Times can be trying when you're apartment hunting. And job hunting. And purpose in life hunting. Sometimes there truly looks like just black at the end of that tunnel. But I'm making it sound like some depressing, Requiem For A Dream kinda setting. No, I'm not gonna start jabbing my arms and selling my gf off to the double dildo hourdes just yet.
I guess it feels like it's dragging on cos my househunting partner A is also in the same boat, and while he has just found himself a fulltime job, I have not been given the hours promised to me and am on the search again for another job or a replacement one, so I can actually afford to live and save for this bloody Caribbean flight.
Speaking of which, I am in talks with my mate's mate in the travel bizniz who is giving me a stupid discount on the flight and therefore staving off the need to sell my body (alot of body-selling in this blog...) for a little while, and hopefully meaning I won't leave Australia with a massive debt attached to my name. Now that will not be looked upon kindly by US immigration. As it is, I have had to be quite creative with my flight schedule to allow me inside the iron gates to at least have a trial period on the island. After that, I can apparently get residency easily and have no problems. It's all quite laidback there, I hear.
So in the time I've just taken to break from writing my blog, I have booked in several house viewings, paid for my flights to the US and gotten a job interview this afternoon. Woot! Talk about progress.
Alright, I better go. Blogging is not an extra activity I need to be doing at this point in time. Trying to make myself look respectable for job interviews and house viewings does take a fair few minutes.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
Thursday, 7 July 2011
Caribbean calling
After a somewhat trying period of failed Skype meetings that stretched not only weeks but continents (first in Argentina, then Bolivia and now Australia), I was beginning to wonder if my number was up with this Caribbean gig. But, FINALLY, thankfully, mercifully, I heard the phone bring-bringing yesterday and rushed in to see my potential future employer on the other end, trying to reach me.
I got talking with the Dutch woman A and her American husband R, momentarily seeing them on video before realising it was easiest to chat without, and before long we were in discussions about when the best time for me to come was. This is positive, I thought, as she asked if I was interested in taking the position. Of course I said yes, and then confirmed that no one else would be slotted into my place while I booked flights from this end. No, they said, you're the one we want, let's shake virtual hands. God, I love technology.
So there you have it. I am now officially working my large, South American-style ass off to get to the Caribbean in mid-October in time to service the multiple cruise ships that are due to land at the St Maarten during high season (and beyond).
My job is with the horses at their horseriding business. Owning over 50 horses in total, I doubt I will have much time to scratch aforementioned ass but that makes for a more interesting workplace I think. No one likes to twiddle one's thumbs now... My duties will include taking tourists out for rides along the beach, into the water if they please (not like the weather is ever too horrible for it), teaching kids the basic skills, looking after the horses, helping manage the horsey activities and training the horses. I like the training part. It means I can bond better with them.
The salary is pittance, really, and I will be relying heavily on tips from the rich American and European tourists swanning about on the resorts and cruiseliners. Which is fine, because I think they have the capacity to be quite generous.
I can rent a cheaper room from my bosses until I find another place, and I hope those same friends I make will own or have connections to get their hands on boats so we can go on day or weekend trips away to other islands. I absolutely must not get stuck going crazy on a 25km piece of land. It's all about variety. Making friends, doin deals, swapping free rides here for free rides there, you know... it's BIZNIZ time. And the men... well, let's just say I am hoping for some stereotypically amazing black bodies to catch my eye. Hey, a girl's gotta eat!
Bring on October...
I got talking with the Dutch woman A and her American husband R, momentarily seeing them on video before realising it was easiest to chat without, and before long we were in discussions about when the best time for me to come was. This is positive, I thought, as she asked if I was interested in taking the position. Of course I said yes, and then confirmed that no one else would be slotted into my place while I booked flights from this end. No, they said, you're the one we want, let's shake virtual hands. God, I love technology.
So there you have it. I am now officially working my large, South American-style ass off to get to the Caribbean in mid-October in time to service the multiple cruise ships that are due to land at the St Maarten during high season (and beyond).
My job is with the horses at their horseriding business. Owning over 50 horses in total, I doubt I will have much time to scratch aforementioned ass but that makes for a more interesting workplace I think. No one likes to twiddle one's thumbs now... My duties will include taking tourists out for rides along the beach, into the water if they please (not like the weather is ever too horrible for it), teaching kids the basic skills, looking after the horses, helping manage the horsey activities and training the horses. I like the training part. It means I can bond better with them.
The salary is pittance, really, and I will be relying heavily on tips from the rich American and European tourists swanning about on the resorts and cruiseliners. Which is fine, because I think they have the capacity to be quite generous.
I can rent a cheaper room from my bosses until I find another place, and I hope those same friends I make will own or have connections to get their hands on boats so we can go on day or weekend trips away to other islands. I absolutely must not get stuck going crazy on a 25km piece of land. It's all about variety. Making friends, doin deals, swapping free rides here for free rides there, you know... it's BIZNIZ time. And the men... well, let's just say I am hoping for some stereotypically amazing black bodies to catch my eye. Hey, a girl's gotta eat!
Bring on October...
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Desperate for home
My alarm buzzed at 5am, around the same time I had woken up from insufficient warmth in my bed, to tell me to call the airline and check again what options I had of getting home. Fun times. Even funner when I got through and was told the alternative flight they were trying to organise had also been cancelled. Again, I lost it. Freezing and desperate, I wept into my hands alone in the kitchen.
Defeated, I went back to bed (with more clothing on) and slept until a buzzing, ringing sound from the kitchen woke me up. In my dazed post-sleep mode, it took me a while but I finally realised it was a phone and that phone was probably for me, considering O had no other way of contacting me. I had left a note telling of my predicament and was hoping she had gotten in touch with her friend from the airline.
It was her on the phone and she had gotten in touch with her friend, but as yet had no news because I needed to pass on details for my booking to try and get re-booked on a flight OUTTA there. Fast forward several hours and still no luck. Last I heard the alt flight was "collapsed' which I didn't entirely understand in O's second-language English but I imagined was not a positive outcome.
At this point, O suggested I go into the LAN office in town and basically stay until they found me another way to go home. I left with my UK flight agent also on the case and luckily so... when I finally got to the office, they told me I had been booked onto the alt flight. This confused me, but I took it and ran, it was my only hope. When my tear-soaked face returned to the house, I saw my UK agent was the one that booked the flight on my behalf, and I was eternally grateful for that.
Elated but still wary, I started packing for the flight - which was that evening - and told dad the good news. He'd been pretty much sleeping with the phone glued to his ear for the past 3 days - in fact, he was the one who had told of the volcano in the first place when I had no idea in La Paz.
In the end, I got a lift all the way to the airport by my CS host and delivered smack bang to the front door. Woot woot. I was mega early, keen to be checked in and sorted before some other mooch took my seat. I knew this flight would be full.
On board, I was sat conveniently between not 1, not 3 but about FIVE babies... this should be a fun flight. Felt like a creche up in there. And then the inevitable happened. I popped a sleeping pill and midway through my slumber, I was woken by almost all the babies simultaneously screaming their heads off. Fuck's sake!!! I was all disorientated n angry at being woken up, I think I actually yelled, "Fucking hell, are you serious????!!" with one of the parents right next to me. Ahh, fuck it, they should have kept the thing at home.
For the second leg of the 22-hour ridunkulous flight via Tahiti, I requested to have my seat changed as I was already on the edge of a nervous breakdown and didn't quite want to be dragged off the plane in handcuffs charged with throwing a newborn out a plane window... luckily, there was 1 other seat free (just 1) which I was moved into and I had peace n quiet. Except for the Aussie lady next to me quizzing me on my hair and general appearance "Did you find people would react harshly to you?" (like I'm some kind of freak haha)...
And then it happened. We touched Australian soil. After 3 long, adventurous years I was finally back on home turf for an undetermined amount of time. And it was a relief. After all that trouble I went to to get out of South America, it was a relief. And to see my dad pretty much already crying when I came out of Arrivals... well, that just topped it off.
I am home. Happy birthday to me.
Defeated, I went back to bed (with more clothing on) and slept until a buzzing, ringing sound from the kitchen woke me up. In my dazed post-sleep mode, it took me a while but I finally realised it was a phone and that phone was probably for me, considering O had no other way of contacting me. I had left a note telling of my predicament and was hoping she had gotten in touch with her friend from the airline.
It was her on the phone and she had gotten in touch with her friend, but as yet had no news because I needed to pass on details for my booking to try and get re-booked on a flight OUTTA there. Fast forward several hours and still no luck. Last I heard the alt flight was "collapsed' which I didn't entirely understand in O's second-language English but I imagined was not a positive outcome.
At this point, O suggested I go into the LAN office in town and basically stay until they found me another way to go home. I left with my UK flight agent also on the case and luckily so... when I finally got to the office, they told me I had been booked onto the alt flight. This confused me, but I took it and ran, it was my only hope. When my tear-soaked face returned to the house, I saw my UK agent was the one that booked the flight on my behalf, and I was eternally grateful for that.
Elated but still wary, I started packing for the flight - which was that evening - and told dad the good news. He'd been pretty much sleeping with the phone glued to his ear for the past 3 days - in fact, he was the one who had told of the volcano in the first place when I had no idea in La Paz.
In the end, I got a lift all the way to the airport by my CS host and delivered smack bang to the front door. Woot woot. I was mega early, keen to be checked in and sorted before some other mooch took my seat. I knew this flight would be full.
On board, I was sat conveniently between not 1, not 3 but about FIVE babies... this should be a fun flight. Felt like a creche up in there. And then the inevitable happened. I popped a sleeping pill and midway through my slumber, I was woken by almost all the babies simultaneously screaming their heads off. Fuck's sake!!! I was all disorientated n angry at being woken up, I think I actually yelled, "Fucking hell, are you serious????!!" with one of the parents right next to me. Ahh, fuck it, they should have kept the thing at home.
For the second leg of the 22-hour ridunkulous flight via Tahiti, I requested to have my seat changed as I was already on the edge of a nervous breakdown and didn't quite want to be dragged off the plane in handcuffs charged with throwing a newborn out a plane window... luckily, there was 1 other seat free (just 1) which I was moved into and I had peace n quiet. Except for the Aussie lady next to me quizzing me on my hair and general appearance "Did you find people would react harshly to you?" (like I'm some kind of freak haha)...
And then it happened. We touched Australian soil. After 3 long, adventurous years I was finally back on home turf for an undetermined amount of time. And it was a relief. After all that trouble I went to to get out of South America, it was a relief. And to see my dad pretty much already crying when I came out of Arrivals... well, that just topped it off.
I am home. Happy birthday to me.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Teetering on the edge
After 22 hours on a bus - albeit in relative comfort and having had much more sleep than in the previous several days (heating will do that for you) - I was amped to get out and off to my CS friend's house in Santiago. But first to check the internet for news on my flight home.
The volcanic ash in Chile had been making things difficult for me and a whole lot of other people, and I did not want another barrier preventing me from getting home. The whole ordeal with the borders in Bolivia had made me very keen indeed to get back to my family and friends, and feel the security of a 1st world country once again. I never thought I'd say this, but I missed home.
I was already at my wit's end... everything was tipping me over the edge. The poor English fella that was with me on the bus from Calama - Santiago had to deal with this. First stop, the internet cafe. Where I found out my flight was cancelled. 100%. Not flying. That was the first setback. I spent half an hour on hold with the flight company while a nice man tried to find me space on an alternative flight. With no luck. I was to call back later.
Then I called my CS friend, who said she would come to the bus station to pick me up. Finally, a stroke of good fortune! So me and M waited at the ticket area where we had arranged to meet, and grabbed a pretty friggin good burger to fill our famished bellies (there is only so much several 'snack packs' can do during a 22 hour bus ride). So we waited. And kept waiting. After some unsuccessful calls to O's phone, I started getting worried. Then we found out there were 2 bus terminals. Hmm.
Once at the OTHER bus terminal, me thoroughly sick of life, I tried to call from a public phone my CS friend, and eventually she ordered me a cab to her house. This meant I still had no address for her and just had to blindly wait on the street corner for someone to tap me on the shoulder and lead me to their car. Highly safe behaviour. There were already enuf freaky men staring at me. Which is funny because I thought such a civilised part of South America would warrant slightly more subtle behaviour from pervy men.
After waiting an extended period of time, I finally received the tap, and British M bid me farewell - I wonder if he also thought it strange to walk off with a random man to a random car destined for an unknown address? Well, if he did he didn't show it!
The ride to O's house was not entirely smooth sailing. He got us completely lost and when he eventually found the correct house, I was again on the verge of losing it. That's what made the welcome even warmer at O's... her Belgian BF Y took my bag straight away and ushered me into the kitchen, where they were all just finishing off burridos and beer. Oh, the comforts of a family home! I devoured a burrido and downed a beer, and some wine, and managed to only cry once in front of them. I was doing pretty good.
I tried the airline again, but it was constantly busy, so I headed to the shower instead... oh, sweet mercy that shower was good. I must have smelt something savage when I walked in the door, and to be able to wash my body... oh, just those simple things in life can be so rewarding when you are deprived of them... And then I crawled into bed, set my alarm for 5am to call the airline again, and fell promptly to sleep.
The volcanic ash in Chile had been making things difficult for me and a whole lot of other people, and I did not want another barrier preventing me from getting home. The whole ordeal with the borders in Bolivia had made me very keen indeed to get back to my family and friends, and feel the security of a 1st world country once again. I never thought I'd say this, but I missed home.
I was already at my wit's end... everything was tipping me over the edge. The poor English fella that was with me on the bus from Calama - Santiago had to deal with this. First stop, the internet cafe. Where I found out my flight was cancelled. 100%. Not flying. That was the first setback. I spent half an hour on hold with the flight company while a nice man tried to find me space on an alternative flight. With no luck. I was to call back later.
Then I called my CS friend, who said she would come to the bus station to pick me up. Finally, a stroke of good fortune! So me and M waited at the ticket area where we had arranged to meet, and grabbed a pretty friggin good burger to fill our famished bellies (there is only so much several 'snack packs' can do during a 22 hour bus ride). So we waited. And kept waiting. After some unsuccessful calls to O's phone, I started getting worried. Then we found out there were 2 bus terminals. Hmm.
Once at the OTHER bus terminal, me thoroughly sick of life, I tried to call from a public phone my CS friend, and eventually she ordered me a cab to her house. This meant I still had no address for her and just had to blindly wait on the street corner for someone to tap me on the shoulder and lead me to their car. Highly safe behaviour. There were already enuf freaky men staring at me. Which is funny because I thought such a civilised part of South America would warrant slightly more subtle behaviour from pervy men.
After waiting an extended period of time, I finally received the tap, and British M bid me farewell - I wonder if he also thought it strange to walk off with a random man to a random car destined for an unknown address? Well, if he did he didn't show it!
The ride to O's house was not entirely smooth sailing. He got us completely lost and when he eventually found the correct house, I was again on the verge of losing it. That's what made the welcome even warmer at O's... her Belgian BF Y took my bag straight away and ushered me into the kitchen, where they were all just finishing off burridos and beer. Oh, the comforts of a family home! I devoured a burrido and downed a beer, and some wine, and managed to only cry once in front of them. I was doing pretty good.
I tried the airline again, but it was constantly busy, so I headed to the shower instead... oh, sweet mercy that shower was good. I must have smelt something savage when I walked in the door, and to be able to wash my body... oh, just those simple things in life can be so rewarding when you are deprived of them... And then I crawled into bed, set my alarm for 5am to call the airline again, and fell promptly to sleep.
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Kissing Chilean soil
Yet another early wake-up greeted us as we prepared to catch the 6:30ish bus to the border. The night before we had worried it wouldn´t have space so we had forced the agency to call ahead and warn the bus it had 11 tourists to pick up in this random village, and so they went off and returned promising it would have space.
Well, it didn´t.
All of us freezing to bits (again) out the front of the hostel, me pissed off from the fucking witch who owned the hostel trying to charge me an insane exchange rate because "it was difficult" for her to change US dollars. Like our fucking situation was any less difficult! Try to tell me to be more prepared next time, won´t you... What a cow.
So the bus is completely full. They start shaking their heads at us, telling us "no, we thought it was 6 people, 5 people, 3 people..." More lies. Most of us girls just stand there crying. At one point the bus staff suggest we could put the backpacks on the roof and us in the luggage compartment - what a joke - and then FINALLY they relent and let us stand in the aisle. The Brazilians stay behind, hoping to get a lift from a random old man from the village. I didn´t feel bad. I needed to get to Chile. Stat.
The people on the bus were pissed off we wasted so much of their time faffing around outside, but once they saw our tear-stained, exhausted, desperate faces, they softened a little. I was given the "seat" in the aisle from one lady, who then sat on her mother instead, and I heard R´s gf J discussing her plight with the ladies that worked on the bus. We were fast earning sympathy. And so we should, they charged us fucking double fare to be standing there.
At the border, it was a quick stamp n pay to get out of Bolivia, then onwards and upwards to Chile. Except that we waited what seemed like forever for the bus to arrive and then leave, it sorting out where to put baggage at the very last moment in true Bolivian style. Finally we were on the move, anxious to get out of no man´s land where we really had no identity, and into a more civilised country like Chile.
At the Chilean border, there were checks for fruits and animals parts, so I declared my favourite feather earring to no protest, and they took out the top 2 items of my backpack in their thorough search of all things illegal. Finding nothing, and probably tainting their own clothes with the stench of mine, they moved me on and I went back to the bus. Then I remembered about my moler tooth I still have in my handbag. I do wonder how that will go down once I reach Australian customs.
But before I boarded the bus, I kissed the ground. Just as I promised I would.
Then it was several more hours drive to Calama, where I hoped to get a bus straight to Santiago. The bus, as with the Jeep the day before, had not protection from the dust and so I was forced to breathe through my jumper most of the ride. I could feel a cough already from the English man in La Paz, I knew this dust would do nothing to stave it off.
We got to Calama around 5:30pm, with another gringo to the pack (an English guy also wanting to get to Santiago), and set off for the cash machines pronto. There, I found I had lost my UK debit card - fantastic - and it was too late to get money manually withdrawn from my account. More tears.
I hoped to be able to pay for my bus ticket with credit card, so I headed - with the Japanese lady, I, in our border-crossing group and English M in tow - to the other bus terminal. We got there and found tickets for a 10pm bus, going from another terminal still (how many terminals are needed in this friggin tiny town, I ask) and then relaxed. M paid me cash for using my card to pay for both tickets, so I now had money to eat with. But it was certainly not Bolivia anymore. This was civilisation. And civilisation meant more money. Dammit. The honeymoon period was over.
We ate and then headed to the other terminal to wait and find the internet. There, I checked my UK bank account, and it looked like the miniscule amount I had left had not been stolen so I now think I just forgot the card in the machine and it had been swallowed again. Nicely done, moron. But now I need to get another card to withdraw that last bit in Australia. What a mission.
And then we settled into our Salon Cama, first class, and boy-did-we-pay-for-it bus. We were in the special section at the bottom, away from the crying kids, bad smelling feet (although it was probably us that smelt) and a far cry from the -15 temps of the previous days. Comfort felt good. And it was to feel good for 22 hours. Even the Spanish dubbing of English films like The Gods Must Be Crazy 2 satisfied me. Nothing like a bit of education while I relaxed. Annnnnd lights out.
Well, it didn´t.
All of us freezing to bits (again) out the front of the hostel, me pissed off from the fucking witch who owned the hostel trying to charge me an insane exchange rate because "it was difficult" for her to change US dollars. Like our fucking situation was any less difficult! Try to tell me to be more prepared next time, won´t you... What a cow.
So the bus is completely full. They start shaking their heads at us, telling us "no, we thought it was 6 people, 5 people, 3 people..." More lies. Most of us girls just stand there crying. At one point the bus staff suggest we could put the backpacks on the roof and us in the luggage compartment - what a joke - and then FINALLY they relent and let us stand in the aisle. The Brazilians stay behind, hoping to get a lift from a random old man from the village. I didn´t feel bad. I needed to get to Chile. Stat.
The people on the bus were pissed off we wasted so much of their time faffing around outside, but once they saw our tear-stained, exhausted, desperate faces, they softened a little. I was given the "seat" in the aisle from one lady, who then sat on her mother instead, and I heard R´s gf J discussing her plight with the ladies that worked on the bus. We were fast earning sympathy. And so we should, they charged us fucking double fare to be standing there.
At the border, it was a quick stamp n pay to get out of Bolivia, then onwards and upwards to Chile. Except that we waited what seemed like forever for the bus to arrive and then leave, it sorting out where to put baggage at the very last moment in true Bolivian style. Finally we were on the move, anxious to get out of no man´s land where we really had no identity, and into a more civilised country like Chile.
At the Chilean border, there were checks for fruits and animals parts, so I declared my favourite feather earring to no protest, and they took out the top 2 items of my backpack in their thorough search of all things illegal. Finding nothing, and probably tainting their own clothes with the stench of mine, they moved me on and I went back to the bus. Then I remembered about my moler tooth I still have in my handbag. I do wonder how that will go down once I reach Australian customs.
But before I boarded the bus, I kissed the ground. Just as I promised I would.
Then it was several more hours drive to Calama, where I hoped to get a bus straight to Santiago. The bus, as with the Jeep the day before, had not protection from the dust and so I was forced to breathe through my jumper most of the ride. I could feel a cough already from the English man in La Paz, I knew this dust would do nothing to stave it off.
We got to Calama around 5:30pm, with another gringo to the pack (an English guy also wanting to get to Santiago), and set off for the cash machines pronto. There, I found I had lost my UK debit card - fantastic - and it was too late to get money manually withdrawn from my account. More tears.
I hoped to be able to pay for my bus ticket with credit card, so I headed - with the Japanese lady, I, in our border-crossing group and English M in tow - to the other bus terminal. We got there and found tickets for a 10pm bus, going from another terminal still (how many terminals are needed in this friggin tiny town, I ask) and then relaxed. M paid me cash for using my card to pay for both tickets, so I now had money to eat with. But it was certainly not Bolivia anymore. This was civilisation. And civilisation meant more money. Dammit. The honeymoon period was over.
We ate and then headed to the other terminal to wait and find the internet. There, I checked my UK bank account, and it looked like the miniscule amount I had left had not been stolen so I now think I just forgot the card in the machine and it had been swallowed again. Nicely done, moron. But now I need to get another card to withdraw that last bit in Australia. What a mission.
And then we settled into our Salon Cama, first class, and boy-did-we-pay-for-it bus. We were in the special section at the bottom, away from the crying kids, bad smelling feet (although it was probably us that smelt) and a far cry from the -15 temps of the previous days. Comfort felt good. And it was to feel good for 22 hours. Even the Spanish dubbing of English films like The Gods Must Be Crazy 2 satisfied me. Nothing like a bit of education while I relaxed. Annnnnd lights out.
Salt Flats extended...pt 1
Our driver had promised to meet us at 7:30am - the first of many lies - so we all got up and readied ourselves in the cold. Having still had no running water and having to flush the toilet with icicle-thick water despite paying the kind of money you´d expect more for, none of us were washed or in any way content with life, but we threw on more layers and breathed in for the onset of cold that was set to greet us as soon as we stepped out of our beds.
Then we waited. Grew anxious. And waited some more. The hostel owner told us not to expect much before the border opened for business, first 9am then 10am, then it was closed for the day. But wait, maybe not. Was that... oh, no...uhhh.... shit. Communication at an absolute minimum out here in the middle of NOWHERE, we were at the complete mercy of these drivers who seemed even more clueless than all of us put together. A great feeling.
We walked to the nearby refuge to talk with our driver, who still hadn´t materialised after promising the early morning departure (if not for one frontier, for the other next to Argentina). He was chilling nonchalantly in the warmth of the kitchen, having no reason to go into the cold to update us. While we were there we got a radio update, which was really pointless, basically saying that they hoped to open by the afternoon but that a car had crashed and that was now causing more blockage to the queue waiting to get through. More great feeling.
We trudged back to the others, 3 London lawyers now feeling well n truly put out, and tried to think of the next step in our fast-failing mission across borders. Some Jeeps passed through, unsuccessfully trying for the border, and I begged the driver of one with a spare seat to let me come back for the ride to Uyuni, feeling a little too close for comfort with my flight looming ahead. He basically didn´t want to take me, and made up some excuse about my bag being too big to take on. That was it. I lost it, threw up my hands in exasperation and ran inside as the tears started.
The English girls comforting me, I was lost in a hopeless world of no more options. Our drivers insisted on staying put to wait until the new information at 6pm, no other car would take us and in fact no other car was passing since the few left in the morning... I never thought I would see the other side of that border. The mountains, in all their natural splendour, started to mock me with their beauty. The icy lagoon swallowed every inch of hope I had left in my body. And the wind smacked the door closed on its way out.
That was it. R, the Swiss guy, went back to the refuge to have Spanish words with our driver. 5 minutes later we heard a commotion outside and were told VAMOS, we were going to the other border, about 6 hours driver away.
The plan was to drive until a little village about 2 hours from the border, sleep there and wake early to drive across and into the town closest to the Chilean side of the border.
But what did I say about false hope? It´s a bitch.
After a semi-satisfying dinner, our driver returned with some news. Apparently the 2 drivers were heading back early morning to the other border because it had actually opened at 6pm the day we left (of course). They had people to collect that had paid much more money than us to do a 3 day salt flats tour - so of course they got priority. Which displeased the English lawyers. Greatly.
After unsuccessfully demanding another car be sent from the agency, they were forced to make a choice - go back to the other border and risk being stuck again or go on a public bus to the border and another bus to San Pedro, their original destination. They chose the latter, basically due to lack of better options. I of course hadn´t paid anything yet so I was fine to go by public bus, if it got me out of Bolivia. I would´ve in fact ridden a donkey if it got me there too.
So that was what we were left to sleep on. More hope. Or lack thereof. I longed for a shower. I longed for Chile. I longed for anything but this.
Then we waited. Grew anxious. And waited some more. The hostel owner told us not to expect much before the border opened for business, first 9am then 10am, then it was closed for the day. But wait, maybe not. Was that... oh, no...uhhh.... shit. Communication at an absolute minimum out here in the middle of NOWHERE, we were at the complete mercy of these drivers who seemed even more clueless than all of us put together. A great feeling.
We walked to the nearby refuge to talk with our driver, who still hadn´t materialised after promising the early morning departure (if not for one frontier, for the other next to Argentina). He was chilling nonchalantly in the warmth of the kitchen, having no reason to go into the cold to update us. While we were there we got a radio update, which was really pointless, basically saying that they hoped to open by the afternoon but that a car had crashed and that was now causing more blockage to the queue waiting to get through. More great feeling.
We trudged back to the others, 3 London lawyers now feeling well n truly put out, and tried to think of the next step in our fast-failing mission across borders. Some Jeeps passed through, unsuccessfully trying for the border, and I begged the driver of one with a spare seat to let me come back for the ride to Uyuni, feeling a little too close for comfort with my flight looming ahead. He basically didn´t want to take me, and made up some excuse about my bag being too big to take on. That was it. I lost it, threw up my hands in exasperation and ran inside as the tears started.
The English girls comforting me, I was lost in a hopeless world of no more options. Our drivers insisted on staying put to wait until the new information at 6pm, no other car would take us and in fact no other car was passing since the few left in the morning... I never thought I would see the other side of that border. The mountains, in all their natural splendour, started to mock me with their beauty. The icy lagoon swallowed every inch of hope I had left in my body. And the wind smacked the door closed on its way out.
That was it. R, the Swiss guy, went back to the refuge to have Spanish words with our driver. 5 minutes later we heard a commotion outside and were told VAMOS, we were going to the other border, about 6 hours driver away.
The plan was to drive until a little village about 2 hours from the border, sleep there and wake early to drive across and into the town closest to the Chilean side of the border.
But what did I say about false hope? It´s a bitch.
After a semi-satisfying dinner, our driver returned with some news. Apparently the 2 drivers were heading back early morning to the other border because it had actually opened at 6pm the day we left (of course). They had people to collect that had paid much more money than us to do a 3 day salt flats tour - so of course they got priority. Which displeased the English lawyers. Greatly.
After unsuccessfully demanding another car be sent from the agency, they were forced to make a choice - go back to the other border and risk being stuck again or go on a public bus to the border and another bus to San Pedro, their original destination. They chose the latter, basically due to lack of better options. I of course hadn´t paid anything yet so I was fine to go by public bus, if it got me out of Bolivia. I would´ve in fact ridden a donkey if it got me there too.
So that was what we were left to sleep on. More hope. Or lack thereof. I longed for a shower. I longed for Chile. I longed for anything but this.
Salt Flats Day 3: Swap an Aussie for a tyre
The earliest rise yet. 5am. I felt like I had finally fallen asleep when I heard the knock on our dorm door from the driver and his wandering lazy eye.
We had lots to do, he´d told us the night before as we downed the wine, so a 5am wake-up call was necessary. I parked up particularly when I heard the border to Chile was open now, having been closed earlier due to dangerous snow on the road. So it was looking like I was finally getting to Chile, where my flight home (home... sweet home) was due to leave in a few days. "Vamos vamos" you could hear me cry, as the others begrudgingly packed their backpacks and stuffed breakfast pancakes in their mouths.
Freezing cold, we piled into the Jeep and tried to regain feeling in our extremities. Task almost done, we stopped at our first site to see how sulphur geysers spraying hot air (thank the heavens!), then to a lagoon with a small thermal pool in front. There was nothing stopping me from going in there. Not even massive wind gusts and what I am pretty sure was still below zero temps.
Stripping down to my bikini and running from the bathroom to the pool with my poncho on top, I had the Bolivians in military regala laughing at me and the rest of my tour group shaking their heads at my craziness. Except the kooky French couple, the man of which was in the water with the woman taking pics. Running back to the bathroom brought on the beginning stages of hypothermia, and I wondered for a moment as a shivered back into my many layers why I chose to expose myself so recklessly. Ahh well, only live once eh.
Then we went onto Laguna Verde, which sits in front of an inactive volcano also topped with snow... a picture perfect sight if ever there was one. But of course still with ice-cold wind, we continued to freeze.
Our driver didn´t take me to the border after all, because apparently it was now closed. So we headed back towards Uyuni, with me sulking in the back because we had been within 5 minutes of the Chilean border and were now driving 9 hours back into Bolivia. Getting to my flight was proving more difficult than first thought. And that was before we even encountered the Jeep heading to the border...
Said Jeep was broken down when we first saw it, trying to change its tyre that I soon found out had broken 3 times already that day. While the driver scratched his head, my driver struck a deal and had soon offloaded me to the broken vehicle. They were headed to the frontier, I wanted to go, they needed a new tyre and so instead they got a tyre and an Aussie girl. I was literally swapped for a Jeep tyre.
Elated I was finally going to the border, which was apparently now open, I chatted away to the Swiss guy in my new car while the somber group of English girls slightly dampened the mood. I was soon to find out why... they had started towards the frontier the night before, staying in a random village before starting out at 4am that morning to make it to the border by 11am. That was about the time I ran into them on the road, having had 4 tyre punctures and made considerably slower progress than hoped.
We got to the border without any more tyre problems, but found ourselves waiting at the dodgy-looking immigration office while our driver and the police officer from immigration drove the car up a hill for phone signal. We watched in confusion as they, with all our possessions still in the car, faffed around for a while and finally returned with somber faces.
We can´t cross the border today, they said, because of the snow. Hmm. So why didn´t we know this earlier? And what the hell are we meant to do now? We had 2 options, we were told. First, stay in the nearby refuge overnight and hope the situation improves tomorrow. Second, walk 7 hours with our backpacks to San Pedro. Well, I know which one is absolutely fucking ridiculous. Especially considering the time - 4pm - and then the time after 7 hours of walking. We would freeze to death.
So the refuge it was. Except the refuge had no food, snow in the toilet and insufficient blankets to shield us against the howling wind and unforgiving night cold. So we chose the other hostel near the national park guard, and had to pay inflated prices for a bed and dinner. The first of many Bolivians to take advantage of us in our predicament.
There were more people in the same situation as us, from Brazil, and we all sat around the window trying to absorb the last rays of light before it disappeared and we were forced to wear all our clothes to keep our limbs from going numb. Dinner warmed us for a brief moment, but there is only so much packet pasta and tomato paste sauce can do for a thawing one´s body.
We settled into our dorm giggling like school girls, I think a little delirious and incredulous from the day´s events but hopeful a solucion would come to pass tomorrow. Hoping. Hope. A word soon to scratch at my throat like a cat possessed.
We had lots to do, he´d told us the night before as we downed the wine, so a 5am wake-up call was necessary. I parked up particularly when I heard the border to Chile was open now, having been closed earlier due to dangerous snow on the road. So it was looking like I was finally getting to Chile, where my flight home (home... sweet home) was due to leave in a few days. "Vamos vamos" you could hear me cry, as the others begrudgingly packed their backpacks and stuffed breakfast pancakes in their mouths.
Freezing cold, we piled into the Jeep and tried to regain feeling in our extremities. Task almost done, we stopped at our first site to see how sulphur geysers spraying hot air (thank the heavens!), then to a lagoon with a small thermal pool in front. There was nothing stopping me from going in there. Not even massive wind gusts and what I am pretty sure was still below zero temps.
Stripping down to my bikini and running from the bathroom to the pool with my poncho on top, I had the Bolivians in military regala laughing at me and the rest of my tour group shaking their heads at my craziness. Except the kooky French couple, the man of which was in the water with the woman taking pics. Running back to the bathroom brought on the beginning stages of hypothermia, and I wondered for a moment as a shivered back into my many layers why I chose to expose myself so recklessly. Ahh well, only live once eh.
Then we went onto Laguna Verde, which sits in front of an inactive volcano also topped with snow... a picture perfect sight if ever there was one. But of course still with ice-cold wind, we continued to freeze.
Our driver didn´t take me to the border after all, because apparently it was now closed. So we headed back towards Uyuni, with me sulking in the back because we had been within 5 minutes of the Chilean border and were now driving 9 hours back into Bolivia. Getting to my flight was proving more difficult than first thought. And that was before we even encountered the Jeep heading to the border...
Said Jeep was broken down when we first saw it, trying to change its tyre that I soon found out had broken 3 times already that day. While the driver scratched his head, my driver struck a deal and had soon offloaded me to the broken vehicle. They were headed to the frontier, I wanted to go, they needed a new tyre and so instead they got a tyre and an Aussie girl. I was literally swapped for a Jeep tyre.
Elated I was finally going to the border, which was apparently now open, I chatted away to the Swiss guy in my new car while the somber group of English girls slightly dampened the mood. I was soon to find out why... they had started towards the frontier the night before, staying in a random village before starting out at 4am that morning to make it to the border by 11am. That was about the time I ran into them on the road, having had 4 tyre punctures and made considerably slower progress than hoped.
We got to the border without any more tyre problems, but found ourselves waiting at the dodgy-looking immigration office while our driver and the police officer from immigration drove the car up a hill for phone signal. We watched in confusion as they, with all our possessions still in the car, faffed around for a while and finally returned with somber faces.
We can´t cross the border today, they said, because of the snow. Hmm. So why didn´t we know this earlier? And what the hell are we meant to do now? We had 2 options, we were told. First, stay in the nearby refuge overnight and hope the situation improves tomorrow. Second, walk 7 hours with our backpacks to San Pedro. Well, I know which one is absolutely fucking ridiculous. Especially considering the time - 4pm - and then the time after 7 hours of walking. We would freeze to death.
So the refuge it was. Except the refuge had no food, snow in the toilet and insufficient blankets to shield us against the howling wind and unforgiving night cold. So we chose the other hostel near the national park guard, and had to pay inflated prices for a bed and dinner. The first of many Bolivians to take advantage of us in our predicament.
There were more people in the same situation as us, from Brazil, and we all sat around the window trying to absorb the last rays of light before it disappeared and we were forced to wear all our clothes to keep our limbs from going numb. Dinner warmed us for a brief moment, but there is only so much packet pasta and tomato paste sauce can do for a thawing one´s body.
We settled into our dorm giggling like school girls, I think a little delirious and incredulous from the day´s events but hopeful a solucion would come to pass tomorrow. Hoping. Hope. A word soon to scratch at my throat like a cat possessed.
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