I felt like death the morning Crazy Canadian and I traveled to Bolivia. I knew I wasn´t hungover because I´d only had three beers the previous night. I knew it wasn´t food poisoning because I had eaten what everyone else did. My guess is it was my first allergic reaction.
She arose two hours before our scheduled departure to Bolivia.
¨Are you sure you´re going to be ready?¨ She asked anxiously, hovering over me like my mom in elementary school after I had stuck my head over the heater, returned to bed, and pretended to be sick.
¨Yes, I don´t take long to get ready,¨ I replied, making gagging noises in her direction in hopes she´d retreat and leave me alone.
Amid her clatter of clothes and toiletries, I pulled the pillow over my head.
Fifteen minutes later my head reverberated with what sounded like a chorus emitting from a dying horse. Still in bed, I retched in to a nearby plastic bag and then reclined face-down. Screams and shrieks entered what felt like a slaughterhouse in place of my head and I couldnt help but wonder that Crazy Canadian might want to consider a career change, as her lung capacity was equivalent to that of Celine Dion.
¨Agghhhh its fucking cold in here! AGGGHHH it´s freezing!¨ Followed by a choir of vigorous intonations.
Apparently the owner´s claim of aguas caliente was consistent with Al Gore´s affirmation that he invented the Internet.
I eventually straggled from bed, packed my bags, and lay on the bed while Crazy Canadian armed herself with llama beanie, sweater, mittens, scarf, socks, and, to complete the ensemble, legwarmers.
¨Are you ready,¨ she shrieked multiple times across the room like an impatient alcoholic demanding departure to a bar.
I, supine, plucked the pillow back over my head.
We were late to the bus. Luckily Crazy Canadian scared the shit out of the bus company by screaming at them the number of the bus followed by a stream of sounds that I can only describe as Dying Pig.
I collapsed in my seat and put my head down.
Crazy Canadian roused me several times throughout the seven hour bus ride to query if I enjoyed Peruvian food, what my sibling´s names were, and to notice that Lake TIticaca was in view. We had been at Lake Titicaca for three days.
At the Bolivian border a border guard informed me that because I was American, I needed a valid passport, a photocopy of my travel iteinerary, a credit card, certification of the Yellow Fever vaccination, a hotel reservation or an invitation in Spanish, and $135. Only Americans. Everyone else in the world only required a passport. Of the above, I had a passport, a credit card, and my Yellow Fever vaccination. I also flatly refused to spend $135 to cross a border with a Crazy Canadian in to Bolivia, which I hadn´t originally intended to visit anyway.
After much deliberation with the border patrol, I paid them $40. I had no documentation, no exit stamp proving my exit from Peru, no receipt for having paid them off, nothing that reflected I was supposed to be in Bolivia. They issued me strict instructions to stay in Copa Cabana for three days at most. Crazy Canadian responded with a convincing string of appeals to me why I should screw the border orders and travel with her to La Paz. I refused with a vigor reminiscent of my rejection of consuming CB Brandy. It just wasn´t going to happen.
I halted in Copa Cabana and Crazy Canadian continued to La Paz.
As soon as she departed my sickness dissapated and I resided for hours at the beach.
Theory: allergy to llama-clad Crazy Canadian.