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.

The Crowd at Copacabana

I walk down Rua Santa Clara, impressed with myself that I remember its name, and make my way down to Copacabana Beach. Still groggy despite my sleep-in, my ears continue to replay the sounds of the club we were taken to last night, and remind me why it is we have noise restrictions in Australia. Tall apartments blocks and hotels line the main drag, their masses of windows mostly open to the hot display below, as native yellow hibiscus flowers float themselves down onto the patterned sidewalks.

It is a temperate 30 degrees today, and the sun doesn’t hit me with nearly as much force as it does in Australia. I save a thought for my friends in Melbourne as I make my way onto the sand, and navigate through a rainbow of umbrellas that litter the beach. I am quick to assess the capacity for danger, my valuables have all been left at home, but I still decide it best to camp next to some Americans – easily identified by their amplified twangs.

I set up my sarong and watch as polystyrene eskies float past on the shoulders of young and old. Vendors trail the beaches selling everything from prawns, haloumi cheese, and beer (of course), to jewellery, sarongs, hammocks and dresses. They bellow their lists of offerings, in a well-practiced sing-song motion, that ensures any nap is only ever short-lived. One seller, with his book of temporary tattoos, carries a bag from “The American College Rheumatology”, and I can’t help but smile until I remember that it was probably stolen.

A red sign in front of me warns of the strong currents ahead, as men in James Bond shorts strut past women in skimpy costumes. Despite its reputation, there’s really no need to be thin here. I am by far the whitest one here though, much less experienced in the art of exhibitionism, and acutely aware of my British heritage. A gabble of Portuguese rests on my ears as a child terrorises scavenging pigeons.

This is about the only place so far that I haven’t been able to see JC (Christ the Redeemer) atop his mountain – but JJ’s here instead, camped under a white tarpaulin with his lukewarm cerveja. The guy behind me serenades his disinterested girlfriend with a slightly off-tune ballad that is more full of sugar than a litre of caipirinha, and the negro girl beside me alternates lunges with applications of sun cream with a spatula. Coming from a city with less than one degree of separation, I suddenly realise where the other five comes from.