Backpacking

After a particularly cold and uncomfortable twenty-two hour bus journey we arrived in the Peruvian town of Tacna where we were transported across the border in a rather splendid old-skool american cadillac. From there it was another four hour coach ride through the desert pampa of northern Chile to our destination.

Iqueque is an attractive port and city sheltered by sandy-looking headlands and the high Atacama desert beyond. With the unfortunately named Plaza Prat as it's main square it still contains many historic buildings, despite being partly destroyed in the earthquake of 1876. At sunset, as we made our way down the winding road and looked over the town to the golden beaches we knew that this was the kind of place we had been looking for. Heading for our hostel which was located handily across the road from the beach, we took a short stroll around town and after our arduous twenty-eight hour trip, turned in early for the night.

A couple of lazy days on the gorgeous beaches quickly ensued, the first however being slightly tainted by the fact that both of us had to run back to the hostel every ten minutes for some zero-warning bowel relief. The combination of fatigue and apparent safety of being in a more civilised and well-to-do country meant we had let our guard slip the previous evening and opted erratically for a chinese which was now going through us at an alarming rate.

With the imodium thankfully kicking in, Sunday morning came and I sat around for nearly eight hours awaiting the all-important Spurs versus Chelsea showdown which I had seen advertised the previous day. It was only after getting frustrated at having to watch other random sports shows that I took a quick look on the internet and discovered that my Spanish was still a little rusty, and that I was waiting for a show that wasn't broadcasting until Tuesday. My disappointment was slightly helped by the fact that we won 2-1 (Come on you Spurs!), but as many of you can imagine, I was suitably chastised for 'wasting the day away'.

Having met up with a varied but not unpleasant crowd at the hostel and spending our evenings cooking, drinking and being generally sociable, we all decided to hire a car and take it out to see the surrounding area. Together with Beni and Dom, a pair of slightly unhinged Swiss lads with a Queens of the Stone Age addiction, Jordan, our emotionally volatile Canadian room-mate, and Alice and Tim, a couple teetering on the brink of separation with the former having nothing nice to say about the latter and his evident drink problem, the seven of us set out with nothing but a few cold six-packs and a heavy dose of optimism for the coming day.

First stop was the geoglyphs set into one of the surrounding sandy hills. Consisting rather unimpressively of a series of rocks organised into the shape of a stick man, this was supposedly the last evidence of a people long vanished. Moving quickly along, we visited the now abandoned nitrate town at Humberstone.

Although now essentially a ghost town after being shut down in 1961 when the nitrate workers were made redundant, the remnants of the old church, theatre, school and other ammenities can still be seen and explored. This made for a couple of hours of entertainment before we headed off south in the direction of Pica and it's thermal spa. Quiet, tranquil and surrounded by citrus groves, this was a great spot to finish the day with a relaxing dip into the warm waters.

As the day had progressed, we had all come to the conclusion that the Toyota Jeep we were using for transport was a bucket with a lawnmower engine; something which was sadly confirmed when it broke down on us half way home, luckily in a small town in the desert. While Beni, our only moderate Spanish speaker, negotiated with some local mechanics to take a look, the rest of us sat in the back and sampled a modest variety of the local beers. Three hours later we were finally on our way back to the hostel, most of us well and truly smashed.

After our successful day out (depending on which was you look at it) it was back to the coast for a few days and some beach football and body-boarding. With just two days to go until our planned departure, the arrival of two arrogant Austrian blokes with zero-manners and matching personalities, and a relatively unpleasant english girl who "doesn't bother talking to couples" and a rather annoying habit of putting "ah?" onto the end of every sentence whether it's a question or not, managed to spoil the vibe of the place. All of our crowd were moving on however so we made the best of the last couple of nights.

Our final day arrived, and we only had one mission left to complete before we caught our bus to Santiago. We had sat on the beach for the last week watching the paragliders descend onto the sands next to us, and despite not being massively keen on running off the edge of a large cliff, decided that we couldn't leave without having a bash.

Booked in for a 1:30pm flight, we were transported to the 1200m high jump-off point at the southern end of the resort and kitted up with our suits and helmets. Not knowing a thing about paragliding, we presumed that the strong wind was just what was needed for such an activity. Sarah was up first, and strapped to an ageing german man they attempted take off. As soon as the sail went up and the strong sea-breeze caught, the pair of them were janked powerfully backwards.

The guy charged with the task of holding them steady had absolutely no hope, and after a couple attempts, one of which managed to take the two of them about ten feet into the air before smashing them back to earth and bouncing Sarah's protected head like a basketball along the hard ground (Obviously, I did not find this amusing at all) they decided enough was enough and that today's flight would have to be cancelled. Suitably disappointed but undeterred, we booked again for the following morning in the hope we could have another go before our coach left.

The following morning, with the wind a little less blustery, take off was a little more smooth and we were soon up high above the desert hills and the busy highway leading into town.

Being our first time, it seemed very reasonable to look around at the sights, snapping as we went. Soon however, I discovered that combined with the ups and downs associated with finding the required thermals, this causes a rather uncomfortable feeling of nausea. Although a good time was had by all, the overwhelming urge to chunder tends to spoil the experience slightly, something we are told is very common among first time flyers.

Landing gracefully on the beach just a few yards from our hostel, it was no surprise to discover that Sarah had been as sick as a dog whilst in mid-air and was feeling pretty rough as a consequence. With no time to spare however, we said a rushed goodbye to our friends of the past week and headed for the bus station and our awaiting coach which would take us to the Chilean capital, and sadly, our final South American destination...

Please check out my new website:
http://www.pwd-design.co.uk

Arriving late, the 'direct' coach which had stopped at approximately 449 bus stops on the way, finally wound it's way through the litter strewn streets of Cusco and dropped us at the bus station where we were once again hounded by a number of taxi drivers. Haggling a seven quid quote down to a one quid fare by effectively pitting all of the exuberent drivers against each other, the four of us headed to Loki hostel, one we had been recommended repeatedly since as far back as Rio. Luckily there was room, and after just a couple of welcome Cusquena beers we turned in for the night.

We had six whole days before our pre-booked Inca Trail, and these we had planned to use to see the surrounding area and Cusco itself. Unfortunately, this plan didn't really come to light, as we met a number of good people at the hostel and ended up getting drunk every night, and ultimately quite bothered about sightseeing by the time we rose the next morning. It felt like we were all touristed out by this point, and each suggestion of going to see certain highlights in the area were quickly pushed aside in favour of another beer in the bar, chatting with whoever may be milling about, or the odd live game of English football. Unfortunate, but we'd hit a bit of wall and nothing could get us out of it, and the closer we came to our four-day trek, the more we felt it justified to lounge about.

We did manage to drag ourselves away on a couple of occassions, mainly to visit the Irish bar and it's wonderful English-style food (Shepherds Pie, Curry, Fish and Chips - come on, who wouldn't be tempted when the local delicacy is deep fried Guinea Pig followed nicely by severe diarrhoea?), or visit a bar which showed new and just-released movies at 4pm. Every night in the hostel appeared to be party night, and who were we to deprive ourselves of a little beer-based fun. At 1am, we'd all head to the nightclubs called Mama Afrika's and Uptown in the main square; constantly strobing rooms filled with locals and backpackers alike. The music was a strange mix, consisting of a couple of banging house or techno tunes one minute, some indie anthems the next, before crowd-pleasing with a few party classics. We tried three or four and can confirm this particular dj-ing style was present across the board, and I don't think I'll ever witness such a diverse group of people all singing to the Proclaimers ever again.

On one particular day, we decided enough was enough, and to at least get out and see some of the City. The Plaza de Armas, seen many times at night when going to the above mentioned nightclubs, was a large yet quaint square, containing the Cathedral and the huge El Triunfo, the first ever Christian church in Cusco. Once the capital of the Inca world in AD1100, almost every street has the remains of Inca walls, archways and doors. We crossed into the more traditional part of town, away from the touristy areas where the streets are kept clean and the agency touts are in abundance. Visiting the hectic streets where the locals shop was a real eye-opener; stalls selling raw meat and chicken line the sides without a refrigeration unit in sight. Severed pigs heads stare intently at passers-by and retailers hack dead carcasses to bits in full view of the customer. Not where you'd consider getting your sunday joint, although I suspect that prices are low, even if bacterial content isn't.

Finally, the day of our Inca Trail arrived, promising unforgettable views, magnificent mountains, exotic vegetation and extraordinary ecological variety, plus of course the all important Inca Sites.

The origins of the Inca dynasty are shrouded in mythology and shaky evidence. The best known story is of how Manco Capac and his sister rose from Lake Titicaca in 1200AD, supposedly created by the sun as divine founders of a chosen race. Over the next 300 years, the small tribe grew to supremacy as leaders of the largest empire ever known in the Americas. At 980,000 square kilometres, the four territories of Tawantinsuyo all radiated from Cusco as the umbilicus of the Universe. At it's peak, the Inca empire stetched from the Rio Maule in central Chile,, north to the present Ecuador/Colombian border, contained most of Ecuador, Peru, western Bolivia, northern Chile and northwest Argentina.

The Inca Empire was one of the greatest planned societies the world has ever known - from it's rise during the 11th century to it's death in the 16th, and based itself on other Peruvian civilisations which attained great skills in textiles, buildings, ceramics and working in metal. What the Incas did during their time was an enormous feat. They conquered enormous territories, and imposed upon them a submission to the Allyu: a village community which had it's worshipped household god and complete devotion to the land, plus a willing spiritual and economical submission to the state. The common religion was the Worship of the Sun whose vice-regent on earth was the absolute Sapa Inca. The mass of the people were subjected to rigourous planning and were alloted land to work, or used in the enlarging of the area of cultivation by building terraces on the hillside. Families were grouped into units of 10, 100, 500, 1000, 10000 and 40000, each group with a leader responsible to the next largest group. The whole system was completed by Pachacuti, the greatest of all their monarchs, who imposed the common language of Quechua and ordered the building of fine paved pathways, now known as the Inca Trail, to connect all of the villages and along which couriers could speed on foot to obtain information and transmit orders.

We were transported from our hostel to the starting point at 2600m in the mountains at what they call kilometre 82 or Piscacucho. Here we met our group for the following days; two Swiss girls and a dutch couple in their fifties whose names we already appear to have mislaid, mainly due to the fact that they put in no real effort to socialise with the rest of us.

Our guide was a quirky young chap called Flavio, who's knowledge appeared to be impressive, his English passable, and his sense of humour somewhat silly. The journey began by crossing the Cusichaca river, and following its path for a couple of hours before heading up to our first lunch stop at Huayllabamba. After lunch (Soup with a heavy coriander taste and fresh trout) we had to tackle our first real climb to 3200m, which took us to the small mountain top overlooking the first of our Inca sites. An hour further onwards and we reached our first overnight camping spot at Llulluchayoc, where dinner (Coriander flavoured soup and beef) was served and with little more to do, it was off to a very early bed.

Day Two began at 6:30. Awoken to a bowl of steaming water for washing by our spirited porters, and a hearty breakfast of pancakes and cereal, we were told that the next few hours were going to be arduous, with the climb from our camp at 3200m to the first pass at 4200m being our main aim of the day. It turned out to be more painful than we could have ever imagined; but seeing the porters bound past us, dripping with sweat as they lugged their fifty kilogram packs helped us realise that it was all possible with a little bit of positive mental attitude. En-route, we walked up through some spectacular jungle settings before emerging at our lunch spot where noodle soup (laced with Coriander) was served. Then it was further up to the summit, and the aptly named Dead Woman's pass or Warmiwanuska.

Looking down from the top it was almost impossible to understand the distance we had come in those seven hours, but we could only hang around admiring the views for so long, as the cloud was beginning to settle in and the cold wind was picking up considerably. Another hour and a half of solid downhill walking brought us to our camp deep in the Pacamayo Valley. After a quick wash up, and a strange dinner of thick Semolina soup (with bonus coriander) and chicken, we managed to get a couple of the porters to partake in a few games of cards with us. Despite their lack of English, it was nice to spend an hour or so interacting with the very people who make the whole trek possible by carrying all of the vital equipment, always with a smile on their face.

Rising early again for day three, it was straight into another steep uphill section for three hours, taking a tour of the ruins half way up at Runkuracay. With weather conditions changing rapidly, the warm sunshine we had experienced the day before was now replaced by heavy rain and thunderclouds. The second pass of the trek was quickly followed by a steep downhill section to another Inca site at Sayacmarca, followed by a quick coriander flavoured lunch.

With the weather brightening, next came the most enjoyable section of the trail, an hour-long jaunt along some mild ups and downs to the third pass, skirting the jungle filled valley's below and going through one of the tunnels, carved through the rock where the Inca's could not build a path. At the top it may have been possible to see the whole Vilcabamba mountain range, but the mornings rain meant that a heavy mist blanketed the view.

After a quick tour of the biggest ruins so far at Phuyopatamarca, the journey began to get really tough. We were told to brace ourselves for a 1200m two hour downhill section which would really take it's toll on the knees, something Sarah wasn't massively keen on considering her dodgy one was already beginning to give out on her. Just thirty minutes into the climb and she was in agony, despite some cheeky chocolate based enticement on my part. The rest of the group went on, and we took it really slowly to try and ease the pain in Sarah's knee, but the high steps were a real killer and even I was starting to feel it. With the darkness beginning to settle in at 5pm, we could tell that Flavio was getting a little anxious about being stuck out on the trail in the dark, and so we both began supporting Sarah as much as possible in the hope we could speed up the descent.

Although we were on the home stretch, it was tough going and it wasn't long before the porters appeared, having climbed back up the steep path to check we were alright. Refusing to be carried however, Sarah carried on using us as support, and we finally limped into camp in pitch darkness after taking just over four hours to complete the afternoon section. At this point, we really fancied a beer or two and some coriander-laced delights, both of which were handily served. With a 4am start for our final day in the backs of our minds we all gladly headed off to bed at around 9pm.

With aching limbs and tired eyes, we all rose for what was to be our final two hour section of the trek. Passing the final checkpoint, the others went ahead again while we slowly made our way to Intipunku, more famously known as the Sun Gate. It was tough going yet again, with one steep fifty-step section where we literally had to drag Sarah up by the armpits. Flavio took it all brilliantly though and told us this was nothing compared to his experience of two weeks prior, where him and a porter had had to carry two 30 stone American's for 75% of the trail because they wanted to 'achieve' it. Apparently, they didn't even tip, something we had no intention of forgetting after all of his help.

On reaching the Sun Gate, and seeing Machu Picchu for the first time, there is a tremendous feeling of awe. The ancient Citadel straddles the saddle of a high mountain with steep terraced slopes falling away to the fast-flowing Urubamba river snaking it's hairpin course way below on the valley floor. Perhaps it is the general fatigue or wonderful sense of achievement at completing the centuries old trail which causes this sensation, but with the giant Huayna Picchu mountain towering overhead, and the green jungle peaks surrounding the site, it provides a truly majestic scene.

Machu Picchu is a complete Inca City. For centuries it was buried in jungle until the american Hiram Bingham stumbled upon it in 1911. Despite being abandoned some 400 years prior after the spanish conquistadores finally overthrew the Inca's in Cusco, Bingham took a Yale university expedition to explore the ruins and found it to be in a remarkable state of preservation; uncovering the remains of staircases, terraces, temples, palaces, fountains and some 150 houses. On further inspection, it was revealed that the style of masonry appears to depend on the importance of the building and that every single building is built at the same inclination.

After an interesting two hour tour of the site, our tiredness finally won, and our guide took us down to the village of Aguas Calientes below. After a quick Coriander-less lunch in a local restaurant, we took ourselves off to the thermal baths in the hope it would help relax our aching muscles. After a short 14 hour nap, it was off to catch our three hour train back to Cusco. We were seated across from two apparently scottish old ladies, who made us feel welcome with professional sneers and a zero conversation.

Our final night in Cusco was Halloween, and the hostel had a large fancy dress party in the offering. We spent most of the following day hunting for costumes, Sarah securing herself a sensible cape and witches hat, and myself going all out with face paint, a large black poncho, and the crowning accessory: a vile and slightly smelly Llama foetus (called John) who I managed to attach to the top of a broom handle. He went down a real storm as you can imagine and everyone wanted their photo taken with my new sidekick.

After what can only be described as one hell of a party, vodka jelly and all, we all went onto somewhere called Bar Seven. The concept is simple: purchase the beverage of your choice on the right hand side of the bar, and your preferred quantity of top class peruvian Cocaine on the left. Not really our bag, but an experience none-the-less, with many people taking full advantage of the police services easily corrupted outlook on such activity, and cutting their lines openly on the tabletops. A cracking night all in all... and a great ten days in the Peruvian city.

Unfortunately, after a number of vodka martini's and dodgy peruvian cigars, we discovered John's apparent knack with the ladies, and leaving him alone for just a few moments in one of the dodgy nightclubs we can only guess that he pulled some local totty, never to be seen again. If anyone happens to see a crusty looking Llama feotus answering to the name of John, ten inches tall, with small sprouty hairs on his chin and a small odour problem, please tell him to come home to Daddy...

Please check out my new website:
http://www.pwd-design.co.uk

With our new travelling companions, Tracey and Shaun, we caught our bus without any problems, and crossed the Bolivian-Peruvian border without incident. We'd heard some feedback from other travellers that Puno was a bit of a dump, but were keen to see the traditional floating reed islands we had heard so much about.

On arrival in the town we discovered that our preconceptions were not far wrong. Puno is billed as Peru's folklore centre, with a vast array of handicrafts, festivals and costumes, and a rich tradition of music and dance. After fighting our way through the fifteen or so touts, all vying for our custom at their respective, but probably not respectable abodes, we jumped a taxi and plumped for one of the many hostels from the guidebook. The hotel in question won't be remembered as one of our favourite stopovers, but it sufficed for the one night we would need it. We walked into town, past the baroque style Cathedral but there wasn't a great deal more to see, and so taking advantage of the new drinking partners, we all headed straight to the main street for some food and all important bonding over beer. The night turned into quite a heavy one, and it was fairly late by the time we returned from the strange Reggae/Rock-style bar we had been drinking in for most of the evening.

Heads were a little hazy the following morning, as we arose early to catch our boat to the collection of 40 tortora reed islands. A quick forty minute sail, and we were dropped to the first of three islands we would be visiting that morning. Here our guide explained to us the living habits and practices of the people who permanantly live out on the floating islands of the lake. Life for these people is hard. Forced out here as the Incan Indians pushed further and further into their territory, they use the reeds which grow naturally on the banks of Lake Titicaca and matt them down. The islands rot quickly from the bottom and so the fresh reeds need to be added constantly in order for the islands to survive. The sensation of standing on these islands was like walking across a waterbed; almost spongy and unstable under-foot. The people fish, hunt birds and live off the lake plants, most importantly the reeds used for the making the boats, the houses and the very foundations of their islands. They also have to travel long distances for fresh waterm which has meant that now fewer than 200 Uros live on the islands, many having now integrated themselves back into the mainland.

Unfortunately, it is now clear that tourism is one of their main sources of income, which has turned the islands we visited into floating souvenir stalls. Whether tourism has done irrepairable harm to this area is yet to be seen, but the mini-supermarket with internet access and pay telephone we saw on one suggests that it may have tarnished what was once a traditional way of life. One young boy took us into his home to show us how his solar-powered TV worked, which again spoilt the image slightly. After a quick journey on one of their traditional reed boats, we were taken back to the mainland. Although an interesting sight, by the time we left it wasn't clear to us whether we should be contributing to the Uros livelihood, or leaving well alone.

Back on dry land and with just moments to spare, we took a taxi to the bus station for our seven hour ride into the mountains...

Please check out my new website:
http://www.pwd-design.co.uk

Lying in a 60,000 square kilometre basin between the coastal and eastern Andes, the magnificent blue waters of Lake Titicaca welcomed us warmly. Just a three hour ride from La Paz, our coach wound it's way down to the dockside where we would cross the Tequina Strait to reach our next destination. To avoid any Titanic moments, the buses go across the stretch of water on a dodgy looking barge, while us passengers had to clamber aboard a number of small fishing boats. Not one's to miss an opportunity, the cheeky locals charge a whopping twenty-five pence each for the privilege.

Probably one of the most prominent features of the Altiplano, Lake Titicaca, at 3,821m, is the highest navigable body of water in the world. Referred to as 'The Sacred Lake' by many Bolivian's and Peruvian's who share the ownership within their borders; if someone (for instance a fisherman) falls into the lake it is traditional not to rescue them, but to let them drown as an offering to the Earth Goddess Pachamama. Quite a hefty sacrifice for the sake of a few Trout. The surface area itself is just over nine thousand square kilometres and an average depth of 100m, it's volume of water is so big that it actually moderates the climate for a considerable distance around it. Sometimes it is hard to believe that you're not looking at an ocean, as the waters stretch for almost as far as the eye can see.

A note had been left on the message board in the Brew Hostel to ask if anyone was heading in the direction of Copacabana, and we therefore had a girl from Sheffield called Sarah in tow. The three of us arrived at our destination in the early afternoon, and reading reasonable reports about a new hotel overlooking the beach we headed there to find a bed. Handily, there were less than eight people in the whole place, which I suppose says something about our taste in accommodation.

It might share the same name with the famous Brazilian beach resort, but Copacabana in Bolivia couldn't really be more different. It has none of the glitz and glamour of Rio, but instead offers small town charm where unfortunately, because of it's existence as a gateway to the Isla del Sol and Isla de la Luna, it becomes a real tourist trap, with prices for just about anything being judged in accordance with your nationality. After a light and unfulfilling lunch we had a walk around the village, and then Sarah MkII suggested that we walk to the top of the Cerro Calvario, a reasonably large hill overlooking the lake and the town. Good practice for the upcoming Inca Trail we thought.

Not really prepared for the level of ascent, we took an hour or so to climb the less-than-difficult trail, but the altitude makes everything hard going. There are fourteen stations of the holy cross on the way up, and then at the top we found a number of eery looking tombs to greet our arrival. The area at the top of the Calvario however is now covered in grafitti, and such is the quantity of litter strewn all over the surrounding hillside that I doubt if it has ever been cleared, tainting what should really be a lovely place. Finding a suitable rock, here we settled down to watch the sun setting over the lake which was quite spectacular. Like all traditional nights in these regions, as soon as the sun dips behind the horizon, the temperature drops by around fifteen degrees, and so three of us, and an Australian girl called Jenna who had been admiring the views with us, rapidly descended for some hot coffee liquors in one of the town's many overpriced cafe's.

That evening we met Jenna again, and went for a reasonable meal in one of the many restaurants in town, followed by a few beers in a really laid-back bar run by a native french guy. Here some fella played the Saxophone for a while which was surprisingly good, and then everyone just sat around on the nicely arranged beanbags and pillows, chatting, smoking and listening to numerous cool tunes in a really relaxed atmosphere. At last we actually felt like travellers. If only we liked weed and could go for a month without washing our hair...

The following morning Sarah MkII left us for Cusco, and we had planned to visit the nearby Isla del Sol for the day. It was then that we realised we had a problem. Enquiries for a cashpoint were not being met enthusiastically (basically there wasn't one in town), the one and only bank was shut for another two days, and our hotel manager was offering little in the way of solutions. We had 100 Boliviano's left on us; enough to get us to the island, and leave us with the equivalent of four pounds until we reached the Peruvian border 28 hours later. Faced with the thought over a very dull day in the town, we opted to continue with our plans, and boarded our boat to the Island of the Sun with moments to spare.

The journey out to the island to just over two hours, due to an engine which would have had trouble powering most domestic lawn-mowers. Sarah managed to keep her chunder-eyes under control almost until docking, when she finally turned a little green as the water became more choppy. Landing safely, and vomitless, we then discovered that the visit to the Inca Site and museum on the island would cost us extra money which we clearly didn't have. Not being overly sold on hanging around for the boat to return us to the mainland four hours later, our only option was to take the 20km hike from the north of the island to the south.

And so off we trudged, with only a two-litre bottle of water and packet of week old cookies to our name. Quoted as a two-and-a-half hour walk, we hiked through mountain pathways, across a near deserted beach where a guy tried to charge me for photographing his pigs (or he may have just been angry because I had to have a poo in a bush behind his house), and over the top of two fairly high passes, arriving at the southern port nearly 4 hours later, and only just in time for our return voyage.

Although yet more good practice for our upcoming main hike event, we were both now quite tired, very hungry and a little bitter. There's probably nothing worse than having money in the bank, but not being able to get at it. Except possibly not having money in the bank. We'll try some of that when we get home. At this point, the only viable option we could see to forget the hunger and mild resentment was to go straight to bed and hope that we could sleep through the night. And so, at just after 6pm, we did. And with resounding success I might add.

Waking early, and with the hotel bill pre-paid, we helped ourselves to as much of the free bread and jam breakfast we could manage. During this gargantuan feast, we got chatting to a young couple from Wolverhampton and as they were going in the same direction, we all went to catch our connecting bus to Puno on the Peruvian side of the lake.

Please check out my new website:
http://www.pwd-design.co.uk

We'd heard many disturbing stories about bus journey's in Bolivia. Ranging from luggage being stolen mid-transit and drivers falling asleep on overnight journeys, to armed thieves boarding en-route and systematically robbing the passengers at gunpoint. None of these tales filled us with confidence for our forthcoming journey from Uyuni to La Paz, but we had to get there somehow, and the train which ran from Uyuni to Oruro was still a few days wait away. After being dropped at the tour office from our Salt Flats trip, we went with our bags directly to the bus 'station', namely a street where the bus may stop if you're extremely fortunate. Enquiries produced little, and we were being flatly refused tickets by a number of agencies. Handily, we got chatting to a group of four other backpackers who had also just finished their Uyuni jeep tour, and were having some success in getting a ticket. They kindly bartered for us too, and some 30 minutes later we were sitting at the back of an extremely crowded and somewhat odious bus.

With nothing more than good old British luck, we found ourselves sitting directly behind an inebriated group of Salt Flat workers, one of whom took a particular fancy to Sarah and her 'lovely blond hair'. He sat admiring her amourously whilst attempting some of his best English chat-ups, which included asking where we were from some fifteen or twenty times. Realising his luck just wasn't in, he soon thankfully turned his attention to another of the girls in the group. Next, a rather large Bolivian lady arrived, carrying her large rucksack-style blanket wrap on her back, and an extemely young child in her arms. With four of the back seats taken, she plonked herself handily into the middle one, at which point the baby began to scream manically. This was to last approximately seven hours, and it wasn't long before the baby's one and only shitty nappy was thrown on the floor in front of us. The Salt Workers played their sole CD of Bolivian pop music over and over again for the whole journey, and the bus spent the first four hours of the journey bouncing us heavily over dirt roads before finally hitting some tarmac. Where are those armed gunmen when you need them?

La Paz lies at the bottom of a steep canyon, and we had hoped to catch some spectacular views of the highest capital city in the world, but by arriving at nearly 1am, we had lost our chance for now. Finally catching some good fortune however, we managed to check into the first hostel we turned up at. Now that we were back in mild civilisation, the following day was to consist of organising some arduous necessities such as laundry, and in the evening we found ourselves taking a nap at 7pm, and not waking for some 14 hours. Lazy yes, but quite necessary.

We decided for our third night to move to a different hostel, and had been recommended one near the bus station which suited us fine. A much more modern place, the Adventure Brew Hostel neatly incorporated its own brewery, which meant that much to my disgust, we would receive a free beer every evening. Still finding ourselves a little rough from the 3,500m altitude, we took it easy again in the hope we would acclimatise fully for the mountain bike trip booked for the following day.

Rising early, we met the Gravity guides at a small cafe in the main strip, and boarded their bus which would take us to our starting point at 4,200m in the nearby mountains. Sarah's lack of riding experience in the last 20 years, and the unsurprising knack of going over the handlebars on her last Oz trip, aided her wise decision to just come along for the ride in the jeep. Kitting the twelve riders out with all of the relevant gear, we started our descent at around 8:30am, riding mostly without the need to peddle for the first hour down the paved mountain highway. Then we were told to prepare for a small uphill section, which managed to almost kill me. With two hours gone, the professional biker guides announced that we were now sitting at the very top of the main event: a single width dirt road, which hugs the edge of the mountains and is wisely named The World's Most Dangerous Road!

So called because it claims some twenty-odd vehicles and the lives of anywhere between two and three hundred people per year over it's vertical edges, this fifty-mile commercial passageway between Bolivia and the Yungas is the main route used by cargo lorries and a number of local bus services. The bird's eye view is on the left, where the earth itself seems to open up and you get amazing views of the Coroico River rushing to join the Amazon some half a mile below. Gravity is now the only company which can still claim to have not had anyone killed on one of it's daily mountain bike tours. Reason enough to pay that little extra for the peace of mind, even though they tell you that you must ride on the left next to the gaping ravine. There's no accounting for being able to handle a bike however, and with the track at barely three metres wide there is little margin for error, and it soon became clear why many people might have a small fatal accident.

I tried to stick with the front guide as much as possible as this was the only way to see how best to take some of the hairpin corners and narrow bends at speed. During our ride, crosses at the roadside marked the locations of fatal accidents whilst the guides regaled us with stories of previous victims and showed us a number of wreckages, one being that of a bus which had slipped over the edge just one month ago, taking forty-eight unfortunates with it. Luckily, this was the dry season, but during the wet season the rains will come cascading down the walls of the chasm and huge waterfalls will drench the road turning its surface to slime. There are pleasant stories of truckers too tired or scared to continue, who pull over for the night hoping to see out an Andean storm. Parking too close to the edge however, the road is washed away around them and they are swept to their deaths while sleeping.

This part of the ride took almost three hours, and by the end with concentration levels waining we were ready for the all-inclusive buffet and a dip in the pool. Following the presentation of our 'survival' t-shirt and some quality time with a few monkeys, we all clambered into the back of the mini-bus for our ascent back up the very road we had just defeated.

If anything, this was worse than the actual mountain biking, and we were all pretty nervous as the small coach inched it's way up the winding track, our lives dependent on the driving skills of one local man who had been up since 5am. On occassions it was possible to actually look out of the window and see nothing but the sheer drop below. We also picked up one of the human traffic lights which are positioned along the route, who began to tell us that he was employed to signal manage this point of the road due to a young french girl going over the cliff-edge on her bike about a year ago.

At around 2,800m, the late evening cloud drifting around the van didn't do a great deal towards settling our nerves. Thankfully, we arrived safely back in La Paz at around 8pm after what had been a long and thrilling day. I was aching all over, but can honestly say that this was one of the best experiences of my life. Perhaps something I would have to consider in greater depth now that I am more aware of the consequences of one small slip in the wrong direction. For many of the tour companies at least, it seems that ignorance is bliss.

With just one full day left in La Paz before we headed north, we felt it was only right that we take in some sights, despite my unwilling limbs. First we walked down into the Plaza San Francisco, where a demo was taking place in the grounds in front of the giant cathedral. This is apparently a regular occurance in Bolivia, as the disgruntled natives passionately appeal for better working conditions or to stop the illegalisation of Coca, something the government are now trying to impose. Although not violent, this wasn't somewhere we wanted to hang around due to the masses of people congregating in the area. Menacing looking lads in balaclava's mill about aimlessly in the intense sun, but these are just shoe-shine boys, hiding their appearance so as not to bring shame on their families.

We quickly headed in the direction of the Witchcraft market, where we were expecting to find all kinds of weird and wonderful things, but were a bit disappointed to see just the normal tourist style knitwear and trinket stalls. In the middle however, we stumbled across the Coca museum and decided to go in and take a look. Despite doubts that it might be a little dull, it was actually really interesting, with insights into why the Latin American's believe this plant to be such an important part of their lives.

There is evidence to support coca leaves being used for a variety of purposes since as far back as 2500 BC, and it is now such a big part of Andean life and ancestory that the people will probably fight until the end of time to keep the tradition. According to the locals, chewing the leaves gives them some kind of extra energy, to the extent that miners would not even consider entering the workplace without their ration. Although it is said that the people chew, in actual fact they are just sucking on the dry leaves, and only using their teeth enough to release the juices contained within. A few minutes later, there is an intense anesthetic effect in the cheeks, throat and tongue. The ingestion of the juice supposedly acts as pain relief and it has been commonplace for centuries to take coca infusion to alleviate pain for a wide range of ailments including headaches, toothaches, intestinal cramps and so on. Of course, the leaves are most famous for their use in the battle against altitude, where the stimulating effect on respiration is the perfect complement to offset the chronic lack of oxygen at 4000 metres plus.

It was Vassili von Anrep who first perceived in 1880 the anesthetic properties of cocaine derived from Coca leaves. Later Karl Koller, an associate and friend of Sigmund Freud (who was later to introduce Cocaine as a recreational drug), had the opportunity of using the drug for anesthetic purposes - an ideal and long awaited medicinal breakthough. Many big pharmaceutical companies endevoured in its manufacturing and numerous 2% cocaine solutions were soon being introduced and used as medications against the likes of birth pains, ointments for hemorrhoids, solutions to relieve dental pain in infants, drops for earaches and during abdominal surgeries and the suchlike.

In 1887, Dr. Sttyth Pemberton from Atlanta gave birth to the world of Coca Cola. He manufactured the now famous non-alcoholic beverage from the leaves of the Andean Coca plant and it wasn't until 1902 that the Cocaine itself was removed from the product. Coca leaves are still however used in the flavouring, and to this day, the U.S. remain the biggest importers of leaves from South America. Sorry if you don't think any of that was interesting, but we did...

We continued our self-organised city tour by going to the Sopocachi neighbourhood, and visiting the central park and the Plaza Murillo, before heading back for our final night in the hostel and a few beers and a barbeque with some chirpy Aussies. Overall, La Paz held a mix of adrenaline, fascination and unfortunately, normal city activity but will always be remembered as the place where I could have accidentally killed myself in the pursuit of a little excitement...

Please check out my new website:
http://www.pwd-design.co.uk