Tales of a 6ft Gringa

I could see the edge of the mountain and I was not on it. That is, the coach I was on to take me from La Paz to Rurrenabaque, deep in the Bolivian jungle, was dangling with Italian Job-precariousness off several thousand metres of Andean mountain. Up until this point, my friends and I had traveled with such fluidity that I had longed for some anecdotal abnormality for reassurance that we were not simply following the mojito-drenched gringo trail laid down for us by previous British travellers. But only insofar as such episodes may provide amusing chapters in our cross-continent extravaganza, not, you know, the conclusion of the entire narrative. Yet there I was, encountering a suspension more severe than that doled out to any schoolchild, with enough light flickering off the measly, revving bus to show me that its front half, and only its front half, was stuck in knee-high, thick, swampy mud. Ten hours before, upon boarding the bus, and for the duration of the proceeding hours whilst being flung about in my seat, I had questioned the impracticality of the vehicle's back wheels being only half way down it’s body. Now, this accommodation for our sticky reversal into prehistoric hinterland seemed too fitting for the travel agent’s dismissals of the heavy-rain forecast. The rain, I might add, was felt quite literally due to the substantial deterioration of the bus’ roof, causing, with some laughable irony, the deterioration of my copy of The Heart of Darkness, along with any remaining sense of thrifty superiority over our friends who had 'splashed out’ on a half-hour flight to the destination. But whatever indignation had raged through me with the bus in motion had subsided in place of an odd clarity once we were anchored. I could here write of our relief upon arriving at 'El Dorado' and getting off that godforsaken bus - but for the first time, the fabric of my travels superseded the pattern. The fury of the rain and the mud whilst the bus was rolling was an agitation, but now that we were stuck, it was startling. Nature did not present itself as mere photographic fodder, but as an infinite, destructive force. We sat for hours watching in awe at the huddled driver's attempts to ease the wrath of the forces. And soon we were on our way: back to the jerky nuisance of the bus’ advance. But for those few hours, and for a few pesos, us gringos witnessed the sublime. Upon arrival, much to our amusement, we learnt that our friends’ cushy flight had been cancelled.