Bloqueos (Blockades)

The bus stopped at 6:00 am. Are we there already? I thought we were supposed to reach Cochabamba at about 8:00am. . . it's probably just a traffic jam. I think I'll go back to sleep.

7:00 now, and still we haven't moved. Ooh, and the bus is about half empty, too. A few people bolted as soon as we stopped, but I figured we would pass them pretty quickly when the traffic jam cleared up. I asked to borrow the cell phone of the man in front of me, and I called Jennifer. She asked where I was. I said the hills were green, the air was fresh and clean, and I could hear birds. I don't think that was very helpful. She asked how long we had been driving since Oruro – that's the big crossroads town between Potosí and Cochabamba and La Paz. Since I had been asleep, my backpack tied to my leg for safekeeping, I could only guess - “I don't know, four hours?” That wasn't very helpful either.

Finally, at about 7:45, being the second to last person still on the bus, I reluctantly decided to start walking. The luggage I brought was meant for airports, not hiking. It was heavy, awkward, soft, short, and stupid. Come to think of it, it wasn't even really meant for airports. One set of wheels for three bags – I had two big duffel bags and one medium backpack. The prospect of dragging these inconveniences across the Bolivian countryside was the main reason why I waited so long to leave the bus. I paid for delivery to Cochabamba, doggone it! Now I have to schlep my junk on foot for the next who-knows how many miles? Grrr!!!

30 minutes later, my bags lashed together in a heap, I stalked down the hill with a frown. It wasn't 50 feet later and my luggage heap toppled over. I retied the heap, tighter this time, pulling hard enough on the rope to hurt my hands. A line of parked vehicles snaked back up the hill, stopped bumper to bumper, both lanes packed. Drivers of parked buses and trucks looked at me and then at each other, eyebrows raised. Other passengers with luggage that actually rolled cruised past me. Some old ladies with huge bundles trudged by as well, bearing their burdens like mules, bent almost double under the weight. Well, I guess it could be worse.

There was a bridge at the bottom of the hill that crossed the dry river bed. A group of men had stacked a row of rocks across both lanes at either end of the bridge. What in the world is wrong with these people! The stack was three feet high and three feet wide, a loose pyramid of rubble that had stopped everything, including my bus! That I paid for! Well, that I was going to pay for, anyway. I hadn't actually bought the ticket – but still – someone paid, and they should get their money's worth!

I thought briefly about stopping at the heap of rocks and pitching them out of the way, but then I did some math. One Jake; fifty Bolivians at each end of the bridge; two giant heaps of stones – nah, better just keep moving. Sweat pouring off my face already, just dragging bags, not even pitching stones, I still glared with as much malice as I could generate at anyone who dared to look at me. Go ahead and say something, someone, anyone, just say something! It's probably good for my sake that they didn't. What dumb thing might I have done or said in my anger?

Stomping up the hill away from the bridge on the other side of the valley, I asked some of my fellow travelers how far we were from Cochabamba. I wasn't sure I understood correctly, so I asked again. About 45 km? That's almost 30 miles! And I'm dragging my duffel bags that far? Oh my goodness, I need some coffee.

There were a string of shops alongside the road, and I noticed that the shop owners had the biggest grins on their faces. Hmm, this isn't such a bad day for them. . . All these people who would normally be zipping by on trucks or buses are now stopping and spending money on coca-cola and bread and bananas. Perhaps this is just a matter of perspective?

I bought some bread, butter, jelly, and hot water. I poured the hot water over my Starbucks Via instant coffee – never leave the States without it! (I learned the hard way about Nescafe – gag me with a spoon!) As I sat at my little table having my breakfast, I decided to pray. I asked God to forgive my bad attitude and help me to have a better one. I realized that this was a test. I could not control what the road blockers had decided to do, I could only control my response. So far this trip had been an excellent one, especially the great people I had met along the way. I prayed about the next people I would meet, and thanked God for this latest phase of my Bolivian adventure. It's only thirty miles I have to go. One foot in front of the other, right?

Energized, animated, smiling now, I took one step and then another toward Cochabamba. I took some extra webbing and using my backpack like a harness, I pulled my duffels down the road like a sled dog. A few young boys walked alongside me for about a kilometer, and since they helped me pull, I gave them a few coins. Beyond the next line of stones a mini-van style taxi (called a trufi) was picking up passengers, and I managed to hitch a ride. The other passengers asked what I was doing in Bolivia, so I told them I sponsored a little boy in Potosí and was going to meet a girl in Cochabamba. We reached another line of stones in about ten minutes, so we all got out, and the trufi turned around to make another trip.

Marco was riding in that trufi with me, and made a point to chat with me as we walked though the countryside. My bags, having been untied to get them into the trufi, were not tied together again very well, and they kept tipping over. Marco saw me struggling and offered to help. I was reluctant to accept his help, prideful, independent North American that I am, especially considering how much older Marco was than me, but in the end, I yielded. He slung my smaller, but still heavy duffel bag over his shoulders like a backpack, and together we walked.

(This picture is of Marco just before we met Jennifer, taken once we reached the city.)

It turns out that Marco is a pastor and has been walking these hills for thirty years sharing the good news of God's love and forgiveness through Jesus Christ toward us willful rebels. He wanted to know more about the sponsorship program, where I lived in the States, and about this girl I was going to visit in Cochabamba. To walk 45 km for love is nothing, he said. I think he's right.

After about an hour of walking, we hitched a ride in the back of a dump truck. I helped some ladies climb in and lift their bundles. Holy cow! Heavy! Maybe they're just made of hardier stock down here? We cruised in style for at least five miles, the green hills and purple flowers zipping by in a blur. I reveled in the fresh air on my face, standing head and shoulders above the crowd pressed into the bed of the truck. We passed many people still walking – I felt blessed to among the few able to fit into the truck. When we reached the next blockade, the driver pulled to the side and everyone climbed out. Marco told the driver I sponsored a child in Bolivia, so the driver did not make me pay for the ride. These people are so generous!

We had reached Suticollo, maybe twenty miles still to Cochabamba? Marco finagled some space for us in a small station wagon with seven other people and their gear, and we took the dirt back roads toward the city. It was a fun trip, except for the part where my legs went numb. I learned that you should not eat the fruit of the local cactus, what they call “tuna,” with bread, or it won't come out. We almost became stuck a couple times, but generous use of the accelerator kept us moving – sweetness! This trip was way more exciting than a lame old bus trip would have been!

When Pastor Marco and I arrived in Cochabamba, getting out of the car in front of Adonai's Oil Change Shop, Marco's friend Eloi pedaled up on his bicycle. It was purely a chance encounter in a city of nearly a million people, if you believe in that sort of thing, as no one on earth could have arranged the timing so well.

Eloi talked for a long time with Pastor Marco about some Bible verses he had been studying, and then he stopped suddenly, looking at me as if it were the first time he had really seen me. He said abruptly, “God has a new work for you to do in this city.” He seemed as startled by what he said as I was. He appeared to think about it for a moment, and then convinced somehow that yes, what he had just said was true, he repeated his announcement. “God has a new work for you to do in this city, right here in Cochabamba.” He said that when I came back I should stay with him; he had an extra room and would not charge rent for as long as I wanted to stay. He wrote all of his contact information down in my notebook. I thanked him and said that I would definitely consider it if I came back to the city.

Eloi pedaled away and Marco and I walked toward the spot we had arranged to meet Jennifer. I pondered Eloi's words as we walked. I was thinking of doing something new, of service in the mission field, but was this it? Cochabamba? Bolivia? A new work? What in the world does that mean? Is Eloi crazy? Am I? So much of this is going to depend on how well Jennifer and I fit together. Is God bringing us together, or am I making this all up?

Ooh, there she is! I guess we're about to find out! Lord, help!  

To be continued. . . !