Us and Them

(These moments seem to grow in number the longer you are away)

Sitting the next morning on the ferry back to Copacabana I am witness to one of the horrible things about being a visitor in a foreign country. Having almost completed our journey back across, one of the owner’s does the rounds to collect our tickets. But it seems there are a few people aboard who haven’t bought them – a half-Australian, half-American couple and another German couple.

I suddenly remembered pieces of an earlier conversation of theirs where they said they would just try and bluff it back, not having left enough money to pay for the trip. And with no ATMs on the island, and only one that will work today at 230pm in Copacabana, I can’t at least partially understand - we are all out of money. The Danish girls we have been with have been forced to eat tomatoes, cucumber and crackers for three days, with only 10 centavos (5 cents Australian) between them. The English girls have 10 Bolivianos (AUD$5) to last until they get to La Paz tomorrow morning, and I have had to borrow 50 Bolivianos from Andy, just to make it back.

But despite all this, we have all still scrapped enough together to purchase our return tickets (albeit at the doubly-inflated return price of 20 Bolivianos). And now we must listen to the complaints of these others who have chosen to eat well instead of set aside the appropriate cash. So when they started trying to bargain their way back for half the price, I got really annoyed.

You wouldn’t do this back home, I thought, so what makes it any different here? Worst still, I hear one of them exclaim: “It’s only $2, what’s the big deal?” And I can’t help it when my mouth opens to clear the embarrassing air that has settled upon our boat. “It may only be $2 for you, but for him, it’s his livelihood,” I bark back, mustering all the disgust I can in my voice.

And so, despite all my equal moanings about changed prices, dodgy tickets and false information, I somehow knew this was different. It was the attitude of the two couples that really offended me. Clearly they were here just as tourists (talking of renovations plans for when they return, and what holiday they were going to book next), not as travellers. They were exploiting their position as affluent foreigners to make their own rules. They were not accepting the experience as it is – flaws and all. Why did you come here if you are not willing to take it all in? I thought to myself.

Hours later, on the bus again to Puno and I am reading Rolf Potts collection of travel stories - “Marco Polo Didn’t Go There” - struck by the distinction he continually makes between the experiences of the tourist and the traveller. And I realise that even with only eight days to go, I must make a choice to accept whatever this country, and the next, throws at me: stolen credits, wrong information, smelly buses. It is all part of being here, it is all part of being in Bolivia.

An Un-God-ly Climb

It was another early bus ride out of La Paz – but this time I opted for the more expensive, but less-people-and-smells, ‘tourist’ bus. Clearly working on Bolivian time, it arrived late and we ended up hanging around in the city centre for even longer. But with the many street stalls around, and my breakfast-less tummy grumbling, it was easy to hang some money out the window and score some cheap empanadas to pass the time.

Eventually our half-full bus drove steadily through rural towns where cows, llamas and chickens were all feeding off the grass, tied to stakes, and small crops of quinoa and wheat pushed themselves between shack-houses. We travelled towards our lakeside destination, Copacabana, via a curious water crossing at San Pedro de Itiquina. Needing to pay a 1.50 Boliviano (30 cents Australian) charge, we all had to get out of the bus, and watch as it was taken backwards across the water on a barge, with us taking another smaller boat, after paying for the tax.

Somehow we managed to lose a person in this short space of time but after driving around for a few minutes, the driver decides they are not worth waiting for any longer, and so we leave. Climbing up further on the other side, the day is remarkably warm, despite our 3800m height, (the lake which we are driving around – Lake Titicaca – may or may not be, depending on which section of Lonely Planet you read, the highest navigable lake in the world). And I am surprised once again to see Australian eucalyptus trees everywhere.

The experience is a bit like driving through country Victoria – somewhat of a Mount Hotham before the last lot of bushfires – there a chill is still in the air, but it is eventually no match for the warm sun above. Of course the journey is not the three and a half hours we are told, rather it is about five hours before we get the full way up to the winding roads that wrap around Lake Titicaca.

We eventually arrive at the top of Copacabana, and I can only assume it is for the benefit of the taxi drivers that we are thrown out so far from the main plaza. And with my growing collection of bags, walking is not really an option anymore, so I share a taxi with an English guy Andy who is nice enough to take one of my bags for me. We head straight to a tour office and grab our onward tickets for the ferry to Isla del Sol, before settling down for a quick bite at a local restaurant.

I opted again for the three course lunch special, which at less than AUD$3, more than amply fills me with soup, barbecued meat, salad and chocolate-covered banana. So good! We then trudged ourselves down to the water to wait to board our trip to the supposed birthplace of the Incan Sun God, and are entertained by a band playing various pompous tunes for a fiesta that is going on further along the bay.

Finally we got on, and I am instantly greeted by the owner who laughs at the size of my bags and takes delight in informing me of the 250-plus stone steps that will greet us at the other side. Apparently Lonely Planet didn’t think it was important enough to mention to would-be travellers. Hmmmm…Strangely enough too, as we coasted along to the island, my phone started to work for the first time in almost a month - in the middle of the lake. So Bolivian.

But unfortunately by the time we had arrived the driver had squashed any plans we had of trekking to the other side of the island to see the museum, and had instead offered to take us on a walking tour of the island, and to carry my bags up the stairs. Bugger the tour I thought, I would just pay for the luggage!

And when we get to the other side I am glad to have the extra help, as I still struggle to get up with just my handbag and heaving lungs. After about half an hour we reached the top (something tells me that this place will never be overwrought with tourists), completely knackered from the climb, and settle in to watch the amazing view. It’s just about the only thing to do here.

I look out as donkeys haul cloth packs stuffed full with goods up the bumpy paths, and traditional women in their knitted tops, full skirts and bowler hats attempt to sell a small collections of their handcrafts to the few guests. And before the sun sets and the cold sends us inside to play cards, I guess it is just as well that we are only here for a night.

Salty Sonrisa**

It is an early awakening, to catch the sunrise over the salt flats, which at 530am are freezing but mercifully close to our hotel. We drive to the centre of it all and continue to brave the cold until we can no longer push the buttons on our cameras, taking shots of its immense whiteness. At about 40m thick at its deepest, and taking in about 12,000sqkm, the Salar de Uyuni is truly impressive (and I shall be voting for it in the upcoming new 7 Wonders of the World competition).

Formed many years ago – about 40,000 – when prehistoric Lake Minchin dried up, leaving two smaller lakes, and two salt deserts, it provides the best blank canvas for taking distorted perspective shots. But before we can start on those, we huddle around one of the salt-brick tables that have been erected beside the Isla Pescado – a cactus-laden oasis in the middle of it all – and attempt to warm our insides with cake, yoghurt and coffee.

It takes a while for the sun to rise sufficiently for us to take our photos, but eventually we are able to stay out long enough to fool around with the perspective, taking shots of ourselves standing on Pringles packets and each other. And, after sitting more hours than I would like to count in a car for the last few days, we are happy to almost smell Uyuni on the other side. Bolivia, here I come!

**(“sonrisa” = smile)

Four Wheel Driving With Jesus

Having left sunny Santiago behind, I strangely enough relished the idea of being on a bus for 24 hours, travelling the San Pedro de Atacama. Located in the northern-eastern part of Chile, it is the gateway town into Bolivia’s natural wonders. That is, a tiny (less than 5000 people) adobe town full of tour companies and souvenir shops. I did of course partake in both, and booked myself on a three-day 4WD trip to Uyuni.

It is the first of many early starts when I arrive at the office the next morning at 7am. Our group, consisting of two Spanish girls Mar and Kristina, and English boy Alistair, and an Irish man Sean, haul our bags on top of the van and pile inside to gather heat. But it is a bit of a false start when we are made to wait outside the chilly border crossing office for over half an hour. Sean is quick to point out that this is nothing compared to his last two and a half hour wait, and the five hours he spent the time before, but I still think it should have been on the itinerary.

Quintin, our first driver, then continues down the road on a silent climb to a 4300m height. The drone from the engine is so loud that even my iPod can’t out blast it. I watch as tufts of grasses stick up like tee-pees from the red brown dirt, and touches of snow cover the tops of the two mountains beside us, daring the blue sky to melt it. We then stop at the Bolivian side of the border, strangely quite a distance into their country, to get our stamps. Their puny flag flies above the office, barely holding its own against the fierce wind.

But luckily for us, tea, coffee and breakfast is served straight away, warming us up from the bastardly breeze cutting through us. It is here that we also say goodbye to our spacious van, and cram ourselves into a rather aging Land Cruiser to head towards the entrance of the national park. We make a pit-stop here for the toilet and to get our carbon-copy entry papers, which despite your passport stamps and various logbook entries, you still have to keep with you as proof of a legal visit.

It is not too long before our first stop - Laguna Blanca – arrives. Mostly covered over in ice, which beams the sun back into our eyes, it is a pretty impressive sight in the middle of nowhere. It seems Nature never gets it wrong with her colours, mixing white with blue, brown and green in perfect harmony. Laguna Verde follows, but is not as green as its name might suggest because there is no wind. Apparently, so Jesus (pronunced “He-sus”) our second driver tells us, its presence brings up the colour - although I am yet to confirm that scientifically.

It is here, at just over 4000m, I start feeling a little dizzy, and so ask to have some of the coca leaves that are being smooshed into Jesus’ cheeks. Tasting a little like bitter green tea, they are meant to help with the effects of altitude sickness, which, for a person like me who is allergic to the medicinal drugs, is the only way around my drowsiness. But another relief comes soon, in the form of hot springs, which are so sweet compared to the bitter cold.

Next up are the stinky geysers, spewing out their steam from grey and orange pools that happen to match my jumper. Lying along a nearby fault line, they are formed when water contained in underground reservoirs is heated up by volcanic activity – in this case, from the Volcano Ollague – causing it to boil and steam out of the earth. Our final stop for the day is at the Laguna Colorado – a ‘red’ lagoon that is coloured by the algae it contains, which the many flamingos feed on. It is here that we also get up close to the llama-like animals “vicuñas” that are protected in the park due to their scarcity.

We then make our way to our homestay/hostel, which is located a few hundred metres from the waters eddge and I try to go to the toilet. But it seems there are some renovations are going on – that is, lots of cement and dirt on the floor, but from what I can see, there is nothing new happening. Still fighting the intolerable cold, we sit down to eat our lunch of boiled vegetables, tomato, cucumber and eggs. I really have no idea where this combination comes from, but it quickly disappeared into our cold stomachs, lining them for our afternoon nap.

But what we don’t realise, until we take our stuff to our room, is that the only heat our bedroom has ever seen, is perhaps a few drops of sweat when it was first haphazardly built. I scratch at the plaster, knowing for sure that it is still wet. After a few sighs, we all end up snoozing off minor headaches. After all, there’s nothing left today but dinner.