daily that Manuel told me was actually edible, take a count of the inmates in the morning, and then not let any inmates leave the prison. (Although for a bribe prisoners can take ‘day trips’.) Guards do not secure property rights or enforce contracts; the inmates develop mechanisms to accomplish this.

Manuel and I soon sat down at one of the inmate run restaurants for lunch. Manuel ordered a full plate of barbecue meat for the both of us. I was pleasantly surprised to pay just under US$6 for this. In the middle of the meal an acquaintance of Manuel asked if he wanted a “papa” (potato) and Manuel explained this was code for cocaine. I told Manuel I was not interested in doing any so Manuel paid the man for some just for him and stuffed the bag into his pocket. According to stories from other tourists over the years the most famous thing about the prison is that the prisoners the world´s purest and most potent cocaine.

After lunch we walked through the various neighborhoods of the prison. Each sector annually elects a delegate (leader) and a financial secretary. The prisoners must pay a sort of condo fee to live in  a sector and of course rent or buy their own place to live.

At one point Manuel took me to one of the prison’s few churches. He introduced me to the pastor and then took me to the window where we climbed onto the roof to drink a cup of soda and talk some more.  From this point of view I could see into much of the prison and even some of the “houses”

Later on we continued our walk through dirty alleys, passing by games of soccer. I did get to see the pool described in the Marching Powder book. According to the book sex offenders and other outcasts were dragged into the pool and beaten to death. I asked Manuel about this and he neither confirmed or denied it. But he did pull out a shank and told me how he killed a man with it a few years back in self defense. That made me feel uneasy.

There is a lot more of interest about the prison but to be honest it has been written about to death in many other blogs and publications. On my way out of prison we stopped at the bathroom where I discreetly paid him around US$15 worth in Bolivianos for his tour. I found this much more interesting than visiting a cocaine bar in La Paz, a Bolivian wrestling match, or my salt flats tour.

And as proof I offer you my first prison tattoo.

And it was not until the end when I stood by the gates to exit the prison that I met Sebastian.

“Please can you at least give me something? Look at me. I can’t even afford shoelaces. They shut down the tours and now I have no way of making money. I have no family or friends. Nothing.”

He asked me to spread the word about the tours by having me post his cell phone number on my blog so that tourists could set up a tour ahead of time. You can call Sebastian on his personal cell phone inside the prison at 2324002.

I have no doubt that at some point in the near future tours will once again pick up. Maybe when Brad Pitt’s movie is released?

There is a famous tourist attraction in Bolivia known as “The World’s Most Dangerous Road”.  The attraction is a crazy one lane wide road that lines the jungle cliffs of Bolivia with sheer drops as much as 2,000 feet.  Although no longer the main route, when it was the main road, would claim on average 200-300 lives per year. This was verified by  the Inter-America Development Bank in 1995.  If this number can believed to be accurate it would officially make this  the world’s most deadly road.

For a quick preview of the ride watch this video taken of us halfway through the ride

Click here to view the embedded video.

I started the bike ride near La Paz at the top where it was cold and crisp with snow capped peaks by the starting point.  The road is over the 50 kilometers to the end, an extreme drop in altitude revealing a lush jungle setting.

Our diverse group of 20-60 year old travelers unloaded the bikes and each of us grabbed one.

We posed for the cameras right before we began our descent.

The first half hour was full of Andean valleys such as these.

After an hour of downhill biking on paved roads we reached a drug checkpoint where we paid a fee to use the road.

The scenery started to change into more lush, green colored mountains.

And then the real action began as we reached the part that makes this road famous. While it is frightening to bike its no longer as dangerous. A new road has been built, so truck drivers do no need to drive this road. This is best for everyone because the drivers  would fight and whoever lost would have to back up. Since driving the trucks on a skinny, slippery road on a 2,000 foot cliff is this was a big deal.

Even though it’s now far safer not everyone is meant to survive. This is a stone for one traveler who died biking down the road.

With our bikes

In action

Just another memorial

Lunch

A Celebratory Drink at the end

And just like that it was over.

While I certainly have not have been to many cities in Bolivia, I can confidently say that Bolivian women are really lacking in the looks department. It’s not the nicest thing to say something like that but the truth is that I saw less than 5 cute girls during my month traveling in Bolivia. Even the hired dancers in upscale clubs were ugly.

One exception was in the airport in El Alto on my way to the jungle. I saw an attractive girl around my age! She was well dressed with feminine, distinct Latin features  .  I could not help but stare at her thinking she must not be from Bolivia. Well, as I sat waiting miserably for my delayed flight to the jungle she took a seat right next to me.

“Do you know what time it is”, she asked.

And like that we talked and flirted for a few minutes until she had to board her flight back to her hometown in Tarija, Bolivia’s wine producing area. We kissed each other on the cheek as is typical for saying goodbye/hello to friends in Latin America, and exchanged numbers.

Our brief encounter made me remember how much I enjoy meeting cute, foreign women.  The entire process, whether in Colombia, Brazil, or any country is exciting as I struggle to communicate with a girl. But that’s a fun obstacle that changes the dynamics and forces both of us to rely less on language and more on the feelings we get from nonverbal cues.  And for this reason I seem to be more aggressive in meeting foreign women because the reward is greater, and even greater.

Sometimes when I know I won’t have internet access for a while I write down brief notes on a scrap of paper. 5 months after returning home from my last trip to South America I just pulled out one of these papers to remember what I was thinking at the time.

“La Paz cocaine gay guy house”

That is one line I wrote down. The Guardian actually an interesting article about a cocaine bar in La Paz that I visited. After drinking at the hostel bar in La Paz I found myself in a taxi with 4 other European backpackers. I thought it was kind of strange how we entered the cab and nobody said a word to the driver, even after he began driving.

We soon arrived in a suburb outside of a house. A normal looking house. When we entered we were greeted by a flamboyant gay man who owned the clandestine cocaine lounge. He led us through the house until we reached a somewhat hidden and discrete room with a full-fledged bar and sofas.

The other travelers knew the deal, as this was their second or third time. Minutes later each of the travelers snorted the white powder and we left.

The guardian describes it as,

“Down in Route 36′s main room, the scene is chilled. A half-hearted disco ball sporadically bathes the room in red and green light. Each table has candles and a stash of bottled water, plus whatever mixers one cares to add to your drink. In the corner, a pile of board games includes chess, backgammon, and Jenga, the game in which a steady hand pulls out bricks from a tower of blocks until the whole pile collapses. If it weren’t for the heads bobbing down like birds scouring the seashore for food, you would never know that huge amounts of cocaine were being casually ingested. There’s a lot of mingling from table to table. Everyone here has stories – the latest adventures from Ecuador, the best bus to Peru – and even the most wired “why-won’t-he-shut-up?” traveller is given a generous welcome before being sent back to his table, where he can repeat those stories another 10 times.”

While I did not try any, it was a unique experience but underwhelming experience.