All six of us piled into the Bolivian taxi. The back row sat three. But it’s not like they have seatbelts anyway. The driver threw all of our belongings into the back and slammed the door. Most taxis here are white and in pretty rough shape. But the little Toyota hatchbacks seem unfazed and resilient. Riding in those cars, rocketing down the dirt or semi-paved city roads at ramming speed and not falling apart at every pothole, still shocks me. Streets, whether marked or unmarked by signs, flew past us as we merely honked through intersections and dodged fellow thrill seekers. Every ear was tuned to a steady stream of inordinate honking and crazy-loud blarings of accordions and flutes and guitars pouring from the radio (only piece of working tech in the car).

This was my 5^th month living in Bolivia. And I love Bolivia. Vibrant and eclectic, Bolivian culture has no equal. Perhaps being locked in by five other south American countries has preserved its bold flavor. I can close my eyes and still see bright and colorful dresses. I hear flutes of many varieties. I smell the salteñas (a type of meat-filled pastry). And for some reason, the smell of burning propane reminds me of the propane mantle lanterns that gave off light. I was traveling and occasionally staying with, Devon and Jenny and their raft of boys (all of which behaved better than I, but that is a story for another time). We were in the city of Santa Cruz for a couple of days. The never-ending sea of paperwork demanded that we present ourselves in an official capacity. And after several hours of filling in forms and standing in lines, we were simply ready to get back to our rooms.

After arriving at our destination, we clambered out of the taxi, paid the driver, and watched him speed away in a cloud of dust. At that moment, Devon began spinning around like a dog chasing his tail.

“Where’s the backpack?” he choked.

All the color left his face as he realized that his backpack was behind the last seat, in the hatch.

“What was in it?” I asked.

“Our passports, our money, everything important!”

If you are reading this and wondering what could be the worst-case scenario for international travel, wonder no longer. The odds of the situation improving after you lose your passport and money are comically low.

But we knew a guy.

In fact, we knew the guy who was a driver of another taxi. And he knew the guy that ran the taxi dispatch. And the dispatcher knew all the taxi drivers. And they actually found our driver.

He returned the backpack, passports, money, and all.

And instead of going to the American Consulate, we just went home.

anthony forrest