I had not brought anything to eat or drink, except the nuts, raisins and bottled water I always try to keep on hand, for the eight hours or more of travel ahead. I entered a tiny shop in the La Paz bus station and ordered an egg sandwich with fresh tomato and other provisions to be prepared by a woman and her teenage daughter. The small diner-like shop was crowded with locals seated at small tables or booths drinking coffee, invariably instant (cafe grano or brewed coffee was a luxury I saw little of) and eating the ubiquitous white, rather tasteless flat rolls with butter and marmalade or eggs with an ample serving of mayonnaise (by far the most popular condiment). Some, mostly men, were alone, lost in thought or reading a newspaper before, I assumed, their impending journey. Others animatedly chatted, defying the early hour. None exhibited a sense of urgency to leave. I noted the buses in Bolivia, at least those I had taken, rarely left on time. Or perhaps they had already made their journey and were soon heading home.

I’ve accepted, while traveling in many countries, the evident truth that my down vest, Gore-Tex jacket and overall appearance dispels any notion that I am a local. I did not encounter many travelers from the U.S. in Chile nor in Bolivia and strangers generally assumed I was European.

A gentleman sitting at a nearby booth asked me if I was German. (Although I had known of Germans settling in Chile after WWII, they have settled in Chile since the mid-nineteenth century.) The question prompted a brief conversation. He had just returned from Chile for work and came home when he could. The close proximity belies the long hours to travel between the two countries.

Now ready, I checked back at the ticket office to find the proper gate. I was told, another ten minutes or so. The departure time, 6:30, had come and gone. After my third visit I was guided to the bus.

My travel bag was stowed in the storage below and I was given a claim ticket. I boarded the bus with my day pack and food in each hand, and settled into the assigned seat I had reserved the day before. It was in the front row: a cushioned, very comfortable “semi-cama” (a reclining seat with footrest).The aisle was on my left and a large window on my right. There was a sign noting a toilet in the back.

Women, ample in figure, wearing the traditional long black braids down their back with tassels at each end, bowler hats and full skirts with colorful sweaters and aprons made up the majority of the passengers. A young man with earplugs and sunglasses wore jeans and a faux leather jacket, a woman wearing a bandage across her nose in non-traditional attire and high-heeled shoes boarded too. There was only one other turista besides me. A man who had loaded his bicycle in the storage below. We left the terminal. It was 7:15.