High Plains Backpacker - Cusco to Puno journal
Andy Carvin
from my September 98 trip to Peru and Bolivia. I promised I'd post the rest
of my journal in January. Well, it took a little longer than expected, but
I've finally wrapped up typing it all up. The following messages will include
my journal entries for Puno, Copacabana and La Paz. If you'd like to see my
previous posts, visit http://www.dejanews.com and search for "High Plains
Backpacker."
So, without further ado, here's my entry for Cusco to Puno.
ps - please excuse any typos or minor errors. I'm still editing the text.
Andy Carvin
aca...@gsn.org
http://edweb.gsn.org/andy.html
--------
High Plains Backpacker:
Friday, September 4
Altiplano Railroad
I hit the snooze button at least twice this morning. A few minutes before 7am
I finally rolled out of bed and put on some shoes. For all we knew, Luis
could be stopping by in 20 minutes to take us to the train station but my
stubborn, sleepy head continued to argue for a 9am departure time. I needed
to check with the front desk.
"Cuando el tren... Cuando el tren.... Dammit.... Susanne!" "Cuando el tren
para Puno sale," she muttered, half asleep. "Cuando el tren para Puno sale."
I repeated yet again. "Why did I have to study French in high school? Cuando
el tren para Puno sale..."
"Cuando el tren para Puno sale?" I asked the man at the hotel reception,
brimming with linguistic confidence. "Ocho," he smiled.
Uh oh - eight o'clock. Luis would be by in less than 15 minutes. "Susanne!" I
yelled as I entered the room. "Get up! Gotta go at 7:15." Fortunately we had
never really unpacked the night before so it only took a moment or two to get
our backpacks in order. The harder task was waking up and getting dressed
with enought warm layers to withstand the chilly Cusco morning. Around 7:10 I
stepped outside the hotel gate to the Plaza de Armas, just in case Luis
arrived early. "No one's ever early in South America," I muttered to myself.
Yet within a minute or two Luis and a driver pulled up in their minivan.
"Good Morning, senor!" Luis greeted me. "Is your lady friend ready too?" As I
turned to yell for Susanne she came through the gate, tightening her backpack
around her waist as she walked. We were on our way with plenty of time to
spare.
We briefly stopped at a small hostel north of the plaza. After waiting a few
minutes a bearded young man with fiery red hair down to his shoulders boarded
the minivan with the largest backpack I've seen in years. He looked
strikingly similar to Dr. Bob Bakke, the flamboyant paleontologist who always
seems to have a special on the Discovery Channel. He climbed behind Luis and
started chattering away with him in fluent Spanish. I saw the luggage tag on
his backpack: San Jose. Aha - he had that Bay Area thing going on alright.
The five of us drove through the empty streets of Cusco before reaching the
southern train station. I had forgotten Cusco had two major train stations,
one for Machu Picchu trains and the other for Puno and Arequipa trains. We
approached the station from behind and were let through a security gate by
armed guards. With the crowds of touts outside the station I felt better
knowing we'd be allowed to drive right up to the terminal without having to
worry about pickpockets. After buying a bottle of agua sin gas we boarded the
train, only to find that someone had already placed their luggage in the
small rack above our seat. No problem, I figured; we'll just place our bags
in one of the many other racks that were still available. The backpack above
us, though, was one of those huge trekking packs that towers well over your
head when you wear it, and nearly half of the bag was drooping over the side
of the rack, two feet above Susanne's head. I could tell already I'd have to
watch that thing for the next eight or nine hours.
The train soon filled up with fellow travelers, including several groups of
German, French and British backpackers. A young Dutch couple sat directly
across the table from us. They never said they were Dutch - they hardly said
anything at all - but they were both reading large books that were clearly
written in Dutch. To our right, just across the aisle, were two middleaged
French couples. Almost as soon as the train departed for Puno they pulled out
a sack of fresh bread, a large chunk of cheese and eight small containers of
yogurt. These folks knew how to travel, I thought as I looked at our meagre
water bottles and pieces of semi-stale carmel pastry.
For the first half hour of the trip Susanne and I both attempted to write in
our journals. Both of us had fallen terribly behind already - in my journal
we were still on our first train heading to Machu Picchu. The Puno train
offered a much smoother ride than the narrow-gauge Machu Picchu train, but
not smooth enough for either of us to write legibly. "I tried that on our
train to Cusco," the Dutch woman across from us said, pointing to my journal.
"I gave up before you did." I looked at the page or so I had written that
morning and quickly realized that I could barely read anything I wrote. It
was difficult enough reading my poor penmanship when it's written on a stable
surface. There was just no way I was going to get very far writing today. I
returned the journal to my daypack, looked out the window and watched the
sunrise over the Andean hillside.
The morning passed quickly as the train continued south, gently rocking back
and forth down the track. Cusco was now about 100 kilometers behind us. We
were now in the Altiplano - the Andean high plains. Even though the Andes
stretch far down the western slope of South America, not all of the range is
made up of soaring snowcapped peaks. Between here and Lake Titicaca (another
five hours to the south) and continuing into western Bolivia, the Andes
flatten out into a lofty plateau surrounded by rolling hill country. I've
heard the Altiplano described as bleak and desolate, but here at least the
scenery was acre after acre of plentiful farmland, small villages and grassy
hillsides. Herds of cows, sheep and alpaca graze the fields on both sides of
the train. I was particularly excited to see alpaca in their traditional
surroundings. Every llama and alpaca we had seen up to this point had been
for the benefit of tourists only (though the llamas of Machu Picchu primarly
served as natural lawnmowers). Now we were far from tourist country,
surrounded by farms and pastures. It was as if Montana had been transplanted
south of the equator and dumped on a plateau 13,000 feet above sea level.
As we continued southward I paid more attention to the herds of black and
white sheep. On some occasions the train would ride just alongside a pasture,
allowing me to get a closer look at the grazing animals. Suddenly it occured
to me that I hadn't been staring at sheep - they were long-haired alpacas!
Farmers shear their alpacas once every year or two, and if you wait long
enough the alpaca wool will get extremely long and busy. These "sheep" were
actually alpacas in dire need of a shave. Most of them had been grazing in
the grass so I couldn't see their distinctively long necks. Now that I was a
little closer I spotted numerous alpacas with their heads held high, like
someone with a funny sense of humor had cloned a sheep with a small giraffe.
Apart from the beautiful countryside the train ride itself was uneventful. A
pair of German backpackers, one of whom had stacked their pack so poorly
above our heads, annoyed the bulk of the train car by beginning to smoke. You
could see passengers' discontent spread as the smoke drifted further down the
aisle. One of the Frenchmen next to us sniffed the air in disgust and mumbled
"Fume" to his companions. A few minutes later a train steward entered the car
and promptly ordered the Germans to take their cigarettes outside between the
cars or to put them out. "Thank goodness," I said, "We're actually in
non-smoking then." The Germans continued to cause trouble by trying to climb
onto the train roof from outside the car. Once again they were rebuffed by
the stewards and told to sit down.
We then made a quick two-minute stop at a country village, which gave me
enough time to step outside in search of something to eat. Several campesinas
approached me with buckets of candy and peanuts, but nothing substantial.
Someone, I figured, had to be selling empanadas, sandwiches or something
filling. "Pan, por favor," I yelled out from the train. One of the campesinas
near me turned her head and repeated, "Pan!" which was then repeated by yet
another woman. A moment or two later a young woman ran up to me with large
round loaves of fresh bread. "Pan, senor!" she smiled. "Quanta cuesta para
uno pan?" I asked?" "Uno sole." I guessed the loaf would actually cost a
fraction of that, but with the train about to depart I wasn't going to argue
over 30 cents. I paid the campesina and returned to our car as hungry
backpackers all eyed my warm loaf of bread, its fresh smell overpowering the
smoky odor left by the German fellows.
There wasn't much to do on the train so every now and then I'd wander outside
to the small platform between the cars. I brought my camera with me and did
my best to steady myself to get some pictures of the countryside. "Why don't
you sit down," a tall Italian man said to me, pointing to the outer steps as
he smoked a handrolled cigarette. This is how people fall out of trains, I
thought to myself. "I am quite serious," he said. "Sit down with you back to
this wall and place your foot here," pointing to the edge of the doorframe.
"If you do this and hold on with one hand you can then take good pictures
with your other hand." He then quickly squatted to the floor and
demonstrated. It seemed reasonable enough, so I got down and planted my right
foot squarely into the doorframe. There wasn't much room to get comfortable,
but my pressed foot indeed locked me into place. With the cool late morning
wind rushing through my hair I leaned outside the train and snapped some
pictures. "Trains are wonderful, are they not?" the Italian smiled, taking
another drag from his cigarette.
Just before noon the train stopped at a small market town halfway between
Cusco and Juliaca. Unlike most other stops which usually lasted for 10
seconds or less, we spent 15 minutes here, allowing many of the passengers to
get outside and stretch. Susanne stepped outside to walk around the platform
while I again leaned out the door, this time purchasing a two plastic bottles
of Diet Coke and Sprite. Once the train started to roll we discovered the
bottles had been shaken a bit; the Sprite fizzed all over Susanne. She wasn't
pleased.
Lunch was available on board for 20 soles, about seven dollars. Not exactly a
bargain by Peruvian standards, but I was hungry so I ordered the roasted
chicken. Around 1pm the chicken arrived with an onion and avocado salad as
well as a thimble-sized pisco sour. The chicken was surprisingly delicious
and generous: a roasted half chicken with a tangy (and messy) barbeque sauce.
Even Susanne, who hates chicken on the bone, enjoyed it. It was by far the
best food I've ever encountered on a train. I certainly made a mess of it,
though, and was in dire need of Susanne's collection of Wet-Wipes in order to
get the sticky red sauce off my fingers.
Not long after 4pm the train pulled into Juliaca, a major transportation hub
just northwest of Lake Titicaca. I had initially thought we were going to
depart the train here; there were a series of switchbacks between Juliaca and
Puno so it was actually much faster to catch a minibus from Juliaca instead
of enduring the rest of the train ride. Back in Cusco, though, Luis insured
us that the switchback process didn't take as long as it used to, so we would
be met by our local guide, Carlos Quispe, on the tracks in Puno between 6pm
and 7pm, depending on when the train arrived. As the train sat in Juliaca, I
walked around the car to stretch my legs, poking my head out the door to see
what was going on. About five minutes into our stop a thin Peruvian with dark
Aymara Indian features climbed onto the car and asked loudly, "Su-san
Cornwall?" Susanne and I immediately looked up and introduced ourselves. "My
name is Carlos Quispe," he said, tilting his large hat above his head so we
could see more of his face. "We are driving to Puno. You must get off
quickly."
We were both surprised to see Carlos in Juliaca so we rushed to grab our bags
off the luggage racks, to which they had been secured tightly for the bumpy
train ride. Carlos carried Susanne's bag as we departed the train and walked
to a minivan parked across from the train station. "We weren't expecting you
here," I told Carlos. "I know," he said, "but it will be two hours before the
train gets to Puno, and we can drive there in 45 minutes, so I thought I
would pick you up here. We will be in Puno before 6pm." I wondered if this
courtesy was going to cost us an arm and a leg but I appreciated the chance
to get off the train an hour or two early. Susanne and I were joined in the
minibus by a young Irish couple, Joe and Fiona. They were heading to La Paz
by way of Puno after having spent a few days in the Peruvian Amazon.
The drive to Puno passed quickly as we talked to Carlos, Fiona and Joe. I
told Carlos we planned to go to Bolivia the next day. "I can help you get to
Copacabana and La Paz, if you would like," he said. The bus ride from Puno to
Bolivia shouldn't cost us more than five or ten dollars, so I told him we
could talk about it at the hotel in Puno. The sun began to set over the
Altiplano, which had now become flat, desolate farmland with steep hills far
in the distance. "This could be the Dakotas, in America," I said. "It
certainly looks like the Far West to me," Joe replied. I continuously
adjusted the window curtain to my right in order to get out of the direct
sunlight. We were just below 4000m, above 13,000 feet; the high altitude and
thin atmosphere was a recipe for severe sunburns, especially near Lake
Titicaca. "From now on we use SPF 30," I said to Susanne, dabbing some suntan
lotion on the right side of my face and neck.
Around 5:30pm the minibus began to descend into a steep valley, revealing the
city of Puno below. Puno is Peru's largest port along Lake Titicaca, which we
could now see to the east. Sometimes called the blue lake for its uniquely
deep blue waters, Titicaca was an immense azure expanse stretching as far as
the eye could see. I've always wanted to visit this lake ever since seeing
Jacque Cousteau documentaries about it as a kid. "The highest lake in the
world," it's often labelled. While not exactly true - there are even higher,
yet much smaller, navigable lakes in the Andes - at 3820m altitude Lake
Titicaca is still an impressively lofty place.
As we descended into Puno the streets became crowded with hundreds of
pedestrians weaving in and out of traffic. I'd never heard anything good
about Puno - "there's no history there..." "nothing to see or do..." - but I
could already tell that this was a lively little city. Every sidewalk was a
never- ending market, with scores of campesinas selling fruit and vegetables,
pots and pans. "There are 40,000 people in Puno," Carlos commented, and every
last one of them seemed to be out and about tonight. After dropping off Joe
and Fiona at their hotel, Carlos drove us to Hostal Isla. "It's a nice
place," he said, "but if it's too loud I will take you somewhere else." I
noticed a large discotheque next door to the hostal - not a good sign.
Susanne didn't seem to mind the noise but I asked if there were any quieter
places nearby. "No problem," Carlos smiled, "We can go to Hostal Zurit
instead."
I wasn't familiar with Hostal Zurit but was eager to check it out. Susanne
looked ready to drop for the night, but I said it would probably be worth
going elsewhere if we want a good night's sleep. We followed Carlos uphill
through the pedestrian-packed streets. Our heavy backpacks combined with the
steep altitude (3000 feet above Cusco, 13,000 above Washington DC) caused us
to lag behind Carlos, who darted in between campesinas and food carts like a
cat prowling after a mouse. After walking a block or two we reached Hostal
Zurit, a deserted, multistory building with an immense atrium. It seemed
comfortable enough for one night - certainly quieter than the Isla, so we
quickly settled in our room on the second floor. Carlos told me if we still
wanted to go to Copacabana tomorrow his tour bus could take us there for $10
each. That sounded fine with us so I paid him in soles. "I'll pick you up at
8am tomorrow," he said. "The bus will take about three hours, depending on
how long you wait at the border."
By 6pm we were both getting hungry so we walked up to Avenida Lima, two
blocks north of the hostal. Carlos recommended several restaurants on Lima,
not far from Puno's main square. We walked up the crowded streets to the
square, which was decorated with perfectly trimmed topiary animals. "A little
piece of Disney on Lake Titicaca," I said. Avenida Lima was a long pedestrian
walkway packed with restaurants and cafes. Carlos had specifically
recommended Restaurant Don Piero's, though he also said most of the other
restaurants along Lima were both good and safe for gringos. Don Piero's had a
solid reputation for tasty food but I could tell from the outside window it
lacked any atmosphere. Across the street I noticed another restaurant with a
darkened interior and Andean music coming from inside. Three men with menus
stood outside the restaurant, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to share them
with us. They smiled as I approached them and asked for a menu. The food
selection seemed fine, so Susanne and I went inside.
We both ordered chicken from the "Speciales de casa" side of the menu.
Susanne asked for the arroz con pollo while I selected another chicken dish
which I later realized was Spanish for "dry chicken." I grimly wondered what
I had gotten myself into. Along with a couple bottles of sprite we also
requested another agua sin gas. The young waitress brought out our drinks,
leaving the mineral water on the table with a pair of empty glasses. I opened
the water and began to pour it when I noticed the water was heavily
carbonated. Strangely, the bottle's label read "agua sin gas," just as we had
ordered, and not "agua con gas," which is clearly what we got. I called over
the waitress and tried to explain the situation. "El agua no esta agua sin
gas," I said, to which she confusedly replied, "No, senor, agua sin gas," as
she pointed to the words on the label. "Si, si, agua sin gas," I said, also
pointing at the label, "para agua sin gas esta agua con gas," as I then
pointed to the fizzy water coming out of the bottle. Neither of us had an
explanation for the situation but eventually she realized something was amiss
and brought us a fresh bottle. I gave the bottle a light shake and opened it.
No bubbles. "Ah, agua sin gas," I smiled. "Gracias."
A few minutes later our food arrived piping hot and smelling delicious.
Susanne's arroz con pollo was a huge platter of paella engulfing a quarter
roasted chicken, while my dinner was a similarly sized chicken piece
smothered in steaming onions and a white wine sauce. The food was fantastic,
perhaps the tastiest food of the trip. "Why can't more Peruvian restaurants
offer arroz con pollo instead of egg sandwiches and french fries?" I said. We
wondered if some of the tasteless food we had previously experienced was
actually a side effect of the altitude medicine Diamox we were taking.
Diomox, as we had discovered, left most food with an iodine taste, but it
seemed our bodies were adjusting to the twice daily doses of pills. "I
suppose confused tastebuds isn't that bad of a side effect for altitude
medicine," I said. "Imagine if the the side effect was flatulence - all of us
tourists would be known to the locals as Gringos con gas." Susanne and I both
roared with laughter, trying our best to contain ourselves. "Gringos con
gas," Susanne cried, "That's just awful..."
Our stomachs stuffed and our thirsts quenched, we returned to Hostal Zurit
after a lazy stroll along Avenida Lima. It was too bad we had made our plans
based on Puno's poor repuation. I think we would have had fun hanging out
here for a day or two. Tomorrow, at least, we were heading to the Bolivian
town of Copacabana, which had the reputation of being a lot prettier and less
crowded than Puno. Copacabana would also serve as our departure point for
Isla del Sol, a small island on Lake Titicaca known for its ancient Aymara
villages, historic Inca ruins and Aegean-like vistas. I had high hopes for
our first few days in Bolivia.
Before going to bed I visited the hostal's front desk to request a pair of
extra pillows. Susanne and I had looked up the word for pillow in our
dictionary - "almahadon." None of the hostal staff spoke English, so I hoped
I'd pronounce it correctly. Downstairs I found a young man reading at the
reception desk. "Tiene dos almahadon," I stuttered in Spanish. "Almahadones?"
he asked, as I placed my hands on the side of my face, imitating someone
asleep. "Okay, no problem," he replied in English. The pillows appeared
upstairs several minutes later.
As we settled in for the night Susanne and I heard what sounded like a large
crowd chanting and marching down the street. "A political rally?" I asked.
Susanne decided to go down and investigate. A few minutes later she returned
and said, "A political candidates and his supporters. The election is in
October - and somehow I managed to learn all of this in Spanish." Indeed we
had seen seen many buildings spraypainted with political grafitti regarding
certain candidates. At first I thought the grafitti was done as vandalism but
the more of it I saw across Peru I realized that people were probably
spraying their own houses and buildings in support of their candidates.
High-gloss posters and sign would be financially prohibitive here in the
countryside, so graffiti made a compelling substitute.
I thought of political rallies and songs from Evita as I fell asleep, the
campaign rally growing quiet as it marched away.
Next: Puno to Copacabana, Bolivia
Andy Carvin
aca...@gsn.org
http://edweb.gsn.org/andy.html
-----------== Posted via Deja News, The Discussion Network ==----------
http://www.dejanews.com/ Search, Read, Discuss, or Start Your Own
Andy Carvin
Backpacker, which covers my September 98 trip to Peru and Bolivia.
This episode: Puno to Copacabana.
If you'd like to see my previous posts, visit http://www.dejanews.com and
search for "High Plains Backpacker."
And please excuse any typos or minor errors. I'm still editing the text.
Andy Carvin
aca...@gsn.org
http://edweb.gsn.org/andy.html
--------
Saturday, September 5
Bolivia Bound
Sundance: What's your idea this time? Butch: Bolivia. Sundance: What's
Bolivia? Butch: Bolivia. That's a country, stupid! In Central or South
America, one or the other. Sundance: Why don't we just go to Mexico instead?
Butch: 'Cause all they got in Mexico is sweat and there's too much of that
here. Look, if we'd been in business during the California Gold Rush, where
would we have gone? California - right? Sundance: Right. Butch: So when I say
Bolivia, you just think California. You wouldn't believe what they're finding
in the ground down there. They're just fallin' into it. Silver mines, gold
mines, tin mines, payrolls so heavy we'd strain ourselves stealin' 'em.
Sundance: (chuckling) You just keep thinkin', Butch. That's what you're good
at. Butch: Boy, I got vision, and the rest of the world wears bifocals....
With 11 hours of sleep under our belts, Susanne and I had a quick breakfast
of maté de coca, rolls and jam in the Hostal Zurit dining room. We returned
to our room just after 7:30am to make sure all of our belongings were packed
up for the bus ride to Copa. We had only been in Peru for a week, but it was
now time to go to Bolivia. When Susanne first suggested a visit to Peru and
Machu Picchu, I immediately replied that we should also spend a few days in
Bolivia. Why? "Why not. How often do you get a chance to go to Bolivia?"
Granted, while Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid came to Bolivia with dreams
of banks overflowing with gold and silver, our only motivation was a taste
for some adventure. Bolivia is the most isolated country in South America,
and also its highest - at over 4000m, the capital city of La Paz is the
highest capital in the world (even Lhasa, Tibet is lower: 3650m). Bolivia is
home to half of Lake Titicaca, as well as the ancient ruins of Tiwanaku and
the Spanish colonial capital of La Paz. The days of Butch and Sundance
robbing silver mines may be gone, but Bolivia still conveys a frontier-like
mystique that continues to attract intrepid travelers from around the world.
Why go to Bolivia? How could we not go to Bolivia when we've gotten so close
already?
About 7:45am Zacharias showed up at our door, a little ahead of schedule.
"Are you ready?" he asked. "Is it 8 o'clock yet?" I responded, shoving the
last bits of clothes into my backpack. "Perhaps my watch is a little fast, he
said." No matter, I'd rather have our guide be a little early than a little
late. We hopped into his minibus for a quick ride to his tour agency, where
we waited inside for the Puno to Copacabana bus to arrive. "Here is your
ticket," Zacharias said as he handed me a flimsy pink slip not much thicker
than toilet paper. "The ticket is good to La Paz," he continued, "so when you
are ready to leave Copacabana, go to Vicuna tours and they will reserve a
seat for you on the La Paz bus."
I was more than a little surprised when Zacharias said our tickets would be
good beyond Copacabana. Our ten dollars would get us from Puno all the way to
the Bolivian capital on a spacious tourist bus - not bad. A few minutes later
a large bus pulled in front of the agency. "This is your bus," Zacharias
pointed. "If you want, look for me at the Hotel 6th de Agosto. Have a good
trip." With that, Zacharias shook my hand and returned to his office.
Susanne and I boarded the bus, which was already crowded with travelers.
"Asiento tres y quatro," the bus agent said, pointed to a row of seats on the
right side of the bus. We settled into our seats, Susanne's backpack crammed
above her head, mine in between my legs. Most passengers stowed their luggage
on the top of the bus, but such stowage has always made me uncomfortable,
especially over poorly paved roads with lots of large bumps and potholes. By
8:30 the bus was on its way. The driver pulled out a small box of cassette
tapes and plugged one of them into the stereo system. Loud Cuban salsa music
filled the air - an old recording of "Bamboleo":
Bamboleo, bambolea,
Porque mi vida yo la prefiero vivir asi...
"Havana's greatest hits, 1957," I said to Susanne. "What could be better for a
dusty busride to Bolivia?"
For the first few miles of the drive we paralleled the coast of Titicaca, the
sun rising higher above the cobalt blue waters. By 9am, though, the bus
veered inland, continuing along the paved highway to Yunguyo, the Peruvian
border crossing to Bolivia. We drove quietly for the next 90 minutes,
cruising through rocky hill country and farmland to the addictive sounds of
"Guantanamera." Our bus needed a dance floor.
Just before 10am we pulled into Yunguyo and stopped in front of a casa de
cambio. "Change your money here," the bus agent told us. We only had about
$25 in Peruvian soles at this point, so I cashed these in for Bolivianos
while Susanne did the same with a traveler's cheque. "Is this rate good?" she
asked me, handing me a calculator with the number "5.45" on it. "Pretty
good," I said. "Just be sure to say 'No tiene sencillo?' if they give you too
many bills larger than a twenty." Bolivia was notorious for its national
obsession with small change - no one ever seems to have anything large than a
10- or 20 boliviano note (about two and four dollars) except to pay large
bills. I dreaded the thought of not being able to buy food or water anywhere
because no one would have change for a 50 boliviano note. Nevertheless, the
woman behind the counter tried to give us our change back in 100 boliviano
notes. "Sencillo, por favor," I asked. "Veinte, diez notas?" "I will give you
50 notes," she said in English. "You will have no problem with them." I guess
we'd find out one way or enother since she seemed to be in no mood to give up
her small change either.
Back on the bus we drove for another five minutes before reaching a small
hill. The road up the hill was surrounded on both sides by groups of
campesinas peddling bags of peanuts, popcorn, sodas and small change
Bolivianos. The 30 or so of us on the bus climbed outside and gathered behind
a long queue of people extending from an immigration office. "Hopefully this
entire process will take less than an hour on both sides," I said. Susanne
looked at me skeptically. The group waited as the line slowly progressed.
Some people took advantage of one sole shoeshines from local boys. Several of
them pestered us for a shine, and I couldn't figure out how to explain to
them that my hiking boots weren't leather. Susanne, on the other hand, had no
good excuse - her Rockports were coated with dust from our days in Cusco and
Machu Picchu. "I can wait a little longer. No, gracias," she'd say to the
young entrepreneurs, no matter how hard they pressed.
We eventually made our way to near the front of the the line. Susanne and I
entered a small office where two immigration officers sat at their desks. The
officer looked me over and flipped through my passport, trying to find the
entry stamp I had received in Lima. With the press of a black stamp he closed
out my stay in Peru and sent me outside. Susanne followed a moment or two
later. We were well ahead of most of our fellow bus-goers, who were still in
the queue. One of them, a lanky Spanish man with matted dreadlocks, stood in
line with a smouldering cigarette in one hand and a liter bottle of
Arequipena beer in the other. "Now that's one hell of an exit," I said to
Susanne, though I can't say I'd ever try it myself.
The bus agent was nowhere to be seen so I didn't have a solid idea what to do
next. "I think we just walk across the border now," Susanne suggested. A
Swiss woman from our bus was waiting for someone and we asked her what she
thought we were supposed to do. "Go that way, I think," she said, pointed to
the adobe gate on the top of the hill. "I guess we better go to Bolivia,
then," I said.
The Peru-Bolivian border was the most casual border I've ever crossed. There
were no police or border guards at the gate; only more campesinas lining both
sides of the crossing with their blankets stacked with peanuts and boliviano
coins. There were no official signs saying "entrada," "salida" or even
"Bienvenidos a Bolivia!" As far as we could tell we were simply passing under
a vaulted gate. "I guess that was it," I said as we crossed through to the
other side of the hill. Indeed, we were now in Kasani, Bolivia. Near the
bottom of the hill we reached another building with yet another immigration
office. As we stood in line we were handed some paperwork to fill out, which
we completed by the time we reached an older man behind a large desk. He gave
each of us a stern look, taking our passports and papers in one swipe. I
pictured Michael Palin playing a stodgy old bureaucrat in some Monty Python
border crossing skit: "Ew... I'm sorry guv'nah, you can't come 'eere; You
don't know tha bloody password..." The man looked at each line on our papers,
giving each a large checkmark of approval. Having completed the forms to his
satisfaction, we were then pointed to another office where a sleepy official
stamped our passports after counting the number of checkmarks on our
paperwork. Susanne and I were now officially sanctioned to spend the next 30
days in Bolivia as we pleased, even though we actually had only a week
available to us.
Our bus was now parked a few dozen yards from the Bolivian immigration
office. No one was on board yet so I decided to visit a small market at the
bottom of the hill. "Try to find some crackers or vanilla wafers," Susanne
said. Crackers and wafers, it seemed, had become the stable of our diets
along the Altiplano so I searched for a campesino selling roasted peanuts in
order to give us some variety. Copacabana, apparently, is known for its giant
peanuts, rivaling any nuts coming out of Jimmy Carter's farm in Georgia. I
soon discovered, though, that most of the market stalls offered heartier
sustinance: huge bowls of quinoa soup, loaves of bread, even skewered beef
hearts grilling over charcoal pits. Eventually I found a campesina with a
lofty heap of peanuts piled atop a red and black wool blanket. "Cuanta
cuesta?" I asked, pointed at the shells. "Dos bolivianos," she replied. I
wasn't sure how many peanuts 40 cents would get me, but she soon handed me a
plastic bag with half a kilo of freshly roasted peanuts, more than enough to
keep us busy for the rest of the ride.
After scrounging another bottle of of agua sin gas and Susanne's cookies I
returned to the bus, where Susanne was sitting outside. I started to get
comfortable on a large rock, cracking open a few peanut shells, but the bus
driver and his partner quickly returned, clapping their hands to get everyone
back on the bus. Within a minute or two after boarding we then hit the road
again. Numerous seats that were once filled with passengers were now empty. "I
hope they're not leaving anyone behind," Susanne said.
As we continued onward the smell of the warm roasted peanuts began to drive
me crazy. I didn't have a bag in which to put the spent shells so I
improvised by cracking the window and tossing them outside. It was a futile
effort; the wind blew the shells back into the bus each time. I then poured a
small pile of nuts into my lap. "I guess we'll just have to use the peanut
bag for the shells as well."
Just before noon our bus descended into a rocky valley, revealing Lake
Titicaca once again to our left. As we entered Copacabana our bus was stopped
by a man in a uniform who informed us in Spanish and English we each had to
pay a one boliviano tax "for the upkeep and preservation of Copacabana." Our
Lonely Planet book had warned us of this scam; basically we would be bribing
the police to visit the city. There wasn't much we could do, though, since
they weren't going to let us go anywhere without paying. I handed the man a
five boliviano coin and said, "Dos personas." He handed us two slips of paper
and two coins. Two bolivianos? We should be getting three back. Susanne and I
both exclaimed, "Señor, TRES bolivianos, por favor." Neither of us were very
pleased. The man looked at the two coins in my hand and flipped them over.
"Sí, tres bolivianos," he said before climbing off the bus. Apparently one of
the one boliviano coins was actually a two boliviano coin, the only
difference between the two being a zigzag edge on the inside ring of the two
boliviano coin. Woops.
The bus pulled into the heart of Copacabana, along Avenida 6th de Agosto
(every major street in Bolivia, I later concluded, is an auspicious
occasion). The unpaved road sloped quickly down to Lake Titicaca, about 100
yards ahead of us. Going uphill was Copacabana's main square, and above that,
its Moorish cathedral. Beyond that, there wasn't much else here. Copacabana
is a small city by most standards, easily accessible on foot as long as you
don't fall into its many potholes or open sewers.
We didn't have reservations in town but Zacharias had suggested we try the
Hotel 6th de Agosto, which he promised was right along the heart of Avenida
6th de Agosto. To our surprise, though, none of the locals had ever heard of
it. "Hotel 6th de Agosto?" they repeated. "No hotel 6th de Agosto aqui." We
were only a few blocks away from the highly recommendal Hostal Prefectural,
recently renovated and renamed the much more marketable Hotel Copacabana. The
hotel was a massive orange building just above the lake, with a spacious
foyer, lobby and cafe inside. Unfortunately, they were full booked for the
weekend. Susanne took advantage of their restrooms while I asked the hotel
manager for any suggestions. At first he said the Hotel Ambassador was nice,
but the Lonely Planet described it as "the acting youth hostel in
Cocacabana," not exactly what we had in mind. I pulled out our map and showed
it to the manager, hoping he might offer more suggestions. "Hotel Cúpula," he
said, pointing to a spot on the map where there was no hotel listed. "Muy
tranquilo." "Cuanto questa para un doble con bano privado?" I asked. "Setenta
Bolivianos, cien, ciento veinte bolivianos, muy bueno..." That was still less
than $30 a night so we decided to check it out.
We hauled our packs down the road past Avenida 6th de Agosto and up an
unpaved segment of Avenida 16th de Julio, sloping up a large hill. I was
reminded just how high the local altitude was as we quickly lost our breath
climbing each step up the hill. At a deserted intersection I saw a small blue
sign with the words "Hostal Cúpula" above an arrow pointing left down Avenida
Perez. We walked along the side of the hill, revealing a stunning view of
Lake Titicaca and the city below. A man in a police uniform stood by a
wrought iron gate and waved us in, smiling. The Hostal Cúpula, freshly
whitewashed with gardens of blooming flowers, was a small Eden perched above
Copacabana. Its roofs were decorated with large moorish onion domes more at
home along the Mediterranean than in chilly Bolivia. In its tiled courtyard a
young man with long blond hair sat on a marble bench, strumming a guitar as
two companions leaned back and listened. There had to be a mistake - what on
earth was this place doing in Copacabana? (and perhaps more importantly, why
wasn't it in any of the tour books?) I rang the bell at the front desk; a
short Bolivian man descended a white staircase and welcomed us. "May I help
you?" he said in English. "Tiene un doble con bano privado?" I asked. "Yes,
yes," he said. "Cien bolivianos." 100 bolivianos was just under $20, just
right for our budget and a welcomed break from the inflated prices of Cusco
and Aguas Calientes. He brought us to a bright, sunny room with a view of a
courtyard garden. There were three beds inside, a bathroom with hot water, a
large desk with chairs and original oil paintings on the wall. Classy
accomodations indeed.
We dropped our backpacks on the bed and immediately headed for the two vacant
hammocks suspended in the garden. While the weather was chilly, the bright
altiplano sun warmed our spirits as we crashed into the canvas hammocks and
sighed. "I think I can spend a few days here," I said. We in fact had only two
nights in Copacabana; on Monday we planned to spend a night on Isla del Sol, a
two-hour boatride from town on Lake Titicaca. The next morning we would return
to Copacabana and catch an early afternoon bus to La Paz. A day and a half
should be more than enough time to see the local sights.
After relaxing in the hammock for a while Susanne and I grabbed our cameras
and walked down into town. We needed to get something to snack on and tie us
over until dinner, but first I suggested we visit the cathedral, Copacabana's
main attraction. As we walked through town we were passed by several cars and
trucks decorated with garlands of flowers. Each Saturday and Sunday morning,
hundreds of people would gather in front of the cathedral to perform cha'lla
ceremonies, ancient Aymara blessings that blended indigenous beliefs with
Catholicism. If you bought a new car or were beginning a trip it was
important to perform cha'lla on your car. It was now well into Saturday
afternoon so by the time we reached the cathedral plaza things had returned
to normal. Campesinas lined the sidewalk with souvenir stalls specializing in
small reed boats, religious icons, weavings and stuffed seagulls.
Inside the cathedral's grandious white gates was another plaza dotted with
beggars. As we walked the plaza towards the cathedral, old campesina women
held out small empty bowls, chanting "Señor, por favor, por favor..." We had
been told to expect a lot of beggars in Bolivia; fellow travelers always
seemed to stress the poverty here. I was saddened to see the Aymara women
begging but knew there was little I could do about it. Susanne noticed a
blind man playing an old violin on the cathedral steps. I gave her two
bolivianos to put in his cup. She dropped the coins in his cup and took a
picture; the old man smiled and began to play.
The inside of the cathedral was small and modest, yet peaceful; we sat for a
while as I quietly read my guidebook's history of the church. The cathedral
was best known for a statue of Mary visited by thousands of pilgrims each
year. The museum housing the statue wasn't open today so after a few minutes
of solitude we returned to the outer plaza. I approached a campesina selling
reed boats and motioned to my camera to see if I could take a picture.
"Quatro bolivianos," she hissed at me. Four bolivianos? I must have looked
shocked because she quickly reduced the price to two bolivianos, which I
handed over to her. She sat there impatiently, staring over my shoulder as
took my picture. "Muchos gracias, señora," I said, which she totally ignored,
spitting some coca leaves to the ground. I had been warned that the people of
Lake Titicaca were known for their abruptness but I was still taken aback by
her chilly reception. Indeed, as we walked down Avenida 6th de Agosto towards
the lake I noticed none of the local women would look at me as they passed
by, even if I said "Buenos tardes." There was a tension in Copacabana I
hadn't expected; hopefully it wouldn't permeate our entire visit.
About halfway down the avenida Susanne and I discovered a hole-in-the-wall
cafe called Inti Huayri. The cafe seated no more than eight people: two pairs
on small stools made of tree stumps, and three or four people on a broad reed
boat that had been converted into a sofa. A young couple sat on the
boat/sofa, whispering sweet nothings to each other as they drank their
coffees. Susanne and I both ordered maté de cocas and some fresh bread, along
with an empanada con queso for myself. A teenage girl brought us our snacks
then returned to her spot behind the counter, where she fiddled with the
radio into she found the right song. Susanne and I sipped our matés watching
children play on the street outside. The winds had picked significantly since
we sat down; the girl behind the counter twice had to step out and prop up
the menu sign which kept blowing over in the gusts. Thick swirls of dust
rolled down the avenida with each gust of air. Several groups of young men in
uniforms walked by - military cadets, perhaps. In the other direction I
spotted younger children wearing white lab coats, probably coming from
school. "This town sure does have a lot of young pharmacists," Susanne said.
A tall young man with a thin goatee entered the cafe and sat across from the
couple on the reed couch. He spoke quickly in Spanish though I noticed he
occasionally threw in some French phrases. Susanne and I continued to snack
until the goateed man pointed to Susanne and said, "You have my camera." I
didn'tknow what he meant at first but then saw he was holding an old Canon
AE-1, not unlike Susanne's. "They're great cameras, aren't they?" Susanne
said. "Mine is over 18 years old and its still great."
"I think my battery is dead," he replied. "The camera will not work. Do you
know where the batteries are held? I have never replaced it before." Susanne
and the man fidgeted with his camera until she found the battery compartment.
"Six volts," she said as she looked at his dead battery. Poor guy, I thought.
Where would he find a six volt camera battery for a 20-year-old camera in
Copacabana?
"Actually, I saw a woman by the cathedral selling nothing but batteries,"
Susanne said. "You may want to go up the street and see what she has." "Sí,
sí, sí, I think I will do that," he replied, his stuttering shyness overcome
by a broad smile. "Are you from the United States?" he continued. "We are
from France, but we live in Peru."
"Are you in school?" I asked.
"Sí, sí, in Lima," he replied. "We have come to Bolivia on, on..."
"Vacation," his friend jumped in. "We will also go to La Paz before returning
to Lima."
"I think I'll go look for my battery," the goateed man continued. His two
friends swallowed their last sips of coffee and grabbed their cameras. "I hope
you enjoy Bolivia," he said. "Bonne chance," I replied, pointing to his camera
as they stepped out the door into Copacabana's windblown streets.
After a refill of matés, Susanne and I left the cafe and continued down 6th
de Agosto towards the lake. Much of the avenida was a complete mess with open
sewer lines and exposed pipes creating a continuous obstacle course.
Earth-moving equipment sat idle beyond an intersection - I wondered if the
streets were always like this or if the local workers had taken the weekend
off. The avenida descended as we approached the lakefront. The local shops
displayed a variety of junkfood, snacks and drinks on tables outside their
windows - last minute supplies for gringos trekking to Isla del Sol, I
surmised. As we reached the lake Copacabana came to life, with hundreds of
people gathered on the beach with their friends and families. On one stretch
of sand were several rows of new cars draped in flowers, their owners
standing around their hoods celebrating over large bottles of beer. Four boys
monopolized two large foozball tables sitting in the middle of the beach
while two younger kids horsed around in the sand, wrestling back and forth.
About a dozen or so boats waited along the shore, their owners plying the
beach for prospective customers. "Señor, señor," one of the boatman began to
say to me as he motioned proudly to his motorless rowboat. "No gracias," we
responded, continuing our stroll along the beach. I didn't spot many fellow
gringos by the lake; most of the visitors appeared to be either locals or
Bolivian tourists in town for a pleasant weekend. Further down the beach we
found a small amusement park consisting of a carousel and pony rides. I
didn't know what to expect before coming to Copacabana but I could now see
how this small town had earned its reputation as a lazy beachside resort.
There wasnt much to do here, and thats probably just the way everyone liked
it.
As the sun drifted down the sky towards the shimmering lake Susanne and I
agreed we should find a place to get dinner. We were a block below the Hotel
Copacabana so we turned uphill to check out its restaurant. For a hotel that
was supposedly full booked the Copacabana was eerily quiet, with no guests to
speak of in the atrium cafe. The hotel staff informed us that dinner service
wouldn't begin until 7:30pm so we decided to spend the next two hours
relaxing over some drinks and our journals. We quietly sipped our matés and
Fanta as we made a feeble attempt to catch up in our writing. Usually we're
pretty good about keeping our travel journals up to date; though we might
sometimes fall behind by a day or two, we rarely get significantly behind.
For whatever reason, though, South America seemed to either eat up our free
time or make it as inhospitable to writing as possible, whether it was an
exhausting day at Machu Picchu or a nerve-wracking train ride across the
Altiplano. I dearly hoped Copacabana would give us the chance to catch up and
not fall perilously behind; today, at least, we seemed to be off to a pretty
good start.
Around 7:30 the restaurant maitre d' invited us into the main dining room,
handing us the list of tonight's specials and the ala carte menu. Their
dinner special consisted of a fish called pejerrey - we didn't know what the
English equivalent would be. I for one was eager to try the local specialty -
trucha criolla, or salmon trout. Fortysomething years ago a World Health
Organization representative explored methods to improve the meagre diets of
the local Aymara population. Someone came up with the brilliant idea of
seeding Lake Titicaca with fresh-water trout. They imported salmon trout,
dumped some in the lake, and overnight, a new fishing industry was born. At
two or three dollars for an entire fish platter you couldn't beat it,
especially when compared to the tired Altiplano alternatives of salted beef,
french fries and egg sandwiches.
I ordered a trout sauteed in white wine sauce while Susanne chose the chicken
dish. My wine sauce was described as con zanahorias; unfortunately zanahorias
wasn't in our dictionary's food and beverage guide. I tried to ask the waiter
if he could explain what it was but he couldn't find the words for it.
"Imagine trying to answer the question 'What is an eggplant?' to someone who
doesn't speak English," I said to Susanne after he left. As we waited for our
meals we both sipped fresh cups of maté de coca as the television in the main
lobby played old music videos. "Come on, come on, come on now touch me babe/
Can't you see that I am not afraid," Jim Morrison of the Doors sang as the
light from the television flickered on the glass windows overlooking a
darkened Lake Titicaca. Far in the distance over the lake I noticed fantastic
lightning strikes penetrating the blackness, growing stronger and closer
every several minutes. "Wonderful," I said, "a severe thunderstorm and we
don't even have umbrellas. I hope the food gets here soon." "Relax," Susanne
replied, "we can always take a cab.... They have cabs here, right?" As far as
we knew the local taxis were more than just long distance shuttles between
here and the border. Hopefully there would be no problem catching one at
night, though I honestly didn't know if the walk back to the Hostal Cúpula
was completely passable by car. If the storm took its time we'd probably be
all right.
As I dwelled on impending showers the waiter delivered our entrees. Despite
being fried and served with more french fries, the salmon trout was tasty and
hot, sitting on a bed of rice and pureed carrots zanahorias, apparently.
Susanne's chicken was nothing to write home about, and her cold, greasy rice
pilaf set off numerous gastrointestinal alarms in both of our minds. "I think
that great chicken you had in Puno was an aberration," I said. "You may be
stuck with greasy dark meat chicken for the rest of the Bolivia."
After using every available napkin to wipe the oils of our fingertips Susanne
and I agreed it was time to get out of here before the storm broke. Our
waiter was kind enough to cash a 100 Boliviano note - just under $20 but
still rarely tolerated in Bolivia outside of hotels and ritzy restaurants. We
struggled over whether or not to leave a tip: our travel guide emphasized
that tipping is extremely rare in Bolivia unless you're at the finest dining
establishment or received service that went well beyond the call of duty.
"Leave something," Susanne insisted. While I liked the idea of traveling in a
land where tipping was an alien concept, the influx of Europeans and Norte
Americanos was probably making it more common in places like Copacabana. I
left five bolivianos for the waiter, about a ten percent tip. "Gracias!" the
waiter exclaimed, a bashful grin overtaking his face. Perhaps tipping was
indeed unusual in these parts.
We walked back to the Hostal Cúpula as a steady wind picked up from the lake.
The rain clouds were still suspended over Titicaca but were fast approaching.
Thankfully we reached our room before the skies opened up and soaked us. As
we both got ready for bed, the rustle of leaves transformed into a howling
shriek as nature's wrath reached Copacabana. I couldn't see the rain coming
down but the bending of trees and the horizontally flaring clotheslines made
it pretty obvious a nasty squall was passing though. Technically this was the
dry season in Andean Bolivia but with the recent El Nino, who knew what might
happen here on the lake. All we could do was hope that the storm would pass
and give us some peace for our remaining days in Copacabana.
Next installment: Copacabana, Day 2
Andy Carvin
Backpacker, which covers my September 98 trip to Peru and Bolivia.
This episode: Copacabana, Part 2.
If you'd like to see my previous posts, visit http://www.dejanews.com and
search for "High Plains Backpacker."
And please excuse any typos or minor errors. I'm still editing the text.
Andy Carvin
aca...@gsn.org
http://edweb.gsn.org/andy.html
--------
Sunday, September 6
Local Tensions
Old Miner (to Butch and Sundance:
"You've got to get used to Bolivian ways... You got to go easy... (patooiee!
Damn it...) like I do. Course you probably think I'm crazy, but I'm not...
(patooiee! Bingo!) I'm colorful... That's what happens when you live ten years
alone in Bolivia - you get colorful..."
I looked out our bay window just after 7am. The remnants of last night's
squall were long past and Lake Titicaca had returned to its peaceful blue
self. While Susanne snoozed a few extra minutes I headed outside to the
Cúpula's restaurant for some breakfast. Like much of the Cúpula the walls of
the restaurant were made of large panes of glass; the morning sun shined
brightly over my left shoulder as I wrote in my journal, sipping a cafe con
leche. I hadn't had a decent coffee since we arrived in South America largely
because the local milk was unpasteurized (and therefore not reliably safe.)
The Cúpula restaurant, which prided itself on its hyper-hygienic conditions,
served boiling hot coffee with pasteurized condensed milk. The syrupy milk
quickly transformed the weak Bolivian coffee into a hot mocha milkshake.
Susanne joined me as our waiter brought out some fresh wheat bread and my
fried egg. Susanne ordered a bowl of meusli, yogurt and fruit, something I
probably wouldn't have dared ordered in any other restaurant on Lake
Titicaca. The stereo system played a variety of folk guitar songs. I noticed
one particular duet performed by two men that reminded me of a Simon and
Garfunkle song - this must be Bolivia's answer to Peru's "El Condor Pasa," I
thought. Perhaps I would hear 101 versions of it as well.
Susanne and I had both brought our journals and intended to write for a while
after finishing breakfast. Not long after our waiter had taken away Susanne's
empty meusli bowl I felt an acidic itch in my eyes. "Do you feel that?"
Susanne said simultaneously. "I think they burned something in the kitchen.
"Onions," I replied. "Onions and garlic. This is really getting
uncomfortable." The morning chill made opening the windows a poor option so
we packed up our things and returned to the room to sort out our day plans.
Since we hoped to visit Isla del Sol tomorrow, today was our only full day to
explore Copacabana. As it was we had already seen much of the town yesterday
so we decided to start our morning with a climb of Cerro Calvario, the large
hill immediately behind our hotel.
The two adjacent hills of Copacabana, Cerro Calvario (Calvary Hill) and Nino
Calvario (Little Calvary), are strategically located just east of the town
center. Both hills offer an excellent vantage point of Lake Titicaca and the
surroundings as well as serve as an important piligrimage site for the local
faithful. Cerro Calvario in particular is home to a re-creation of the 14
stations of the cross recounting Jesus' last procession through Jerusalem.
The current stations were added to the hill in the mid 1940s. Little Calvary,
in contrast, plays host to much more ancient stations - stone moniliths
erected by the Inca for astronomical observation. While Cusco and the Sacred
Valley in Peru may have been the home of the Inca at the empire's peak, the
Quechua creation myth traces the origin of the people to here along Lake
Titicaca and Isla del Sol, just off the shore from the Copacabana peninsula.
The ruins atop Little Cavalry are some of Bolivia's last tangible remnants to
its Inca past.
Though most pilgrims and visitors climb the hills from their southern face,
our hotel's location on the western slope gave us our own private base camp.
Susanne and I began our hike by walking from the hotel along an unpaved road
line by several small homes and sheep farms. An old man walking down the hill
stopped just ahead of us, unlocking the gate to an adobe house. "Buenos dias,
señor," Susanne said to him. "Buenos dias, mi señorita, buenos dias," he
replied. Soon after, two women in traditional Aymara dress passed us on the
path. "Buenos dias, señoras," I greeted them, but both campesinas looked
straight and and walked on without acknowledging my hello. "You know," I said
to Susanne a moment or two later, "that's happened to me several times now.
The older men of Copacabana are certainly friendly enough, but none of the
women here would ever give us the time of day." "They're not comfortable with
us," Susanne replied. "We're the ones intruding on their town, and they just
aren't used to it." In all of our travels I had never encountered a place
where the locals looked upon visitors with such icy contempt. I hoped we had
simply crossed paths with just the wrong people - but what if all of Bolivia
was like this?
Susanne and I made our way slowly up the side of the hill, taking regular
breaks to catch our breath. "Think of this as crosstraining for the hilly
streets of La Paz," I said rather dryly. "And I thought we would have passed
the worst of these hills at Machu Picchu," Susanne replied, gasping between
words. Just ahead of us we could see the stony main path used by the
pilgrims. We crossed over the dirt and loose stones in order to gain access
to the path and the better traction it might offer. Four or five Bolivian
families descended the path as worked our way upward, with several others
following not far behind us. I hadn't expected so many people climbing the
hill today - perhaps Sunday mornings were an auspicious time to visit it.
After ten minutes of walking and pausing for air we reached a level platform
that sat on a knoll between the two hills. The platform was a stone plaza,
about 100 feet square, at the center of which stood a tall statue of Jesus.
On the far side of the plaza, on the edge facing the lake, several families
individually engaged in Aymara cha'lla rituals. Each family was attended by
an old man serving as both priest and shaman. As is the case with many
indigenous cultures of South America, the local Aymara indians adopted
Spanish Catholicism and blended it with their own native traditions. On this
particular occasion the cha'lla ceremonies appeared to serve multiple
purposes, including the baptism of a baby, the confirmation of a young girl,
and the blessing of a newlywed couple. On the far center of the plaza, the
shaman placed a silver chalice of smoking incense on the ground, sprinkling
ash into the four winds. He then lifted the chalice and held it to the
forheads of each member of the family, resting his other hand on the backs of
their heads as the smoke enveloped them. The newlywed couple, meanwhile, held
hands as the shaman shook a bottle of chicha and sprayed its contents onto
the ground. Chicha, an indigenous Andean alcoholic homebrew, is now a popular
carbonated beverage available in bottles; on many streetcorners in Copacabana
I've seen families sitting around rusty cardtables consuming it, but this was
the first time I had seen it used during a ritual.
Susanne and I paced the plaza, observing the ceremonies while doing our best
not to intrude. Because of my telephoto lens I was able to snap some pictures
without disturbing them, maintaining a respectable distance throughout our
visit. On the far left of the plaza, just below Cerro Calvario's hillside, I
spotted a pair of dark brown alpacas grazing in the grass. I took a quick
picture with my telephoto before going over to investigate. An older
gentleman with a large poloroid camera sat behind the alpacas and smiled at
us as we approached. "Cuanta cuesta para una photografa?" I asked. The man
responded with an extended answer in Spanish which we both took as him
explaining that he would photograph us with his camera if we wanted. I tried
to explain to him we wanted to pay for pictures using our cameras, but he
shook his head and raised his Polaroid. Meanwhile, Susanne petted the larger
alpaca, stroking its thick brown hair. We could easily see the differences
between alpacas and llamas now that we were up close. The alpacas were
smaller with huge round eyes, almost like a cartoon character's, stubbier
legs and thicker torso, not to mention the softer and longer wool. I again
tried to offer the man money for a picture with our cameras but as I raised
my camera at the alpaca he angrily spouted away in Spanish. Neither Susanne
nor I had any interest in getting a Polaroid of us with the alpaca so we
thanked him and retreated to the plaza, as he stared at us wondering why we
wouldn't pay him to take our picture.
As we stepped away from the alpacas a thick spray of chicha splashed both of
our jackets. A shaman had shaken a bottle for one of his ceremonies, spraying
both of us in the process. I touched my finger to my jacket and tasted it -
unfermented homebrew beer without the hops, I thought. Susanne turned to me
and said "I think he did that on purpose." Perhaps she was right; we were the
only gringos on the plaza, and for all we knew our welcome had worn thin.
Neither of us wanted to make an issue of it so we decided to continue our
climb up the big hill. We wound back and forth as we followed the steps to
the top, passing the 12th and 13th stations of the cross. Visiting pilgrims
had placed small stones on each station; the piles had grown so high I
witnessed several landslides in miniature as people attempted to balance just
one more stone on the station.
As Susanne and I reached the top we could see the entire summit was paved
with stone, both modern and ancient. A series of marble crosses peppered the
length of the plateau, with groups of campesinas manning tableside shops
along its left and right edges. At first the contents of each stall struck me
as odd: toy trucks, doll houses, miniature plastic suitcases. Was this where
locals would take their kids on the weekend to buy them toys? It then dawned
on me that the toys were just props for cha'lla ceremonies: if you wanted to
own a bigger house, you'd buy a plastic house and pray for it. If you wanted
a new car, you could choose from miniature hatchbacks to pickup trucks to
sedans. All the great material things in life were here for the asking.
Susanne and I walked to the far end of the summit. More stone steps descended
to near the water's edge, but we sat down up top and quietly observed the
action around us. Another shaman attended to an elderly couple that had
purchased a toy van. The shaman extinguished a candle and opened a large
bottle of chicha, sharing its contents with the couple. The wife lifted her
glass into the air, then spilled some chicha on the soil by her feet - an
offering of the first sip to the earth goddess Pachamama. Susanne and I
desperately wanted to take a picture of the ceremony and tried to think of a
tasteful way to do it. But we were too close, too obvious to get away with
any photo without being extremely rude, so we kept our cameras at our side,
choosing not to make a scene.
As we watched the ceremony and enjoyed the view of the lakeshore, a man in
his late 40s came next to us, saying "Buenos dias amigos." I didn't know if
he was just being friendly or trying to sell us something as he started to
speak quickly in Spanish. He read the confusion on our faces and finally
asked, "Habla Espanol?" "Un poquito," I replied self-consciously.
"He wants to know if you know there are stairs going down the other side," we
heard a young American voice speak. An Hispanic teenage girl in jeans and a
t- shirt stood to our left, staring at us with a quintessentially teenage
"Jeez, don't you know anything?" look on her face. Her parents and younger
brother then appeared, having overheard what she said. "Are you from the US?"
the mother asked us in English. "Yes, we're visiting from Washington DC."
"We're practically neighbors!" she replied. "We're visiting from Alexandria."
Yet another small-world experience. "Wow, I actually live in Arlington," I
replied, "so we really are neighbors. "Our son was born in Arlington, " she
said, pointing to her obviously embarrassed boy. "Very small world."
"Do you know what they are doing?" the husband said to me quietly, pointing to
the elderly couple with the shaman.
"It's some kind of cha'lla ceremony, right?" I responded.
"Yes, they're asking for the things they want to receive one year from now."
"I didn't realize the ceremony had a specific date attached to it," I replied,
interested in his Bolivian-American perspective.
"Well, they're not asking for these things to appear out of nowhere next
year," he said. "It's more like setting a goal: over the next year I will
work hard for something. This is what I want to work for." The daughter and
son then tugged at their mother's shirt, apparently wanting to explore the
other side of the summit. "I hope you enjoy Bolivia," they said to us,
smiling.
"See you on the Metro someday," I replied.
Susanne and I briefly posed for some photos before beginning our climb down
the hill. A young girl appeared from behind one of the stations and smiled at
us. I smiled back and pointed to my camera, hoping I could take a picture of
her. She giggled and darted behind the station. I slyly followed her and
surprised her on the other side. Again she laughed and ran to the other side,
biting a fingernail as she waited for me to catch up. Once I got back to the
other side, though, she vanished. I guess I wasn't fast enough for her.
I was interested in climbing the other hill to visit the Incan monoliths but
Susanne was eager to return to town, having had more then enough climbing for
the day. At the bottom of the hill we passed a small chapel, deserted save a
minibus decorated in flower garlands. I suddenly remembered there might be
more cha'lla ceremonies going on by the cathedral. Saturday was usually the
big day for locals to have their vehicles blessed, but I figured some might
just as easily save it for Sunday as well. Susanne and I were both in need of
a drink, though, so we stopped at the Solar Cafe for a coke and a mate. The
small garden cafe was empty of patrons, so we asked a waiter if the
restaurant was open. "Sí, por favor," he replied, pointing to an available
table.
Susanne and I sat down, pulling our journals from our backpacks. I noticed the
strong scent of fresh dill in the air; behind me a large dill plant swayed in
the breeze. "Now if only they could put some of that dill on the local trout,
then they'd have a big hit on their hands," I said. The waiter quickly stepped
out of the kitchen and dropped a small bowl of sourdough bread on our table.
"Uno maté de coca y una Coca Cola, por favor," I asked. After disappearing in
the kitchen for a few minutes, the waiter reappeared with two large bowls of
steaming hot soup. Susanne and I looked at each other, perplexed. "No sopa,
señor," I said. "Coca Cola y maté de coca solamente." The waiter stared at us
for a moment, then shook his head in annoyance before walking back into the
kitchen with the soups. "Did he just assume we were ordering the set-menu
lunch?" I asked. "Looks like it," Susanne agreed.
Our drinks hadn't arrived yet and I was tempted for us to leave the
restaurant. As it was, though, we had already started to munch on the
sourdough bread - bread that was probably intended for the soup we never
ordered. Susanne wasn't overly concerned about the incident and insisted we
stay for our drinks, which arrived a few minutes later. "We at least have to
pay for this bread," I said. "I think this guy is ticked off enough as it
is."
We sat there in the garden and did our best to enjoy our drinks as if nothing
had happened. Each time the waiter subsequently passed us he made an effort
to not look over at us. "This is crazy," I said. "Let's just pay and get out
of here. We can try again somewhere else." "What's the big deal?" Susanne
replied; she was intent on finishing her Coke. Our original plan had been to
write in our journals for a while but the ackward tension with the waiter
killed my concentration. I sat back and smelled the fresh dill, observing an
eyelash floating in my mate.
About ten minutes later a group of eight German tourists sat down next to us,
ordering the set-menu lunch and a round of Pacena beers. Our quiet garden
transformed into a brauhaus as the Germans had a merry time drinking and
reading aloud sections from their Lonely Planet Bolivia book. "Okay, I guess
we can go now," Susanne said. I managed to request the check from another
waiter who had missed the entire soup incident. But then the first waiter
returned, bill in hand. There was no mention of the bread on the bill. "El,
pan, señor," I said. "Cuanta cuesta?" "No, señor," he shook his head shyly,
clearly embarrassed about the whole thing. "Por favor," I insisted. "Cuanta
cuesta?" "Ok, uno boliviano," he responded - about 18 cents. I paid the bill
and threw in an extra four bolivianos before exiting through the garden cafe
gate.
A block south of the Cafe Solar we found another restaurant I believe was
called the Inka Wasi. Its garden was crowded with diners so we found two
seats on the inside, which was decorated with dark wood paneling and Aymara
handicrafts. A waitress brought out two large bowls of sizzling soup and
(thankfully) brought them to the table behind us. Perhaps the set-menu
almuerzo wasn't a bad idea after all - and at 10 bolivianos for a soup,
entree, fruit and coffee you couldn't beat it. Susanne ordered an omelette
while I requested the almuerzo, despite having no idea what was included in
the lunch. A waiter soon returned with my own bowl of hot soup - peanut soup
with corn and quinoa. I had heard about Bolivian peanut soup but didn't know
exactly what it would be like. I had expected it to be a thick, creamy soup -
perhaps peanut butter sandwiches of yore clouded my expectations - but
instead I received a light vegetable soup seasoned with ground nuts and
grains. Not bad. The soup went especially well with the spongy squares of
bread served on the side.
Not long after Susanne received her omelette the waiter unveiled my surprise
main course, a cold potato salad with peanut sauce, sliced cheeses, olives
and onions. I was a little hesitant at first to eat a cold salad in Bolivia
but from the nature of the cooked potato and sauce I chose to assume that the
meal was well cooked before being thoroughly chilled. Just in case I swalled
four Pepto Bismol pills in order to coat my stomach with a pre-emptive strike
of medicine. The salad itself was strange to my tastebuds: the cold, peeled
potatoes were generously coated in a peanut sauce with a consistency a little
thicker than Thai satay sauce. The cheeses, onions and olives were pretty
straightforward but the overall combination of flavors worked well. "It's
pretty good," I said to Susanne. "Wanna taste it?" "Forget it," she replied,
digging into her omelette.
Having wrapped up lunch Susanne and I walked the two blocks uphill to reach
the Copacabana Cathedral. As expected we found the plaza in front of the
cathedral crowded with large groups of Bolivians getting their cars blessed.
On the far left of the cathedral a bus crowded with talkative travelers was
anointed with flowers on its hood and around its front lights. A group of
young men standing around a red pickup truck poured beer over its warm
engine, causing jets of steam to rise in the air. Two girls and a boy
remained impatiently in the bed of another truck as their parents waited for
an old man to read prayers to them. Throughout the ceremonies other cars that
had been previously blessed drove by slowly, honking their horns and waving
like a bunch of fraternity brothers arriving at a campus tailgate party.
The whole scene around the cathedral had a festive atmosphere but there was a
palpable tension between the traditionally dressed campesina women and the
small groups of gringo tourists, including ourselves. The campesinas of Lake
Titicaca are well known for their discomfort with visitors; many of the women
refuse to be photographed while others demand large sums to have their
pictures taken. Meanwhile, several tourists, including me, had large zoom
lens mounted on their cameras which allowed us to capture pictures at a
greater distance. I took several pictures early on in our visit but became
much more uncomfortable with the situation after pausing to watch the events
around me. A pair of European men with huge telephoto lens stood behind a
telephone pole, sizing up their targets at shooting. Another man used the
hit-and-run tactic, getting shots of angry campesinas up close and walking
away swiftly, gambling that the women wouldn't go after him. His method gave
"drive-by shooting" a whole new meaning.
As I watched the game of cat-and-mouse unfold around me I quickly began to
feel extremely ackward, like I had crashed a family's private funeral. Most
of the Bolivians getting cha'lla performed on their vehicles didn't seem to
mind us - they too had their cameras out in full force - but the Aymara women
working in the souvenir stalls and the nearby market clearly did not approve
of us being in their neighborhood. I could tell Susanne felt the same way so
I motioned to her to see if she was ready to go. She nodded her head and
grimaced. We walked down Avendia 6th de Agosto to visit the many souvenir
shops along the road. Not far beyond the cathedral we saw a drunk old man
being led towards us by his family, who were obviously trying to get him home
as gracefully as possible. As he passed us close to our right, he looked at
us and was suddenly overcome with an expression of shock. "Gringos!" he
shouted at us, falling back against the wall behind him. His family, more
embarassed than ever, picked him up and took him away. Susanne and I both
broke out in hysterical laughter.
We didn't have any major plans for the afternoon so we briefly shopped around
for a hat. Since tomorrow we would be going to Isla del Sol, I needed to
prepare for the powerful sunrays we'd receive in our two-hour lake crossing.
I had brought my green knit cap to keep warm but it wasn't suitable for
blocking the sun from my face. After visiting three or four shops I finally
found a floppy black hat with red stripes, about the size of an Australian
outback hat. "You're going to wear that?" Susanne said, trying not to laugh.
"I'm not buying this as a fashion statement," I retorted. "All this hat has
to do is get me to Isla del Sol and back. Then I can give it away or
something."
Susanne and I spent the remainder of the afternoon back at the hotel. The
midday sun had warmed things considerably so we took advantage of the
hammocks hanging in the garden. I grabbed my camera to take a picture of
Susanne lounging in her hammock. As I got ready to snap the picture I heard a
rumbling noise accompanied by the sounds of baa's. About two dozen sheep
stampeded down the small dirt road to the right of our garden, throwing up
dust and dirt into the air. "This'll be an interesting picture," I said after
I clicked the camera shutter. Susanne became a little chilly so she soon
returned to the relative warmth of our room to write in her journal. I stayed
outside, writing and reading on a marble table next to the hammocks.
An hour or so before dinner I decided to gather my drawing supplies and walk
behind the hotel to sketch a picture of Lake Titicaca. The hotel hillside
offered an incredible view of the lake and the town below, but a small glade
of trees obstructed some of the view. I continued past the hotel along a dirt
path until I found a ledge on the side of the hill, just beyond a small farm.
I could hear the sound of a young boy commanding his puppy to wrangle his
small flock of baby goats and piglets as I sat on the ledge, sketching the
azure expanse before me. I tried to picture the snowcapped peaks of the
Cordillera Blanca on the far side of the lake but the fires set by local
farmers left a thin haze in the distance, obscuring the mountains into faint
shadows. As the sky darkened from the descending sun the lake too darkened to
a spectacular sapphire blue. I realized at this moment how glad I was I had
brought drawing supplies for this trip. Though I had initially purchased the
pastels in order to capture Machu Picchu, it was this random opportunity to
sketch Lake Titicaca high up on a hillside that made me realize you only have
such opportunities so many times in life. When on earth would I again see
Lake Titicaca? Perhaps never. With my blue pastel pencils and sketchbook in
hand I could comandeer this scene before me, seizing this moment all for
myself.
Susanne and I went to dinner just before sunset at the Hostal Cúpula
restaurant. We both ordered the soup of the day - carrot soup - which came
with delicious pieces of olive oil garlic bread. Because I'd had such a large
lunch that afternoon I stuck to a small vegetarian omelette and a cup of
instant decaf coffee. We had brought along our journals just in case we
wanted to write during dinner, but the restaurant made the unfortunate and
painful decision of playing "The Best of the Carpenters" on the stereo
system. I had no problem enjoying my soup as "Just like me, they long to be,
close to you" flowed through the ether, but as "Rainy Days and Mondays"
became "We've Only Just Begun," and "Ticket to Ride" flowed into "Goodbye To
Love," I began to lose my apetite. We eventually called it a night and
returned to the room, where the only music I could hear was an anonymous
Bolivian folk tune that had drifted into my head.
Next: Copacabana, Part 2
Andy Carvin
Backpacker, which covers my September 98 trip to Peru and Bolivia.
This episode: Copacabana, Part 3.
If you'd like to see my previous posts, visit http://www.dejanews.com and
search for High Plains Backpacker.
And please excuse any typos or minor errors, especially with my Spanish. I'm
still editing the text.
Andy Carvin
aca...@gsn.org
http://edweb.gsn.org/andy.html
--------
Monday September 7
Titicaca Follies
Butch: Well, you know, it could be worse. You get a lot more for your
money in Bolivia, I checked on it.
Sundance: What could they have here that you could possibly want to buy?
Butch: All Bolivia can't look like this.
Sundance: (infuriated) How do you know? This might be the garden spot of the
whole country. People may travel hundreds of miles just to get to this spot
where we're standing now. This might be the Atlantic City, New Jersey of all
Bolivia, for all you know.
Butch: Look, I know a lot more about Bolivia than you know about Atlantic
City, New Jersey, I can tell ya that.
Sundance: Ah-hah! You do, huh? I was born there. I was born in New
Jersey, brought up there, so...
Butch: You're from the East? I didn't know that.
Sundance: The total tonnage of what you don't know....
Our original plan for today was to check out of the Hostal Cúpula and catch a
boat to Isla del Sol, where we would spend the night before heading to La Paz
tomorrow afternoon. But as we went to bed yesterday, shivering from yet
another unforgiving Titicaca night, Susanne and I agreed that sleeping over
on the island would probably be more cold than we could bear. "I can't wait
to sleep under the stars of Titicaca" quickly changed to "I don't want to get
any colder than I already am." Our new plan was to stay one last night at
Hostal Cúpula and visit the island as a long daytrip.
After eating breakfast we headed into town down Avenida 6th de Agosto, where
we stocked up on food supplies for the day: vanilla crackers, wafers, giant
roasted peanuts and a bag of pasankalla, the local gargantuan variety of
choclo popcorn coated with carmel. There shouldn't be a problem buying more
food on the island, but neither of us wanted to be left totally high and dry
just in case. Down at shore, though, I noticed things were particularly quiet
- there were no boats waiting to be taken out, nor any tourists looking for
transport to the islands.
We approached the ticket office that sold passes for the daily 9am tour of
Isla del Sol. Several men stood inside a kiosk and shook their heads in
frustration. "No boats," they said. No boats? The men spoke little English
and neither of us had an exact idea of what they were saying, but it appeared
that all of the morning trips had been cancelled due to high surf and winds.
"Nada hoy?" I asked. "one o'clock, maybe," they replied, though with little
confidence. We were now stuck in Copacabana for the day with little left to
do except kill time and wait. Today was going to be a long day.
With little else to do in this small town, we decided to visit Copacabana's
market, a few blocks from the cathedral. Compared to other markets we've seen
in South America, Copacabana's was rather restrained. On one side of Avenida
Pando campesinos sold fruit, vegetables and fresh bread from wooden carts,
while butchers and clothing stalls lined the other side. An middleaged
cobbler hammered sandals out of worn strips of tire rubber. Not many people
actually seemed to be buying anything; instead people stood around their
stalls, chatting away and chewing coca. Perhaps we had missed the action
earlier this morning - or perhaps there was no action to be found at any time
of day. The quiet morning market did little to alleviate our wrestlessness.
Susanne and I briefly stopped by the catherdral, where we mulled around the
plaza visiting souvenir carts. The cathedral was deserted compared to
yesterday's circus, and as far as I could tell we were the only outsiders
around. Yet once again we felt the icy stares of the local campesinas as we
casually browsed from one cart of souvenirs to another. Even the women
selling the trinkets didn't seem to care to have us hanging around - how on
earth could they expect to stay in business like this? As hard as we tried to
feel comfortable here, someone always seemed to make it clear to us we
weren't very welcome.
Neither of us could come up with any good solution for wasting away the day,
so we returned to the hotel to drop off the unused supplies for Isla del Sol
and picked up our journals and sketchbooks. Perhaps we could whittle away the
hours by writing - lord knows how far behind we've both gotten this week. I
suggested we return to the Inka Wasi for a lazy lunch; the meal we'd had
there yesterday was quite good and the atmosphere seemed suitable for
writing. We walked along the road in an attempt to find the restaurant. At
first I thought we must have been a block or two off, for its gated garden
was nowhere to be found. I then noticed a large wooden door that was bolted
shut and sealed with a large padlock. The door was shaped like the restaurant
gate - the Inka Wasi was closed today.
"If this place is closed, that means the only decent place to eat in town is
back at our hotel," I said. "What does Lonely Planet suggest?" Susanne asked.
I pulled out our guidebook and looked for a restaurant. The book strongly
recommended "Snack 6th de Agosto," which we had passed numerous times along
the avenida. Snack 6th de Agosto was a typical Copacabana garden restaurant:
ample outside seating and a few tables indoors as well. The menu,
unfortunately, was typically Copacabana as well - fried chicken, fried meat,
fried fish; chicken sandwich, egg sandwich, cheese sandwich. There were no
culinary masterpieces to be found in Copacabana, at least not today in this
part of town.
Susanne and I sat in the garden, where we ordered chicken and egg sandwiches.
As we waited for our food we watched three or four large groups of tourists
walk down the avenida. Usually lugging huge backpacks, sometimes wearing
shorts and sneakers, the tourists were as conspicuous and numerous as ants at
a picnic - and as unwelcome, at least in the eyes of many of the locals. "We
knew it would be like this," I said to Susanne. "The Lonely Planet book even
says that the Aymara of Titicaca are often known to be cold to outsiders."
"Yes, I know," she replied, "but it really bothers me that there are places
like this where everyone would prefer it if we never had come in the first
place."
"I wonder how much of this is because of recent tourism and how much of this
is inherent in the culture," I continued. "If we had come here five years
ago, would the locals have minded so much? Would they see us as an annoyance
or as an eccentricity? As it is, the Aymara don't always understand how we
gringos can afford to leave our livelihoods and our families behind in order
to waste our time traipsing around the world. And now that the tour books
declare Bolivia as one of the last untouched cultures on earth, we're all
suddenly drawn to it, and therefore wreck the pristine environment we've come
to observe."
"But it's not always like that," Susanne responded. "Think of our visit to
Laos. Five or ten years ago, no one visited Luang Prabang. When we went last
year it had clearly been 'discovered' by tourists already, but the locals
were the kindest, the friendliest people we ever met."
"You're absolutely right," I continued, "but I wonder if that's partially
because the people of Laos have always had contact with the other communities
around them. We tourists were probably seen as just another group to meet and
do business with, so there's no hard feelings. Here around Titicaca, the
first group to visit the Aymara were the invading Quechuas of the Inca
empire. Not long after that, the Spanish came in and took over. No wonder
they're suspicious of outsiders - what good things have outsiders ever done
for the people here?"
"And it's only going to get worse," Susanne noted. "Look at how many gringos
are already in Copacabana. It's too beautiful a place for tourists not to
visit it. I just hope the residents can make it work for them."
It's not often we've ever felt guilty about our travels over the years;
visiting hilltribes in Thailand might be the only major exception. But it's a
similar pattern of events here: an ancient culture with a fascinating history
and legendary handicrafts begins to attract pioneering visitors. The
pioneering visitors bring hard currency, which cause some of the locals to
change the environment enough to make it more welcoming to future visitors.
With each new round of visitors, more services and amenities are added as
more traditions fall by the wayside. In the end the local population is
divided among those who wish to take advantage of the tourists and make money
off of them, and those who steadfastly hold on to their old ways and insist
their community would be better off without them. Tourism's Cause and Effect.
Who's right and who's wrong? They both are. We all are. Copacabana, sadly,
has developed the reputation for being a quaint little resort community, yet
few too many people involved in promoting it ever bothered to ask permission
of its residents. It's a tangled web of tension between commerce and
tradition and we're stuck smack in the middle of it.
Neither of us were very satisfied with our sandwiches so we strolled up the
street to the Inti Huayri cafe to relax over a couple of cokes. As we walked
to the cafe I noticed several other restaurants were called Snack 6th de
Agosto. It suddenly made sense to me. Before Lonely Planet there had been one
Snack 6th de Agosto in town. Lonely Planet then published a glowing
recommendation of the restaurant, saying you could find it along Avenida 6th
de Agosto, of course. As soon as the book made its way to Copacabana, every
other restaurant along the avenida changed its name to Snack 6th de Agosto.
Who knows if we ate at the original Snack or at a mere poseur 6th de Agosto;
either way the confusion served as simple proof of our theory of tourism's
cause and effect.
We had intended to journal inside the cafe but the tight quarters coupled by
a loud conversation between the owners and some visiting friends changed our
minds. We instead quietly sipped our Cokes, listening to Bolivian marching
band music on the radio. Neither of us really wanted to waste the entire day
without getting at least some amount of writing done, so we again departed in
search of another setting, another cafe where we could spread out and work.
Down the road, not far from the lake, Susanne and I discovered yet another
Snack 6th de Agosto. This particular Snack had a large, deserted garden cafe
with folk music playing over the speaker system. I sipped a bottle of Pacena
beer - my first Bolivian beer, I think - and huddled over my journal, hoping
the words would begin to flow. We managed to get a little writing done but
quickly became restless. "Perhaps this just isn't meant to be," I said to
Susanne. We must have passed the time somewhere, though, for it was now
around 4:30pm. For a slow day it seemed to have gone by rather quickly.
Back at the hotel we caught an early dinner at the restaurant. Since tonight
was to be our last in Copacabana, I splurged for an order of salmon trout
broiled in lemon juice. We finished eating soon after 7pm and wondered what
we would do for the rest of the evening. I remembered the hotel showed videos
each night in the common room. Susanne asked someone at the front desk what
was playing tonight and he replied with the linguistically ambiguous "The
Mascara." After poking her head into the common room she realized the video
in question was going to be "The Mask," with Jim Carrey. Neither of us had
seen it before so we decided to watch it.
As we walked outside to our room we noticed that the skies were totally
clear. Thousands of stars glittered above us. "Maybe now we can find the
Southern Cross," Susanne said. Both Susanne and I were eager to spot the
constellation at least once in our visit to South America, yet every other
night in Copacabana had been cloudy. We spotted a young Aymara man walking
outside the hotel. Susanne quickly approached him and asked him to point it
out for us. "Donde esta le Cruz de Sud?" we asked, hoping Cruz de Sud would
mean "Southern Cross" to him." "Esta no aqui," he replied. "Onze, onze y
media a noche." It sounded like it wouldn't rise in the sky until after 11pm,
but he pointed north instead of south, which confused me. We'd have to try
again later, I guess.
After securing our daypacks in the room we returned to the common room, where
a Norwegian couple and a longhaired American in his early 20s already
occupied the main couch. Susanne and I grabbed two chairs next to a tall
Dutch man who was showing off the largest black cowboy hat I had ever seen.
"I have a really big head," he said, "so I asked them for the largest hat in
the shop." The movie began promptly at 7:30pm: English with subtitles in
Spanish. I've never been a big Jim Carrey fan so at first I paid little
attention to it, spending some time in the adjacent kitchen playing a Spanish
guitar quietly while boiling a kettle of water. The water boiled for 30
minutes - plenty of time to kill any nasty bugs. I brought out matés for both
Susanne and the Dutchman, while I steeped a blend of mate de manzanilla (mint
tea) and coca leaves. Despite the habit I developed in Cusco, I was never a
real fan of the taste of maté de coca, so the mint helped soften some of the
bitterness.
Watching The Mask was a great way to wrap up the evening, especially after
having such a disappointing day. I probably learned more Spanish from reading
the subtitles than I had in the last nine days of traveling. Scott, the
longhaired American, picked up the guitar after the movie ended and played as
the group trickled off to their rooms. We mentioned to the Dutchman we had
been looking for the Southern Cross but hadn't found it yet. "I think I know
where it is," he said, offering to give it a shot. We stepped outside in the
frigid Altiplano air and looked around. "There," he said, pointing to the
southeastern sky. High over the city valley I saw a large, bright
constellation in the shape of a kite - the same constellation I had seen a
week earlier on our busride out of the Sacred Valley. "I am pretty sure that
is it." So we had known the Southern Cross all along and just hadn't realized
it. We stared at the constellation for a few moments. "Well, we've seen the
Southern Cross now," I said. "Where do we go now?"
"La Paz," Susanne replied.
Next: Copacabana to La Paz
Andy Carvin
Backpacker, which covers my September 98 trip to Peru and Bolivia.
This episode: Copacabana to La Paz.
If you'd like to see my previous posts, visit http://www.dejanews.com and
search for High Plains Backpacker.
And please excuse any typos or minor errors, especially with my Spanish. I'm
still editing the text.
Andy Carvin
aca...@gsn.org
http://edweb.gsn.org/andy.html
--------
Tuesday, September 8
Copacabana to La Paz:
Altiplano Roadshow
Butch: Kid, the next time I say, 'Let's go someplace like Bolivia,' let's go
someplace like Bolivia.
Sundance (looking over the cliff): Next time. Ready?
Though our alarm clock wasn't set to go off until 8:30am I woke with the sun
a little before 7 o'clock. We really had no reason to get up this morning;
our bus for La Paz would depart at 1:30pm, giving us the entire morning to
hang out at the hotel. I remembered seeing a sign at the Cúpula restaurant
saying it was closed for cleaning on Tuesday mornings. Indeed, when I went to
the restaurant for breakfast I was told the dining area was closed, though I
could sit on the outside patio and have some coffee. The brisk windchill
coming off Lake Titicaca discouraged me from sitting outside; I'd have to
find breakfast in town instead.
Back in the room I left a note for Susanne, who was still asleep:
"Sus- Going to town to find food and cash a traveler's cheque. Restaurant
upstairs is closed this morning. I'll be back around 9. -ac"
Susanne was never much of a breakfast person so I figured she would mind me
slipping out early for some grub. I walked down into town to Avenida 6th de
Agosto, where I could find the greatest concentration of restaurants. I soon
wondered, though, if Tuesday morning cleaning was a tradition in Copacabana
because most of the cafes were conspicuously closed. I eventually resorted to
Snack 6th de Agosto - the one where we had lunch yesterday - and ordered
their Desayuno Americano, a standard 10 boliviano plate of two eggs, toast,
jam, butter, papaya juice and coffee. The papaya juice was especially good -
thick as molasses. But just as I wrapped up my breakfast I was shooed away by
the owners, who (surprise) were closing the restaurant for cleaning.
Before returning to the hostal I also needed to cash a traveler's cheque.
Since we were checking out of our room we would have to pay the bill of 300
bolivianos, about $55, for three nights' stay. Susanne and I still had around
250 bolivianos on hand - plenty of money to get us settled in La Paz, but not
enough to wrap things up at the Cúpula. The Lonely Planet book said there
were only two reliable places to get cheques cashed in Copacabana - the Hotel
Azul and the bank next store to it. The bank appeared boarded up and
abandoned so I tried the Azul first. The man at the reception desk told me
they didn't change money there, but a new casa de cambio had just opened up
down the street. I went to the new bank and stood in line with two people as
the bank manager swept the floor inside in preparation to open for business.
Around 8:45 a guard allowed the first customer to come in; ten minutes later
I was given the goahead to enter. Before I even reached the counter, though,
a bank employee informed me that they would only exchange cash here. No
traveler's cheques at a casa de cambio? I asked if there were any places in
town that would take my cheque. "Hotel Azul, señor," he replied. I guess I'd
have to pay our hotel bill with a credit card.
Susanne was getting up when I returned to the Cúpula around 9:15am. While she
got dressed I went to the man at the front desk to make sure I could pay with
a credit card. "No problem," he said, taking the plastic from my hand. He
then told me that there would be no credit surcharge for use of the card, as
was the case in Peru. I guess I'd just have to see about that when I got back
to the US.
Susanne and I packed up our bags and moved into the hotel's public room just
after 10:30am. We could stay there as long as we wanted, so that gave us
about two hours to make some hot maté de coca and write in our journals. We
were joined by Scott, the longhaired American who had watched the movie with
us the night before. Scott was a college student from Catalina Island who had
been traveling around Brazil and Bolivia for the last month, and was getting
ready to catch a bus back to La Paz before flying home. Scott grabbed the
Spanish guitar off the wall and began to play songs. "Here's a song I wrote
for my mother," he said as he strummed his melody. He was pretty good and not
at all shy about demonstrating his talents.
"I'm a big Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin fan," he said, playing a song from The
Wall. "Let me give a shot," I said, asking for the guitar. I retuned the
guitar to open-G and started to play "Fearless." "Old Floyd!" he smiled.
"Very cool." We both fiddled around on the guitar for while, with Scott
playing original tunes and me showing off my random repetoire of Zepellin and
Rush songs. Before we realized it, 1pm was just around the corner. The three
of us, joined by the Norwegian couple, descended into the city to catch our
buses.
"Which bus are you on?" Scott asked.
"Vicuna Tours," I said. "What about you?"
"6th de Agosto Tours," he replied.
"Well," I said, "since it appears this is goodbye, you better tell us the name
of your band so I can remember it when you make it big."
"And," he said.
"And," I nodded. "OK, I can remember that..."
As Scott and the Norwegians headed to one corner of the main plaza, Susanne
and I walked to the bottom of Avenida 6th de Agosto, where we had originally
been dropped off by the bus from Puno. There was no bus there yet, so I asked
a local merchant where it was. "No bus aqui," he replied, looking at our
ticket and pointing to a row of buses on the far end of the plaza. Susanne
and I walked across the dusty, windswept plaza to a pair of buses, both
labeled Puno- Copacabana-La Paz. No one had boarded the bus yet, so we waited
around for a few minutes. A familiar face then leaned out of a hotel doorway:
it was the redbearded fellow from San Jose who had shared our minibus to the
train station in Cusco. "Good to see you," he said with a noticeable Spanish
accent. We talked for a while and discovered he was beginning a two-year
round-the-world trip. "Where are you from?" I asked. "Costa Rica," he
replied. Aha - the San Jose I saw on his luggage tag wasn't in California. It
was the capital of Costa Rica.
Around 1pm people started to board the second bus. I showed our ticket to an
old man and he instructed us to get on. He didn't seem to have been paying
attention to the ticket, so once we had settled onto the bus, I asked, "La
Paz bus?" The dozen or so people on the bus all shook their heads no. "Puno
bus." Susanne and I quickly tugged our backpacks off the storage racks and
climbed aboard the second bus. As we waited a second ticket man inspected our
receipt. "Not this bus," he said. "Segundo bus." "No, not segundo bus,"
replied as he motioned for us to reboard the Puno bus. Susanne and I were
both rather annoyed with our predicament to say the least. A young travel
agent then came from out of her office and looked at our ticket. "You must
take Vicuna Tours," she said. "Follow me." Once again we walked across the
plaza to the place where I had asked the merchant where our bus was. Lo and
behold, the same bus we had taken three days early was now sitting in front
of his shop. "Vicuna Tours," the travel agent smiled as she escorted us onto
the bus. Now we could get on our way.
Our bus departed around 1:40pm, half full with backpackers and a handful of
Bolivian tourists. The bus turned away from the lake and drove past the
cathedral. Less than 50 yards past the cathedral we were suddenly in
farmland, freshly plowed and swarming with sheep, goats and piglets. "I had
no idea this was back here," I said to Susanne. "I wish we'd gone for a
walk." After submitting our names to the police departure checkpoint the bus
weaved high up and around they Copacabana valley. We noticed a film crew
shooting in a red clay canyon not far from the road. "I wonder if Newman and
Redford will ever shoot another film together," I pondered. "Only if the
script is right," Susanne responded. I could picture Butch and Sundance
racing up the red clay hillside, trying feverishly to get away from the posse
of trackers. "We'll jump!" "Like hell we will!," I hear them bantering all
the way up.
As the bus drove higher up the valley an incredible site appeared before us:
the hauntingly blue waters of Lake Titicaca flanked by backdrop of the
snowcapped peaks of the Cordillera Blanca. "Get a picture!" I barked
enthusiastically. Susanne leaned out the window and snapped a picture.
"People will think we used a blue filter for this," she said, staring at the
mountains. The bus now descended quickly towards the lake. I could see a
river-thin piece of the lake being crossed back and forth by ferries and
barges. We had reached the Straits of Tiquina, a maritime shortcut our bus
would take to get to La Paz.
At the waterfront we were told to exit the bus and pay one and a half
bolivianos to the Bolivian navy to cross the strait. "Bolivian navy?" I
thought to myself, not wanting to argue with sea-faring officers from a
landlocked nation. As our bus was loaded onto a barge, the dozen of us
boarded a small launch. A pair of Israeli women said across from us, one of
them looking a little queasy. "I hate boats," she said. "I never wanted to
take one again in Bolivia. No one told me we'd take a boat on this bus ride."
"It's a short trip," I promised, trying to talk her through the five-minute
crossing. "Because we're crossing here we'll save at least two hours of
driving time going around the widest part of the lake. So where in Israel are
you from?..."
Before we knew it our sailing time on Lake Titicaca had come to an end, and
the young Israeli had managed not to throw up on any of us. Our bus arrived
on the shore a few moments after our landing. It quickly drove off the barge
and parked on the far end of a small plaza. While Susanne and the others
walked to the bus I paused at a street vendor selling empanadas. "Tiene
empanadas con queso?" I asked. "Sí," the shy campesina replied. "Cuanto
cuesta para una empanada?" I continued. "Uno boliviano," she answered. I
handed over a boliviano coin and received a bagful of four empanadas in
return. Not what I expected, but it was more than enough food to keep us
snacking for the next two or three hours to La Paz.
Susanne managed to doze off as the bus bid a final farewell to the shores of
Lake Titicaca. The highway continued along the bleak altiplano plateau as
freshly plowed farmland stretched across the landscape for mile after mile.
Around 3pm we encountered a barricade obstructing the highway: the the road
was under repair up ahead, so we'd have to drive on a dirt road parallel to
the renovation work. Our bus slowed to a crawl, kicking up incredible amounts
of dust and debris as it traversed miles of dirt, rubble and mud. Images of
luggage and backpacks thrown skyward crisscrossed my mind as the bus heaved,
crashed and twisted from the rocks and potholes below. And throughout the
racket, Susanne slept like a cat. I envied her serenity as I held on for dear
life.
The bus returned to the highway pavement and continued its eastward track to
La Paz. How much further would we have to go? The owner of the Hostal Cúpula
had commented that morning we should arrive in La Paz no later than 5:30 or
6pm, though if we were lucky we'd be in town by 5pm. According to those
predictions we had at least an hour to go. But La Paz seemed so far away:
apart from the glacial peaks of Huayna Potosi to our north and Nevado
Illimani to our east, all I could see around me was more flat altiplano
farmland. Then again, I'm pretty sure that Nevado Illimani stands just east
of La Paz - somewhere between here and that massive mountain is La Paz, below
the horizon in a deep crater-like valley.
Susanne awoke as the bus driver played a game of cat and mouse with another
bus, speeding up and passing it every time the rival bus passed us. As we
made our third or four pass, a large bang shook the bus. I realized we were
all leaning down and to the left just as the smell of burnt rubber filled the
cabin. Susanne and I looked at each other. "Flat tire," we said in unison.
The bus limped to the side of the road and parked in the dirt. The driver
opened the door and waved us to go outside. Donning our jackets and cameras,
Susanne and I stepped out into this barren landscape. Apart from the sound of
a light breeze and the occasional passing bus, all was quiet along the
altiplano. Far to our right a farmer tended his land as his sheep grazed in a
pasture. To our left was more barren farmland, Huayna Potosi standing
majestically in the background. And somewhere straight ahead - how far I
still didn't know - La Paz patiently waited for us. For now, though, we were
stranded in the middle of nowhere.
As our driver removed an extra wheel from the right side of the back axel,
Susanne and I climbed along an embankment along the road. "Despite all of our
travels," I said, "we've never gotten a flat tire. I guess that streak had to
come to an end; might as well be in middle-of-nowhere Bolivia, I guess." "Oh,
this shouldn't take to long," Susanne replied. "We might as well enjoy it."
She was right: at the rate our driver was changing the tires we'd probably on
the road in less than half an hour. The flat offered us an added diversion,
unexpected as it was, to take pictures and hang out in the countryside.
Susanne and I took pictures of each other along the road and in front of
Huayna Potosi. I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the powerful rays of the
altiplano sun, sinking lower to the northwest. I wondered if we would get to
La Paz before sunset. Probably not.
By 4:20 we were on our way again, barely 20 minutes since the flat. Within
another 10 minutes of driving the deserted farmland transformed into streets
increasingly crowded with buildings, pedestrians and traffic. I read a
storefront sign to my left: "Bodega El Alto." El Alto? El Alto is the
outlying area of La Paz, along the upper lip of the La Paz valley. The entire
time our bus was incapacitated I was convinced we were at least an hour from
the closest city. In reality, we were probably no further than 30 minutes
from downtown. But where was La Paz? There was still no sign of its famous,
overcrowded lunar landscape.
The bus squeezed through traffic jams of minbus taxis and produce carts
before reaching what appeared to be a tollway. A few moments after passing
through the tollbooth, the buildings to our right thinned out, revealing an
immense, crater- like gash in the altiplano extending for miles to the east.
One thousand feet down into the center of this deep bowl we could see the
crammed city of La Paz, a maze of skyscrapers and adobe-brown apartments
coating the entire valleyside. Most of the people inside our bus rushed to
the right side, staring out the windows in awe. I've heard of people
describing this descent into La Paz as spectacular, but spectacular doesn't
do the view justice. Having spent the last two hours crossing the flattest of
countryside, the La Paz valley was sudden jolt, as if the earth itself had
opened up and revealed its fiery core. The cityscape was nothing short of
stunning.
The bus descended clockwise into the valley, limping along at 30 miles per
hour due to its paucity of tires. Several cars and buses honked at us as they
tried to pass the bus, frustrated by our pace. Large billboards advertising
everything from American Airlines to the Intel Pentium II Processor loomed
over the highway. "Ahh, the big city," I thought to myself. I didn't know
what to expect from La Paz. I knew it was overcrowded and polluted; many
people had warned me of "a lot of poverty" as well. Perhaps the most
interesting first impression had come from Scott at the Hostal Cúpula.
"Wherever you go you'll see a lot of protesters," he said, "and they'll be
trailed by police in full riot gear: shields, helmets, tear gas launchers and
all. But it's really no big deal..." I couldn't imagine the capital of
Bolivia being a hotbed for social activism and freedom of assembly - Bolivia
still holds the record for the highest number of coups in the Western
Hemisphere. But coups, Bolivians now hoped, were a thing of the past. The
last several elections have gone smoothly, though the current president,
General Hugo Banzer, was himself a former military strongman. Perhaps
allowing freedom to protest was one of his affirmations of political
legitimacy; I suppose we'd soon find out how legitimate it really was.
La Paz at rush hour was a shock to the system, especially after having spent
the last several days in a lakeside village. The streets were teeming with
activity. Businesspeople carried briefcases and chattered on cellphones while
trying to hail a taxi. Street children with wooden shine boxes clamored to
find a dusty pair of shoes they could clean for a couple of Bolivianos.
Campesinas sold American cigarettes, their infants wrapped tightly to their
back in colorful blankets. La Paz was a city of both the Old World and New
World, though I don't mean architecturally speaking only. Everywhere you
looked you could see well- dressed urbanites and traditionally costumed
campesinos competing for sidewalk space. I had only been in town for a few
minutes, yet just through looking out my bus window I could see La Paz was a
city divided, culturally, linguistically and socially.
Our bus squeezed through the tight colonial avenidas, just missing the
thicket of telephone and electrical wires suspended over every intersection.
For whatever reason I noticed the wires before anything else here; they hung
over every street like turn-of-the-century cable car power lines. Each time
our bus turned a corner I expected our luggage strapped to the roof would be
swiped away by a snapping cable, sending showers of sparks to the ground and
setting our belongings on fire. But before such a conflagration could begin
we pulled over along Calle Illimani: "I think our hotel is somewhere along
here," I said to Susanne. Looking out of the left side of the bus, I saw a
painted white sign with the words "Hostal Republica." By some strange
coincidence our hotel was the official downtown drop-off point for Vicuna
Tours. Door-to-door service free of charge. Once we were able to get our
backpacks off the bus roof we only had to cross the street to settle in for
the rest of the week.
Susanne and I dropped our bags in the reception room while I asked about our
reservation at the front desk. When we called the Republica from Copacabana
they told us we might have to take a room without a bathroom; fortunately a
doble con bano privado was still available at $24 a night. A women working
next to the front desk introduced herself as the resident tour agent. She
showed me a list of prices for local tours, including a $15 day trip to the
ancient ruins of Tiwanaku. Tiwanaku was high on my to-do list for La Paz so I
told her I'd talk with her tomorrow morning about tour arrangements for
either Thursday or Friday.
A young man brought us to our room on the far left corner of a beautiful open
courtyard, decorated with checkered marble tiles and a wide staircase to the
right. The turn-of-the-century Republica was once the private villa of a
former Bolivian president, though for some time it's been regarded as one of
the most charming colonial hotels in La Paz. Our room was long and thin, with
two beds, large windows and a lovely view of the courtyard. The bathroom
unfortunately smelled like rotten eggs. At first I thought it simply needed
to be cleaned, but as I tested the sinks and the toilet I realized it was the
sulfur-heavy water supply that was causing the mild stink. "We'll just have
to keep that door closed," I said, wriggling my nose at Susanne.
By the time we had settled into the room I noticed the sun was getting ready
to set. "Let's go for a walk," Susanne suggested. Plaza Murillo, La Paz's
most picturesque public square, was only a few blocks away, so we grabbed our
cameras and walked single file along the slim sidewalk. Even here along our
small avenida there was a continuous flow of taxis and businesspeople walking
from work. One thing I did notice was the traffic lights: people here obey
traffic lights! Susanne and I have been to so many cities like Cairo,
Calcutta and Phnom Penh where absolutely no one pays attention to traffic
lights, signs, or rights- of-way. La Paz, though, maintained a orderly, yet
always high-strung, pattern of traffic congestion where cars would speed as
fast as they could until they hit a red light, then slam on the brakes until
they could again speed off at the next green signal.
Most streetcorners were occupied with campesinas and their meagre convenience
stands selling bottled water, cough drops, chocolate, cigarettes and
empanadas. La Paz has seen a steady influx of rural Aymaras and Quechuas
coming to the city in the hopes of fleeing the poverty of the countryside.
Instead many of them have only found urban squalor. Most of the campesinas we
saw in this part of town seemed to be making a decent living selling goods,
but the adobe shantytowns stretching high up the El Alto hillside stood as a
constant reminder of the deliniation between the very rich and very poor that
call La Paz home.
Four blocks west of the hotel we reached Plaza Murillo. Along with being the
best place in town to feed pigeons, Plaza Murillo is the heart of Bolivian
politics, with its grand cathedral serving as the presidential palace on one
side and a bright yellow, Spanish colonial residencia serving as parliament
on another side. In the center of the plaza stand towering statues and
sculptures dedicated to the glory of Bolivia. Plaza Murillo, though, hasn't
always been so noble a place; in fact its very name comes from the Bolivian
patriot Don Pedro Domingo Murillo, who was lynched here in 1810. History then
repeated itself in 1946 when president Gualberto Villaroel was dragged from
the palace and hung by a mob off a plaza lamp post. Bolivia has had a long
history of shady politics and intrigue, having experienced more coups than
practically any othe nation on earth, some as recent as the early 1980s. But
the 1990s have been a fairly stable and prosperous period for Bolivia:
inflation has been cut from five digits to 10% a year and the last several
presidential elections were smooth (despite president Banzer's status as a
"reformed" former dictator himself).
Sunset at Plaza Murillo is an unforgettable experience. Thick beams of light
provoked the yellow parliament building to glow in rich, warm hues. Huge
flocks of pigeons flew overhead, first settling on the stone balcony of the
cathedral, then swooping down to the plaza, then back the the cathedral.
Those pigeons that remained on the plaza feasted on the showers of corn
kernels thrown by families gathered on benches. A little girl stared in
fascination at the two frollicking puppies her parents had just purchased.
Old men in bright yellow and white uniforms wheeled around carts of ice
cream, calling out "Chocolato! Vainilla! Mango!" like peanut sellers at a
Yankees game. Plaza Murillo was Bolivia at its most relaxed.
Yet interspersed among the crowds of grandmothers, young lovers, and
schoolchildren were camoflaged policemen, heavily armed with shotguns, tear
gas cannons and grenades. Plaza Murillo is Bolivia's White House and Capitol
rolled into one, and the government here makes no bones about displaying a
little public force. To Susanne and me the soldiers stuck out like sore
thumbs, though the residents of La Paz were clearly used to their presence,
paying no attention to them. Likewise, the soldiers seemed to loiter about,
leaning against lamp posts and cracking jokes with their armed comrades. The
soldiers were just another everyday aspect of life in La Paz, invisible to
the denizens of Plaza Murillo - except for Susanne and me, who constantly
noticed them lingering in the periphery.
As Plaza Murillo faded into dusk Susanne and I returned to the hotel to drop
off some things and get a recommendation for a restaurant. Neither of us were
very hungry so we asked the woman at front desk if there was a good place to
get some cheap chicken. "Pollo Copacabana," she suggested. Our Lonely Planet
book said Pollo Copacabana was a local fast food chain akin to Kentucky Fried
Chicken. That was fine with us; neither Susanne and I wanted to make much out
of finding a place to eat tonight. We again walked down to Plaza Murillo and
continued along Calle Comercio, a pedestrian mall closed off to traffic.
Commercio was packed with hundreds of people strolling and window shopping.
Along the center of the boulevard campesinas set up tables stacked with goods
ranging from socks and bras to chocolate covered marshmellows. Electronic
shops and clothing stores had their doors propped wide open, blasting music
up and down the mall.
About three blocks past Murillo we found Pollo Copacabana, a consumate
standing- room-only fast food joint. One of first things Susanne and I
noticed, though, was the fountain soda machine behind the counter. "Uh oh," I
said. "No bottled drinks. Not a good idea." Assuming that we could find
another place to eat somewhere around here, we turned the corner and found a
much smaller chicken restaurant, the words "Pollo Dorado" emblazoned on a
neon sign above. Looking inside I saw a long room with cafeteria seating and
grumpy customers huddled over their food. Again, not very appetizing. "We
passed a couple of restaurants by the hotel," I said. "Wanna check them out?"
"We're in no rush I guess," Susanne replied.
After walking the 15 minutes back to the Hostal Republica we found the
Retaurant del Sol. Susanne and I entered its courtyard seating area and
looked around. A rowdy group of young men occupied two tables pushed
together, piling a dozen or so large bottles of Cerveza Pacena on a
neighboring table. We stood around for a minute anticipating the inevitable
arrival of a waiter but none ever came. The kitchen was located up a small
staircase so I started to walk up to see if I could find anyone. As I reached
the top of the stairs a waiter stepped outside, staring at me in wonder as to
why I was going to the kitchen. Before I could ask for a menu he said, "No
food tonight. No chef. Only beer tonight." Plenty of beer, I could tell from
the sound of things. I looked at Susanne, a little frustrated. "Well," I
said, "there's that other place a block towards the plaza."
The Restaurant Girosol was a mystery from the moment we entered. The front
door led us to a high staircase; a large man with a cigar and a limp walked
several steps ahead of us, sweating and gasping the whole way up. Inside we
found two small rooms. The large man joined another man, also chomping on a
cigar, and immediately began a heated game of backgammon over a shared bottle
of cognac. A waiter stood behind the bar, leaning over to read the newspaper.
He briefly looked up as we entered, then chose to ignore us and read his
paper instead. I motioned at him to get his attention for a menu. Again he
looked up, staring at me as if I had interrupted him from a pivotal paragraph
in the sports section. The waiter briefly left his post behind the bar,
dropping a solitary menu on our table.
The Girosol offered typical Bolivian fare: roasted chicken, fried steak,
trout, and pork. Susanne and I both ordered the chicken. As the waiter
disappeared into the kitchen, Susanne and I looked at each other. "I think
we've stumbled into a mafia joint," I said. "I know," she replied, "I was
about to say the same thing..." The waiter returned, handing me the menu yet
again. "Solamente uno pollo," he said, shaking his head. Leaning outside the
kitchen door I saw another cigar smoking overweight man, his white dress
shirt covered with a greasy apron. The chef, I presume. I looked again at the
menu and asked, "Tiene trucha?" If I couldn't have chicken, hopefully they'd
at least have trout. The waiter looked to the kitchen to gauge the chef's
reaction. The chef closed his eyes and shook his head. "No trucha," the chef
mumbled. "No trucha y solemente uno pollo." Once again I looked at Susanne,
looking for a way out. "I think we should go," she said. We gathered our
belongings and stood up, backing out to the steps as both the waiter and chef
stared at us. "We had no business in that place," I said as we reached the
street. "Let's just go to Pollo Copacabana and get this over with."
After walking by Plaza Murillo for the fourth or fifth time tonight we
eventually returned to Pollo Copacabana, crowded as ever. A campesina was
selling bottled sodas outside, so I purchased a Fanta and an agua sin gas in
lieu of the soda fountain machines inside the restaurant. Susanne and I both
order a plate of fried chicken accompanied by greasy french fries, mushy fried
plantains shaped like tater tots, and a special sauce blended out of ketchup,
mustard and salsa. Gourmet food it wasn't but it would do for tonight.
We walked upstairs in hopes of finding a free table but there was none to be
found. Returning downstairs to the counter seating area I noticed two free
stools, one being used as a footstool and another supporting a woman's purse.
As I turned to Susanne to figure out how we should ask for the stools in
Spanish, the woman with the purse picked it up and put it on the counter,
smiling brightly at Susanne as she offered her spare seat. Simultaneously a
young man lifted his foot off the other stool, his girlfriend prodding him in
the ribs as she smiled at me. The other diners at the counter automatically
parted in two, leading us to an oasis of free space. No one would ever do
that for me in Washington, I thought to myself. Susanne and I dived into our
chicken platters, observing the passing crowds along Calle Comercio through a
plate glass window in front of us. As we ate our dinner and talked I
occasionally noticed the woman with the purse glancing at us with a big smile
as her teenaged daughter pulling at her coat in hopes of going home soon.
After wrapping up dinner we strolled slowly along the mall, its crowds having
increased significantly since we first arrived. "Did you see the way that
woman smiled at us when she offered us the stool?" Susanne asked. "It's
really amazing how one simple smile from a person can form your first
impression of an entire city." I'd thought the same thing as well. Even
though La Paz was Bolivia's answer to New York or London, almost all the
people we encountered seemed happy and gracious to us. It was a marked change
from the cold stares we received throught Copacabana. I knew I was going to
like this city a lot.
Back at the hotel, as we got ready for bed we heard the sounds of small
explosions in the distance. The first one or two bangs I actually thought they
might be gunfire, but as they continued for several minutes I concluded they
must be fireworks. "At least I think they're fireworks," I said, wondering
aloud. Susanne opened our window and leaned her head out into the courtyard. I
heard her ask one of the hotel employees, "Que est la boom boom?" The woman
answered her but I couldn't tell what she said.
"Que est la boom boom?" I asked, smiling. "Well," Susanne replied, "at least
I got an answer with it. She said they're fireworks from the campesinos." The
local Aymara must be celebrating some kind of ceremony, I concluded. At least
the boom booms weren't Boom Booms, so to speak. I climbed into bed, tucking
myself under the many layers of alpaca wool blankets, and went to sleep with
the echos of fireworks exploding in the distance.
Next: La Paz, Day 2