Lake Titicaca 2 and Copacabana -illustrated

I briefly mentioned Copacabana before (see "Farewell to Peru"). It didn´t get a good press. However, it had its points of interest. This post covers 7 and 8 August, which shows how very behind this blog is. Internet access is very cheap in Sucre, but the equipment is sooo basic. CD drives to access my photos are difficult to find.

The cathedral is home to La Virgen de Copacabana, credited with miracles, I believe. A large statue lives in the cathedral courtyard where many come in the hope of good fortune or maybe just a photo opportunity. The cathedral is typical S. American catholic. Oliver Cromwell, who liked his churches to be plain and unadorned, would not approve.

The cathedral from the front. The statue of the Virgen is located in the building on the right of the picture.

I wonder what he´d make of the Candle Chapel, though. It is a plain, narrow room round the back, but clearly signposted. Along the centre is a table where the faithful burn candles. But they do not burn and leave. The warm, white wax is gathered and moulded and then used to adorn the black walls. Most of the images are houses, but there are names, words, a few cars and other diagrams. I´ve not seen anything like it. Despite the fact that it is clearly noted in the Lonely Planet guide books every other traveller I´ve spoken to who visited Copacabana missed it.

Somehow I don´t think Mr Cromwell would be sympathetic to the local custom of blessing motor vehicles. It´s true. I´ve seen it. A young priest in crisp white vestments splashing holy water over a car with his brush and pot. Someone please add a comment with the proper name for that equipment. I feel I should know it.

This procedure is in demand. On the 9th the queue of cars, trucks and buses waiting to be blessed tailed all the way downhill to the other plaza where I was catching a bus. The vehicles were prettied up for the occasion to the extent that some of them were nigh on impossible to drive bacause of the decorations obscuring the windscreen. Colour and glitter wins over taste.

On Wednesday the 8th I did the day trip to Isla del Sol (Sun Is.), the island where traditionally the Inca civilisation was born. I met other New Zealanders, the first since I arrived in South America. Jonno, Kate and Alex are three young lawyers on their OE making their way to London. Jim, who works for Fonterra near Cambridge was on a shorter holiday. So when they turn up they are in packs!

Other travellers have enjoyed overnight trips to Isla del Sol, and it is also possible to visit Isla de la Luna (Moon Is.) but I felt that I´d had one night on a Titicaca island and that was enough.

We were ferried over in the same style of plodding launch that operates out of Puno. It dropped us at the more distant, northern end of the island. A local guide, who only spoke Aymara and Spanish, met the boat. He escorted us to the local museum (adission extra), where some artefacts from underwater excavations are housed. I felt lucky to be first in, because when the last person had paid his/her admission we got 3 minutes of explanations and then were herded out into the sunshine.

The guide explaining the significance of a pre-Inca rock, whose name I have forgotten. The left-handed salute is merely to block the sun.

In fairness, there was some need for haste. After admiring the sites at this end of the island we had several kilometers to hike to rejoin the launch at another village.

Unfortunately the guide mostly chose words outside my Spanish vocabulary, so I barely understood a third of what he said. But I did better than the other kiwis and a couple of nice English lads so I was hard put to provide English explanations.

A nice natural effect was called the Sun´s Footprints, and it did look remarkably like the oputline of two huge footprints burned into the rock. I lined up my camera - and the batteries died. I was already lagging behind so I hurried to catch up and changed the batteries later. No photo. Curses.

I did get a photo of the Sacred Rock that looks, if you have an elastic enough imagination, like the head of a puma. One translation of "Titicaca" is "Puma Rock" so it can be argued that the lake is named after the sacred rock. The adjacent triangle of rock is a much more convincing likeness of the Inca´s supreme deity, Viracocha.

I´m sure you can see the mouth, at least.

Amongst the nearby ruins our guide pointed to what he claimed was the starting point for a planned Inca tunnel under the lake to connect Isla del Sol with Cusco and Machu Picchu. I have encountered no other references to such a tunnel and, much as I admire the Inca engineers, I conclude that this is the result of our guide´s over-elastic imagination.

The 5 kiwis puffed our way along the spine of the island. The guide, after relieving us of 5Bs ($1) each, told us that it was uphill for 25 minutes and then level. Broadly speaking, he was right.

The Inca water supply on the island is still in use. The full containers are carried up to the village by donkeys.

We arrived at the landing with 25 minutes to spare.

On the way back to Copacabana the launch stops at Pilko Kaina (admission extra) for 15 minutes. This is a small Inca ruin, but particularly interesting because several rooms still have stone roofs. Elsewhere there are no roofs and the explanation is that the Incas used wooden beams and thatch. As might be expected, I barely made it back to the boat in time.

The others agreed to meet at a tourist restaurant on the main street. I had eaten there before and opted for a cheaper option by the beach. But the beach cafes were closing up and it was getting pretty cold so I chickened out and went back to La Orilla, which boasts effective heating. My timing was excellent. The others had not yet ordered. Jim´s partner, Gemma, had been unwell during the day but she had recovered enough to join us, so 6 NZers had a very warm and convivial evening.

Tupiza to Potosi

My last experience of Bolivian buses (see Uyuni to Tupiza) was memorable for some fairly wrong reasons. That account prompted the following recollection from Liza Eastman, who travelled in Bolivia in the days when buses were a luxury:

Thoroughly enjoying your blog Bill, especially because I have memories, be they everso ancient, of many of the same places and experiences, except we could not afford the buses and travelled on top of the produce trucks. We may have gotten the better deal, as we sat on our packs, lots of leg room, fresh air, and fun with the kids, every one facing different directions. The Indians usually facing us so they could study us, as gringos were pretty rare in those days. Need a loo stop? Hammer on the drivers roof, yell "Necesito bano por favor", screech to a stop, every one pile out, men one side, women the other. I was the one who got the shtick because I was wearing boys, clothing and couldn't just squat covered by my skirts! The ride that lasted the longest with us was a whole day on top of loose garlic!

Thank you, Liza for permission to share that lovely story. By the way, travelling by truck is still practiced but I am too old for that sort of thing.

I made very sure that the Trans O´Globo company (yes, really) ran buses, not jeeps, before I booked my passage, and that it was a direct service with no changes along the way.

It was almost disappointing. The bus left on time and arrived on time. This was my first Bolivian bus to achieve that. I had a pleasant, if limited, conversation with the gent in the next seat and my bladder behaved itself. Severely rationing my liquid intake may have helped. There was a lunch stop after 2 hours during which I joined the queue to utilise the Cotaigata public toilet. Easy.

That is not to say that the journey was without interest. The driver hauled his big vehicle briskly around the winding, gravel road without ever using his horn. This was not terribly comforting because 2 days earlier a bus had gone off the road and many passengers were killed or injured. I think it happened in Eastern Bolivia, but I couldn´t follow all of the news report.

Along the way we encountered clear evidence of a new road under construction. Apart from the very first section we encountered, it appeared to be a completed concrete road. Why then was the bus not permitted to drive on it? There were rocks and piles of earth every so often to make quite sure that no vehicles soiled its pristine, level surface. Certainly we crossed the concrete a few times. Just occasionally the bus was able to quit the gravel and grant us a kilometer or so of smooth riding before jolting back onto the old track.

I was not always be sure of the details, because the two carriageways were not parallel, but the new surface seemed to be complete for well over 100km. Why would this be prohibited territory? If anyone has any theories, please leave a comment.

The winding path got to one passenger. The baby across the aisle was sick. Fortunately it was not too lavish and the parents efficiently reclothed the child, who now looked quite comfortable.

I opened my guide book to select a hostal for the night. I had plenty of time so I read the entire entry for Potosi. Ah, there is a big fiesta on the last Saturday of August. Advance booking is essential. And today is ... the last Saturday in August. I´m already on the bus so I can´t change my plans. I don´t have access to a phone so I cannot now book ahead. Why did I not read this before?

It´s all right. I am lucky. There will be no drama. So I didn´t worry. No, I just worked out that if all else failed I´d just have to get on a bus to Sucre.

The last, long stretch of the journey was over a well-made, sealed and painted road. Luxury. As it neared Potosi it took us past the famous mountain that produced so much silver that Potosi was the biggest and richest city in the world at one time. We approached the ´back´ of the mountain, with little evidence of mining. Then the road swept us round to see the great terraces of waste on the city side. My affable companion kindly pointed out the miners´houses. They looked like industrial revolution terraces, but smaller.

Shortly after that we saw some gaily decorated vehicles. "That´s because of the fiesta", my companion told me. "It´s in honour of Saint Batholomew." I wondered what the saint cared for travellers who neglect to book ahead.

From the bus terminal I took a taxi to my first choice hostal. Along the way there were many harrassed traffic police trying to unjam the traffic. The driver blamed the fiesta. At one of these enforced pauses a lady passer-by exchanged words with the driver and then jumped confidently into the front seat. The guide book refers to the practice of sharing taxis, but this took me completely by surprise. Eventually we cleared the traffic jams and I was delivered to a hostal in a narrow street just off the main plaza.

Did they have a room? Yes, but it was a double and would cost me 80 bolivianos per night. That´s steep when you have been paying 25Bs. However, it did give me confidence that I would not be searching for a park bench at midnight. I shouldered my pack and stumped off to hostal no.2. Yes, they did have a room. Did I want private bathroom or shared? Getting a choice was more than my lack of organisation deserved. Shared bano it was, at 40Bs.

The senora provided a map and marked the route of the dancing. Then she inked in the route I should take to go and see it. The quickest way was, she insisted, dangerous. The guide book was not entirely accurate, though. It was an all weekend event. And its description deserves a post all to itself.

The complications ease

In an earlier post I described a few matters that were making life complicated. They are resolving themselves satisfactorily.

Complication no.1 is responding, slowly but surely, to the ointment.

Complication no.2 appears to be fixed. After 2 nights and a day wearing my spectacles I am back to using the contact lenses and all is well.

Complication no.3 was worked around. I arrived in Sucre, as previously reported, on the eve of the strike. On Tuesday the strike went ahead and Sucre was blockaded. There were no buses or taxis so the city seemed unnaturally quiet. The hostal had sufficient supplies for breakfast and although shops were generally shut, some street vendors continued to trade, several restaurants opened as usual and a few Internet cafes were operating.

In fact, it was quite pleasant to wander the streets and to my great surprise I found a must-see church open in the afternoon. Iglesia de la Merced is reputed to have the best interior of any church in Sucre. It was indeed ornate, but not as lavishly decorated as some of the churches in Peru. Admission included access to the roof for great views of the city and surrounding hills. There I met a couple of Mancunians (lads from Manchester) and we had an enjoyable discussion about world rugby.

The strike was accompanied by demonstrations, speeches and fireworks. Not the colourful, pretty kind of fireworks you understand, but ones that go BANG.

In the evening I joined up with two lovely ladies from the hostal (American Jenny and Mexican Michelle) for a stroll to a different lookout and a vegetarian meal before going to watch a film. "Who killed the white llama" was a Bolivian comedy with subtitles. The language was foul, but otherwise it was entertainingly ridiculous. My kind of nonsense.

Today is Wednesday and the city is operating normally.

Complication no.4 proved very easy to deal with. I was directed to the mercado negro (black market) to shop for clothes. The first stall I enquired at produced jeans that fit me. This is a small miracle because I am a full 25cm taller than the average Bolivian. I have also replaced my sneakers and had a hair cut. A very productive day.

Michelle is negotiating directly with a guide for a day´s guided hiking tomorrow.

The Dance Festival in Potosi

The Entrada de Chu´tillos (taken into the Catholic church under San Bartolome) is a major dance competition in Bolivia, with teams coming from all over the country and extensive TV coverage. According to my informants it kicks off on Saturday evening with the local troupes of campesinos. It goes on all through Sunday until 5 or 6am on Monday morning. There is so much to tell that I don´t know where to start.

I´d better point out that all the pictures of dancers were taken on Sunday afternoon. The after-dark lighting was OK for human eyes but my little camera is only set up for close-range flash photography.

Costume is most definitely important. A huge amount of thought, time and, it seems, money goes into the costumes.

Most of the local teams stuck to fairly traditional garb, at least for the ladies. This photo shows the sort of thing. And older ladies always wore skirts of at least calf-length. The ability to catch the eye, with sequins, tinsel or bright colours seemed to be much more important than taste.

All sorts of influences were evident from the various costumes; cowboys, Zulus, devils. You name it, a hint appeared somwhere.

Only men wore outrageous constructions in which massive collars were popular. Elvis would have looked drab and conventional beside these. This style of costume frequently included a tail or other dorsal extension.

Many of the out-of-towners wore masks. By the time they got within range of my vantage point it seemed that many of the masks had become uncomfortably hot and were either tilted up or removed entirely until the dancer had cooled down a little.

After nightfall the costumes that incorporated lights came into their own.

ALL the dancers wore hats. Sometimes a mask incorporated the crowning glory, but generally it was a separate item. They ranged from everyday styles like the Bolivian matron´s beloved bowler to towering feather confections best suited to a silly hat contest. One team had hats so tall and unwieldy that they couldn´t dance in them. They had to be carried.

Hand-held accessories ranged from handkerchiefs to woollen balls on a string to assegais. These were simply brandished or swung round. A Maori poi dancer could teach them a thing or two.

But possibly the most effective costume was that worn by the local miners. They simply wore their mining overalls, taking care to colour co-ordinate, and helmets. The lights were turned on, which was very effective at night, particularly as they turned and the beams swept round in unison. They each carried a hammer and chisel, which were clashed in time to the music.

I only saw one troupe that danced to recorded music. A large part of the fun is hearing the different bands playing.

Sadly, traditional Andean instruments were the exception. Only some of the local ensembles danced to pipes, flutes or tiny Andean guitars. One very small group from Tupiza had its flautists mounted on horses! Everyone else was accomanied by a brass band. I still find these incongruous in S. America.

There´s no doubt though that they are loud in comparison to recorder-type instruments of whatever size. And volume seems to count. The fiesta was liberally sprinkled with aerial bangers, often launched with happy disregard for overhead wires. Other popular fireworks were of the roman candle type, sending up missiles that exploded in showers of coloured light.

The dances did vary, but there was one almost universal rythym. The bands seemed to strongly favour one tune and I am sure I heard the band that just passed me and the one approaching playing the same piece, but eight-and-a-half bars out of synch. Most disconcerting.

All the brass bands were organised with the cymbals in the front. Cymbals were the only instrument I saw women playing. Right behind those were the drums, dominated by 3, 4, 5 or more bass drums thumped in perfect unison. Behind them marched the deeper toned instruments, which were 98% little tubas (I know there´s a proper name, sorry) and trombones. These would play a chorus and then have a rest while the higher pitched trumpets had their turn.

Right at the back were the huge oompahs that curl round the player like a constricting snake and then open up into a big forward-facing mouth. I think they were supposed to play with the bass section, but in practice they seemed to throw a few resonant parps into the mix whenever they felt like it. I theorised that the alternating choruses were to allow breath to be caught. I imagine playing a brass instrument for 2 continuous hours would be too much to ask.

Generally the bands were in uniform blazers and just tramped along, with some more or less co-ordinated instrument waving from those not actually playing. Glenn Miller would never have accepted such sloppy discipline. However, there was one band that was actually choreographed with simple manouvres.

For young women only there were examples of very short skirts, which were noticeably popular with the young men in the crowd and the TV cameras. They were often accompanied by knee-length boots. See the girl in blue in the 3rd picture above. The footwear for the short-skirted, of whatever length, often featured platform soles. Would they be easy to dance on? Please let me know.

Dancers were invariably in sections, nearly always segregating the sexes. Generally there would be one costume for all the members of a section. Often I could not detect any co-ordination between the ladies´ dress and the men´s rig and I had to recheck that the following section was not a new team. In the men´s sections there would frequently be one or a very few dancers in especially extravagant costumes. I think every section had a leader, who would (try to) use a whistle to issue basic instructions. With the noise of the bands, the fireworks and the dancers ahead with bells sewn to their costumes, normal speech was very difficult.

There was, unsurprisingly, a great deal of variation in the dancing. Some sections even danced as couples, varying lines with circles. However, there was a recurring theme. Dance in lines 5 or 6 across the road. Take 2 steps left, twirl to the right, 2 steps right and twirl to the left. This had the advantage of allowing forward movement.

Age was no barrier. Many of the groups included children, some no more than toddlers. One of the mounted pipers had a child with him barely more than a baby. The television crew interviewed dancer eight years old. He had been dancing for two years.

An enduring memory, which sadly could not be succesfully photographed, was the lead dancer of one team. He, too, would have been about eight. He had his face blacked up and wore frilly green sleeves on his costume. He had a whistle in his mouth and he shrilled out the beat as he pranced, leaped and ran, always in perfect time with the band behind him. Crowd discipline, especially on the corner where I stationed myself, was not good. This lad did a better job of clearing the road than the police - and he never missed a beat.

It seemed to be quite in order for any member of the public to get up and take a photo of an especially magnificent costume or a particularly pretty girl. Young men would often take each other´s picture alongside a comely maiden. The short-skirted ones got most attention. The swain would then kiss her cheek to thank her. I never saw the maid kiss back nor, indeed, did I see one that appeared to relish this attention.

Nearly all the oompahs were white. I´d not seen this before. Can anyone suggest a reason for this colour scheme? The other instruments were all regular shiny, metal colours.

The fiesta naturally attracted many street vendors. The last two blocks to my favoured posi were solid with stalls selling just about anything a hawker could carry to the site. There were toys, cellphones, radios, kitchenware and clothes of all sorts. I didn´t like to ask what the facilities were for trying on a bra. Perhaps you had to be really confident of your size.

I replaced the penknife that was confiscated in Cusco. The new one has two extra survival tools; a bottle opener and a tiny corkscrew. Why ever did I set out travelling without these essentials? All this for 5Bs ($1.00).

Naturally there were those who offered to cater for the multitude of spectators. They were well organised and had secured the best sites, nearest the dance route. Some had set up camp kitchens with benches and tables and served up on china plates. More commonly your comestibles came in a paper or plastic bag.

I was particularly fascinated by the metre-long coils of sausage being grilled just behind me. The senora would slice off a short length, about the size of a regular snarler, split it lengthways and serve it in a bun with salad and lots of sauces like a mini hamburger. I can tell you that it was very tasty.

I don´t know what the licencing laws are in Bolivia, but there were a couple of stalls that openly sold beer alongside colas and other drinks. Not cold ones, unfortunately, but a fiesta is better with ambient temperature beer then with no beer.

All in all it was great fun to have been there.

Life has got a bit complicated

There is so much I could write about the last few days, but I´m not sure I have the energy to do much. There are also emails to reply to. So briefly ...

I fluked my arrival in Potosi to coincide with the town´s biggest fiesta of the year - a huge dance festival. The hostal senora explained that the Saturday night was the local groups. She clearly felt that the Potosi region campesinos were more worth watching than the dance troups from the rest of Bolivia that would display their talents through Sunday until, she said, 5am on Monday morning.

Armed with a map and strict instructions to keep valuables well hidden, I went and stood at the back of the Saturday night crowd where my height advantage meant I got a splendid view.

Complication no. 1 was a discomfort in a delicate place that turned out to be, excuse me, piles. I have had them before and they go away in a few days but, believe me, they are painful.

Sunday started with a visit to the museum of the Bolivian mint. It opens for about 3 hours on Sunday and is closed on Mondays so a delay would have been measured in days. For about 300 years Potosi produced enormous quantities of silver and made coins for Spain. Visits are only permitted with a guide. A small group of gringos did get an English-speaking guide, but we were hustled through too fast. Maybe she was in a hurry to get away to the dancing.

Next on the agenda was an Internet cafe to see if I could get a Spanish translation of my indelicate complication. Eventually I did, and I had noticed an open pharmacy, so I did get fixed up with some ointment. Unfortunately it doesn´t work instantly and two more sessions of standing to watch the dancing (which will be described as best I can in another post) left complication no.1 worse by Sunday bedtime.

Monday was booked for a tour of the Potosi mines. The silver is mostly worked out, but mining co-operatives still extract zinc, copper, tin and some residual silver in fairly appalling conditions. Even Bolivians cannot scamper along the shafts without stooping now and then. They were dreadful for me and the altitude (4,300 masl) was almost as high as the Salkantay Pass so I struggled for breath as well. However, the full account deserves a post of its own and it will have one! One day.

Complication no.2 was mine dust in my eye. Contact lens wearers note that in an old silver mine your hands get filthy and there are some pretty noxious chemicals in the dust, so I couldn´t just remove the lens straight away. I don´t know how long it was before we emerged and I was shown a tap, but by then I think the eye had become scratched. I took the lens out but the eye is still sore and the vision very blurry. So I am wearing my glasses instead of contact lenses and not seeing terribly well.

Complication no.3 is not of my doing, thank goodness. Tomorrow, Tuesday, there will be a big strike in Sucre, which is my destination after Potosi. Strikes are a sport in Bolivia second only to futbol. They are reported to be peaceful but they do generally involve barricades and Sucre may well be inaccessible tomorrow.

Ho to the bus station only to find that (1) lots of people are going home after the fiesta and (2) others have doubtless decided to beat the strike by travelling on Monday. All the buses are full. An alternative is a shared taxi. They also depart from the bus terminal and I hear a cry, "Sucre, Sucre, Sucre." My information was that a bus would cost 20Bs and a shared taxi 30Bs. That may be true for most of the year, but see (1) and (2) above. The demand was for 60Bs ($12). Lacking options, I paid up.

At least the taxi was much quicker than a bus, and it dropped me at my chosen hostal in Sucre. It had been recommended by the senora in Potosi and is listed in the travel guide, so I elected to give it a go. It turns out to be very central and right across from the market.

So here I am in Sucre with a roof over my head, supplies for 24 hours in my room and the prospect of a day not spending any money tomorrow because everything will be shut. Although I will hunt for an Internet cafe that is exempting itself from the order to close the doors.

Complication no.1 is now responding to treatment and I am optimistic that complication no.2 will be much improved by a night´s sleep.

And my information is that the strike is for just one day (probably), so on Wednesday I can tackle complication no.4, which is finding a new pair of jeans in Bolivia that fit me ;-)

P.S. Those crazy NZers who competed in the 240km Atacama Crossing race both finished. Robert Jarvis was the overall winner. If you sent him an encouraging message you will have received his account of the extra long Stage 5. If you want to read it anyway, send me your email address and I will forward a copy.

Lake Titicaca - with pictures

Lake Titicaca is the highest commercially navigable lake in the world at 3812 masl and it is BIG. If it wasn´t fresh water I´d call it an inland sea. It is also the reputed birthplace of the Inca empire and there are significant remains on islands in the lake. Inca artefacts have also been recovered from the lake, suggesting that the water level has fluctuated over time.

For a detailed account, click here.

The border between Peru and Bolivia crosses the lake. Bolivia, which has no access to the sea, maintains a navy on the lake. I saw a shore station in Copacabana, but no frigates or submarines.

This account is of a two-day trip to Lake Titicaca´s Peruvian islands from Puno. It is a standard tourist activity and lots of boats carry foreigners around the lake.

We were delivered to the dock, where dozens of launches are rafted up (tied alongside each other). Most tour groups have to clamber from one boat to another to get to the right one.

Our guide made sure we were all in the cabin before giving the introductory chat. The duckweed which grows so abundantly in the waters around Puno is the result of pollution in the lake. Puno´s population is growing and their wastes end up in the lake. At least it still smells fresh. Another alleged consequence of the pollution is a reduction in the bird numbers. This may be so, but the reed beds currently support a large and varied bird population.

We puttered out of the port area at a modest pace. I attributed this to local inshore speed restrictions. The guide´s spiel over we were free to enjoy the fresh air from the afterdeck or the cabin roof. The latter was a splendid place to turn binoculars on the coots, moorhens, ducks and grebes that flourished amongst the rushes.

Our first destination was the floating islands of the Uros. The Uro people had the idea, centuries ago, of escaping invaders by building islands of reeds as a defensive measure. In an emergency they could be moved around the lake.

Arriving in Uro territory. This ´customs post´ collects an admission fee.

The floating islands strongly reminded me of a film set. Everything is set up for the (tourists´) cameras. Launches were tied up at all of the islands and reed boats with extravagant decorations were ostentatiously displayed.

Munching totora reeds. Only the white part is edible.

Our launch attached itself to one of the further islands and we all stepped onto the floor of rushes. Benches also made of reeds were awaiting us and we sat down for a discourse on how the islands are made. Apparently an island lasts for about 15 years before it has to be replaced.

We were permitted to wander round the island and peer at just about everything. The islanders now uncovered mounds of souvenirs to tempt us. To my delight I found a puna ibis dozing behind a hut. It must have been a pet, becaue it allowed several keen photographers to approach close enough for snaps.

Above water level, there were some very smart birds clinging to the tops of the reeds and singing beautifully. They were glossy black with smart yellow shoulders that flashed as they flew around. I found them in the field guide. They are unimaginatively called yellow-winged blackbirds.

A ride in a reed boat was S/. 5.00 extra. It´s a nonsense only for the tourists, but where else can you ride in a reed boat? We all coughed up.

Before our reed boat departed we were farewelled with brief songs in Spanish, Quechua and Aymara. I didn´t understand a word.

The locals, I noted, all use wooden dingys to get around. The more affluent even have outboard motors.

I concede that it was very pleasant to be rowed around in a reed boat. It was exceptionally stable and, as always in this season, the sun shone warmly.

A particularly ornate reed boat going the other way.

After a brief pause, just in case we wanted to buy more souvenirs at the destination island, our launch arrived to pick us up for the longer trip to solid, immovable Amantani Island.

On through the rushes we went still at the same pedestrian speed, which allowed for more excellent birding. Once we reached clear water I felt sure that the motor would be opened up and we would roar across the lake. By now you will have guessed that this did not happen. Cruising speed was a sedate 7 or 8 knots, which accounts for the length of the tour.

Chug, chug, chug to Amantani Island, where we were split up and allocated to island families for sustenance and accommodation. I was billeted with the same family as a Dutch couple and their son. If they are Dutch they must speak excellent English. They did. The son also spoke pretty good Spanish, which was a great help.

Our programme on the island was a late, and very welcome, lunch followed by a rest. Then at 4 o´clock we assembled at the island´s sports stadium. As is normal on the Altiplano, the pitch was quite bare of grass and well sprinkled with rocks. No wonder the Bolivian football team is ranked so low.

After a brief history lesson, in which the guide claimed that Amantani girls were impressed by the boy with the biggest transistor radio, we set off for the nearer of the island´s two summits.

Each has a pre-Inca construction, one dedicated to the Pachmama (mother earth) and one dedicated to Pachatata (father earth). Each year the islanders have a great procession to the tops of their hills where traditional offerings of coca leaves and other goods are made. By some feat of theological gymnastics this has been incorporated into the local Catholic doctrine.

It was a tough climb at this altitude, and the offering site is closed to visitors. However, many of the tall gringos were able to inspect it over the wall.

The climb ws timed to allow us to admire the sunset.

Some local entrepeneurs had hauled hot water up to the summit and did a good trade in teas and coffees.

We climbed down in the gloom to a home-cooked dinner and then - a fiesta!

This was optional, but what else is there to do? The island had mains electricity installed under President Fujimori. It ran for two weeks, said our guide, and then was turned off because the islanders could not pay for it. However, tourism has brought money to the island and several families now have solar power.

To properly enjoy the fiesta one has to be properly dressed. We were all decked out in traditional attire, and I must say that the poncho and woolly hat were very practical. After dark it got pretty cold.

The village hall was lit by three flourescent bulbs so the 4-piece band played almost in the dark. We had been warned that the hat would go round for tips, but they played well and deserved their pay.

The following morning we reboarded our sluggish vessel and made the crossing to Taquile Island.

This is famous because the men knit. It is apparently very macho to knit your own woolly hat and, according to some authorities, the design may denote status.

We were dropped at one harbour and invited to march to the town. There our guide desperately tried to find interesting things to say about the island. Courting here, he assured us, does not involve transistor radios. Girls under 12 and married women have middle-sized bobbles dangling from their clothes, while unmarried women have very large bobbles. I was unable to verify this from direct observation but maybe there are no unmarried girls on the island at the moment. A boy of 14 or 15 when he gets to feeling romantic collects a bag of small pebbles. When he finds a suitably attractive maid he declares his admiration by throwing pebbles at her. This method, we were assured, is rapidly effective and after 10 hours the couple fall in love. This was the time I stopped believing the guide.

The new couple, the guide continued, the go to live with the girl´s family for 5 years. So long as there is a baby or two they will then get married. The festivities last all week. If there is no baby the couple will have to separate or leave the island.

Hat story no.2 was that the young men wear knitted hats and the town elders wear small, black cowboy hats. This was consistent with direct observation. The minimum qualification for ´elder´status is 4 children.

We then had an hour to explore the town square and, oh goody, buy souvenirs.

The Taquile Island "Silliest Hat" contest. It was declared a tie.

Lunch, we were informed, would cost S/. 13. This is modest for a tourist restaurant, but the meal was pretty basic so it wasn´t good value. Everyone on my table paid their 13 soles. I learned later that the other table was first approached by the waiter asking for 10 soles. There was a hasty intervetion from the guide and the price was revised to S/. 13. I wonder where the extra 3 soles went! No more tips for this guide.

We descended to a different harbour, rejoined our boat and chugged across the lake back to Puno, enjoying the afternoon sun.

I was chatting to the Dutch family and their friends, a mother and son, who takes extra English at school and aims to be a ´native speaker´. He´s not far off speaking English like a native. The two sons are school friends.

Henk Konijnenbelt and his wife.

We got on so well that we agreed to meet for dinner that evening. Henk had recommendations for two restaurants. We checked them both out and selected one that priced its meals by the kilo. I´m not sure they zero the scales correctly so you may also pay for the weight of the plate, but it wasn´t terribly expensive. We even had a bottle of wine, a beverage still rare in Peru.

So my trip on the lake ended with swapped email addresses and promises of hospitality if we were ever in each other´s part of the world. I owe Henk a dinner and I look forward to settling up someday.

Miscellany

Do you recall the two NZers that are competing in a 6-stage 240km race? They were mentioned in the "San Pedro de Atacama" post. I checked the race web site today and clicked on Leader Board. After three stages Robert Jarvis is in the lead! Brother David Jarvis, who is walking the course, is a creditable 35th. The web site also has a facility to email competitors, so I sent them an encouraging message. You could do the same.

Email. I have had a lot of trouble with Xtra in recent days. Hopefully it has settled down, but it would be a good idea to use bill.heritage@gmail.com instead. Or send to both - Gmail has not been perfect either.

Comments. I like to receive comments, so thanks to all those who have left messages. To those who have tried and failed to leave a message all I can say is "Thank you". I do not know how to fix the problem. The only work-around I can think of is to:

1. copy the comment before attempting to publish it;
2. paste the text into an email; and
3. if the comment fails to publish send me the email. I will edit the comment into the relevant post if you ask me to.

Photos. I have lots of snaps in the camera but nowhere in Tupiza advertises downloads to CD. Nor does this Internet cafe have CD drives. All other cafes are full this evening. Be patient, more photos will be added in due course.

Buses. I have been in Bolivia for weeks now and I haven´t seen a new bus. Where do they come from? Maybe there is a factory in La Paz that makes second hand buses? Quite a few have a banner telling the passenger where the vehicle was blessed. I would be more interested to know when it was last serviced!

I am just about to write a few notes on Arequipa. They will be back-dated to 1 August, the day before I left the city.

San Pedro de Atacama - now with Pictures

There were two reasons for coming to San Pedro, to start the salt desert tour in Chile and to see something of the region, which has been the subject of very positive reports from other travellers.

Wednesday morning was spent orienting myself and hunting down an ATM so that I should not become destitute of Chilean pesos. Most prices are quoted in thousands - the peso is a small unit.

The afternoon was a tour to Moon Valley and it was very disappointing. We saw some amazing rock formations but received little useful information about them. The guide was working from notes and clearly didn't understand what he was trying to tell us. He talked about volcanic activity when we were admiring the pictured formation of sedimentary rock. The light grey seams may well have been volcanic ash, but they were laid down in water because the layers above and below were all horizontal. And why were the rocks only 50 metres away tilted and folded? It was no use asking this guide. I learned later that he was only in his second day with the tour company, but that did not improve the tour.

In Moon Valley itself we saw none of the features depicted in the admission brochure and the sunset the tour was timed to enjoy was pretty darn ordinary. The previous day's sunset on the road from the Bolivian border had been more spectacular. However, I met a lively Irish couple who have visas to work in NZ, so I gave them my email address so that we can meet up when they arrive.

Thursday was altogether more interesting. The lagoons tour started at one of the lakes in the Atacama salt flat. Not only was the salt flat an intriguingly weird spectacle, but the flamingoes were flying around and feeding head down in the approved manner. It was a shame that so many of them were choosing to feed so far away from the spectator area, but the chilean and andean species were positively identified. TICK.

We also got close up to andean avocets and puna plovers with jaunty golden caps. AND we got a lot of accurate scientific information. Did you know that Chile produces two thirds of the world's lithium in the Atacama? No, nor did I.

The drive to the mountain lagoons took a while. We started off on tarmacadam, turned off on to good, graded gravel road and then the route got steadily worse as we got higher and the scenery got wilder. The lakes were worth the effort though, and the biting cold when we got there.

The big lake had a backdrop of snow dusted mountains and was partly iced over. Really scenic. The surrounding tussock was home to a family of vicunas. These are not (yet) rounded up and shorn of their valuable shoulder wool.

The smaller lake (sorry I've completely forgotten their names) was not to be approached as it is a nesting site of the threatened horned coot. Several of the football sized coots were busy wading and swimming in the near part of the tarn. I confess I am a lost cause. I did get excited about big black birds with strange growths (that don't look anything like a horn) on their beaks. *TICK*.

In the afternoon we had a good lunch and admired a couple of villages. One of them had a thatched church.

There were two NZ brothers on the tour, who are staying at the same hostel as I am. They are in Chile to take part in an ultra endurance event. This involves 150 miles (240km) over six stages self supported, ie you carry your food for the race days. Water is provided along the way. David is modestly walking and aiming merely to finish. Robert is running (with a 15kg pack) and has pretentions to a good place. They are, of course, quite mad but wish them luck anyway.

For the evening I secured the last place on a tour of the stars. The Atacama probably has the clearest skies on Earth. A huge radio telescope is being built in the area, but this was on a more modest scale. A French astronomer and his (Chilean?) wife take groups out to their property and in 2 hours pretty much cover Astronomy 101.

The apparent movement of the stars, and why they are visible for only part of the night or part of the year, and why some are visible only in the northern or southern hemisphere, was all explained very clearly. How to start learning the constellations and stars was taught, rather than trying to make us memorise lots of facts. The Southern Cross was clearly visible and we were shown how to use it to find the southern point of rotation. All this was done with fabulous laser pointers that zapped streaks of light into the sky.

Having given us a start on how to appreciate the visible sky, we were invited to gaze at some of the detail only revealed by telescopes. We were shown nebulae of various types, a double star, galaxies, what the milky way looks like (lots of individual stars), gas clouds, etc. We had been invited to bring cameras, and I have this lovely shot of Jupiter. Unfortunately the batteries died while Alain was trying to get me a better one.

The evening had the perfect finish with a mug of hot chocolate.

Today has been a lazy day, with gentle walks around the town to ease my back into its proper position. The farmacy has also helped the process by supplying anti inflammatory tablets.

Tomorrow (Saturday) I set off back into Bolivia and will arrive in Uyuni once again, at a civilised time I trust, on Monday afternoon. So there will be a bit of a break before the next post. Don't let that stop you leaving comments.

La Paz to San Pedro in 27 hours

I have mentioned before in these pages that it is better to be lucky than smart. This journey illustrated the maxim several times, particularly in escaping from the proper consequences of some pretty poor decisions.

LaPaz is not a nasty city and the hostel was pleasant, but I´m not a big city fan and I´d done the things I wanted to do in La Paz so it was time to move on.

There is a famous 3-day tour between Uyuni in Bolivia and San Pedro de Atacama in Chile. Talking to other travellers had convinced me that the better way to enjoy this tour was to start at the Chilean end, so off to San Pedro I will go!

There are no direct connections. Long discussion with a travel agent ruled out flying on the grounds of both cost and convenience. Getting to Uyuni by bus was either expensive or uncomfortable but certain. Getting from there to San Pedro is possible by very cold and infrequent trains, and in theory via a jeep that returns 3-day tourers to their point of origin. So I bought a bus ticket to Uyuni and trusted that something would turn up for the final stage of the journey.

I had elected for a mid-range fare in something between a local and a luxury bus. It included a pick-up from the hostel, which persuaded me that this was only a tiny bit less than luxury class. Foolish optimist that I am.

The 4:00pm pick up went very smoothly, particularly by Bolivian standards. A taxi arrived with an English-speaking host to take me to the bus station, which was only round the corner from the hostel anyway. The guide handed me a ticket to Oruro and explained that I was to pick up an onward ticket there from a company called Trans Azul. He made sure that I paid my departure tax (most bus stations in Peru and Bolivia suffer from this pestilence) and showed me the platform at which the bus was waiting. I could go to it now or later. I understood him to say that it started loading at 4:30, which made sense of the travel agent´s itinerary. This stated that the bus departed at 5:00pm. The host, his job done, vanished into the streets of La Paz.

I used up a few minutes and my last coins to buy bananas for the overnight journey and sat in the waiting area. This, I thought was more pleasant than sitting in a waiting bus. Poor decision no.1.

At 4:40 I sauntered out to find the bus bay empty. My bus was scheduled to depart at 4:30. It had pulled back and was just moving off. "Oruro?" I shouted at the driver, waving my ticket as well as I could with luggage in each hand. This marvellous individual nodded, opened the door and admitted me. Stroke of luck no.1.

The lower level of this bus was freight and luggage (a common design) so I had to struggle up the stairs to the passenger section with my day pack in one hand and the big pack in the other. My ticket said seat no.9, which proved to be a window seat. A stern lady sat in the aisle seat and looked at me disapprovingly. P.G. Wodehouse would have confidently described her as an aunt.

Looking around with a hunted expression I saw that there was a pair of unoccupied seats at the front. These offered ample space for both me and the pack that should have been tidily stowed in the baggage compartment. The bus had already departed so there would be no more passengers. Stroke of luck no.2, I thought.

I enjoyed a panoramic view as the bus climbed the steep motorway towards La Alta. "The High One" is a city on the altiplano plateau that clusters round the lip of La Paz´s valley. It´s a very odd arrangement. La Paz was effectively built in a hole in the plateau. There must be an exit, because water flows into the valley, but I never explored the South of La Paz so I don´t know what it looks like. ALL traffic approaches La Paz via El Alto. The airport is there, my bus from Cocabana in the North arrived first in El Alto and now my bus to Oruro in the South was passing micros as it followed the only exit road.

El Alto, I discovered, does not have a purpose built bus station, or else my bus chose not to use it. A narrow street was crowded with big buses, ticket offices and barkers loadly informing the world that here was a bus to Oruro. The sensible thing would have been to take this opportunity to get my big pack stowed in the luggage compartment, but this was not a day for sense. I sat tight in my premium seat until the bus finally moved off. Unfortunately the last person to board came and claimed one of the two seats I was occupying. He didn´t like the space my pack occupied and a ticket check ensued. Damn. I had to go to my allocated seat next to the aunt. The bus was now moving again so my pack ended up on the aisle floor. I was not popular with the Bolivanos who boarded or left the bus en route to Oruro.

It was about 8pm when the bus emptied just outside Oruro´s Terminal de Buses. There would be no messing about here. I marched straight to Trans Azul, who appeared to have no knowledge of the booking. However, they issued a ticket and allocated a seat. A helpful man took me to the bus and saw my pack loaded and the luggage receipt issued. "What time does the bus leave?" "9 o´clock." Good. I had plenty of time to go to the loo and grab a sandwich.

Except that at 8:40 the bus wasn´t there. I swear it had been replaced by one form another company. Panic was not far away. Other passengers confidently bustled to and fro. A lady looked like a company official. "Where is the Uyuni bus?" I asked as calmly as I could. She pointed unconcernedly five buses along. Yes, it has a card in the front with its destination.

My sense of direction is normally excellent. Could I have misremembered the bay my bus was parked in? I climbed aboard and claimed my seat. No-one disputed it so it must be the correct bus? My mind was a whirl of possibilities. What I didn´t do was to peek in the luggage compartment to confirm that my pack was also on this bus. But my luck held - it was there in Uyuni.

The road thus far had been sealed. Travellers who had previously been in southern Bolivia had warned that the roads beyond Oruro were particularly bad. There was a terrible stretch just outside Oruro but then we bowled along nicely. The driver put a pleasant music tape on to ease us into sleep. This could be OK.

But I couldn´t get comfortable. The seats were too close together and one knee was jammed against the seat in front however I twisted myself. This wasn´t going to do my back any good. Sadly, this prophecy has indeed come true. I looked around and horrors, there was no toilet on this bus. The travel agent lied to me!

At the time I felt that I had been fobbed off with a local bus at tourist bus prices, but later I realised that (1) the bus was heated; and (2) the seats reclined. I guess this was an intermediate level of comfort. If only Bolivians were not so short.

At 10:30 we drew up in an anonymous pueblo and the motor coughed to a silence. The driver openend the door to the passenger section and made a brief announcement. It contained the magic word, "baño". The passengers surged off. The only ones left were parents with toddlers sleeping across their laps.

I wasn´t in need of a toilet, but better take the opportunity while it´s there. Only it wasn´t. There was a confectionary stall and a couple of cafes open for the pasing bus trade but no baño publico. The Bolivians response was to use the walls and gutters. When in Rome ...

The rest of the journey fully lived up to the reports of dreadful roads. I definitely heard the wheels churning through water once and suspected several other rivers were forded. The driver clearly held the view that the torture would be minimised by going as fast as possible over the corrugations but amazingly some hardy individuals did sleep and emit contented snores.

There were several stops, but I could not guess why. Then at 2am the bus pulled up again and a chatty, smiling lady almost bounced into the passenger section, bowler hat askew, and slung her bundle in the aisle. We picked up at least two more passengers after this.

The cheap buses direct from La Paz to Uyuni take 12 hours. I had spent at least an hour in Oruro so I estimated that we would reach Uyuni between 5:30 and 6:00 in the morning. Not a good time to arrive but not the worst. So when the bus stopped at about quarter to four I was muzzily interested that so many people were getting off. The toddlers protested at being woken and stuffed into multiple layers of clothing against the altiplano night cold.

The conductor made an annoucement that I didn´t understand but it crept into my brain that the engine had been turned off and the bus was not moving. "Where are we?" "Uyuni." That´s my stop. I struggled awake and lurched off to claim my pack. What to do in Uyuni at 4am? My brian, working at the speed of a tectonic plate, realised that there were quite a few passengers still on board in the warmth of the bus. That announcement included "las siete", which means 7 o´clock. What he must have said was that passengers could remain on the bus until 7am.

Communicating mainly by signs I re-entered the bus and dozed with the others until seven.

At chucking-off time I had a plan. I would find the bus station, which was the best chance of a hot drink and around which, I had been promised, travel agencies clustered.

This was not an immediately successful plan. No street vendors were yet abroad. One lady, recognising me as a foreigner, tried to sell me a tour of the salt desert. I explained that I wished to go directly to San Pedro and take the tour in the other direction. She understood, which means my Spanish must be improving, told me it was only possile through Colgate Tours on Wednesdays and tried again to sell me a tour.

My guide book has a map of Uyuni, but I didn´t really need it. It´s not a large town and I had promenaded the downtown streets by 7:20. Other early-rising optimists offered me salt desert tours and we had a range of conversations along similar lines. By 8 o´clock some of them had offices open and they showed me their lovely tours on illustrated maps. In one of the offices another tourist had a different, but equally firmly held and non-standard objective. He told me that the jeeps from San Pedro arrived in town about 3pm each day. Fine, I would wait until 3pm and approach some directly. I was sure a deal could be done.

By now it had become clear that there were three agencies that sold direct journeys to San Pedro and I had approximate directions to two of the offices. Cordillera Tours were closed but Colque (it sounds a bit like Colgate) was open. Could they offer a passage? Yes. Today? Yes. When? At 9 o´clock, i.e. in 5 minutes. It´s better to be lucky than smart. I´ll take it.

I just had time to buy a bottle of water before packs were being loaded onto a roof rack. The vehicles that ply between Uyuni and San Pedro are described as jeeps, but they are actually Toyota 4x4 Land Cruisers. They work hard. There are no paved roads over the puna. These are definitely not Remuera tractors.

My companions were Manuel and 4 young ladies, all from Barcelona. Between Manuel´s English and my Spanish we communicated well enough, though I found the Spanish of Spain hard to follow sometimes. Our care was entrusted to Santiago, a mature and conservative driver. This was a bonus because I had heard dreadful tales of drunken jeep drivers. And the Spaniards added another one. They had done the 3-day tour in a 3-jeep group and one driver had run out of fuel because he drank so much of the petrol money.

ETA in San Pedro was two o´clock but Santiago drove at a relaxed pace. That was OK. The scenery was stunning. Santiago even stopped couple of times so I could take photos. The tourists swapped sweets and agreed to have a shared lunch at a place where we could have a swim. After my night journey it was not surprising that I nodded off for a while.

Two o´clock came and it was still an hour to the lunch spot "or a little more". Then a jeep coming the other way flagged us down. The drivers had a very long conversation. The upshot was that all the tourists and their luggage were transferred from one jeep to the other. All I could understand in Santiago´s explanation was the frequent references to the boss of Colque Tours. Our new driver turned his vehicle around and headed South. He was a taciturn individual, muttered in a manner I could not understand and I never did get his name.

He grudgingly allowed us 20 minutes for a very late lunch and no swim in the hot pool. I shall have to enjoy that on my 3-day tour. At five o´clock we were near the border and we stopped at a small collection of buildings. The driver disappeared into one of them. A woman made a few sorties to discard ashes and take kindling into the house. Smoke appeared from the chimney. We began to get anxious. The border was notorious for its unreliable hours of operation.

Then another jeep puleed up and almost immediately afterwards a minibus arrived from San Pedro. Everyone in the two jeeps now transferred to the minibus and we set off for the border. The Bolivians have a little border post in which exit formalities were conducted. The officer collected our 15 bolivanos and stamped the passports presented without bothering to check that what I tendered was in indeed my passport.

A modest sign indicated that we were entering Chile, but there was no welcoming customs post. The minibus ploughed through the dust and after 10 minutes climbed thankfully onto a sealed road. The Chileans conduct border formalities in the comfort of San Pedro, not a shack in the desert. Entry forms were passed round, including a declaration that we were not bringing fruit with us or other risks to an agricultural economy. Just like home!

At the border a large sample of luggage was searched and I was quizzed about my potential supplies of coca leaves. I was actually a bit nervous because I had happily signed off a clean declaration and was now unsure. I had eaten all the fresh fruit on the journey and I was happy that the popcorn was cooked and therefore no threat. But what about the few remaining brazil nuts from the jungle? The lady chose to search my big pack so I did not have to display my snacks and I was admitted to Chile.

It was now well after dark. A journey that was sold as 5 hours had taken 10 by the time I secured the last bunk in the hostel. And it was 27 hours since the pick-up from the hostel in La Paz.

I am happy to report that the marathon was worth it. San Pedro is a quiet, pleasant town, with several fascinating places nearby to visit. The hostel is very good, except for the showers but what do you expect? Eating out is much more expensive than in Peru or Bolivia, but Chile is a more developed economy and after the nourishing but unremakable dishes of the past 7 weeks the food is fantastic! There are trained chefs at work here.

Tomorrow I set off early on my tour back to Uyuni. Unless I come back here this evening, it may be some time before I next visit an Interet cafe.

Another backdated post

My Colca Canyon trip was on 30 and 31 July, so I have slotted it in there.

Click on the arrow beside "July" to get a drop down menu of all the July posts.

Yesterday evening I met two travel writers in the hostel bar. They were very nice people. Why is it they get paid for their travel writing and I don´t? Probably talent.

After much investigation I have booked an overnight bus to Uyuni for tonight. The road, I am told, is sealed as far as Oruro and is then terrible, but the more comfortable train is booked out for days ahead. It only runs twice a week anyway. The objective is to get to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile.

I still haven´t met anyone travelling who has been to Paraguay. I´m beginning to wonder if it´s still there. Tales of good places to visit are numerous. There is an amazing amount to see in Peru and Bolivia. Yet many of the young travellers I meet spend most of their time in bars. Maybe my age is showing.

One highly recommended activity is downhill mountain biking. There are several companies that will take you to a high piece of road and lead you down several thousand vertical metres to the Bolivian jungle. The most famous route is down the world´s most dangerous road - although it is safer now that there is no uphill traffic to contend with.

I must away to the post office.

The Jungle Adventures Have Moved

So that the blog as a whole retains some continuity, I have redated the posts relating to the jungle trip to 23 July and so on, the dates I was actually in the jungle.

I am now in La Paz, which is/isn´t the capital of Bolivia. The last reference I saw described it as the governmental capital, whereas Sucre is the judicial capital. If you get asked "Which is the capital city of Bolivia" in a trivial pursuit type situation I do not know what to advise.

Anyway, it´s very high, and the approach is even higher. The bus breasts a hill and there is the city swarming all over a valley in front of you. The main streets are at the bottom and the high-rises are dominated by the single storey structures that climb up the hillsides on either side.

There are virtually no private cars in the city, but the buses, micros and taxis manage to clog the streets nonetheless.

For some reason the shoeshine boys here have adopted a ´uniform´ of a balaclava with minimal eye holes. It makes them look like scruffy would-be bank robbers.

I shall write some more about the jungle. Off to see Tiahuanaco tomorrow. Thanks to those who have left comments.

Farewell to Peru

After almost 6 weeks I have moved on from Peru.It's not that there are no more sights to see or thigs to do in Peru - far from it - but time is moving on and I am starting to make calculations about how much time I have left before I am expected to play hockey in Rosario, Argentina.

So I am now in Copacabana, Bolivia. Like Puno in Peru, the town is on the shore of Lake Titicaca and so at the same height. I won't be leaving the altiplano for a while yet.

First impressions of Bolivia are not positive.

1. At the border I wanted to switch to my British passport. Brits get a longer visa-free stay, but the official insisted that I enter Bolivia on the passport that left Peru. It's not a big deal, but the same fussiness at the Paraguayan border later on could be expensive. NZers need a $50 visa for Paraguay.

2. Copacabana itself is mostly dirty and smelly. This is a tragedy because it occupies a very picturesque spot on the lake. The beach is probably the worst offender, with lots of litter and noxious pongs. And whilst my room in the YHA member hostel is fine, the showers and bathrooms are very dirty. Peru was hardly sterile, but nowhere was nearly as bad as this.

3. Then Internet access is five times as costly as in Peru. It is still cheap, on a world scale, but it was an unwelcome surprise. Peruvian Internet cafes are a global bargain. Still, the equipment I'm using now is at least as good as anything offered in Peru.

On the whole, I enjoyed my time in Peru. Of course their were inconveniences and annoyances, like lukewarm or cold showers (I'm not optimnistic that Bolivia will be much better) and petty swindles like the Internet cafe with a rigged timer and the shoeshine boy who quoted 3 soles and then demanded 20.

And then there were the many kindnesses I received from Peruvians and the deligtful travellers I met along the way.

The plan here is to visit Isla del Sol tomorrow, the alleged birthplace of the Inca empire, and then move on to La Paz.

I am very concious that my blog is well behind. Some days there are just too many other things to do. Thanks to those who have expressed appreciation of the photos. It makes the extra time to add them worthwhile.

Arrived in Puno

Before I left Arequipa I finished writing the posts, "My Inca Trail" and "Machu Picchu", complete with pictures. If you haven´t yet seen them, check them out. Getting the formatting right was murder. If the blog wasn´t free I´d complain to Google.

Just for a change I chose a daylight bus ride from Arequipa to Puno so that I could enjoy the scenery. The first hour followed the same road I had travelled on to Colca Canyon. Seeing Peru´s biggest cement factory for the second time was not a great treat.

However, the next 3 hours before it got dark were new territory. The scenery didn´t vary much. It was high altitude tussock grassland, but the tussocks are tiny compared to NZ´s great bunches of stems. Llamas, alpacas, vicuña and cattle seem to thrive on this stunted fare. Surface water was rare at first, but streams, marshes and finally lakes appeared. I saw a couple of mountain caracaras and several pairs on andean geese. Finally, in one of the shallow lakes, my first wild flamingoes. Good.

Not so good was the cold that has been developing. The day of the bus journey was the streaming nose day so I arrived in Puno with a large plastic bag of used tissues. I aso had a headache and, of course, the painkillers were in my first aid kit in the big pack in the luggage compartment.

However, I was warmly welcomed to my pre-booked accommodation in Puno, immediately offered a hot mate de coca and even provided with a hot water bottle to aid my recovery. On my scale of travellers´ resting places that rates 5 stars!

This afternoon I will visit the tombs at Sillustani and tomorrow I set off for two days touring the islands of Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world.

Arequipa

To try and catch the blog up with myself I have to leave some things out. At first I was going to treat Arequipa this way, but there are a couple of things worthy of mention.

The day-pack strap that almost came off the morning I left for the jungle has been fixed. I found a shoe repair shop where one man and three women were clustered beyond the counter. Could they repair my pack? Of course. The suggestion was that nothing could be simpler. "When will it be ready?" I held my breath. If the answer is Friday week ... "At 5:30." That was 25 minutes. It was a super job and it cost me a massive 3 soles ($1.30).

There is a small and relatively expensive museum in the city essentially for one exhibit. There are guides fluent in various languages. They are not included in the admission fee and expect a tip. The tour starts with a National Geographic film about the discovery of an Inca mummy at the top of a nearby volcano. The film suffers from typical US overstatement but between it and the museum tour you get a clear picture of what was going on.

The Incas were not like the Aztecs and Mayas, who practiced human sacrifice regularly. For the Incas it was a rare event to placate especially angry gods in the event of natuaral disasters such as volcanic eruptions. Very few sacrifices have been discovered, five of them on this particular active volcano and all of them children.

The one at the very top of the mountain, known as Juanita, is the most famous. The procedure started in Cusco, where many llamas were sacrificed. The party of priests, Juanita and followers would then have walked all the way to the mountain and climbed to a peak over 6,000m above sea level. The final ceremony would probably have been at dawn. Science has established that Juanita was given a drink of chicha, a kind of maize beer, as a last meal. She would have been extremely cold and at least half drunk. She wouldn´t have felt a thing.

The final exhibit in the museum is Juanita herself, remarkably well preserved. She was offered to the gods and the Incas believed that she would thereafter live with them, achieving a kind of deification herself. Her discovery certainly passed a lot of information from the time of the Incas to the present.

Colca Canyon and the Condors

My excursion to Colca Canyon began in Arequipa, Peru. It was an ordinary Andean day, with bright sunshine and a nip in the air.

The minibus picked me up from my hostel on time and we were soon on the road. The valley Arequipa occupies is very intensively cultivated, but in the hills it was incredibly dry. Only a few dusty cactuses grew in the grey soil.

The rest of the party were not very communicative, except a Dutch family. It took a bit of explaining, but the Dutch couple travelling with two young Peruvian men was a family. The boys had been adopted as babies, which explained why they spoke fluent Dutch (and very good English). Their parents had decided to show them something of their birth country. The fact that they spoke hardly any Spanish had been a source of constant confusion to the Peruvians they met.

The long climb was in low gear and correspondingly slow, but our driver had no patience with the even slower trucks. Double yellow lines, ´no overtaking´ signs and blind corners only served to encourage him. Fortunately we met little incoming traffic.

The first point of interest was Peru´s largest concrete factory. Our guide, Miley (pronounced Me-lay) quoted its output at 20,000 tonnes per month. Since it seems to be built on a huge deposit of concrete-like rock I imagine it will continue this production until Peru is all under several metres of concrete. Happily we did not actually stop.

The surrounding land gently became less arid (more cactuses) and finally turned to puna, with its mini tussock grasses. Miley explained that this was an area where vicuñas grazed. They are not fenced in or shepherded, but they are shorn every year for their fabulously soft, warm wool. Since they are technically owned by the government, I guess it is whoever catches them in the spring that claims the US$500 per kilo for the wool. That sounds great, but you only get 200 - 400 grams per animal.

Our guide was not a very good vicuña-spotter. I had seen three family groups before Miley spotted her first one. We quickly found a few animals near the road, and we stopped there to collect photos.

Further on, vicuñas gave way to llamas and alpacas in herds supervised by a campesino. I now know that alpacas are generally all white or all brown. Llamas tend to be irregularly multi-coloured. This involved more stops and more photos.

Male llamas are given coloured ear tags. These are in a pen.

Just as we turned off the main road there was another stop to admire a stange rock formation, whose name is the Quechua for "High Houses". Most of the group devoted at least two seconds to the natural wonder and then dived into the cafe in accordance with Miley´s suggestion to pay 2 soles for a mug of mate de coca worth 50 centimos.


I asked Miley how the rock, which looked like regular sandstone, had achieved these remarkable shapes. She didn´t know. This was not the only time our guide´s knowledge was shown to be very limited.

Back on the bus, the road started to deteriorate. However, the scenery was pleasant and the driver took care to avoid the bigger pot holes. There was more and more evidence of water, which finally got to what is technically known as ´marshy bits´. We actually stopped at the largest of these and Miley identified the bigger birds for us, the andean geese and black (ie puna) ibis. I had to make hurried notes on the blue-billed ducks and identify them later from the field guide as puna teal. We did not, of course, get out of the bus or stay the hour this excellent birding spot deserved.

The highest point on the road, at 4,910 metres, warranted 15 minutes to enjoy the thinnest air I have encountered so far.

The height scrawled on the rock is of a distant volcano.

We were introduced to a plant specially adapted to the harsh conditions. It looks and almost feels like a green rock.

From here there was a steep descent with many hairpin bends into Chivay. The local council levies foreigners S/. 35.00 before thay are admitted to the valley. This is allegedly to maintain the tourist facilities, but we saw no evidence of this.

After lunch we had the afternoon free. No-one else in the party had taken the cheapest-possible-accomodation option, so I was on my own at the incomplete and unsigned Intiwasi Hostal. The room was fine, except for the cold shower. I sauntered into downtown Chivay to see what it had to offer.

There was a tidy little square and a locked church. Nearby there was a market. This was mostly for the benefit of the locals, so there were stalls selling just about anything. I got a cheap watch to replace the one that conked out in Aguas Calientes and searched in vain for a new small penknife. I took photos of strange vegetables. I even bought some souvenirs. The old chap selling gloves was so frail and the asking price so cheap I hadn´t the heart to haggle.

In the late afternoon there was an optional visit to the local hot pools. Very few took up this chance, but I enjoyed sitting in the outdoor pool admiring the mountains. And I wasn´t going to get under that cold shower!

Day 2 started early. I thought this was to catch the condors at the right time. Silly me. It was to visit the next village down Colca Valley, where a bunch of local girls dress up in traditional garb and dance around the square at 6:30 in the morning to entertain the tourists - for tips, of course.

But I was trappd by one of the other tourist offerings. Two women had large birds of prey that would obligingly step onto your arm while your friends wielded your camera to record the moment. The birds were quite beautiful and I paid my tips gladly. I haven´t yet studied the photos to identify the birds.

In the next village we had to admire the church. I forget why. And there were even bigger birds of prey to be photographed with. They were eagles. I now understand why falconers get so passionate about their birds.

But had we spent too long at these games? Would the condors still be there when we arrived at Condor Cross. The horrible road had many tourist buses ahead of us, throwing up clouds of dust as they bounced onwards. However, Miley decided to skip canyon viewing until after the condors so we didn´t stop again until Condor Cross.

Nevertheless, there were hundreds, maybe thousands of people there before us. We were allowed an hour. And there, before we had gone three steps towards the recommended posi, was a condor sweeping over the crowd. To, fro and then it was gone. By the time we got to the canyon´s edge there was no sign of it.

I was in agony. Maybe that was the last swoop of the day. Maybe the thermals had warmed up early and the birds were now far down the canyon. Why wouldn´t people shut up? Didn´t they know that these were wild birds? What horrible child was that actually playing on a souvenir penny whistle? Is homicide justified in these circumstances?

And then the agony was over because another condor appeared. An all-brown juvenile. And another. Huge birds just drifting on the thermal updrafts generated by canyon rocks warmed by the sun. And then two more came. Adults this time with black plumage, except for a white collar round the neck and white panels on the upper side of their wings. And we saw them from all angles as they rode the thermals apparently without any effort. For a short but glorious period there were all four condors above us at once.

I thought I saw a fifth in the distance, but there was another big raptor in the sky that day. I bet no more than five of the gathered condor-watching host realised that one of the birds at Condor Cross that morning was an eagle instead. A buzzard-eagle to be precise, the same species that had perched on my arm and head to earn a coin for his owner earlier that morning.

Miley told us that there were about 80 condors in the Colca Valley and 200 in the next valley. Why didn´t the tourists go where there are more condors? "The roads are even worse than here" Miley replied. The mind boggles.

In between condors there were swifts hawking up and down, a humming bird and a selection of little brown jobs in the bushes. We also saw vizcachas, a kind of long-tailed rabbit, apparently convinced that their colouration made them invisible against the rocks.

I tried to take pictures, but you need a camera with a viewfinder and shutter that responds far faster than mine.

This is the best I could get. The white collar of an adult bird is distinctive.

I thought this bloom was worth a photo.

The return journey included stops to admire the cultivation of the upper valley on pre-Inca terraces and some holes in the cliff-face that once were tombs. Oh, and two more condors appeared while we were being lectured on the local crops.

The Upper Colca Canyon.

And that was our tour. It was pretty much straight back to Arequipa after that. I was granted my request to stop at the marshy bit again, but only to scan with my binoculars and try to get more details of the ducks. No-one else was interested enough to get out. Condors, yes. Ducks, no. Oh well.