A Stranger's Hand and Recovery
What a wild and crazy overnight bus ride that was! After boarding the bus in Samaipata, I found that my seat was already occupied by a local woman. Instead of raising a fuss, I just accepted my fate and sat in the seat next to her. Sometime around two in the morning there was the strange sensation of someone else's hands fishing through my front pocket. (I keep anything of value either locked in my pack or in this case safely zipped in the thigh cargo pocket of my pants, which I was firmly pressed between my leg and the seat.) Looking from the corner of my sleeping mask eye cover I could clearly see that it was the woman who had hijacked my seat, who had her right hand in my pocket. My response was a sharp and quick jab from my pointed elbow into the back of her hand, pinched against my hip bone. She reflexively retracted and promptly turned to face the window. We never achieved eye contact through the rest of the trip and she beat a hasty exit once we reached Sucre.
The other typically Bolivian nocturnal event was that the bus didn't stop for a bathroom break throughout the night, except for the drivers. They would stop the bus, do their business roadside, and then hop back in to continue down the road. The passenger compartment was separated from the drivers by a wall of Plexiglas and a solid door. It didn't matter how many people pounded on the door, for the same bio-break privilege as the drivers, it was never granted.
Reaching Sucre mid-morning, my urban Bolivian introduction continued. When asked if there were rooms available in the hostel, the attendant turned his back, flipped through papers, and then announced that the only vacancy was a single, which just happened to be the most expensive room. When his European boss randomly appeared in the lobby during the process, with a perfectly amicable and straight face the attendant then offered me three different less expensive options. I don't know what he would have to gain by "jacking me" or if it was simply a game of "screw the gringo". This was the same front desk clerk who would defy spirit of the "No downloading porn" internet signs by showing porn movies on the lobby television, while drinking beer with language students.
Oh well, maybe an afternoon of "all night bus" recovery on the back deck would help to put things in perspective. The cloud structures here are enormous. Rain seemed immanent on so many occasions throughout the afternoon, but as the heavy clouds approached they elevated and "blew out". It never rained.
After a nap and with a rejuvenated sense of energy and outlook I headed to the bus station to buy my bus ticket for the morning trip Uyuni. The return with good natured intentions culminated in another session of "screw the gringo". The bus ticket should only cost 40 Bolivianos and the receipt said as much, but the ticket clerk insisted on 50 Bolivianos, after the fact. The way it worked was I gave her a fifty Boliviano note and she refused to give me change. I grabbed a limp enforcement minded cop, who immediately sided with me, but deferred final judgement to the bus station commissioner, who just happened to be out of the office. It wasn't worth the few hours of waiting and process to contest the equivalent of a couple of USD, so I finally accepted the fact that I had "been had". The contrast between the helpful, tourist friendly, western Bolivia and the central region was becoming blatantly clear.
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