Unadulterated posting

Our trip into Bolivia wasn't particularly eventful. The train from Arequipa to Puno on the shores of Lake Titicaca was possibly the slowest jurney known to man, but compensated for by the views. It was also notable for its blatant apartheid - locals confined to one set of carriages, gringos obliged to shell out muchos dollars for the dubious privilege of sitting in splendid isolation.

We'd been warned by a Geordie we'd met that the border crossing we hoped to do via Desaguedero had been dicey several years ago, but we managed to sail swiftly through Peruvian and Bolivian formalities without once having to hide from gun-toting, bribe-seeking officials.

Despite the grey drizzle that greeted our first view of La Paz it indeed boasts an impressive setting, defying gravity by clinging to rocky mountainsides all around. For some reason our micro (mini) bus left us halfway up one of the hills, meaning we were compelled to continue by taxi. Now, conventional traveller wisdom recommends you insist your taxi driver switch on his headlamps when it gets dark, rather than try to save a couple of cents. As we coasted towards our hotel, I wondered whether it would make me a wimp if I asked he also turn on the engine ... Nevertheless we made it safely to Hotel Milton, its bedrooms memorable mostly for being caught in a 1970s time warp. That, and the fact we shared our room for a couple of hours with someone masquerading as the hotel handyman while he struggled to fix our shower.

We could barely believe our luck when, the next day, we manged to locate a hostal with a pretty courtyard that only wanted to charge 35 Bolivianos (just over 5 US dollars, or about half what we often pay). Of course we SHOULD have noted the red bulbs, the mirror placed strategically over the bed, the piped music, the red shagpile carpet extending half-way up the walls, the fact that the hostal had only double beds ... We should, but in our haste we didn't. Suffice to say we were up really quite early the next morning to resume our search for a place to call home !

La Paz is usually credited as being the highest capital city in the world. Which would be fine, were it not that the official capital of Bolivia is actually Sucre. To be fair, La Paz has certainly become the de facto centre of everything, except perhaps the judiciary. At the time of our arrival it was also one of the most miserable places imaginable - a freezing sleet accompanying us everywhere. As things turned out, good training for weather to come .

After a few days of rest, we were bussed up through the snowline and across a very chilly alto plano (lit. high plain) en route for Cochabamba. This town gave us another glimpse of the huge disparity in wealth to be found in every South American country. Large numbers of beggars mob the beautiful main square, around which anyone who is anybody cruises in their new four-wheel-drive. It was also where, for the first time, we stumbled upon the two-tier economy existing for tourism. Entry to the town's (impossibly) small museum was 2 Bolivianos, unless of course you were noted as being a foreigner, in which case a separate book of tickets was produced from the desk drawer, each costing a hefty 15 Bolivianos !

A ten and a half hour journey brought us to Sucre, the sparkling 'White City', and another place bursting at the seams with restored, Spanish colonial buildings. A place for leisurely walks up hillsides, for lingering over coffee under the colonnades of La Recoletta church and monastery, and for dinosaur spotting !

Just outside of Sucre, in the grounds of the Fancesa concrete factory, lies a huge, limestone surface criss-crossed by dinosaur footprints. To make things even more surreal is that the prints march up an almost vertical wall - what was once terra firma upended by shifting tectonic plates.

Even from ground level it was easy to see hundreds of the tracks. My personal favourites were the huge, round brontasaurus footprints, but unquestionably most popular were the unbroken 250 metre set - the longest yet discovered - belonging to a baby raptor christened Johnnie Walker by the locals (boom boom).

Our next stop was Potosi, once famously wealthy from silver production, which was clearly in the midst of some week-long frenzy. As I dashed off to discover how Newcastle had fared against the Mackems (a draw, thanks for asking), Breda managed to blag herself into a VIP area on the main plaza, with prime views of the colourful and (needless to say) ear-splittingly noisy parades.

Uyuni, our ultimnate destination, had a true frontier town feel to it - wide, dusty, deserted streets flanked by crumbling, once-impressive buildings. We were up at a very chilly 7am. to see if we could book ourselves onto a tour leaving that day. Over breakfast Breda made full use of a gas heater to thaw her hair which, quite literally, had frozen solid following a shower.

Most 4WD tours depart mid-morning. By 9.30 we had already spoken to four or five agencies without success. Just as we were about to call it a day a woman came running over and, within minutes, we'd secured the last two spaces for only 70 US dollars each - a price which clearly pained her greatly, given the anguish on her face before she finally caved. For my part, of greater interest was confirmation there would still be time for four days-worth of additional food to be bought !

Soon we were speeding out of Uyuni and onto the Salar - claimed to be the largest salt lake/ flats in the world, 12000 square kilometres in area and containing approximately 10 billion tons of salt. Local legend has its creation occurring after a nearby hill, Ullupa, was deserted by its mountain lover (who somehow then managed to run off to Cusco). Pregnant and desolate at her loss, Ullupa shed breast milk and tears in equal measure to form the huge white expanse. Alternatively, the Salar is what remains of a huge inland sea that once covered much of Bolivia and neighbouring countries - believe what you will.

First stop on the tour was Colchani, where rock salt is dug and processed by hand before being distributed nationally for the less-than-princely sum of 3 Bolivianos per sack (not even one US dollar). Next came Playa Blanca, which now boasts two hotels built entirely out of salt. One which we were free to wander around, the other which politely but firmly threw inquisitive Breda out on her ear !

Lunch stop was at Isla del Pescado - so-named because, from the air, it takes the shape of a fish.Wildlife actually seemed limited to a few small birds, though there were cacti all over the rocky island - growing at the impressively turgid rate of one centimetre per year, but already several metres high.

The drive off the Salar at times took us through some fairly deep (and obviously salty) water. The views and reflected views of mountains in the distance were stunning - sunglasses essential due to the combination of sun, water and mounds of bright white salt.

Night One was spent not in San Juan, as promised, but in San Augustin - presumably as all the drivers knew of the thumping great fiesta to be held there that night. Mainly to keep warm by moving, some of us scaled the adjacent hillside before supper. What we heard and presumed to be unsupervised practice of the local Under 8s brass band sadly turned out to be the main attraction ! As we descended, so did a large, hairy pig from a nearby ridge, which then proceeded to charge around the corner, making straight for us and our remaining biscuits (the pig, not the ridge that is).

Our lodgings were fortunately a couple of hundred yards away from the core of the party, so at least we snatched some sleep - unlike other groups who arrived late and were therefore housed right next door. The party went literally all night. As we prepared to depart the next morning the band began to reassemble, seemingly intent on staggering around the streets in case anyone had missed its rousing performance through the night ?! Even more bizarre was a foot and cycle race staged at 8 am. between the young and foolhardy of San Augustin and a neighbouring village. As our hometown heroes staggered around the course beneath sweating, beetroot-coloured faces, you were left wondering if they would ever realise a date change might just improve their chances of winning ...

Day Two was a feast of lakes, of flamingos and of ever-changing scenery. We stopped at lake number three (I think) for a windy walk before lunch, then drove right across the crater of a thankfully dormant volcano. In the afternoon we reached the 'Stone Tree', carved naturally by the howling wind, where we spent a happy hour clambering over the surrounding rock formations like infants overdosed on party jelly.

Famous Laguna Colorada was reached by 3 pm, where we were dropped off to familiarise ourselves the delightful facilities where we'd be spending the night. By approximately 3.01 therefore, Breda and myself were scuttling off around the shores of the lake. I suppose in truth it ought to be called Laguna Roja as red is the only colour it ever goes, but what amazing shades. Sunset proved to be spectacular combined with the luninescent qualities of the lake itself, but as we were at 4270 altitude it was hardly the place to loiter once darkness set in. One of the Japanese lads in our group, Masa, unfortunately did loiter. He'd intended on walking right around the lake before nightfall (hmmm), had realised after a few hours that he hadn't a hope and subsequently hoofed it back, just moments before we seriously thought of forming a search party (complete with bottles of wine to chill on his frozen carcass).

Day Three was an early start - underway by 5.30. With the temperature still around minus 10 and the skies perfectly clear, the stars were probably fantastic. We of course were too busy trying to stay warm and therefore alive in the back of the jeep to notice ! Arriving at first light at a set of bubbling geysers, the freezing air and steam combined to create an eery moonscape some 5000 metres above sea level. Equally as fascinating was following a mad Irish guy around as he did his utmost to return home with third-degree burns - for any 'Father Ted' afficianados out there, sort of like accompanying Dougal around a 'Doctor Who' set !

Next it was on to breakfast at some thermal springs feeding into yet another lake. It was absolutely luxury to lie and soak in our first hot water in days. And it really wasn't as bad as you´d think getting out - provided of course you weren't too vain about the size of your bits when they met cold air ...

Laguna Verde sits only 8 km. from the Chilean border. We reached it via a beautiful stretch of landscape, famous for being where Salvador Dali painted ... something famous (as you can tell, I haven't the faintest what it´s called, but promise to be a good boy and do some research in the galleries of Madrid and Barcelona before reporting back). Apparently it's essential to catch the lake at just the right time with the wind in precisely the right direction if it's to turn bright green. We patently didn't, but stuck around in vain for an hour or two before starting the return journey.

En route we stopped for lunch back at Laguna Colorada (yet more pink flamingoes) and at Valle des Rocas, which boasted some funky-looking rabbits called viscachas sporting tails as long as dogs'. On Day One we'd also been lucky to see a pair of rare suris, or flightless birds ressembling small ostriches. Our last night was spent at the settlement of Alota, reached via yet more great scenery. At times you really had no idea if the expanses of whiteness were ice, guano, salt or borax. Piles of snow sat alongside deserts and thermal springs. We knew we were almost exclusively at more than 4000 metres altitude due to the presence of yareta, a hard, bright green moss that completely covers giant boulders. In addition, we'd been blessed with great weather throughout and, unlike several other trips we heard of, a driver who was competent in all terrains, if not exactly chatty, and an engine that didn't break down.

We stopped off to see the train cemetery on the outskirts of Uyuni - dozens of defunct locomotives and rolling stock dating back to the early twentieth century. Quote of the day went to whoever had chalked onto the side of one rusting hulks : "Needed - one mechanic - with experience" (though in Spanish, obviously).

Our next trip proved a big contrast to the Uyuni one. This time we headed for the sweaty lowlands of Rurrenbaque in the north of the country. The bus journey is one of the most notorious around, so we'd decided to fly with TAM, the Bolivian Airforce. Managing to locate their airport with plenty of time to spare, the flight took off with military precision ... only six hours late. Fully expecting to be battling for space with webbing, parachutes and the like, the inside of the plane turned out to be very comfortable. Most important of all, we managed to land in one piece on the long grassy cricket wicket that doubles as Rurrenbaque airport.

Despite being five in the evening, the temperature was still well over 30 degrees and we were surrounded by lush, tropical vegetation as our bus bumped along dirt tracks into town. Rurrenbaque is the sort of place where there's little to do except sit reading in hammocks, or lounge around the pool admiring large, green parrots in the trees ... or the persistence of an ugly, turkey-like animal that reportedly loathes all women, but seemed particularly to detest Breda's pink bikini.

We booked onto a three-day 'Pampas' trip - meaning 'grass plains' I think, though to be honest we spent most of the time cruising along rivers in a long boat. Water levels were pretty low and at one stage we were grounded on a sand bank, at which point everyone hopped overboard to rock us free. Well, I say everyone, but in fact we both stayed on board. Selfish? Very possibly, but as we'd just spent hours staring at hundreds of alligators and their fearsome cousins, the cayman, as well as being in a river full of piranha fish, chalk it up to Australian 'experience' eh ? Besides, we did make plenty of encouraging noises to assist the others ...

The trip was a feast of wildlife (a visual feast I mean, although we did eat some tiny piranhas we'd hilariously caught with raw chicken, a hook and line) - tiny chinchila and howler monkeys which came scampering to the waterside and to our camp, screaming their hellos; myriad birds, including kingfishers, herons, storks, flycatchers and cormorants; kapibarras (huge, underwater-swimming wild hogs); timid pink dolphins; some large, brown, raccoon-like creature spotted digging for eggs in the river bank; turtles sunning themselves on top of one another on branches sticking out of the river; and anacondas.

Again, due it being the dry season, we had a long, hot if humid walk over the pampas to where the last of these wee beasties like to hang out. We were fortunate to see a couple of the snakes, one quite young (and therefore 'only' a couple of metres long), the other glimpsed fleetingly in the marshy surrounds of a lake, busy eating another snake before it made its excuses and disappeared.

Our guide was a friendly lad called Caruso ("You call me Robinson, OK?!") who, if truth be told, was considerably more interested in impressing other young things than imparting information. And not just female young things either if I read matters correctly - for example when he seized the opportunity to rub "medicinal" river mud over the nipples of one English lad who'd scratched himself during one of our swims with the dolphins !

Next it was back once again to the hub city that is La Paz - with its impossibly large numbers of national police officers; its dried newborn llamas in the witches´market; its hot cups of gluhwein to see off our sniffles; its lifesize toy soldiers guarding the president's residence; its cobbled flagstones around the Sagarnaga district; its cheap Kodak films (please, please develop properly!); its waiters trying to rip you off in innovative ways by writing out two bills, one for the cashier and an inflated one for you; its deserted streets on Census Day - save for a few bemused foreigners, and so on.

Bolivian Migration wanted to charge us 50 dollars US to extend our visas for a month. Still in backpacker mode, there was no way that was going to happen, so we decided to forsake yet more trekking in the Sorata region and head straight for Lake Titicaca. For some reason Titicaca is always tagged as being the 'highest navigable lake in the world' - quite why I'm still unclear, though perhaps as it's 125 miles long by 69 wide you may be wise to invest in some form of navigation in case you're caught floating around its centre in fog ?? Copacabana was one of those towns people seem to love or hate, but was a good jumping-off point for us to reach Isla del Sol. The boat ride lasted three hours, though only scratched the surface of this monstrous waterway.

The island is the legendary birthplace of the sun and the entire Inca civilisation. Once we'd docked and paid our entry money we walked up to the picturesque remains of an Inca town. We then set off to hike from north to south, furnishing us with excellent views over Titicaca. We stopped for our customary picnic lunch on one of the highest hills, only to be charged repeatedly by a solitary, lunatic sheep. Obviously a distant relative to the little-known Bolivian pig-turkey.

The islands are justifiably known for their clarity of their light and the views were still amazing when we reached the cute village of Yumani and watched sunset. We managed to locate a room that both lacked curtains and faced east, so naturally we got to watch sunrise too. Cool as mustard, we held our ground in the morning when the locals attempted to fleece us over the return boat fare. Just as it was about to depart they ended by taking considerably less, as always swearing us to silence so as not to aggravate the other passengers who'd paid more ! From Copacabana it was just a short bus ride back into Peru, and towards the much-awaited Inca Trail to Macchu Picchu ...

-- Anonymous, October 15, 2001

Answers

A Perfectly Presented Posting Per Peru!

-- Anonymous, October 15, 2001

Absolutely fascinating.
What a great trip - I'm deed jealous.

-- Anonymous, October 15, 2001

I`m hoping to get a bound copy of the `collective works` for Christmas! Great stuff.(:o)

-- Anonymous, October 16, 2001

Ya know, that's not a bad idea Galaxy. All these adventures would make a great book. Or at least a serialization in a magazine!

-- Anonymous, October 16, 2001

B%gga me that's long ! Obviously by someone with too much spare time on his hands

;O))

-- Anonymous, October 16, 2001

I don't believe these events actually happened. Nobody could have enough time to do it all AND type out the emails.

-- Anonymous, October 17, 2001

Spot on Nick, Loony is holed up in a bed sit with a Frommers, a Lonley Planet and a Rough Guide. He still tells Breda he is off to work and sits day after day in front of the keyboard.

And you know what they say will eventually happen if a monkey sits long enough in front of a keyboard.

-- Anonymous, October 17, 2001

I dunno gus, what do they say ? He starts to spank himself or something ... ??

Cynics, the lot of you !! Why can't you believe someone can be so talented, yet (still) out of work ?!

;O))

-- Anonymous, October 17, 2001

Nah I thought it was he will try to eat it!

-- Anonymous, October 18, 2001