Sprint For the Border

SALTA, Argentina -- We arrived here, exhausted, last night after nine hours on a bus we almost didn´t make. Had we not found inner reserves of strength for a 1,500-meter sprint through the desert while carrying luggage, we would still be in Chile.

Will: Meghan and I had planned to leave for Salta on Friday, but when we arrived at the San Pedro municipal parking lot (aka the city bus terminal) we found snow in the Andes had closed the Bolivian and Argentine borders. Don´t worry, the Pullman bus company told us, your ticket is still good for the 11 a.m. Sunday bus. So we bided our time in the most expensive country in South America for two more days, then trudged to the parking lot Sunday with our luggage.

We had plenty of time, we thought. In the main square, we paused to let a parade pass -- on the Dia de San Pedro, the feast day for the city´s patron saint. A man dressed as a cross between an ostrich-like bird and the devil took a liking to us, and put out his claws to shake our hands. He held out the dead bird´s talon, which Meghan and I shook with auspiciousness. He then pushed the bird´s beak in my face and I gave it a few tender pats. He happily danced away with the rest of his crew.

We reached the parking lot a few meters away just in time to see the word ¨Pullman¨ on the back of a bus going at breakneck speed the wrong way -- out of the lot. As I was carrying about 50 pounds of bags, I said ¨Meghan, that´s our bus, run after it!¨ Meghan wasn´t worried. She said it couldn´t have been our bus because it wasn´t scheduled to leave until 11 a.m., and it was only 10:20. I had my doubts as there were not other folks in the parking area waiting for a bus to Salta and San Pedro de Atacama did not strike me as a giant hub for Pullman buses.

Then, Meghan went over to ask another bus driver about the Salta bus, while I stood loaded down with all our bags. The following sequence is a study in pantomime, as I did not speak to Meghan for a good 20 minutes, but watched her from afar:

Meghan walks up to another bus driver and then there is an exchange of Spanish.

(Meghan: I asked the bus driver where the Salta bus was, and she pointed to the end of the road, saying it just left for customs. I asked her if that was the 11 a.m. bus to Salta, and she said yes.)

Will: Meghan abruptly ends the conversation with would-be bus driver and then sprints to a cop directing traffic. She makes wild gestures with her arms as she talks to him.

(Meghan: OK, first I stopped and yelled to Will that it was indeed our bus that had left. We needed a taxi to get our bags to customs. I yelled to a taxi driver watching the parade, and he said good luck. Then I asked the cop and he said, hmmm, a taxi will be difficult. He suggests I haul it to customs on foot at the end of the road.).

Will: After talking with him, she turns and looks in all directions. Then she puts the palms of her hands to her head in exasperation. At this this point I know things are not good. Meghan, who does not usually run, immediately takes off down a dusty road at a sprint that would make Carl Lewis proud. I begin to follow, but quickly realize that I have no earthy idea where she is going and if I did, it would take me an hour to get there with all my bags. So I wait as she disappears behind a gathering crowd preparing for their own parade.

(Meghan:I looked at the sign that said Aduana, 500 meters, and knew I would only make it sprinting, which I had not done since the Journalism and Women Symposium last year, when my friend Karen and I were caught in a lightning storm atop Bald Mountain.
This is where things got really weird. The Dia de San Pedro parade had started up again on the road between the parking lot and Customs. Parents were taking photos of their baton-twirling children. Men were dressed as oxen and ostriches. I sprinted through, wheezing and gasping ^Perdon¨, but people cleared out quickly after one look at the crazy gringa (who, to be fair, was carrying Will´s day pack). I looked behind me and saw Will, and continued, confident he would catch up if only I could stall the bus long enough.

Then, out of nowhere, a man on a bicycle appeared. It was Christian, the night manager at our hotel, coming to our rescue like a knight on a shiny Schwinn. ``I will chase the bus for you!`` he yelled in Spanish, pedaling toward Customs. Will must have met him in the parking lot, I thought. How fortunate. ´Thank you!´I yelled. It later turned out Will had not seen Christian at all.

Still running, I shed my scarf and sweatshirt, having dressed that morning for a high-altitude winter bus ride, and wished I had not worn the wool leg warmers. Wheezing, I saw in the distance the Pullman bus still at Customs -- Christian was talking to the bus driver. ´It´s OK, he said. ¨The bus left me there once too!´´ He had seen the commotion in the parking lot, recognized what was happening, and acted fast. The bus driver told me to hurry up and find my boyfriend so we could all clear immigration and get on the road. I looked back, expecting to see Will rounding the corner at any minute. He didn´t appear. I walked back toward the parade and parking lot, then, as I still didn´t see Will around the bend, I broke into a run. Again. Running total: 1,000 meters.)

Will: I wait about ten minutes not sure when I will see Meghan again. Then, all of a sudden she appears -- running at top speed toward me. She waves me to follow her with a ¨hurry, they´ll leave without us¨ and grabs two of our five bags. As Meghan is carrying far less baggage then I, she quickly disappears into the oncoming parade.

(Meghan: to be fair, I was carrying about 10 pounds of dirty laundry, plus Will´s day pack. And sprinting, again. That´s 1,500 meters now.)

Will: I had a heavy bag on my back and a humongous bag in my hands as I plowed through the parade -- past cheerleaders, dancers, costumed revellers. I was running against the tide. As part of the parade, several men carried a wooden platform with a statue of Jesus. This figure was clearly the center point of the religious festival and I nearly caused its downfall. Wheezing and coughing my way up the incline I accidentally clipped one of the men, causing Jesus to nearly tilt and overturn. (I can only guess what my Jesuit teachers would have said at this.) I was too mortified to look back, but I think Jesus made his triumphant appearance. Meanwhile, I ran as fast as I could, guessing which road Meghan had turned down. After a good ten minutes running as fast as I could, I made to the customs station, where the bus had apparently stopped so all passengers could get their exit stamps. Meghan was there, smiling, as everyone else looked on with disgust at my disheveled, sweaty self. I didn´t care. We had made it!

(Meghan: Just thank your lucky stars you did not have to smell us for the next nine hours on that bus. The ride was beautiful, by the way -- up to 5,000 meters in altitude across snow fields, salt flats, past volcanoes and through a green river valley).
And thanks again to Christian, without whom we would still be in San Pedro de Atacama. The next bus would have left Tuesday.)