Don't Believe a Word

I often wake up early in the morning on the boat, but I´m not the sort of guy who gets up just because he's awake. I'm at least waiting for light to appear in the window. I gather we'll be arriving at the end of the line, Bahia Negra, after breakfast. I'm woken up by the girl in the bunk above me, who tells me something in Spanish that I presume means that we've arrived already. This is the same girl who left a baby on my bed. She seems a nice enough girl, but I struggle to read what her smile is trying to convey. My reading keeps getting stuck on account of her several missing teeth. Nonetheless, we have arrived.

Photo: Jorge Daniel Zárate

Before I´m off the boat, I get a call from Vincent that yesterday´s fish is being gutted. Just as the locals had gathered around our game of chess, the four tourists are crowded in a cramped space at the back of the boat, around a local as he runs a knife down the belly off the fish and loses his hand inside. The fisherman´s hand reemerges, now full of fish guts, which he severs, before digging deeper for any more. Just like the  sheep.

Bahia Negra is a nothingy town. Even less so than Fuerte Olympio. There's a police station, a small historic, but active naval base, some small shops, a few dirt football pitches. The roads are all dirt.  I'd guess at three hundred town's folk and a hundred cows.

Nicholas and Delphine are returning back to Concepcion on the boat, but Vincent and I are both hoping to find a passage into Columbia, so our first stop is the police station for our passport exit stamp. The police station is a large room with a tiled floor, but no more than a large lonely desk by the front door, and a large spindle, once used to transport wire, now used as a table to prop up a heavy-set thirty-six inch CRT TV. Atop the desk is little more two police hats, a thin stack of paper, and a typewriter. They can't help us with our stamps and point us to the naval base. We hear the same story at the base, with the addition of nearest immigration office being several towns in the reverse direction.

We decide it ought to be relatively easy to bribe our way into Bolivia without the stamp, and ask after how we get further north. We're instructed to see Don Garcia. Farther up the town's main dirt track, we find Don Garcia in a small shop. He's not as intimidating as his name sounds. He wants three hundred US Dollars, for which he'll make a call to summon a boat to get us up river to Bolivian immigration. Unfortunately, Bolivian immigration is at an army base. Neither the hundred-and-fifty dollars nor the opportunity to try and bribe the Bolivian army is appealing to Vincent and I. We're not going to Bolivia today.

Back in town, we're disappointed, but at least back on the boat. Vincent hasn't given up yet and we both agree that back tracking sucks. We start asking around town for other options. A kindly looking old woman running a little restaurant tells of a bus that will arrive tonight and leave tomorrow morning for Filidelfia, (Paraguay.) Vincent is keen, but I insist we check her story with a few more people around town. Three out of four locals are not expecting a bus. But, one at the police station we're pointed back to the old woman. Vincent is keen to trust the old lady. I sense something is awry. I want to trust the old woman, but I don´t. I'm umming and urring. Deep down, I know the right decision is back on the boat. Vincent declares that he's staying, with or without me. If old woman is wrong, we're in Bahia Negra for seven days before the next expected bus or boat. I am explicit that I do not want to be in Bahia Negra for seven days. But, there's no way I can be out-adventured by the Belgian. I suspect that by way of chess, Vincent has gotten to know me too well, and he's going to beat me again. We wave good bye to Nicholas and Delphine and setup camp at a guest house in the tiny village.

The guest house is a family run house with a separate wooden building with three or four rooms. Our room is  one step up from a favela shack. Two walls are made of wooden logs, with material gaps between them, and some large boards which don't entirely cover those gaps. There's two beds with mosquito nets. There's a little frog on the wall. The light fitting is simply a bulb in a plastic bulb socket hanging from the ceiling by two wires. Outside, a few chickens are strutting around with the family dog, and a humming bird is poking at some red flowers. It's rustic, but pleasant.

In the evening, we wander down to a burger shop, from which we can hear all too familiar western pop music pumping from a Friday night discotheque. As we're walking, something flies or falls out of the sky just in front of us. It's a four inch flying cockroach - as impressive as it is disconcerting.

On the way, we've rechecked with the old woman. She's telling us she has called, and the bus is on it´s way. We´re still dubious, having heard surprise from more locals that this bus exists. We decide that either the bus will arrive, or the old woman is crazy. We anxiously watch a rare car or truck pass from the burger stand. Hope is fading. After an hour, we make our way back to the guest house. Just as we leave the stand, I hear another engine coming. I turn without any great expectation, but I see lights that just might just be a bus. A bus emerges from the dark. A wave of relief is complemented by a powerful high five. We're going to get out of this town. That wonderful old woman was right.

As we approach the parked bus, some doubt re-emerges. I know from an Arsenal-Newcastle game - seeing Arsenal four up in the first half, only to finish by almost conceding a fifth - that it's not over until it's over and ten minutes after that. Vincent speaks to the bus driver. The conversation is too long and the tone is all wrong. This bus isn't leaving for seven days and neither are we. Our plans to hit the discotheque like the hammer of Thor are not sounding like much fun any more. That crazy old bitch.

In the early evening, there's a knock on the door of our room. Vincent follows it up. He returns with news that some guy is driving out of here tomorrow and is willing to take us, but for an extortionate fee. We meet the guy. He's a fat, slothful character, and he won't budge on the fee. We don´t like him, but have no choice. We can´t stay here for a week. We agree to ride in the back of his truck for an anticipated ten hours, in the hot sun, paying a hundred-and-fifty buck for the privilege.

Photo: wochenblatt.cc

There's another knock, now a little after Nine. He's not going anymore. That fat bastard.