Cada Sunday

One of the great things about South America is that you can never be quite sure what will wake you up in the morning. Dogs, fairly often. Car horns are popular. Firecrackers. Singing, whistling, chanting. Drums, maybe. Or, if you're unlucky, like me, diarrhoea. This morning it was all of them - no telling which delivered the fatal blow.

Sat on the roof eating a meagre breakfast, I could hear the beginnings of some kind of carnival. Outside and it is really going off. A giant procession is snaking its way through the streets, and it seems like the whole town must be involved. I walk past groups of similarly clad ladies gearing up for their turn.

The locals who aren't taking part are lining the streets. Kids with cameras are running around taking pictures of their mums. As well as the colourfully clad traditional groups, there are student doctors, nurses, men and women in suits, all marching under one banner or another.

I peel away and have a wander around the quiet back streets for a while. I make my way to a small square away from all the action, only to find a miniature version in full swing there. Benches from the church have been put out in the street, and there's a group of Peruvian Morris Dancers [citation needeed] dancing in front of some kind of golden altar. Not sure what the Vatican would make of it all, but they seem to be enjoying themselves.

The main square, Plaza de Armas, is the destination for the main procession. I can't quite work out where they all go after, maybe they just head back to the beginning and start again. Either way, it's a great atmosphere. The drums are beating, trumpets are blowing, people are dancing. Everyone, myself included, has a smile on their face.

The best thing about it all is that it is completely inclusive. Young and old, all shades, shapes and sexes. It must be a pretty special occasion to bring all this about, and I'm wracking my brains to work out what it might be. I can't think of anything religious, and I haven't seen any streets named 23 de mayo, which normally gives it away. Eventually I give in and ask someone. ¿Que pasa hoy? I ask a pretty girl. Es Cada Domingo señor. Cada Sunday? What the hell is that? Cada Sunday? Cada. Cada. Cada.

Oh yeah, got it. Cada. Spanish for each.

Tooled Up

The scariest thing about being so ill the other night was not knowing what it was. The mind can't help but wonder in these situations. Typhoid, cholera, who knows. Since there's been no fever or anything accompanying it, last night's return was more of an inconvenience than a worry. But it was one hell of an inconvenience. Since I had the shits for two weeks after a trip to Egypt once, I reluctantly traipse down the pharmacy this morning to get antibiotics.

I am now armed to the teeth with everything I need to tackle the evil triumvirate of altitude sickness, back pain and chronic diarrhoea. And tackle them I will. Cuzco rocks and I'm not spending another minute indoors.

Clockwise from top left: Electrolyte sachets; Lactobacillus; Acetazolamide;

Ibuprofen; Ciproflaxacino; Loperamide; Diclofenaco/Paracetamol

Michael Jackson eat your heart out.

Puno to Cuzco Sour

It started moving just after eight. A slow, rolling movement. Like mercury in a child’s puzzle. Or a drop of rain trickling down the window pane (there would be plenty of that later too). Some people were in its way. They got out just in time. Others saw it coming: stopped, waited. As soon as it had passed, they rushed back into the space it so briefly occupied, and carried on as if nothing had happened. Some of them, especially the children, waved.

One hundred and eighty kilometres lie between Puno and the Imperial City of Cuzco. The train is the most expensive, and the slowest, means of traversing them. But it is also the coolest, and the most scenic, and ten hours on a train beats eight on a bus. Even if it does cost a whopping $220.

The cost should have hinted at the demographic; no Agatha Christie cast lists today. There are eighteen passengers in total. Unsurprisingly, I’m the only solo passenger. There are a couple of honeymooners by the looks of it, and the rest are all the wrong side of 50 and on inheritance sapping organised tours. I start to feel a little uneasy.

I feel worse when they break out the “traditional” Peruvian music and dancing and everyone watches clutching their complimentary (knock it off the 220) Pisco Sours. I stay in my carriage reading. I can’t reconcile myself to this sort of parading of “tradition”. It smacks of bullshit. I bet the Incas didn't break out the windpipes when the conquistadores came over the God damn mountain. I'm happy to preserve my anonymity behind my battle scarred panama.

We stop in the middle of nowhere to allow the train coming the other way to pass. A lady is running down the tracks after us in the rain, child on her back, hands clutching toy llamas. There is some interest amongst the old folks. A Dutch couple ask how much. "Cinco Soles Señor" (About £1.20). "Tres", he replies. I look up from The Book Thief to make sure I heard correctly. I did.

My anonymity discards itself and I tell him what I think. He informs me that you have to haggle in this country. We’re not in a fucking carpet shop and I didn’t hear him haggling when he willingly coughed up ten Soles to Peru Rail for a Kit Kat. $440 for him and his missus to take a train and he wants to haggle over fifty cents with some poor indigenous girl trying to make a crust selling stuffed llamas. I offer to pay the extra two Soles, tell him to grow some manners, and we leave it at that.*

The rest of the journey passes without incident and I get to hide behind hat and book. It is excruciatingly uncomfortable of course. I have bunged myself up with Loperamide again, but now the back is in the ascendancy once more. Chatting with one of the stewards, he tells me there is a quiropráctico in Cuzco. He might not know it yet, but he just made a new best friend.

I'm going back to the waving children for a minute. Why do people wave at trains? I did it as a kid, for sure, but since my ninth birthday, I can't say I've been much of a waver. I actually find it quite awkward. Embarrassing even. But that probably says more about me than it does about waving. Well now I have a captive audience. Ten hours, one hundred and eighty kilometres. That's a lot of little Peruvian kids to wave at. Halfway in and I'm addicted. I somehow manage to abandon the feeling of looking ridiculous (I should be used to it by now) and feed off the pure joy it brings to the soul.

Or maybe I'm just trying to alleviate my guilt. A train belching out untold pollution is carving through the Peruvian countryside carrying eighteen gringos with more money than sense. I feel like a tourist. A real card carrying tourist. A phoney. The view might be great, but the sense of hypocrisy is greater. This little cocoon of pointless indulgence, snaking its way through the honesty and integrity of the Peruvian people and somehow stripping something away in its wake, leaves a sour taste in my mouth. No amount of waving quite manages to wash it away.


* ****

Floating Islands

My main reason for being in Puno is to catch the train out of here. But as well as that, there are the floating islands, a few Inca sites and the town itself, which is apparently rather pleasant.

Unfortunately for me, shortly after arriving yesterday, I succumbed to an unusually violent and prolonged attack of the shits. During the night it was accompanied by some truly spectacular vomiting. I was cold, depressed, afraid and alone. It was the furthest I've felt from home since I left. I had been looking forward to a busy day of sight seeing today, snapping away at my leisure. Now it seems my enduring memory of Puno will be this image;

Thanks to the Loperamide, I was able to get through the morning in one piece, though admittedly without leaving my bed. I signed up for a tour to the islands leaving at 4pm, and decided to have a scope around town in the meantime. I popped over to the pharmacy to stock up on preventative measures, but found the sun and the heat too much, so retreated once more.

By half three, when they came to get me for the tour, the day itself had taken a turn for the worse. Gone were the clear skies and bright sunlight. Now it was cold, windy and dark. Not exactly perfect conditions for what I had in mind.

About 2,000 Uros people still live on the famous floating islands. The islands themselves are made of layers of reeds, anchored to the lake bed with ropes and sticks. They need constant replenishing as the reeds underneath rot away. Their houses are made of reeds, their boats too. They even eat the stuff.

There are a few issues with the Uros and the impact of tourism. We are invited into a house on one of the islands and flogged some hand woven fabrics (how can we resist)? The men of the village are struggling to secure one of the anchors in the wind. We rush out and help, tug of war style. Meanwhile it has begun pissing it down. Taking pictures is impossible in these conditions. And I can't photograph the people because they're all inside their crazy little houses.

It is a remarkable way of life and an incredible place. I can't help but wish I'd been able to come out earlier in the day when it was nicer, but I guess God had other plans. Having consumed nothing more than a powerade, some pringles and a small packet of boiled sweets in the last thirty hours, I'm kind of hoping he lays off of me tonight.

Boat over troubled water

Most backpackers are in Copacabana in order to visit Isla del Sol, the birthplace of the Sun itself in Inca mythology. Which may go some way to explaining the extraordinary number of crusties in town.

Wrong

For the last two days, the lake has been too rough for the boats, creating a backlog of eager backpackers (backlogpackers?) trying to get out to the island. I arrive on the one thirty boat fractionally too late to take a prime seat on the roof, so I’m forced onto the main deck, where school chairs are screwed to the floor. It fills with a pungent mix of malignant soap dodgers, crazy Dutch guys, pasty Paddies, some weird Japanese dude and posh English girls roughing it for the first time. Ten minutes before we are due to leave, I realise I can’t deal with it and decide to jump ship. I almost get to the back of the boat before reason takes hold. I stop and sit down. What a tit. Trying to bail on the only chance I will probably ever get to visit such an important Inca site. Chickening out just because I don’t like crusties.

I try and get comfortable in my tiny seat, and not become irritated by the bloke in the stupid hat playing the bongos. Or the jugglers. Or the people in striped trousers. Or the public schoolboys dressed like Robinson Crusoe. But it’s not happening. I make an executive decision. I leave. Immediately. Three hours on that boat for forty minutes walking around part of an island? Seen one you’ve seen them all right? Wight, Man, Dogs, Sun. And I mean, it’s not like the Incas were right anyway, is it?

The Sun. Came out of a small island apparently

An hour or so later I am making my way up Cerro Calvario, past the fourteen Stations of the Cross. In the distance, I can make out the wakes of the tourist boats, and I thank the Lord himself for sparing me. It's hard work getting up there, with the altitude and my back, but I take my time and stop to say hello to the occasional local on his way down. At the top is a row of crosses, and some of the most incredible views I am yet to see. It was so worth it.

Walking up a hill named after the Lord’s last mortal journey, admittedly unladen, but with my back in its current condition, was probably a stupid idea. But in a genuine miracle, it appears to do the trick, and by the time the sun goes down I’m taking my socks on and off just for the fun of it. Not to mention congratulating myself on my unquestionably wise decision to abandon ship and spend the rest of the day enjoying Copacabana, minus a few dozen crusties.

I have a bus to Puno tomorrow lunchtime, but I don’t really want to leave.

Copacabana

Copacabana is a proper little travellers’ town, but I like it. It’s a tiny place whose streets bristle with activity. The locals seem incredibly tolerant of the large backpacker community, and are very friendly if you take the trouble to engage with them. My hotel is halfway up a hillside with a tremendous view of the town.

Copacabana from La Cupula Hotel

An extremely beautiful (and inexplicably Moorish looking) cathedral, the Basilica of Our Lady of Copacabana, takes centre stage. It houses a statue of the Virgin Mary, to which many miracles have been attributed, and is the subject of pilgrimages from all over the world. Also inside is the most spectacular altar I have ever seen. Photographs are banned, but I make a donation and confess my sins.

The spectacular altar...

...and the roof

Confession for the illicit photographer

Outside, Bolivianos make the pilgrimage to bless their automobiles, through a combination of flowers, praying to the Virgin Mary, and letting off firecrackers (again). Stalls even sell toy cars so you can take them inside and bless them.

Outside the Basilica

Aside from its religious notoriety, Copacabana has made a name for its trucha, or trout. We lunch in a local comedor; fried trout, salad and spuds, for 15 Bolivianos. The Cocinera even lets me take her photo.

In the comedor

Cocinera

Later in the evening, four of us dine in a big restaurant in town. I can’t remember it’s name, but then neither can they probably. The waiter doesn’t know how to open a bottle of wine, so we help him out. Then three main courses arrive (excellent grilled trout), but one Trout Lasagna (don’t ask) doesn’t. Upon enquiring of its whereabouts, our grinning friend reassures us “esta en el horno” (it is in the oven). This is only just about topped by the “Irish Coffee” (Milk and whiskey) and the toilets with no light that you have to cross some mud on a plank to reach.

The restaurant at my hostel was pretty good though. Beer battered pejerrey (silverside) may be less popular than the trout but was definitely no less tasty. I also dined repeatedly at a little café called Pueblo Viejo, on the busy street leading down to the lakeside. Its owner is either extraordinarily rude or extremely nice, depending on how many gringos he’s had to tolerate that morning.

Calle 6 de Agosto, Copacabana

Although Copacabana is around 3,800m above sea level, the altitude sickness isn't too much of a problem any more. The sun is though, you need layers of screen on. It gets very warm in the daytime, and bloody cold at night, or in the shade, and as one might imagine, all the town's residents take adequate precautions to deal with the extreme fluctuations in temperature.

It's a dog's life.

Bridge over untroubled water

Today’s blog started writing itself long before I woke up. A sensitive appraisal of the increasingly debilitating effect of my back trouble, entitled “Growing Pains”, it would have begun with a tear jerking description of me trying to put my socks on, followed by the fearful prospect of further suffering during a three and a half hour bus journey on Bolivia’s infamously treacherous roads, dowsed first by the prospect of a comfortable reclining seat, then sensationally reignited by this photograph:

It would have documented the pain’s inexorable growth inside me throughout the journey, until I began gnawing through my fingers in agony, pausing only to cry out loud when my rucksack tumbled off the roof, down a hillside, and into the world’s most interesting lake. Then, possibly from a hospital bed, hours, and several hundred irritatingly well-chosen words later, it would have culminated in a slightly over dramatic yet hauntingly resonant and profound treatise on the nature of human suffering.

But it didn’t quite pan out like that. It did start with an unspeakably painful attempt to put my socks on. And that was followed by this photograph;

…taken just before 8am. But I craftily bagged the back row all to myself so I could lie down and alleviate the pain. Until about ten minutes into the journey that is, when we pulled over and the bus filled up with Bolivianos. The rucksack just about stayed where it was, despite a drastic swerve when we may or may not have killed a stray dog.

Two hours in, making sterling progress, and having replaced my deep depression with inexplicable and hopelessly unjustified optimism, we came to an abrupt halt. Unbeknown to me, the journey entails crossing a short stretch of water. On these barges:

There is a long queue of cars, buses and coaches. We wander down to the water’s edge to investigate, but nothing’s happening. We can’t work out why. Eventually, and to our astonishment, we discover the lake is considered too choppy for a crossing. When can we cross? “No se. Mas tarde, tal vez. O mañana.” The prospect sends a shiver down my now twisted spine. We are condemned to wait, helplessly staring at the waves wondering if and when they might relent and allow us to continue our journey. The locals don’t seem too bothered, as usual.

I always understood that in Bolivia, perhaps more than anywhere else in the world, money will buy you anything you want. But no; the coastguards have no price. I am presented with a golden opportunity to test my resolve and not stress or worry about things beyond my control. And this is definitely beyond my control. I mean, if throwing money at it doesn’t work, in Bolivia of all places, then I’m fresh out of ideas. After a few hours lying under the blazing sun, amidst admittedly delightful surroundings, an American guy drawly remarks; “I really appreciate the innate beauty an’ all, but would it have killed them to build a bridge?”

Four hours after we arrived, and a boat attempts the crossing. Successfully, which is cue for the rest of us. Or is it? The coaches nudge optimistically towards the ramps, but the barges aren’t taking the bait. Luckily the smaller boats, that aren’t attempting to float huge buses across a stretch of water (that is now unquestionably a lot choppier than it was this morning) on planks of wood, have started ferrying passengers across. We abandon ship, get our gear from the roof rack and join the rush.

Despite being an incurable chicken when faced with the merest sniff of danger, and my hopelessness at swimming notwithstanding, I’m actually okay on the water. But they were right. It is choppy. Our tiny craft is thrown about for ten hilarious minutes, a few people looking pretty scared and tenaciously gripping the sides. But if we were in our bus on one of those things, I would be shitting myself with fear.

Eventually on the other side, we cram into a local minibus and begin the final leg of our journey to Copacabana. The scenery is extraordinary, but we’ve earned it. Laden with bags, I walk a few blocks to my hostel and find my room still available. I take a hot shower, power nap, and drink a cold beer looking down over Copacabana as the disappearing sun bathes it in golden light. A couple of guys are playing cards on the table next to me. They stop and we chat. After a while, the Kiwi asks, “You know how to play shithead mate?” And in the joyous hours that followed, I almost forgot that I could no longer move my body.

Street food for thought

Sometimes you eat the street food, and sometimes, well, it eats you. I spent yesterday morning walking, climbing and taking pictures, then indulged in a little empanada tucamana from a lady near the bus station. It tasted good, but later on, it had its revenge. Combined with the unrelenting headache it brought my day to an early end.

I watch a movie, go through my pictures, try and keep myself distracted. By the time I'm ready for bed, things are worse. It's cold. My whole body is now aching. I manage to fall asleep. For twenty minutes. This pattern continues all night. At one point I think I managed a whole hour in one go.

I'm pretty bad when I get ill. I sulk, get depressed. At home, this is just about bearable. Alone, on the other side of the world, oh dear. Things aren't helped by the fact that I've just finished reading The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles, in which one of the main protagonists dies of typhoid whilst travelling around Morocco. I google typhoid. Stomach's on the mend. Don't think it's that. It's the altitude. And I won't be getting any lower for a good while yet. Which means I need to man up and deal with it.

I let the ibuprofen and acetazolamide work their magic and head out. Walking down the street, I am alarmed to discover that I am in crippling agony with my dodgy back. I stop for lunch. About thirty seconds after I leave, it starts raining. Oh wait, that's not rain. It starts hailing. Hard. I can't walk anyway, it hurts too much. But not as much as having to spend another afternoon inside my hotel when a city as cool as this one is outside the door.

La Paz shoeshine boys all wear ski masks. Don't ask me why

Mujeres de La Paz

Shade

Sagarnaca from the roof of Iglesia San Francisco

Looking up towards El Alto from San Francisco

They're at it again

Colectivo

Jugo de naranja, La Paz style

Terminal de buses, designed by Gustav Eiffel

Street food

Marching Powder

I hadn't expected to be woken by the sound of gunfire this morning. But I was. It was accompanied by a lot of shouting, chanting and police sirens, and in Bolivia, that can only mean one thing. (I should probably stress that it was the sound of gunfire, and not actual gunfire...)

Demonstrations are a part of everyday life here. I'm keen to get out there and see what's going on but, ever the intrepid traveller, I need my breakfast first. By the time I've broken my fast (great granola and queso creollo) then taken a long shower, the excitement seems to have dissipated. I take to the streets myself, instead, in silent protest.

I'll admit to being a little bit nervous about coming to La Paz. It's very different to the westernised cities I've been frequenting so far, and I was worried about being out of my comfort zone. I needn't have been. Sure, it's completely different; a whole world apart. But I love it.

The pavements bristle with activity. Women in bowler hats man little stalls or blankets laid out with goods. Food is on sale everywhere; soup, empanadas, bread, vegetables. Barrows are full of oranges and grapefruits, all peeled and ready to be squeezed. In amongst them, the men ferry impossible loads up and down the steep slopes. Taxis, buses and minibuses cram the roads, they hoot and shout their destinations from the windows. The place is so real and alive. Colour, energy and excitement pour forth; it adds up to an incredible assault on the senses. But somehow, despite all this, I can detect a very deep sense of calm. It's all just a part of life here.

The Prado

Lunch break

I walked about, intoxicated by it all, but also feeling the pinch of the soroche (altitude sickness). I got some pills to ease me along, and wandered aimlessly. You can't get lost in this town - wherever you are, head downhill and you'll hit El Prado, the main street. It reminds me so much of Morocco. The busy twisting roads, the bustle, the shops and the shopkeepers; everything overflowing onto the street. A guy handing out flyers walks past. I catch a glimpse of a word on the paper and run back after him. It's for a restaurant called Marrakech.

I wander for a while, and grab some food in a little bakery. (Later I will buy the best bread I have eaten all year off a girl on the street for less than five pence). Eventually the headache pounds me into submission and I retreat to the hotel for a siesta. I'm soon out again though. This time I head away from the main streets, and let my eyes lead me. Via a great street market (with no gringos) I drop down into Plaza San Pedro, home of the famous prison that was once a tourist attraction*, before climbing up the other side of the valley.

The soroche pills are working their magic and my fingers are tingling, pumped full of blood. Fortunately my other extremities seem normal enough, because at the top of the hill is a little kids playground from which you can see the whole city. I descend, only to have to climb once more, and walk the east side of the Prado. Which is when I hear, and see, the demonstrators again.

This time I investigate. It's hilarious. There are police everywhere and thousands of people are marching. A few bonfires have been lit and flares and firecrackers are going off all over the place. What to me is the cause of great excitement is just another minor event in the course of their day. People wander in and out of the police cordons on their way home from work, and when I get stuck the other side of one, I just wander alongside the marchers until I can drop away again. Now I'm one of them, maybe they'll wait until I've finished my breakfast tomorrow.

*There is a book, entitled Marching Powder, written in the first person, by an Australian, about an Englishman incarcerated in San Pedro Prison for smuggling cocaine. Don't read it. It is incredibly badly written. I only kept reading it in the hope something bad would happen to either of them. It didn't.


**I can't believe I have started writing footnotes on my blog. Does anyone know how you do those little numbers in the corner?

One day, many changes

Just after 4 o’clock this morning, when I emerged wearily from the door of my hotel, there was a distinct chill in the still air of Santiago, not to mention thick fog. I watched my two bags be stowed in the trunk of a taxi, before following them into the warmth and beginning, what felt like at least, an important part of my journey.

By 6 o’clock, a diminutive aeroplane was powering off into the invisible night. I watched as the city of Santiago, mapped out by flickering orange lights, emerged from the darkness below then promptly disappeared again beneath a blanket of thick cloud. At night, there is little to be seen of nature, save for the stars.

Shortly after that, to my right, the first embers of the day began to glow, and night slipped quietly away on my left. Nowhere else on Earth are we quite so reminded of our daily rotation. Below, the clouds dispersed to reveal the Pacific Ocean lapping at the fringe of the empty Atacama Desert, the driest place on Earth.

Having divested ourselves of most of our passengers at Iquique, we took off once more and headed inland. The arid desert is broken at times by old riverbeds that seem to retain enough moisture to allow themselves to be cultivated - little patches of coloured fields wind their way into the barren landscape.

Without ever really seeming to make a descent, we landed at La Paz. We had taken off from Iquique, on the coast, and climbed to cruise at around 10,000 metres. La Paz airport, in El Alto, is the highest in the world at over four kilometres above sea level. The ground reaches up to claim us so much as we descend toward it.

This can cause a few problems. The best way to deal with altitude sickness is to climb gradually and acclimatise. I drop in out of the sky, and it is tough going at the airport. Luckily, downtown is a good 400 metres lower, which helps. As we drive towards it, I get my first glimpse of the city. It is clinging unfeasibly to the sides of an enormous canyon, under icy peaks, and it looks incredible.

I take my time walking about town getting a feel for the place but not wanting to over exert. I've known all along that today would mark a change; a new phase in my adventure. That the journey should be filled with so many contrasts to emphasise this was an unexpected bonus. The last thing I want to do is get ahead of myself, so I follow the local advice; camina lentito, como poquito y duerme solito (walk slowly, eat little, sleep alone). The rest can wait until tomorrow, and a more civilised hour.