A Bad Start to the End of My Time in Bolivia

My last day in La Paz started with me thinking I was about to die. Bright and early I made my way to the shower, still very much asleep. The shower in my coworker's place doesn't come with hot water and so, like many shower heads in South America, a heating device was hooked up to cook up the water just before releasing it on the bather. These contraptions always look scary - with archaic wiring connecting from the shower head to a large switch that looks like what Dr Frankenstein pulled to bring his monster to life.

A few minutes into my shower I noticed bright flashes of light just above my head. I looked up to see sparks flying from the wiring of the shower head and then a large spark just before the wiring caught on fire. In the span of these few seconds I managed to get the shower curtain back and leap to the toilet four feet away - naked, dripping wet, but seemingly unscathed. I watched as the flame grew smaller and the wires melted away, my heart beating a thousand times a minute. When I gathered my composure, I tossed a small bit of water on the now tiny flame to put it out. Smoke filled the room. And I had 20 minutes to get down to my cab and head to the airport.

I dried off, made sure the fire was completely out, and got dressed. Then I left a note for my coworker's uncle who would be arriving that day. And I called his cousin to tell her what happened. Her response? "Oh, don't worry about it. Happens all the time."

Right.

Completely shaken, I grabbed my pack and went out to meet my cab to catch my flight to Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz is located in eastern Bolivia, at a much lower elevation. I was told to be prepared for tropical weather - a big change from the chilliness of La Paz. I wore jeans (it was still cold here after all) but wore a tee with my jacket, knowing I could dunk the jacket in my little pack once I landed.

The flight was quick enough and I was glad I had taken it instead of the 17 hour bus ride. But when I went to the small airport's baggage claim, and waited and waited, I couldn't find my checked backpack. An announcement was made when it was clear I wasn't the only one waiting for my bag 40 minutes later. But it was in Spanish and I couldn't understand it. All I caught was that I should get in line where something further would be explained. When I got to the front of the line I found one of the two guys doing damage control could speak a little English. He said the plane was over weight and so some of the bags were left behind for the next flight from La Paz. I was to leave my hotel name and address and the bag would be delivered later that afternoon. I could already feel the heat outside the doors and immediately regretted wearing my wool socks and jeans. There was no way I could change now. I was not liking Santa Cruz so far.