Magdalena, Bolivia

 September 2002

The most beautiful town in the world is Magdalena,” pronounced the truck driver with whom we were hitching a lift across the northern frontier of Bolivia.

He is passionate as he describes a remote town in the enormous Bolivian pampa - great seasonal wetlands home to a rich variety of bird and wildlife.

As we travel southward, deeper into Bolivia, such an enticing description was too exciting to forget and we set about getting there.

One of Latin America’s poorest nations, Bolivia is known for adventure travel but many foreign tourists overlook Bolivia’s Amazon region, which occupies about half of the country. In several weeks in this fascinating part of the world, we encounter no other foreign tourists.

In the regional center of Trinidad, famed for its open sewers, we ask around about getting to Magdalena. The locals look at us if we were mad but tell us transportation leaves from the road north. 

Slack jawed; we stared as our backpacks were thrown into an empty meat truck. Our worst fears were confirmed when we clambered onto the wooden boards that would be our perches for the next 12 gruelling hours through the Bolivian pampa. Ten minutes out of town, as the little meat truck hit its first section of wet mud, spun and laboured slowly onward, it became evident that the truck had no redeeming features. No ventilation, no seats, and definitely no power.

With at least 15 others roosted precariously on the narrow timber, our bodies stick together in the oppressive heat.  My shoulder became a resting-place for a drunken man’s head, which bounced like an elasticized ball as we negotiated potholes. 

What the meat truck lacked – windows – made up for with other amenities – namely meat hooks hanging from the roof, which became a godsend when half the trip was spent airborne as the truck took ruts at full speed.  The hours wore on as the stifling heat of midday baked the tin box and dust had settled on the passengers so we wore a shocked orange colour, silently focusing on alleviating pain as we flew into the air, only to crash back down on bruised buttocks.  Each moment seemed an eternity and it was difficult to remember that we were going to the most beautiful place in the world. 

Long after sunset we arrive at a dusty frontier town, San Ramon, where we are instructed to disentangle ourselves from the meat truck, for this is as far as it goes.

This faded town where horses graze on the central square, was exceedingly charming with friendly people and a tranquil air, but our desire to visit Magdalena had taken quest-like proportions, and it remains a tantalizing few hours away.

Early in the following morning we wait with a meat truck acquaintance at the river crossing at the edge of town, where all traffic must pass.  By lunchtime, the sun has reached its searing zenith and only two vehicles have passed by, neither of them headed to Magdalena.

The penetrating intensity of the heat has disabled all movement, down even to the tiniest of insects.   We sling our hammock between two trees alongside some gently dozing Zebu cattle, and spend time in a likewise manner. Three more cars pass by, and the crimson globe of the sun, silhouetting flocks of birds heading home to roost, slowly slides below the horizon.

Luck walks our way in the form of a mother and daughter who have been waiting for transport to Magdalena for four days.  The five of us agree to hire a car, though the driver insists on taking a ‘navigator’ which amounts to seven piled in a tiny Japanese-made car.

The car seems somehow unsuited for the muddy rutted track through the vast grasslands, illuminated in the moonlight.  The little car fords a river with a minimum of fuss though we passengers disembark and wade through the dark waters. 

Magdalena is enchanting, with wide dirt streets where oxen move patiently down the street, drawing crudely made carts with large wooden wheels. Horses are tethered on hitching posts outside shops and the main street reminds one of a cowboy western.

The friendly locals told us that while Magdalena is picturesque, Bella Vista (meaning beautiful scene) is even more charming.   Now fixated by this idea of “the most beautiful place” we negotiate with a young man to take his an aging jeep through the pampa to Bella Vista.

The measureless landscape, with horizons as far as the eye can see, stops your heart with its’ enormity.  Birds, fiery in colour and fleet on the wing, dart and flit by the roadside, and the land feels fertile and blessed.

Bella Vista is perched on the corner of a sublimely scenic riverbend – to reach it we must take a raft across the river, as there are no vehicles in this village. Walking on grassed streets amongst palm-thatched cottages, we see that this is indeed paradise. 

Women perch on river rocks as they wash their clothes while children play in the shallows. Then the families wash, discreetly underneath their clothes, as they convivially chat.  We feel as if we are intruders of the worst kind – tourists.

As sun’s burnt orb slowly descends, casting a golden glow over the bathers and this exquisite landscape, we cross the river and head back to Magdalena. 

In the middle of nowhere, the jeep splutters to a stop and it is evident that the one litre soft drink bottle of fuel put in at the previous village wasn’t sufficient!

We walk for several miles to reach Magdalena, the great swamp filled with the noise of frogs and night birds as fireflies buzz excitedly in the long grass. Under an inky, eternal sky, full of shining stars, this is heaven.

So that we can leave Magdalena in some mode of comfort we organize places on a military flight, but this falls through.  A tiny four-seater airplane takes us back to civilization, puttering over fantastic landscapes and the remnants of a plane crash.

Now we recall walking under the star studded Bolivian sky, when it became clear that often the most beautiful places – at least the most memorable – are those that involve some effort to get there.

Copyright Ariana Svenson, 2005 - Comments and enquiries, please email us.