Lessons at a Bolivian roadblock- part 2

We had been waiting at the roadblock for another 45 minutes or so when they said, everybody get off the bus and walk the mile or two to the end of the roadblock. We’ll meet you at the other side. So we piled off and began to walk. My new deaf mother was old enough that they said she could stay on the bus but she was very concerned that I was taken care of. She told an 18 year old young man to hold my hand walk with me so I didn’t get lost. We looked at each other and chuckled, but I had found a new friend. Out of the whole line of buses and trucks that were forging the alternate route through the rough desert, our bus was the first to make it to the other side. As the reached the road they said, “Get on quick! The Coca farmers are coming!” We all rushed onto the bus and pedaled out of there.
The next time we stopped was a false alarm, just a small traffic jam.
The third time we stopped, they told us to take our things and walk across this road block and over the bridge where other transportation would be waiting to take us the rest of the way in. My deaf mother and I trekked down the hill waiting to come upon a bridge (not without stopping once for her to drop her trunks and pee behind a tire once right there on the road). We once again walked by the Coca farmer picnics and burning tires. The sun was going down and I lowered my hat because I thought if they really wanted to make a political statement it would be easy by singling out the gringo.
We walked by police sitting on the bridge.
The group of people got to the other side of the bridge and when they saw minivans waiting there, a mad rush ensued. We luckily crammed ourselves into the front seat of a minibus but after a few meters our headlights hit a solid wall of big trucks completely blocking the road. There were kids running around and yelling everywhere, wanting to get on a bus. One of them yelled, “Go up that dirt road there!” And so we tried. But we were too heavy and I could smell the clutch burning out as we tried. He told people to get off and they did until he got up the steep part. We piled back on and the kids were now were begging us to take them with us. The bus driver said, just one. The boys ran around to the doors and looked in as if they were all going to pour in. but hardly one would fit. I looked one of them in the eye for a moment and thought, “Should I do the moral thing or the easy one.” I was confused. Did these boys even want to go to Cochabamba? I didn’t know how my deaf mother would fend if I left her by herself, and she wouldn’t let me get off to help the bus up the steep road so how would she react now? I reached down and shamefully locked the door.
We headed up and down over the rollercoaster dirt road having to stop on the shoulders to let big rock carrying trucks by us. We came a split in the road and a voice from somewhere out of the minivan said, stay to the left. We went left. We kept descending and found ourselves in a tiny town. As we passed, I saw and heard a little kid throw a handful of dirt at us. We bumped over holes and little creeks and came to a bigger creek with large branches cut and laid across the road on the other side. We forged it and paid the boy at the other side. They moved the branches aside and we passed. We found ourselves at the edge of impassible river in the headlights of huge trucks coming at us through the river. Our driver hollered at a young man standing outside our window. He came over and my deaf mother friend leaned over our minivan driver and cried mercy in so many words. “For the love of God, we’ve been traveling all day, trying to get to Cochabamba! Help us!” I’m guessing she didn’t know how pathetic and senile it sounded (or maybe just panicking Bolivian it sounded). The man said, “Where did you say you’re trying to go?”
Our driver said, “Cochabamba.”
“You are way off. You should have turned way back there. You’ll never get there from here!” Ugghs spread through the passengers. We turned around and got ready to go through the tree branch road block again. Now, ahead of us were a group of arguing men.
I seriously was thinking, we are at the total mercy of these men. I suppose they could rob us and leave us to freeze the night away (it gets cold here) here in this desolate forest by the river.
We convinced someone that we had already paid and they let us through again. We forged the creek again and headed back over bumps and holes through the town. This time the kids weren’t throwing dirt. They had made a roadblock of their own. Smaller rocks and branches were spread across the road we had just come down. Our driver got out and said something like, “Look here, guys. Nice try but we really need to pass.” And he, with another person from our van moved the rocks aside and we continued on.
When we got back to the original paved road it had cleared and we made it to Cochabamba within a couple hours. People were grateful and joking around, though we continued to pass stranded people trying to hail a ride. We passed them because we were already completely full, and the gas tank that was on empty throughout the whole ordeal made me more thankful we couldn’t pick up any more people.