DEA & Macaws (4 of 8)
Cochabamba
We got pretty good unreserved seats. Starboard side. Me by the window, Donna next to the aisle. The sun was preparing to open its eye and peek above the horizon when we arrived in Cochabamba many hours later. Everyone stretched, yawned, and exited the bus. Except us. We had tickets on to Santa Cruz. We were slightly less than halfway there. Our seats were not reserved. We stayed put. No sly person was going to appropriate our seats in our absence.
A long five minutes dragged by. The baggage was being unloaded. A man entered the bus to retrieve a forgotten item. “Señor, is this bus going to Santa Cruz?” asked Donna.
“No, señora.”
“Please, can you tell me which bus is going to Santa Cruz?”
“No hay.” (There are none.)
“Gracias.”
“De nada.”
Puzzled, we got off the bus. Donna tried talking with the bus station personnel, but could not understand enough of their Bolivian-accented Spanish to comprehend what they told her. As you may have surmised by now, to classify my Spanish as being rudimentary would be an unworthy compliment.
Sitting on the floor and leaning against duffel bags containing our internal frame backpacks, we watched soft golden rays of the awakening sun climb up the side of a two-story salmon-colored building across the street. It was smile-and-relax time. Qué será, será. What will be, will be.
After ten or fifteen minutes, a brown-faced, black-haired young man approached and said hello to me in English. I stood up and we shook hands. After a moment of polite conversation, he asked where we were going?
“Santa Cruz and Trinidad,” I answered.
“I am sorry, but that will not be possible today.”
“Why?”
“Because all the bus drivers…”
“I do not understand.”
“Because all the bus drivers in Bolivia…how do you say it? Don’t work.”
“They are on strike?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, that’s it. They strike.”
“How long will the strike last?”
“Who knows? One day, one week?”
And that is how we wound up staying two days and two nights in Cochabamba, the place I now think of as the Palm Springs of Bolivia. At about the same distance from the equator as world famous Acapulco, México, but at slightly more than eight thousand four hundred (8,400) feet above sea level, the cochabambinos believe their climate is the best in the world. Days are warm, sunny, and dry. Nights are cool. Annual rainfall averages slightly more than eleven inches. The surrounding farmlands produce corn, wheat, barley, alfalfa, and citrus, in addition to less economically important crops. But it was the sidewalk cafés that we found most refreshing.
Tables with spotless white tablecloths, properly aligned silverware, precisely folded cloth napkins, and vases of freshly-cut sweet-smelling flowers offered silent invitations to sit and relax. Broad four-meter (13 feet) sidewalks provided ample room for both diners and passersby. Overhead, the limbs of two-story tall trees entwined like the fingers of new lovers. Clothed with succulent green leaves, the trees provided a canopy of deep, luxuriant shade. The sidewalk cafés seemed to be designed for romantic encounters: for the young – with their dreams, and the old – with their memories.
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