Ororu, Backpacking Eight Months On the Road Bus Through South America By David Rice |
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Page Thirty Nine
| Ororu Bolivia, Backpacking by Bus In South America Eight Months On the Road By David Rice |
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Page 10
Bad Bus Ride
Now I was on my way north, on my way home.
I had bought a bus ticket to the border town of Villazon in Bolivia but
the bus stopped before we reached the border, a demonstration was
blocking the road.
We could move no further and we had to leave the bus. I started
walking towards the border, not knowing how far it was but when all the
passengers left the bus and all started heading for the border beside
me, I knew it couldn't be too far. After five miles we reached Villazon
and crossed into Bolivia. Next I would be in for the most difficult trip I
had on my entire eight months on the road. Although I would be only a
day and a half on the road, it would be the worst.
I passed through customs and walked to the bus station where I
bought a ticket. I then realized that I had bought the wrong ticket. After
a tussle I got the right ticket and I heard the call for the bus to Ororu,
my destination.
One seat available at the back proved to be the worst seat on the bus
. On the all-night ride I bounced up and down with my head hitting the
ceiling of the bus. When the bus would come down, I would come
slamming down with it and my body would smack down on the hard
torn seats where springs stuck out and the stuffing had been pounded
flat.
We would stop at places along the way as we crossed the Southern
Altiplano for bathroom breaks. These were interesting stops because
the passengers would take to the nearest fence or wall and squat or
pee. Ladies squatted next to men in the semi-darkness without
embarrassment. Meanwhile chicken and French fries were available
from a sidewalk barbecue rotisserie. Otherwise the rest stops had no
amenities.
Finally after the most miserable ride of my life we arrived at Ururo
around seven in the morning. We were on the Altiplano at a town that
was once the capitol of tin mining. Everything was colored dirt red, a
complete city of ochre colored buildings. There were 17,0000 people
still living in the once-prosperous town which includes a large native
Indian population who manage to scrape a bleak living from farming
and the little mining that was left in the mountains.
The town still served as a transportation hub for buses throughout
Bolivia and would provide my bus transit to the next station. I had time
to kill before the next bus so I went into a restaurant near the station
where the indigenous people eat but the waitress paid no attention to
me and would not serve me. The more I hollered for service the more
the waitress would avoid me. I went to another restaurant nearby and
the same thing happened.
It came to mind at this time how other races must feel when they suffer
discrimination. They wouldn't serve me because I was white and
different from them. This was a new experience for me and it proved
the value of travel as a means to experience events that would never
happen otherwise. Even when events are unpleasant, they teach.
I finally went to the main plaza where a Spanish-speaking waitress
served me and I and did get my tacos, beans, rice, and eggs for
breakfast.
Ororu was a town used up from the mining operation. Bleak and
backward, the town has run out its string and barely hangs on, now
serving as the only town on the only road north to Lake Titicaca.
From the high ground in the plaza of Ororu I could read the town's
disturbing history: scarred land and gouged out mountains where
mining operations had ripped the land apart and left it in a shambles
once the ore played out.
Men who looked like me had come here once and taken the treasure
from the earth and hadn't even bothered to seal the wound so that the
native population could farm again. Now the reluctance of the waitress
to serve me made sense. People who looked like me had helped
themselves long ago and then abandoned the town leaving only scars
and bitterness.
Now I was on my way north, on my way home.
I had bought a bus ticket to the border town of Villazon in Bolivia but
the bus stopped before we reached the border, a demonstration was
blocking the road.
We could move no further and we had to leave the bus. I started
walking towards the border, not knowing how far it was but when all the
passengers left the bus and all started heading for the border beside
me, I knew it couldn't be too far. After five miles we reached Villazon
and crossed into Bolivia. Next I would be in for the most difficult trip I
had on my entire eight months on the road. Although I would be only a
day and a half on the road, it would be the worst.
I passed through customs and walked to the bus station where I
bought a ticket. I then realized that I had bought the wrong ticket. After
a tussle I got the right ticket and I heard the call for the bus to Ororu,
my destination.
One seat available at the back proved to be the worst seat on the bus
. On the all-night ride I bounced up and down with my head hitting the
ceiling of the bus. When the bus would come down, I would come
slamming down with it and my body would smack down on the hard
torn seats where springs stuck out and the stuffing had been pounded
flat.
We would stop at places along the way as we crossed the Southern
Altiplano for bathroom breaks. These were interesting stops because
the passengers would take to the nearest fence or wall and squat or
pee. Ladies squatted next to men in the semi-darkness without
embarrassment. Meanwhile chicken and French fries were available
from a sidewalk barbecue rotisserie. Otherwise the rest stops had no
amenities.
Finally after the most miserable ride of my life we arrived at Ururo
around seven in the morning. We were on the Altiplano at a town that
was once the capitol of tin mining. Everything was colored dirt red, a
complete city of ochre colored buildings. There were 17,0000 people
still living in the once-prosperous town which includes a large native
Indian population who manage to scrape a bleak living from farming
and the little mining that was left in the mountains.
The town still served as a transportation hub for buses throughout
Bolivia and would provide my bus transit to the next station. I had time
to kill before the next bus so I went into a restaurant near the station
where the indigenous people eat but the waitress paid no attention to
me and would not serve me. The more I hollered for service the more
the waitress would avoid me. I went to another restaurant nearby and
the same thing happened.
It came to mind at this time how other races must feel when they suffer
discrimination. They wouldn't serve me because I was white and
different from them. This was a new experience for me and it proved
the value of travel as a means to experience events that would never
happen otherwise. Even when events are unpleasant, they teach.
I finally went to the main plaza where a Spanish-speaking waitress
served me and I and did get my tacos, beans, rice, and eggs for
breakfast.
Ororu was a town used up from the mining operation. Bleak and
backward, the town has run out its string and barely hangs on, now
serving as the only town on the only road north to Lake Titicaca.
From the high ground in the plaza of Ororu I could read the town's
disturbing history: scarred land and gouged out mountains where
mining operations had ripped the land apart and left it in a shambles
once the ore played out.
Men who looked like me had come here once and taken the treasure
from the earth and hadn't even bothered to seal the wound so that the
native population could farm again. Now the reluctance of the waitress
to serve me made sense. People who looked like me had helped
themselves long ago and then abandoned the town leaving only scars
and bitterness.