How to take a long-distance bus in South America

When I first thought about doing this journey over land, I came across a blog post by an Irish woman, Sorcha O'Higgins, who had taken a bus from La Paz to Buenos Aires in 2014. She wrote:

"Once you spend two entire days of your life being lied to, blamed, bored, exhausted and confined, the return to normality will be like the awakening of spring after a long and arduous winter. The phrase “once in a lifetime experience” is applicable, but not in the positive way it’s usually meant."

And summarised:

"I will never, ever, take that fucking bus again."

Being a positive person by nature, I did not let her words to discourage me but simply skipped to the essential, i.e. the pieces of concrete advice. There were three:

"1. Reliable information is nigh impossible to find. It is likely you will be met with ignorant grunts, impatient attitudes and a headfuck of conflicting data.
2. They will tell you whatever the hell they want to sell you a ticket. Truth is no object.
3. Something will definitely go wrong at some stage, so you need to be fairly mellow and flexible about this whole experience. If you are a control freak, or an accountant, you’re probably better off flying."

By the time I got to La Paz (accounts here and here), I hadn't had any too bad experiences. I had come to the conclusion that while all bus companies had by now made it to the Internet era, it was probably best not to trust schedules and prices posted on their websites. That said, the buses had always left around the times that was printed on the ticket, and they had always, eventually, brought me to the city I had been promised to be brought to. As the La Paz bus station looked more modern and reasonable than the other ones I had been at so far, I thought things could only get better.

A day before I wanted to leave, I walked to the station to enquire about schedules. I had done some research, and it looked like to cross over to Argentina, I should take a bus to a little border town called Villazon. Villazon is about 18 hours from La Paz, but I had found that it might actually be possible to buy a ticket all the way to the city of Jujuy, which I estimated to be around 24 hours away.

The schedule hunt was always the tedious part - walking from a counter to another and asking the same questions over and over again. All over Peru and Bolivia, the system was the same: the bus stations were operated by different bus companies, often as many as 40 or 50 of them, and the only way to find out which companies had service between the cities you wanted to visit was to go and ask each one. They had, of course, names of destinations written on their windows, but you learned to assume that that was not the whole story.

Getting the information was tricky business. For some reason, no matter what time of the day it was, many of the booths seemed to be empty. If they did have someone inside, it was possible that they were on the phone and paid no attention to people outside their booth. If they were empty, one option was to stand outside and wait that someone would miraculously show up.

I waited in front of one for a while, but no one came. I moved on to wait in front of another, and after just a few minutes, a man came up puffing and almost running: he was small and badly-dressed and looked more like a cleaner than an office worker. When he asked what I wanted, it sounded like it was completely unheard-of that someone would come and enquire about bus schedules from a bus company, and first he got me so confused that I couldn't get a word out of my mouth. When he then understood my question, he said, "Oh, no, we don't go there. Try the company over there."

And this way I moved from a counter to another. When the next one gave me a "no" as well, I tried helplessly pointing to the sign above the woman's head that read "Villazon": "But it says here that you go there!" The woman just shook her head and told me to try another one.

I had luck at the next one I found with a person inside: he said that his company indeed had a service to Villazon. "Every day at 1, 3 and 5 pm", he said. That sounded good. But then I asked for the price, and he started looking around on his desk. He went through some papers, got up, walked to a chest, opened all three drawers and pulled some papers out, put them back in, walked to the other side of the small booth, found a key to more drawers and pulled out more messily organised papers. When he finally found a slip of paper with something hand-written on it and quoted the price, I didn't have much faith left.

The last counter was better in all ways. The polite young man told me that, for sure, they drive daily to Villazon, found all the information on his computer, gave me the price and even showed me photos of the kind of reclining seats the bus would have. The price was more expensive, so I told him I couldn't book it yet as I didn't have that much cash on me, but he said I could simply pay a reservation fee and pay the rest on the day. I considered the offer, but finally refused, as I still wanted to think it over.

I ended up staying in La Paz for two more days, and on the day of my departure, I walked briskly back to the bus station. It was going to be easy this time: I knew the company, I knew the schedule, I had the correct amount of cash all ready in my pocket.

I walked to the counter of my choice and said I would like to buy one ticket to Villazon, pretty please.

"We don't have a service to Villazon", the girl said apologetically. I stared at her. "No?" I then asked. I knew it was pointless to argue; trying to prove her wrong would not gain anything. Two days ago the company had had service to Villazon, every day at 3. In the present day, such a service had never existed. "No", she confirmed. "Try over there."

I did still get to leave that day, with the company that had found the ticket price on a piece of paper. When the time of departure came, though, I was stuffed to a bus of a third operator and just had to hope that my ticket was valid for them. The next morning, waking up in Villazon, I was told to cross the border on foot and then find another bus station two kilometres away, where a bus of yet another company would leave from - seven hours later.

At this point I did make a fuss, as I had been assured, many times over, that the change would be an hour or two and that the journey would be a total of only 23 hours. Of course, arguing was just as pointless this time. After standing in the border queue for two hours, then crossing the border and walking to the next town, all I could do was wait for three hours in the scorching heat in a place where everything was closed for the afternoon siesta.

What came after it made it all worth, though: the most beautiful bus trip of the whole journey.

Playa de los Hippies

The family has promised to take me to the town of Jujuy, but to our dismay the car won't start, and after trying for a while to get the engine going by pushing, I have to give up and start a three-kilometre run to catch the bus that only runs once every day.

After an hour and a half of standing in an old rackety bus that anyone would have considered full already before the last twenty people got in, I'm finally at the bus station in Jujuy. It's almost 8 pm, and I find there is a night bus to Cordoba, 900 kilometres away, leaving in an hour. I decide to take that instead of making my way straight to Buenos Aires; I can still spend a day or two in Cordoba before reaching my final destination.

Cordoba is a university town, full of colonial and Jesuit history. I walk around the streets and visit a museum on the "disappeared" people in Argentina in the 1970s, but I'm mostly enthusiastic about the prospect of going to one of the riverside beaches outside Cordoba.

On my second day, I catch a bus that takes me one and a half hours outside the town - but I'm late. It's already early evening when I get there, and I also don't have precise directions. I ask a girl in the bus, and luckily she and the three guys she's with are going to the same beach I'm looking for: La Playa de los Hippies.

Although it's embarrassing how hard it is for me to understand their Argentinian accent, I'm still happy to be with them, since it turns out the route is not that straightforward. After getting out of the bus in the middle of nowhere, you first have to walk, then call a kind of a taxi, and after the taxi trip either pay for a canoe ride or walk over a hill for twenty minutes. As I haven't been aware of all these extra expenses, I haven't brought enough money with me, and have no chance but to hope I will find the right path over the hill. I say goodbye to the girl and her friends, who sit down to wait for the canoe.

But the Playa itself is lovely. Indeed, it is a Hippie Beach, with tents and more permanent makeshift living constructions all around the shore, but it's all very peaceful. I'm almost the only person in the water. I float in the  river and let the mild current carry me while the sun sets behind the hills.

When I begin my long walk back to where the bus left us, the moon has already risen to guide my path.

Lago Titicaca y el camino a La Paz

My second long bus journey: 17 hours.

Puno, Peru

At a little past five in the morning I wake up as the bus arrives in the town of Puno. We're told we'll have to continue with another bus in about two hours. I succumb to the circumstances and get myself a map of sorts copied on a piece of paper. Then I realise that Lake Titicaca is just behind the bus station.

Titicaca is a lake situated at some 3,800 metres above sea level and is almost the size of Uusimaa (and could fit nine Berlins in it). As such, it is considered to be the highest navigable lake in the world.

It's beautiful. And dirty.

The air is still cool this early in the morning when I stroll along the shore of the lake. There are people on their morning jog. And dogs, always dogs.

Elvis and Lucero, of the Titicaca Shore Bench, would like to send their greetings.

The contrasts are striking, as always.

I buy my breakfast - two rolls with avocado and salt - from the lady with a bike vending stand and get on the second bus.

After just a couple of hours down the road with the lake most of the time visible on our left, we arrive at the border. After a brief stop to have our passports stamped, we cross over to Bolivia. (The large white building is the Border Control office. The smaller one is a public bathroom.)

Cobacabana, Bolivia

In Cobacabana, we're once again told there will be a two-hour wait before the next bus. It's a happy surprise; now I'll have time to walk around Cobacabana too.

 Now, if you come on a horse from the nearby village to visit a friend in town, a part of you might find it smart to tie the horse somewhere while you're gone...but then again, why bother. (I watched the horse for a good half an hour, and while nobody came to look at it in that time, it didn't seem to bother or be bothered by anyone either.)

San Pedro de Tiquina, Bolivia

One more surprise for the day: we have to cross the lake. (Later, looking at the map I realise that the border runs in such a peculiar manner that crossing the lake is the only way to not end up in Peru again.) There are boats that have been especially constructed to carry buses. They are long and low and wooden, and quite unlike all the other ferry boats I've seen before.

Salineras

After having felt, at times, horribly lonely and out of place in the midst of (other) young Gringo Trail backpackers during my group trip to Machu Picchu, I was immensely grateful for one Couchsurfing gentleman named Kris* to accept me in his home despite his worries of it being too small to host anyone. Indeed it was tiny: the room pictured below worked both as his atelier and a kitchen, and behind it, there was just a small windowless bedroom. The roof leaked, there were no windows to look out of, and after a few days I noticed that even the walls were kind of make-shift structures. But none of that mattered; it was a lovely flat and I spent some happy last days in Cusco before leaving Peru.

Kris told me of some salt works that are located about two hours away from Cusco and suggested we could do a day trip there as he had also never been. I had no idea what to expect but was eager to go. We first spent some time in the little town of Pisaq, then jumped onto another minibus, and finally asked several locals for the way to walk to the salt ponds.

Once again, a walk up a hill. I am finally beginning to have less difficulties at these outrageous heights – at least this time my altitude-sick lungs beat the lungs of a smoker...!

We arrived at the place close to dusk, but there were still a few people working, piling or carrying sacks of salt. The contrast of the white ponds with the red hills was magnificent.

The Salineras are not really an attraction but a working salt factory. Salt has been collected in this area for thousands of years. We talked to a worker who explained the principal of the works: salty water runs downhill into the large ponds, where the water is left to evaporate and the salt then collected.

Kris had bought some roasted but non-salted peanuts on the way, and he insisted in cracking some hardened salt from the side of the pond and grinding it between his fingers onto the peanuts. While I was frightened of being caught in mid-theft, he was giddy with joy. Salt straight out of a salt pond!

(Finally, a photo of myself on this journey! Note, I am no selfie-ist.)

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*)Kris is no Peruvian name. When asked about it, he said his parents were just weird that way and that his brother was actually called Klaus, although that might have been just him taking the p*ss out of me.

El trek

Now, I wanted to visit Machu Picchu.

Getting to there is not completely straightforward, however, and it took me some time to find out about all the options.

Aguas Calientes, the little tourist town near Machu Picchu, is located some 120 km from Cusco. The most obvious way is to reach it by the quaint local train, but the trip is very expensive. A cheaper option is to take a bus to a place called Hidroelectrica and walk the last 11 kilometres next to the train track. In any case it makes sense to spend one night in Aguas Calientes in order to climb up to Machu Picchu in the morning. (Again, there is also the option of taking a pricey bus up to the top.) Additionally, you'll have to pay the entrance fee to Machu Picchu.

As it looked like the journey would gobble up quite a big part of my budget anyway, I decided to invest in a four-day trek that promised a lot – hiking, biking, rafting, hostels and all meals included –for a comparably small amount of money. 

Here are some photos from those four days.

You might be thinking, like I was, Well that's going a bit far, don't you think? You really don't need to cycle down 60 kilometres of empty hairpin roads with Peruvian mountains surrounding you on all sides, do you? but let me assure you: you do. You really do need to.

A great river for white-water rafting. If you're into that sort of thing.

Political sides are taken on the walls of the houses everywhere.

An area for drying coffee and cacao beans. (Before roasting, they have to be dried for days.)

The trail.

I might be showing a brave face, but in fact I found the fact that every fifth plank was missing or rotten somewhat unnerving.

22 horas a Cusco, la otra perspectiva

Imagine yourself in a bus for 22 hours going up and down mountain roads.

(The blue one is me.)

Imagine a screen right in front of you, showing these cinematographic masterpieces non-stop with the speakers on top of your head on full blast.

Imagine there being a blissful silence for some eight hours in the middle of the night but you being unable to sleep due to the bumpy travel and the onset of some tremendous altitude sickness.

 *)

Imagine finally arriving at your destination perfectly nauseated in all possible ways.

**)

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*)Unfortunately I could only find a trailer in English. For the Latin Spanish version, just picture everything being shouted in an even more exaggerated manner.

**)This is Spanish from Spain - again no South American version available.

22 horas a Cusco

 Morning stop

Across the street 

 At the foot of the Andes

Queue to the loo

Adiós

I will be leaving Lima and heading to the Andes.

The city of Cusco is situated some 1,000 kilometres from Lima at an altitude of 3,400 metres. The bus trip will take 22 hours.

Goodbye, ocean!

(Although I must admit that I am more of a lake than sea person. I suppose you could say my attitude towards the ocean is similar to how I see cats: I can admire and be inspired by them, but I will never be able to feel a true connection. Then again, I always fall in love with cat/sea people.)

Transporte público

Taking buses, apart from long aimless walks, have been my favourite pastime in Lima.

The buses are big vans fitted with small, cushy and mostly torn seats. On the side of the van are written some names of places where the bus is going to, in some areas even a route number, but  most importantly, there is a person standing in the open doorway and shouting on top of his or her lungs the bus's route to potential passengers.

Taking a bus, or a combi as it's called, is not particularly difficult, as they stop practically everywhere. I later realised there are actual bus stops as well, but mostly the buses stop at traffic lights or where ever the door stander's radar detects a passenger wanting to get on. The traffic police on the side of the road might try to get the combis to move on by shouting at them while the angry drivers behind the bus attempt the same by honking their horns – but both seems to have suffered somewhat of an inflation.

If you can't get to a forest, get a forest onto your balcony...?

Once in the bus, the door stander collects your money, sometimes right away, sometimes later and other times only when you get off. A trip for about 30 minutes costs 1 sol, which is under €0.30. Sometimes there is a printed price list on the window, but so far that hasn't seemed to correspond to anything.

Then you just sit back and enjoy the trip! And, well, hope that the bus is going to where you want to go. And that you know where to get off.