The Worst Bus in the World

When I tried to google information about the bus to Rurrenabaque, the first page of results consisted exclusively of DO NOT TAKE THIS BUS, THIS IS THE WORST BUS IN THE WORLD and ACTUAL BUS? OR CHARIOT TO HELL?

To the average person, I suspect this would suggest that maybe they shouldn’t take this bus. But to me, it sounded a lot like “Take this bus… I dare you!”

I embarrassed myself all the way through the collectivo ride from the hostel to the bus station with my incompetence and confusion, narrowly escaped being sold a taxi ride for double the price of the bus, had someone ask me if I was Argentinian (not sure why, but I’m taking that as a good sign), bought my ticket, strategically did not ask for the estimated time of arrival, and got on board. The bus was only half an hour late to leave and the only empty seat was next to me. It was an excellent start, and I felt great, except for a sore throat and a runny nose.

I hadn’t had a solid bowel movement in weeks, so I was in a state of mind where I really couldn’t take the little uncomfortable things my body did that seriously, so I wasn’t thinking too much of those symptoms. However, 10 minutes into the ride, they exploded into a full-on feverish delirium. Still, it wasn’t too bad. I had plenty of water and it was easier to sleep than I think it would have been otherwise. As we drove north into the humid air, my sore throat felt a lot better than it had in the incredibly dry mountain air of La Paz.


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How to Arrive in Bolivia with Style

The border at Desaguadero, between Peru and Bolivia, was the definition of insanity. At 7am, I was woken up by the driver of my overnight bus shouting “Caminar! Caminar a la aduana!”

I grabbed my passport and immigration documents, shoved my feet into my boots, and stumbled out into the middle of a marketplace. It wasn’t one of those clean(ish) tourist markets. It was a genuine chaotic cesspool of strange food, cheap plastic crap, and tiny cholitas with giant loads on their backs pushing you out of their ways. People were shouting at me to buy all sorts of things that I’m not sure why I should ever want, and my sense of smell boarded a tilt-a-whirl, suddenly taking up way more of my consciousness than I’m used to. This classic South American phenomenon is a sensory overload even if you’ve had time to chill and have a cup of coffee before actively deciding to put yourself in the situation.

Shamelessly stolen from google images

There were a few people on my bus who didn’t seem to be weirded out by this, so I tried to follow them, but almost straight away, they disappeared into the sea of people. Plan B was to just walk, because it wasn’t like I was just going to miss customs. I walked and walked, right over a bridge with a man hocking jeggings in between Peruvian and Bolivian flags. I wandered into Bolivia with my passport in my hand, dodging the people driving bicycle carts who whistled and yelled “Move Gringo!” at me. Eventually the road turned from rough pavement with piles of empanadas everywhere to dirt with piles of more dirt everywhere. At that point, I figured that I had definitely missed customs, so I went back. Read More »

Colonial Hostel: Doin’ the Cusco

At Colonial Hostel, travel finally became what I expected it to be: exploring incredible places, eating delicious food, dancing all night, and meeting awesome people (you guys know who you were, thanks your for making the hostel feel like home). The place itself was fantastic: toilet seats, toilet paper, clean rooms, comfy couches in the many common areas, a communal kitchen, a kitten named Waiki, and a 12 year old named Franco to show you goofy Spanish youtube videos if you ever looked like you weren’t doing anything.


After a wonderful week of just going with the flow, I figured it was time to actually do some of the things that I’d been dreaming of for months. The first thing I did was book myself a tour to Rainbow Mountain. Yes, a tour. I was cringing hard as I listened to the agent explain the itinerary and handed over the money. I was really not excited to get herded around the mountain in a group of 20 bumbling tourists, but there wasn’t any other way to get there unless I wanted to spend ridiculous amounts of money on a taxi from the last town to the trailhead. Read More »

South American Vagabonding

The best way to tell how nice your hostel is in Peru is to take a quick look at the bathrooms. Does the toilet flush? If yes, then you probably won’t get too sick just from staying there. Is there a toilet seat? If there is, then it’s a pretty swanky place. Is there toilet paper? If there is, then you’re at a literal palace, you fucking princess. Don’t even bother checking the hot water in the shower. The answer is either “no” or “sometimes”. It’s best not to know until you have your towel in-hand, or you’ll never convince yourself to take a shower.Read More »

Juliaca, Puno y Muy Mala Suerte

When my flight landed in Juliaca, Peru at 8am, I was more than a little bit of a wreck. I had slept no more than 10 hours in 3 days, I’d forgotten my altitude sickness medication in my checked bag, and I was still reeling from being kidnapped by a supposed taxi driver, taken to an ATM in a bad part of Lima, and forced to withdraw the maximum allowed amount. Yup… I fell for a fake taxi scam. I lost 600 soles, but I got a tour of Lima’s ghetto and a valuable lesson for that price. I’m an idiot, but I think we already knew that. Read More »

The Great Escape (Not About Peru)

I’m not gonna lie… I celebrated the conclusion of my 6 weeks on the farm by drinking whiskey on a street corner in Ashland. It was a great evening, but the only details I’ll be sharing publicly are that there were 2 tiny fluff ball akita puppies present, I dyed some random guy’s hair red (a classic drunk Allie move), and I met up with my friend Lang, who had driven up from San Fransisco to road trip back with me. Read More »

Longterm (a poem)

I’m not sure I’ve been anywhere I’m destined to remain.
I know I like highways, riding around in cars, windows
down, hair blowing, I can’t help but fall in love at every turn.
Though I’m not sure I’ve met anyone I will know a year from now.

I know whales breaking from broken ocean, salt marsh stretching on for miles, swells
of land disappearing into distance, green and gold, fields of sunflowers in saskatchewan,
trees like old gods and trees like the dead, trees I’ve cried for, remembering.
Sometimes there’s so much sand that I panic, recurring nightmares of counting to infinity,
cities— dark, even in the hot sun, each one the same as the last, and small towns
I remember each detail, though their names have packed up and left.

I must be an infinite power source, bright flash of light, connecting to others in fleeting
trust and kept promises— love, maybe. Paths crossing, undetectable to stationary eyes.
I miss the taste of “I love you” in my mouth. I miss the feeling of it against my lips, but how can I find my people when we all move so fast, passing like semis in the night?

Same experience, so many places.
What is it about somewhere that can make you return?

I have impossible amounts of love to fit in one backpack. I show up laden, bursting
in through doors left cracked ajar— “Will you take some for me?” In pieces, a mess
on the clearance rack, deteriorating in half lives that last a millennia. I can’t seem to get rid
of all this shit, all this red hot feeling, all these stories without endings. But somebody needs
to get these things where they’re going, and I don’t see anyone else walking this highway.

Wherever I am, I miss everywhere (everyone) else.


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