Back in La Paz - Day 1

After 4 days at Lake Titicaca, it became abundantly clear that the Puno blockade would not be sorted out for another week, maybe two. Nobody seemed to have any idea what was going on. Stranded travellers were loitering around tourist offices hoping in vain the border would miraculously open.The more resourceful/desperate ones decided to catch a bus into Chile, and from there cross over into Peru - a roundabout journey they estimated would take more than days if you included all the waiting time for connection buses.

On the other hand, the most pressing matter in my world was that there was only so much cappuccino I could drink in the mornings, so with all the confusion amounting, the tour offices were a wonderful place for me to hang around, mingle with a few people, and kill a bit of time. A number of them had booked the Inca Trail many months in advance so were understandably panicked, while others had connection flights they were in danger of forfeiting. "Terrible, isn´t it? You just don´t know, do you?" I would say, shaking my head in sympathy. In the blink of an eye, it would be time for lunch.

Finally tired of Titicaca, I caught the next bus back to La Paz and booked a flight into Cuzco, the tourist hub for Machu Picchu, which had been on my agenda from the start. The earliest I could confirm was three days away, so once again I consulted the Bash & Crash tour operator to see how I could fill the time.

Day 1: The Death Road

I had read about this long before but never got around to doing it. How glad I am now that the Puno riots happened. This all-day, downhill biking adventure is a MUST if you come to La Paz. For so long I had wanted to get up these beautiful Bolivian mountains without having to trek for 5 days and eat my own turds in a tent. This excusion was the answer. The group I went with consisted of two Brazilians, one Spanish guy and a Danish girl.

At 8 in the morning we were picked up at the hostel and driven to a point 4,700M up where we were kitted out and given our bikes. These are not strictly speaking mountain bikes, but rather, downhill bikes - meaning, the brakes are industrial strength, the gears are not for climbing, and they are fitted with hydraulic suspensions to cushion even the roughest bumps at speed. From Las Cumbres (the peak) it was downhill all the way - and the most fun I´ve had since my first BMX.

The peak, 4,700 M above sea level.

Breathtaking mountain views.

 Me on the left. It´s high, dry and COLD.

First hour and a half is all tarmac. No need to pedal, gravity does all the work.

From the cloud layer, road narrows, gravel track begin.

If you go over the edge, it´s freefall.

That´s me coming through the cloud layer! Photo captured by Spanish dude.

Spanish guy under the waterfall.

Nearing the bottom - hot, humid, mosquito tropical.

4,700M to down to 700M in 6 hours. Then by car back up to La Paz (3300M).
Total cost of trip: HK$450

Copacabana, Lake Titicaca

One great thing about the Bash and Crash hostel in La Paz is that the people who work there can sort almost any logistical arrangements for you at the drop of a hat. The flow of high-maintenance, low-budget travellers is fast and constant, so by necessity they're far more switched on than those concierge numbskulls in 3, 4 or even 5-star hotels. They also have a resident tour operator whom you would have to be a fool not to put to use. I merely had to tell her where I wanted to go, and within 1 minute the seat was reserved on the coach to Copacabana that picked me up right outside the door, at 9am sharp.

Altogether, I had spent 14 days traveling with the Noah and the girls, and another 4 with just Noah in La Paz, so it was a mixed bag of feelings I had as the coach climbed to El Alto and headed out west. Certainly there was a sense of relief from having the space and freedom to do whatever I wanted, but nonetheless it was strange having no-one to talk to again. For only the second time on this trip, I put on my headphones and watched the scenery go by.

Mount Huayna Potosi.

To get to Copacabana, the coach has to cross over to the peninsula.

Another 30 kms of this...

Shared between Bolivia and Peru, Titicaca is the world's highest lake (even higher than La Paz) and also the largest in South America. The plan was to stay a couple of nights in the Bolivian town of Copacabana, then head into Puna (in Peru), either by bus or boat.

Copacabana (centre of map) to Puno (left) was the plan.

Two days earlier, rumours had surfaced about a border blockade on the Peru side, but I didn´t take any notice. Travellers always somehow find a way; I could just tag on to them when I was good and ready. For now, I wanted to relax at the Aldea del Inca hostel, which was clean, welcoming, spacious, and most of all, away from the riff raff. The owner was also excellent at giving me daily updates on the situation in Peru which, more from his face expression than his eloquent Spanish, I gathered was turning from bad to worse. By the end of day 2, not even a cash bribe could persuade tour operators to make the journey, allegedly. And the BBC were now reporting on the Puno riots so it was pretty clear this was going to last a while longer, necessitating the urgent formulation of a Plan B. And what an excellent plan it was.

Frankly, there are far worse places in the world to be stuck in than Copacabana. As I wasn't in the slightest hurry, I merely had a word the hostel owner who was only too happy to hold on to his one and only customer while the world sorted its troubes out. The sun was Mediterranean, the trout was freshly caught from the lake, and I had just reached a good part in Hillary Mantel´s very aptly named book for the occasion, A Place of Greater Safety.

La Paz

No sooner had we finished the tour to the salt flats than we were on the 10-hour deep-freeze overnight bus up north. It felt like it had been ages since either of us had set foot on a big city, and having endured the Aushwitz conditions of the previous hostel in Uyuni, I was in the mood to lux it up a bit. This being Bolivia, I was also more than happy to pay for my hippie student companion, and gave him specific instructions to book  ´somewhere decent, clean, civil and warm.´

"So Noah, what´s the hotel we´re checking into?" I asked, as the Pan-antarcticana rolled into the collossal amphitheatre of La Paz at 6am. Checking the writing on a piece of toilet paper, he replied, "The...Bash...and...Crash Backpacker´s Party Hostel."

In case there´s any ambiguity in your mind as to what this type of establishment represents, here´s the logo.

"Right, okay...um, I´m just curious, but which part of the name suggests it being decent, civil, clean or warm?"

"Oh it looked pretty decent in the photos and it´s, like, just 65 Bolivianos a night." In other words, HK$65 or five pounds sterling.

Arriving at the building, it´s three flights of steep stairs you have to climb before you reach the entrance. Add to this the altitude of La Paz plus the formidable weight of all my winter clothes, eletronics, moisturisers and hair products, and you´ll understand why it took a good 15 minutes to recuperate before it registered that we had to wear a purple wristband for the whole time we were staying there.

"What. Is. This." I said, approximately in the direction of the recptionist.

"Oh it´s so we know youre staying at this hostel so our bar staff will serve you beer at the bar."

"Where´s the private bathroom?" I enquired as he showed me the twin beds in a room labelled ´The Sopranos´. He then explained the one with the private bathroom was vacant today, but as it was only 7am the current occupiers hadn´t check out yet. Fine, we´ll wait here till they clear off. Huffed my way back to the lounge area.

I´m not joking. As I plonked myself on the settee to surf my iPhone, the wood support panel under the cushion broke such that not only did my bum fall through the middle, but then in slow motion, both the chair and I tipped over backwards, polaxed all the way to the floor. Eyes staring at the ceiling, knees at right angles, feet dangling in the air, still holding the iPhone - I just stayed there until a few faces came into my field of vision.

"I think your chair´s broken. I´m going to take a shower now."

Showers in Bolivian hostels are electricity heated, so you need to keep adjusting the water strength in order to vary the heat level between volcanic and glacial. What I didn´t realise about the Bash and Crash showers was that once the water got going, the electricity would conduct all the way to the shower faucet. The first shock was a mild one, merely stunning the hand a little, but at least now the water was getting hot. It was only when it was scalding hot and I needed to change back that the big one came. Clutching the tap, the electroshock was total and violent. It was like being hit by a taser, passing through every part of the body from eyelashes to toe nails. You can´t scream when this happens because ýour entire central nervous system has been electrocuted. Worse, i was still standing under boiling water with shampoo in my eyes. When i finally located the A4 sized towel that Debs had packed for me, I used it as a glove to switch back and complee the ordeal in absolute zero. The water was so cold, my face was still numb 20 minutes later when Noah asked me how the showers were. Aaaarrr, praaa gaaarrr...

Surprisingly, though, as the next few days wore on, I became quite accustomed to, and even content with, life at the Bash and Crash. The private bathroom defintely helped and the people who worked there were genuinely helpful and nice. It was so cheap there that we felt we needed to find ways of splurging cash just to make up for it. One of these ways was to hire a private cab for an entire afternoon to take us around town and show us the best view points from the bottom to the very top.

Victor the cab. 5 quid for a whole afternoon.

Unlike HK, the richest people live at the bottom, the poorest up top.

4,100M up means less oxygen than below. 

Near El Alto, sister town to La Paz, very high up. Behind us, Mount Illimani.

Since coming here, I know I have a mild case of vertigo.

Main plaza.

Witches Market. They don´t like being photographed so you have to be sly.

Even the posh restaurants don´t cost much.

When you´re travelling you have an instinctive feeling of when it´s time to move on, and so after three days here, I not only knew it was time to go my own way, but also where I was heading - across Lake Titicaca and over the border, into Peru.

It was goodbye Bolivia. Or so I thought.

Uyuni Salt Flats

Bolivia is often described as one of the poorest countries in South America, so you have to take your hat off to them for the way they have preserved the Uyuni Salt Flats in spite of the extroadinary commercial pressure they must be under. With moble phones, electric cars, and powertools demanding ever more litium for their rechargeable batteries, Bolivia is sitting on that proverbial goldmine - the 10,000 sq.km of Salinas de Uyuni alone account for more than half of the entire world´s litium reserves.

Even though you could argue it´s worth more to the country for the tourism it brings in, good for them. For me, the Uyuni Salt Flats are right up there with Glacier Perito Moreno as the most extraordinary sight I have come across on this tour. How they formed couldn´t be easier to explain. Basically, what was once a sea evaporated, and left behind a gargantuan plane of salt. 

You can either do a one-day tour, or a three-day tour that also takes you to see volcanoes, flamengos and whatnot. This is where Noah and I parted ways with the girls, as we just didn´t have the patience to see anything other than the salt flats.

Like all tours, it starts with a detour to a market.

4 wheel-drives are a must.

As are sunglasses.

Nothing but miles and miles of salt.

 A word of advice. The choice of tour is important as some of them shy away from going to the areas that are flooded - for safety reasons. You need to shop around and ask. If there´s any chance of seeing the flooded parts, do it. This is because when the water floods over the flat white surface area, it creates a sort of a mirror effect that, from certain angles, makes the horizon disappear. It is one of the most astounding visual effects you will ever come across, as Noah and I were lucky enough to have done, and the girls weren´t. But then, they got to see flamengos.

 

Unlike the girls, our tour also brought us to the "Fish Island", a rather surreal cactus island at very centre of the salt flats, about 80km in from the edge, where we dabbled with a bit of perpective photography.

Yes, everyone does it. It´s odd if you don´t.

It´s moments like these that make you think the world is such a beautiful place.

Unreal.

Epic.

Faith + 1

What a day.