From Rags to Riches in Bolivia and a Bus Through Colombian Mountains

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Mar 31, 2023

Colombia - A New Perspective

For the first time on our year-long journey through South America, we are revisiting familiar territory. We traveled to Colombia — specifically El Eje Cafetero, the coffee growing region — ten years ago in 2013, and then again in 2019. But we had never seen the vast swath of land between Bogotá and Armenia in the heart of the coffee region.

The advice we always read online was to fly between cities. Avoid traveling by land. Not only were the mountain roads slow and narrow, but the leftist guerillas and narcotraffickers had a side-hustle of kidnapping people. So despite having visited various destinations throughout the country, we never knew what lay between. We just assumed it was nothing good.

In eight months (and counting) traveling this continent, nobody has posed a threat to us. We were feeling lucky. Plus the times have changed. The guerillas and the government made peace in 2016, and the country is making progress on their infrastructure. With that in mind, we decided to book the twelve-hour bus ride from Bogotá to Cali.

We finally set eyes on the paradise we had missed. Yes, an airplane is much faster. But that is to trade away a day of sitting in a comfy recliner while traveling through a mind-blowing panorama of towering mountains, jungle, sheer cliffs, banana plantations, soaring bridges, and cloud-filled valleys. That sure beats arriving sooner in a sterile flying tube with a dozen inches of leg space at five times the price.

Most of the journey gave us goosebumps. We arrived in Cali tired, but thrilled to get to explore this uniquely wondrous region with our rental car over the coming month.

Really Want To Know What It’s Like to Travel With Kids?

Over an hour had passed on our bus ride from Bogotá to Cali and we still hadn’t left the city limits. We pulled into another terminal to pick up more passengers.

Out of nowhere, the bus driver came to the back and confronted us passengers. He was irate. Someone had pooped in the bus toilet. The toilet was only for liquidos, no caca, he repeatedly explained. “Cochino!!! [Nasty!!!] You can’t just poop anywhere you want!” He walked back and washed the mess down with a huge jug of bleach he had procured from the terminal.

My conscience was clean. I leaned back, arms folded, and enjoyed this rare morsel of excitement. It had been a boring trip so far.

Liuan leaned over with a guilty expression on her face. “It was Finley [our six-year old boy],” she whispered. Finley didn’t know if the toilet would accept solids and asked Liuan. Exhausted and apathetic from waking up at 11:45 pm the previous night for our 3 am flight from La Paz, she told him to just go.

Oh Yeah, Then There Was The Time…

Two days before, we were taking a trufi from La Paz to Lake Titicaca. A trufi is just a van pretending to be a bus. They are super cheap and make up over half of the traffic in La Paz.

At any rate, Miles announced he had to poop. And quick. This, despite having just visited the bathroom at the bus station before leaving only a half hour ago.

I sucked up my shame and asked that the driver make an unplanned stop and find us a public bathroom. As soon as possible please. The driver, tour guides, and tourists were on a schedule, but they understood the stakes.

Liuan handed me a plastic bag, just in case. Miles writhed and groaned on my lap near tears.

I don’t know how one of the tour guides knew it was there, but he led us into an abandoned-looking building in a random part of the city. Deep inside, a boy looking to be about twelve handed us a wad of toilet paper for 1 Boliviano (about 15¢).

With my reassurances and cajoling, Miles gingerly shimmied onto the grimy, seatless toilet. He grunted. He groaned. Then, like a birthing mother, he roared with panic and distress. I told him to relax. It’ll come. But nothing came. He didn’t go for the rest of the four hour ride.

…

Traveling with three little boys is like carrying three unsynchronized ticking time bombs. Though, without the convenience knowing the countdown to detonation.

Bolivia: The Height of Luxury and the Depth of Simplicity

If I had to sum up our experience of Bolivia in one word, it would be extreme.

Our month in Bolivia began with the lowest point of our trip. Our oldest son was incapacitated by severe altitude sickness as soon as we reached the Argentine-Bolivian border. We spirited him to the hospital to get oxygen. Then we regrouped and tried to cross the bridge into Bolivia, hoping to catch our bus, only to be turned away because we didn’t have a visa, or the cash to get one. It was Carnaval, and we couldn’t book another bus ticket in time to salvage our plan to visit the Salar de Uyuni, the famed salt flats. (Every tourist and local we met let us know that we missed the best destination in Bolivia).

But then we were dazzled by Sucre, the white city. We reveled in our vintage colonial Airbnb with a courtyard and fountain and treated ourselves at every turn as a reward for conquering adversity.

After that, we traveled to tiny rural Mizque to volunteer at a permaculture farm for two weeks. The area was populated entirely by indigenous Bolivians and we enjoyed learning about their customs and way of life. We also befriended the neighbors (or I should say, they befriended us). They let us try milking the cows and offered us fresh milk, warm from the cow’s udder. (Sounds weird, but it tastes just like milk you buy at the store).

The conditions at the farm were very basic. They were not much different than the local standard of living. The boys weren’t bothered. They absolutely loved it. They fed the chickens, petted the rabbits, romped with the dogs, walked Blanquita the horse, and captured fugitive turkeys. They never wanted to leave.

Liuan and I, however, were counting down the days. We tired of the pungent stench emanating from the dry toilet next to our bedroom window at the end of a hot day. We barely tolerated the cloud of flies that landed by the dozens on our necks, legs, and faces, tickling us with their fuzzy black tongues while we worked to prepare the communal meal.

In Cochabamba, we went from rags to riches. We all danced an elated jig when we entered our Airbnb. It was huge. Hardwood floors. Modern amenities. Notably, it lacked flying insects. Stationed on the eleventh floor, we could view the plaza and the sprawling city through the glass exterior. We were the kings of Cochabamba.

We were all giddy when we first arrived at our place in Cochabamba. After weeks living in basic conditions on the farm, mundane modern amenities felt like royal perks.

Being the “culinary capital” of Bolivia, we ate gourmet platters and huge grilled steaks for half the price of a meal at Panera back home.

In La Paz, we floated over all parts of the city in the new cable car public transit system. We noted how little of the city was well off. When we spotted houses that would have looked normal, even humble, in the States, we marveled at how rich they must be.

It sobered us to realize how much we belonged to a tiny privileged minority. We regularly take for granted pleasures that the average Bolivian might never enjoy in their entire lives.