As our bus traversed the great Altiplano at 3,800 metres (12,500 feet) near Lake Titicaca heading for the Peruvian town of Puno, I felt like I was passing through Siberia, despite the fact I had never been there. Surely it must be like this, I thought. The flat Altiplano was relatively barren except for spotty low shrubs, farmed fields, and a few adobe brick buildings that dotted the landscape. No people or villages were visible.
One hour before as I flew into this area from Lima, the western side of revered Lake Titicaca was sprawled out below in all its glory. I planned to spend two days in Puno where I had heard the "Fiesta de la Virgin de la Candelaria" was taking place plus a few days in the town of Copacabana on the Bolivian side of the lake to use as a base to explore the Inca's sacred Isla del Sol (Island of the Sun).
Puno felt like a different planet from balmy, congested Lima. It was bitter cold and raining when I arrived. Internet cafes were filled with mostly locals along the street similar to Gringo Alley in Cuzco. Foreigners were prolific and bundled in the best western outerwear. Indigenous women, many with babies strapped to their backs, kept warm with layers of skirts and shawls. One can only imagine they choose to keep their infants on their backs longer than one would expect due to the body heat generated.
My first real look at 165 kilometre long Lake Titicaca with its crystal clear waters and surrounding brown and green mountains was from the lovely Hotel Liberator on a nearby peninsula which I reached by hiring a three-wheeled bicycle with driver. At the end of a graceful waterway of grassy islets was a series of "floating" islands made of reeds. Small fishing craft played the nearby waters. Squawking seabirds skimmed the surface. Clouds billowed overhead.
The festival in Puno was a full plate of traditional music of the Marinara as I had experienced in Truillo, Peru, along with various other kinds of dance. In this annual festival people from the surrounding towns and villages compete in the "diablada" or Devil Dance. The event was an odd mixture of Christianity and various cultural traditions.
Brass bands paraded down the streets in the evening, each followed by dancers in dramatic costumes. If anyone watching this event ever had a doubt about the South American people's penchant for rhythm and love of music and dance, that doubt surely would have been removed at this moment. Dancers waived handkerchiefs, groups of male dancers wore stunning Spanish matador-type outfits while others dressed and danced as Indians with feather headdresses cascading to the ground, and some band team members looked dapper in their 1940's baggy suits and jaunty felt hats. Other attractive young ladies gyrated to music in bold mini-skirted costumes which included over-the-knee matching boots.
This fiesta added meaning for me to the phrase 'dancing in the street'. Late in the evening the parade ended up in the main square with bands competing on the cathedral steps. Onlookers and participants in the parade danced wherever there was a band playing. Beer flowed freely.
Crossing into Bolivia, I spent the next few days in and around Copacabana socializing and travelling with two other Americans, Katherine and Jason, who were also travelling solo. I shared a hotel room with Katherine from Colorado who was on a six month round-the world-journey. We got the ultimate 'room with a view' for just US$1.50 per night, each. The rooftop of our hotel was off our room overlooking the lake and the town. I can now unofficially claim I was camping on this trip - to get to a shared bathroom I had to walk outside on the rooftop (often through the rain), I used rain water to wash, and used the one hot shower in the hotel which was three floors down and was only available from 5pm-7pm and 7am-9am daily. I washed out my laundry while in my shower as that was the only hot water available. The view was worth it.
Jason, a Wisconsin native on a two month trip around parts of South America, and I took off for a two-day visit to Isla del Sol which included a two-hour boat ride to and from the island and a four-hour hike the length of the island.
The island has been identified as the birthplace of several revered entities, including the sun itself. It has 5000 indigenous inhabitants who speak Aymara and Spanish. Since no vehicles are allowed on the island, roads haven't been developed. We found and lost trails while we hiked on ancient terraced, farmed fields and through traditional villages of mud brick and thatched roofs. Women sat in fields spinning wool while tending their flocks of sheep and alpacas. The sweet smell of a koa (incense) brush permeated the atmosphere. We searched out ancient ruins from Inca times while views of the snow-capped Cordillera Real came and went.
When we reached a favourite backpacker's beach hangout I lost Jason. The heat of the midday sun had attracted numerous sun worshipers there and he wanted to join them. I continued on alone to find a traditional village to spend the night. A short boat ride took me to the nearby tiny village of Cha'llapampa at the northern end of the island. My night there is now a treasured memory. As the sun set on the lake, the snow-covered mountains glistened. The sound of drums resonated in the distance. With no electricity on this part of the island, the night entertainment had begun on the nearby beach where Jason and I had parted.
On the concrete soccer and basketball court just off the beach where my village rested a few local young ladies in full traditional skirts and shawls entertained themselves in the vanishing moonlight. They threw their shawls over one of the goal posts and twirled endlessly. Gales of laughter filled the air along with the high-pitched, excited tone of an unfamiliar tongue which I knew to be the language of the local indigenous people, Alymara.
Boys played a more daring game daring each other to jump ten feet from a concrete structure onto the sand, much to the chagrin of female onlookers. The wind picked up in the cool night air as people disappeared into their homes for the night. My alpaca knit hat with ear flaps, wool sweater and Gortex jacket were almost not adequate for the night cold. I headed for my camping-like accommodations much like those I had in Copacabana. The only sound that disturbed the silence was the hum of a nearby generator which explained the appearance of a TV antenna in a nearby house. The Milky Way glistened. The next morning I caught a boat back to the world of western amenities on the mainland.
Beyond Lake Titicaca...
During the five-hour bus ride from Copacabana to La Paz a small passenger ferry took us across a narrow portion of Lake Titicaca as our empty bus crossed on a one-vehicle barge. The snow-covered Andes were constantly in view as we moved across the Altiplano. After passing through the dusty far reaches of La Paz we came to a cliff where the city spilled into a dramatic valley like cascading waterfalls with high-rise buildings rising from the depths. It rivalled the drama I felt when viewing from above such spectacular cities as Rio and Hong Kong.
One of the most striking human elements of La Paz is the mix of indigenous people in traditional dress, many with bowler hats, who live and work alongside sharply dressed business people. The vistas and people may change from large Andean city to large Andean city but many other things don't. One can still hear the regular gong of church bells and the incessant honking of horns. And La Paz has its share of Colonial architecture and soaring Catholic churches to announce to the world that Spain conquered the highest city in the world.
The weather since I arrived in this country has been balmy with scattered clouds affecting the temperature dramatically as it seems to do everywhere in the Sierra. During the day while the sun is out I strip to t-shirt, pants and hiking boots. The minute the sun disappears I add layers including sweater, coat, hat, scarf and gloves. If I can't seem to deal with the cold, I simply hike up a couple of blocks to get warm since the city is nearly vertical (which has the affect of also nearly putting me out of breath).
Since my arrival in La Paz a few days ago I enjoyed the company of Suzie, a young lady from London who is on a two-month vacation. She was my only roommate in a three-bed dorm room (US$5 per person per night) at the centrally located Hostel Austria. Together we did such things as dancing the night away in a local Latin dance club and visiting the nearby Pre-Inca ruins of Tichuanaco.
Each morning I awake to find a string of backpackers waiting to get a bed in one of the most popular sleeping accommodations along Bolivia's Gringo Trail. La Paz, at 3,800 metres is the first stop for many independent travellers coming to South America via Miami. Arrival at this altitude is a shock to their system, especially when combined with jet lag as most of them come from Europe and beyond. For many, a few days are needed to recover before they move on to Bolivia's hinterland or Cuzco, Peru. Such was the case with John, Suzie's friend who flew in two days ago from London to join her. Yesterday they left for a lower altitude to help him adjust better. When she left I had that same empty feeling I have had on this trip before when a friend moved on and left me once again to tackle the road less travelled alone.
Two nights ago I met with Servas Day Host Giovanna, a lovely mestizo businesswoman in her 40's who is the manager of the La Paz office of a national insurance company. She is divorced with two college-bound children. Over tea and juice in an upscale cafe filled with successful-looking local business persons she helped me organize my next four weeks of travel around Bolivia. She informed me of her favourite salsa club which Suzie and I found hours later. Since it was Friday night the club was mobbed. We danced for hours to familiar Latin rhythms such as salsa and meringue and to distinctive Bolivian music called 'cumbia' with its African drum sounds. When I woke up the next morning with a popular cumbia song in my head I realized how much I must have heard that song since my arrival in Bolivia only days ago.
As I have mentioned before, the power of music on this trip has been definitive for me. Andean music has now touched my soul. A folk concert at the city's historic National Theatre overwhelmed me when the beautiful high-pitched tones of a single flute harmonized with the base tones of two six foot long traditional Andean flutes. At that moment I have visions of the snow-capped mountains that are just out of reach but not out of sight each day that I am in La Paz. Gone are the images of Bolivian musicians on American street corners entertaining the public. Here to stay is the image of them playing among the Andes.
One day, Suzie and I used local transportation (rather than taking a tour which doesn't afford as much adventure) to traverse some of the Altiplano and visit the ceremonial site of the Pre-Inca Tichuanaco Civilization (600BC-1200AD) near Lake Titicaca. When I made the decision to visit this site, I decided it was the last ruin I would visit on this trip as I am nearly "ruined out". It was a good decision as it gave me new insight into the Inca Empire. I was awestruck by the huge stone walls which were strikingly similar to the ones the Incas were famous for building so perfectly and which were always identified as 'Inca walls'. Up until this time I had never understood where that technology came from. I tended to agree with Alfredo, our tour guide, despite his obviously slanted attitude towards his country's contribution to the Latin American Civilization when he said, "The (Tichuanaco) civilization was the genesis of the Inca Empire and Latin American Civilization."
I have learned that local people I come into contact with are quick to share their definitive thoughts on local history that may be diametrically opposed to other explanations I may have heard. For example, Servas Host Giovianna offered a completely different explanation of the traditional Marinera dance than the one I mentioned in my last travelogue note - that of women welcoming sailors to shore. She said the dance was derived from a master showing power over his slave with the handkerchief representing a whip. Interesting...
The city of La Paz is like one big shopping mall, especially in the streets. The streets are bursting with local food and clothing markets which are flooded with colourful indigenous people; artesan's shops which are tucked away in beautiful old colonial courtyards are bursting with enticing things to buy including well-priced handmade llama sweaters and traditional hand-crafted items, many unique to Bolivia; a unique Witches' Market with mostly herbs and folk remedies offer dead llama foetuses for sale. My last couple of days before I return home I plan to spend shopping. I purposefully left all of this until just before I get on the plane as I had been advised by friends and acquaintances before I left the States that La Paz is the best place I will encounter on this trip to shop. I feel they were right.
I am now on my way to the town of Oruro where the carnival will be held March 5-7. I plan on scouting out a place to stay during the carnival, making a reservation (first time ever on this trip), and then be on my way to the remote town of Uyuni where I will explore Bolivia's unearthly southwest highlands for a few days.
Reprinted from Merrilee's South American Travel Odyssey available at http://www.iatravel.com/tipssamerica.htm
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