Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The first time I arrived in Bolivia I stuck out like a sore thumb. A place completely unknown. Looking down at my twiddling thumbs, I hold the foreign currency, to this foreign country – as I stood amongst a gush of people bustling out of the arrived steam train. Thousands scattered pouring out of the train. I had arrived in Bolivia after traveling a week by train. It cost $5000, for myself, the foreigner, and my outrageously vibrant luggage. Now, contrarily, I stand still, at the station with a slightly overwhelmed feeling pooling in my stomach. The money in my hand stared into my confused eyes. Even its look at me like a foreigner. My appearance, well, an outfit much too out of the norm. Bolivians were working class people of browns, nudes, and neutrals. With my red coat, frills, and heels I was not a Bolivian even if I tried. Flicking my blonde locks behind the crease of my ear, I just didn’t understand this place. The station had a tacky veranda, it was only little, although it accommodated for much too many travellers. Just not like me, though. I shuffled around, grabbing my luggage and decided to wade through the masses in hope of direction – to my apartment that is. Pushing and being pushed – these stilettos – they killed. Usually, i would never be in a situation like this. I reached an exit, a paint peeled arch way that leads onto a street of excitement which was contagious. It’s busy bee hive had my sense switched on immediately. Flicking my head left right up and down, I peered around for a lift. A grubby, groaning taxi swerved into the curb in front of me. A curly headed Bolivian was eager to make use of his taxi assisted me. I took the chance, piling my bags in and shuffled over in the backseat, listening to the obnoxiously loud radio, screaming some language to an annoying beat.
“Can you turn this down?!” I demanded, he looked at me but didn’t comprehend until I swung my hands around until he got my gesture. Finally. Some quiet space. The car rolled away from the gutter, joining the busy traffic. I sunk into the obviously worn fake leather and left my eyes to drift. I looked up to an array of stickers on the car roof. Random patriotic country stickers of flags and what not. Until one made my heart jump into my throat.
Shit. I wasn’t in Bolivia.