The baby in the boot

I spent the last three days glued to a toilet, eliminating every single drop of fluid my body was ever able to produce (a lot).
As much as I feel like I have nothing left that can be painfully squeezed out of my body, I still feel quite unsettled, especially when I'm not in proximity of a toilet.
For the above reason, enduring a 12 hour bus ride from Sucre to Cochabamba was out of the question. Especially because buses have no toilets and I have no nappies.

I decided to travel in style and bought a plane ticket (yes, I know, it's terrible for the ozone, but good for my ass). The ride to the airport was quite an adventure and I'm grateful to Jorge, the taxi driver, for getting me there in one piece, eventually.
Despite being only 9.30 a.m., Jorge seemed extremely awake. He either drank 25 cups of super strong coffee at breakfast or he was high on cocaine.
I told him I had 3 hours before my flight was due to leave, but I guess he understood I had 3 minutes before my flight was due to leave as he started the engine and flew away whilst half of my backpack was still outside the door.
The taxi was nothing more than an old engine on wheels. There were no windows, no indicators (at each turn he would put his arm out, thinking he was on a bike) but there was the odd addition of a metal bar across the passengers´ seat. After speeding at 90kph I understood that the bar was there so that passengers could hold onto it without falling from the windows at each roundabout.
As I was hoding onto it with all the strength I had I managed to say: "So, Jorge, I take it you like Formula Uno?". He didn´t catch my sarcasm, instead he bombarded me with questions, thrown at me at incredible speed: "what's-your-name-where-are-you-from-aren´t-you-scared-to-travel-alone-beautiful-day-isn´t-it?!!". I took a big breath and replied with the same speed: "Federica-Italy-I´m-not-scared-unless-I-come-across-weird-taxi-drivers-yes-beautiful-day-where-do-YOU-buy-your-coke?!!"
Once I arrived at Sucre Airport I kissed the ground, thanked God for saving my life once again and boarded on the plane.
I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive to fly with a Bolivian Airline. This is, after all, a third world country. I was expecting a plane so old that, in order to start, had to be pushed by a bunch of farmers. I was also expecting to wear a parachute during the flight and would have to share the ride with pigs and donkeys. Well, I was wrong. The plane was brand new and even though the flight was only 25 minutes long, the smart stewardess offered me gracious smiles (which I appreciated) and a muffin with apple juice (which I appreciated even more).

The taxi ride from Cochabamba airport to my accomodation was surprising too. The taxi had windows! And a seat belt! The handsome driver opened the door for me as if I was Angelina Jolie arriving at a Hollywood Premier.
The biggest surprise of all, however, was my accomodation. I had booked a dirty cheap private room in a hostal, but when the taxi stopped outside, I thought there had been a mistake and stayed in the car. The driver, obviously blessed with good looks but not with the gift of patience (and probably realizing I was not Angelina Jolie after all), waved me off by saying "Aqui! Aqui"- which translates into "Here!Here! You stupid moron, now get out of my car".

At the hostal, a young man insisted on taking my luggage, showed me to my mini apartment, explained how the TV worked (let me guess....I push the ON button?); explained how the minibar opened (by pulling the door! Surprise!) and explained how the toilet worked (oh, man, I have plenty of experience). He reassured me that he'd be there for me, should I need anything, absolutely anything. Basically, his mission in life was to make my stay in Cochabamba as pleasant as possible.
I was tempted to ask whether he could provide me with a night of wild and fulfilling sex, but I asked for breakfast times instead.
Finally alone and excited for being in a new place, I got ready and smeared my face with make-up as if I was going to a New Year´s party.This turned out to be totally unnecessary and utterly unpractical. Unnecessary because it was a Monday and it was just lunch time; unpractical because the glitter on my eyelids melted in the scorching sun. I did not look good with my face covered in glitter and gigantic sweat patches under my arms.

I requested a map at reception. I don't know why I keep bothering as maps remain big unsolved mysteries to me. I guess I like to look at the cute pictures of churches and museums printed on them, plus they sometimes help me feel as if I know where I am heading to. Even when, in reality, I have no clue at all.
The efficient receptionist apologetically informed me that the map available looked indeed a little old. He failed to inform me, however, that it also measured 1.50x 1.00 cm; virtually as big as me.

I ventured out. I was finally in Cochabamba! The "city of eternal spring"! World, here I come!
And then I got lost.... As much as I did not want to draw much attention on myself (as if walking around with a glittery face was not enough), I had to squat in the street to open the ridiculously gigantic map.
Needless to stay, it was totally useless and I stayed lost for 5 hours.
Eventually, with the help of a gardner, a policeman and a street vendor, I found my way back to the hostal, to realize that for 5 hours I had practically gone around the same circle, over and over.

Once in my room, I kissed the carpet and thanked God for saving my life. Well, not literally, but I COULD have ended up walking in a loop for the rest of eternity, right?

For the first time in months I had a TV in my room. This was such an exciting event that I indulged in a "TV watching marathon". For 7 hours I watched animal programs in Spanish. Motionless; transfixed.
For 7 hours I dreamed of being in far away countries, until I realized I already WAS in a far away country! What was I doing watching TV?! Resting. That's what I was doing. Getting lost in a far away country on a daily basis is a tiring business. I needed plenty of rest so I'd have plenty of strength next time I'd get lost. Soon enough, no doubt about that.

I booked a two-day tour to Torotoro National Park, the "dream of every paleontologist".
The driver/guide, whose name was original and unique (Jose) picked me me at 6 a.m. so that I could joing the group of 3 Israeli girls.
In the car, the usual chit chat took place: where was I before Bolivia? Doing what? Blah blah blah.
Coincidentally, as soon as I said that I had been working with small children, Jose stopped the car and said: "I have a small problem". I didn't even have time to think what his small problem might have been (genital warts? Fear of national parks? Hate for Italian tourists?) that a young pretty Bolivian lady, holding a chubby child, approached our car, left the child with Jose and left.
The "small problem", it turned out, was the driver's 18 months old baby, Roy, who had to travel with us. It was already 5 people squeezed in the car, so the best place to sit for the screaming thing was obviously my lap.
I thought we were taking Roy to a nearby school, to some long lost relatives, to a ditch, but the baby's final destination was the village of Torotoro. 5 and 1/2 hours drive away.
I tried everything to calm Roy down. I stroked his big head; caressed his piglet face; sang him a heavy metal song; whispered soothing words in his ears :"shut up, you little shit, what have YOU got to cry for?! this is MY tour! I should be crying!".
No, no, I did not say that . Truth be told, I felt really sorry for Piglet. I mean, imagine being 18 months old, being stuck in a car with 4 strangers, whilst wearing the thickest wooly jumper and hat when it's 25 degrees in the shades AND being put in such a situation by your own mother. I would be distressed too.

One hour passed. There was silence. Jose, noticing that his son had fallen asleep and my arms had turned blue, said: "Oh, he's asleep. I can now put him in the boot". I laughed at his joke, except it was no joke. He stopped the car, took the baby from my arms and put him in the car boot, asleep on top of my backpack.
Let me be clear here: I am the last person on earth who could give parenting advice to anyone, but even Hitler would have found this scenario disturbing. Mmmm. Maybe not.
Me and the 3 Israelis looked at each other, utterly perplexed, and thought to make a small detour and report this child abuse to the nearest police station. We didn't. Our tour was too expensive to allow a detour. Sod it.

Two more hours passed. As I was massaging my blue arms, I suddenly remembered there was a child sleeping in the car boot. A child! I checked the damage and noticed that Roy and my backpack had swapped places: the backpack was now on the top and Roy underneath. I didn't want to create panic so in a cool, calm voice I told Jose. "Hey, amigo, when you get a second, no rush, would you mind stopping the car for a second? I think my luggage is suffocating your son". He did.
Once again, imagine you are 18 months old and you just woke up in a car boot. You have lost half of your body weight in sweat and the first image you see is not the one of you loving mother, but the one of 3 grumpy Israeli and 1 furious Italian. What would you do? Exactly. Roy reached the peak of his sadness and made a siren sound to express his utter outrage.
His father, wisely, considered what could have been the best place for his son to sit, in order to calm down. The answer? Squatting on the car floor in between my legs. At this point, the siren sound was coming from me as well and the only thing that consoled me was the knowledge that after 4 hours we had finally arrived to our destination.
I got out of the car, kissed the ground covered in donkey's shit and thanked God for saving the life of an innocent child.

The actual tour of the National Park was awesome. The purpose of this blog, however, is not to make anyone envious. For this reason I shall not mention the amazing waterfall I showered under, the majestic canyon I trekked, the million stars I slept under and the most breathtaking views I enjoyed. No, I shall not.

The tour came to an end. I dreaded the journey back, as Jose was not only a lousy father, he was a terrible driver too. 2 hours into our hell of a journey, the car broke down. It happened while we were in the middle of nowhere, high up in the mountains.
Jose´s approach to such tragedy was to just stand in the middle of the road, staring at the engine.
Let me be clear, here. I am the last person on earth who could give any advice on how to fix a car, but even an octopus would know that you don't fix a mechanical problem by staring at an engine.
"Jose?", I asked. "Do you believe in God?". "I don't". "Then why the hell are you waiting for a miracle?!".
Time passed. The car would run for 10 minutes and then stop for 15. Eventually we reached the town of Cochabamba and, as we stopped at the traffic lights at the busiest junction in town, the car stopped again. This, per se, was quite good for me because in 10 minutes I learned at least 45 different Spanish swear words and insults, all shouted at Jose by other drivers.
I felt sorry for him, but above all I felt sorry for myself so I got out of the car, opened the boot, got my backpack, wished Jose good luck and continued the journey on foot.

When I got back to my hostal I kissed the receptionist, the Israeli girls, the bathroom floor, the paintings on the wall and I thanked God for saving Jose´s life: another minute and I would have killed the fucker.