Like a prolonged bout of diarrhea, my pleasure and pain experience of Bolivia is finally over.
After two months of sweat and tears, I´ve finally kicked down the bathroom door and now find myself in the more homely surroundings of Arequipa, Peru.
Here, they have several brands of cola, buses with functioning air conditioning and crash barriers on their roads. It also smells less this side of the baño door and the people seem to be more busy.
Eleven days ago however, this clean and pleasant end was but a distant dream. Bogged down in dirty La Paz once more, I spent until last Monday passing wind, and time. With lady wrestling on the previous Sunday my sole aim, it was merely a case of sitting around and waiting for the much anticipated climax.
Sandwiched in between this, I ate an outstanding piece of trout (my first piece of fish in nearly 4 months) and tried to get in to a prison. The first was clearly a success but the latter a complete failure. For those in the dark, El Penal de San Pedro gained notoriety in 2003 with the publishing of a book by Rusty Young called Marching Powder. It documented the tales of Thomas McFadden, a convicted drug smuggler who found a niche market in tours for backpackers. Odd as it was, his project was carried out in a prison where no guards are present, cocaine is manufactured, cells are bought and sold, and prisoners run their own businesses. Up until last year, these tours were still ongoing but after an undercover filmcrew got in, the Bolivian authorities had a clampdown, meaning people like me would have to make do with a self-guided tour of the perimeter.
Me and a lady friend that day, Emma, did make a fist of it though. First we tried phoning ´Kenny´, an alleged inmate who could get us in and who´s number we´d been given by a gringos gringo friend. Several times there was no answer and then only a woman who knew no Kenny. We waited around, asked a few people about getting in and then just tried to walk through the front door. Ten hostile guards at the door suggested this wasn´t going to happen. We walked away.
Suddenly, six days have passed and it´s Sunday and the cholita wrestling.
Staged in a sportshall high up above La Paz in El Alto, this alternate form of wrestling has evolved rapidly into a huge tourist attraction for us backpackers. With front row VIP seats, some fifty or sixty so of us like-minded adventurers enjoyed first hand, the abilities of local indigenous women fighting it out amongst themselves and against the men. In full traditional atire, it was a real treat seeing skirts fly and some serious girl-on-girl action. Three hours, two cups of Fanta and three bags of popcorn later, my ass was numb and thankfully it was home time.
On Monday it was time to say cheerio to the Bolivian capital and head north to the banks of Lago Titicaca and the town of Copacabana. Some say it´s the world´s highest navigable lake, others don´t. Whatever, it´s huge. En route, a bag flew off the roof which caused a bit of alarm and then we had the pleasure of crossing some water, separated momentarily from our transport and belongings.
I arrived there with drei Germans and we agreed to put history behind us and share a hostel together. We dumped our stuff at the German-run hostel then went for a climb up a nearby hill to get a panoramic view of the lake. That evening we ate some burgers, shared some laughs and then reitired to our quarters.
Woken ten minutes before my alarm by the ever-eager team leader, Raul, I was soon up and ready to join a couple of them for an overnight excursion to Isla del Sol. If you are to believe those Inca folk, it´s the place where the sun was born. If they were around today, I´d have a few questions.
We stepped aboard the boat amongst a huge mob of tourists and two and a half windy hours later, we were on the banks of the island. After a quick snack and the realisation that our funds were low, we set off up the hillside.
Other than the startling beauty of the place, the other thing which grabbed my attention was Raul´s single-mindedness in finding a campsite. Three hours later, we´d found it and soon, comrade Yanice (may be Janice but that would imply he´s a woman) was preparing the stove, ready to cook his San Pedro cactus (a hallucinogenic drug). Although open to the idea of seeing dragons in the woods and pink clouds at night, I was slightly aware that I had only the two days on the island and that I did actually plan on seeing some of it. After gathering wood for the fire, I decided to put my wasted day to an end and go see the islands finest ruins. I spent nearly three hours pursuing this goal and on my return, both Raul and Yanice were all ready for some international relations and a long night of psychedlic adventure, followed by sickness. I had other plans. Politely, I told them I´d be dining elsewhere that evening, specifically in a two pound a night hostel by the port, where ultimately, I would nibble on peanuts and bread while dipping my feet in the water as the night drew near. What I didn´t plan for was a hot shower, private room and three pillows for my bed.
In the morning, I met up with the jaded pair back at base camp, where they´d prepared me a guacamole and lime sandwich. I had my own agenda that day and happily the other two agreed to be a part of it. Our day-long treck was a huge success as we took in great views and enjoyed some quality time down on a beach.
Though the island is famed for it´s indegenous people, reed boats and historic ruins, my memory of the place will be the huge volume of backpackers it attracts, its almost Mediterranean appearance and the intensity of the damn sun. My red forehead makes me think those Incans weren´t so stupid.
At 4PM, we caught our boat back to the mainland where in the evening we had some trout from the lake which was good but not at the standard I´d had in the hostel in La Paz, nor was it filling. I made amends by necking a litre of peach yoghurt, followed by two choclate bars.
After ten hours on the road, I yesterday arrived here in Arequipa. Initially blown away by the place, I have since come to terms with it and accept it´s not a European city and that I can make my money last here. Amongst all the delightful colonial buildings, I booked myself in at a pretty flambouyant joint where I had another huge room to myself and a wonderful street view. As it was my first night in Peru, I thought what better way to celebrate than with a meal at a Mexican. With guilt burning away at me, I later had the nations favourite drink, a pisco sour (pisco, lemon, egg white, angustura...I think) and a can of Cusqueña back at my place.
This morning, with money on my mind, I moved to a cheaper hostel but not before I got my free breakfast. Then on arriving at my new place, I bagged another. A lovely stunt.
I had a wander today around the city, visiting a couple of holy spots and then I landed here. By the time I get back to my hostel, my laundry should be done and my bus ticket to the Colca Canyon should be booked. If you haven´t heard of it, it´s twice the depth of the Grand Canyon.
No shit.
(More. Pictures. Will. Follow. In a few days...)
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