Never A Straight Line by Richard Villar

Author:Richard Villar
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Vineyard Press Limited
Published: 2018-08-13T16:00:00+00:00

DAY 14

May I have a receipt?

Location: Pisiga, Bolivia

Well blow me, Bolivia came up with the goods. The last thing I was expecting was to be ushered past Ventanilla Left in barely more than a blink. But I was, I did, it happened, the Bolivian official taking all of five seconds to glance up from Facebook and say, “Welcome to Bolivia.”

He lifted the visa stamp, for some reason blew across its surface, perhaps some imaginary dust, or even a smoking gun, and then “Click! Click!”, his stamp embossed my passport’s page 46 and the deed was done. I was through, past, and within moments was being ordered by Bruno the guide, Bolivian to the core, “Come, come, we must go!”

Outside the low-rise building and back in the now Bolivian sun was the car, a well-travelled Toyota Landcruiser, complete with occasional scratch and dent. At the wheel was Abed. Abed, somewhere in his late forties, was manifestly a charmer and keen to do his best. His problem was a total lack of English, not even “Yes” or “No”. I say total when, if truth be known, there was one word Abed did properly comprehend. That word, unmistakably, was “Fast”.

Abed had only one mission; to reach point B from point A in a straight line, as rapidly as wheels could spin. Just as well he was a good driver. His handling of the Toyota was almost like ballet, even if he regarded the corner as a Devil’s creation that simply stood in his way. When travelling, anything seems to go in Bolivia, which perhaps explains why Abed still lives. Roads, should you find one, are in serious need of repair and spaces so open that travel between towns and villages can have you driving in a perfectly straight line for hour upon hour upon hour. South-west Bolivia, where I was, does straight better than Austria does the hairpin.

Within moments, Bruno had disarmed me of my luggage, I do not travel heavy, and half pushed me into my seat at the rear. It was a good place to be, I thought, sat behind Bruno, who was in the death seat front right. Bruno looked to be good padding should we have a head-on, not impossible in a land that loses 3% of its population annually on the road, a rate that has tripled since the year 2000. Mind you, Iran is twice as bad as Bolivia and has earned top prize by being the planet’s most dangerous place to steer a vehicle.

With a metallic clack, I had my seat belt in position. Abed did not even turn. I saw his driver’s ears prick the moment he heard the sound, right foot hit floor and we were away. Pedestrians dived left, cyclists right and anyone stationary was a target.

I was pressed forcibly back into my seat, skull thrust hard into a spongy head-rest by a G-force associated with Mach One. I gripped tightly on a handle somewhere above my door while with the palm of my left hand I pressed downwards, arm rigidly straight, in some futile attempt to keep balance.

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