Yet again the GPS takes us through Putre and deeper into the valley. This is clearly wrong. I know Shirl is struggling in the altitude but I have to get her to walk to a gate and see if we’re at the hotel. The road’s steep, slippery and narrow. Poor Shirl, she has to give me a push so I can turn the bike around. It’s cold and wet but she’s taking it all in her stride.
Shirley: We find the hotel back in town and it’s perfect. It’s a cosy little room overlooking something. We don’t know what because of the cloud!
We take a wrong turn walking into town and end up wandering around the tiny back streets cloaked in fog and cloud as we make our way to the square. We’re clearly a novelty for the locals as we huff and puff past their homes. Even Brian admits this is hard going.
At dinner we each have a glass of wine only to discover later that isn’t the best thing to do. You should avoid alcohol while you feel like this.
I can’t breathe. I’m lying in bed and I can’t breathe. It’s a scary feeling and I wonder if I should wake Brian and get him to ring the doctor. I get a coca lolly and it helps a little. Hopefully the time here will help me get used to the thin air.
Brian: Shirl confesses she’s really concerned about going to Bolivia. There are warnings in the guidebooks about the scammers and fake police who prey on tourists. When I come out of the bathroom I find her trying to register with the Australian Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade, letting them know we’re about to cross into Bolivia.
She shouldn’t worry. We’ve travelled through worse places over the years and, as always, we’ll just take our time and watch everyone closely.
It takes some time to turn the bike over and get it going this morning. I hope it’s just the cold and thin air and nothing more sinister.
On the highway we ride into a quagmire that becomes more than 30 kilometres of road works. Thankfully the trucks grinding their way up the mountain pass compact the earth so it’s not so sloppy but this makes it like riding on glass. We pass a lake and I’m surprised by the number of vicunas, alpacas and water birds living up here. It’s such a harsh environment.
We keep climbing and climbing. There’s snow, ice and a little sleet thrown in. The temperature gauge is reading 3°C and I know we’re close to 4,700 metres. My head is thumping.
The border to Bolivia is Paso Chungara, a wintery landscape of snow, mountains and grey skies. There’s a man on a bicycle near the border sign. I can’t, for the life of me, think what he’d be doing up here. He’s happy enough, giving us a big wave as we slow to take a photo.
We leave the road works behind and come up to literally hundreds of trucks. I take to the wrong side of the road to get past. At the border we meet three young Englishmen riding bicycles. They camped out last night and are freezing cold. They even have plastic bags over their socks to try and keep them warm and dry. And people think we’re mad!
Bolivia
11 – 18 February 2012
Shirley: It only takes a couple of minutes to get the stamps we need to get into Bolivia. The bike paperwork is more complicated. The application has to be made online and the man in the customs office, which is actually a shipping container, can’t do it. It has to be done in the town. Theoretically, we can’t go into the town because we haven’t completed the border formalities but we leave the bike and the customs officer walks with us.
We need money so he introduces me to the moneychangers. At most borders the moneychangers are usually men. Here they’re two women sitting on the side of the road. One is knitting, the other nursing a small child. They offer a very good rate so I change our remaining Chilean pesos for boliviano.
Next stop is a shop where we’re told they can fill in the forms for us. A young woman, who’s cooking something that smells delicious, sits down at a rickety old table and fills in the form by hand. She then goes out to the street and comes back a couple of minutes later with a man who logs onto the computer and keys in all the information. This service is just 10 boliviano (about $1.30). Back at the shipping container the customs officer logs onto his computer, checks the form that’s been filed and then records all those details into a ledger by hand. He stamps Brian’s passport and we’re on our way.
Brian: At the petrol station the attendant indicates that international vehicles have to pay double the price on the pump. Shirl’s about to arc up, but I do remember reading somewhere that the government subsidises the fuel cost for locals so they can get around. Even though we’re paying more than the locals it’s still cheaper than petrol in Australia.
•
We can tell we’re nearing La Paz. The traffic is bedlam. It’s market day and there are people everywhere, selling everything imaginable — clothing, shoes, fruit, vegetables, live animals, dead animals. Minibuses overloaded with people and shopping bags pull in and out of the traffic without indicating or even a scant look over the shoulder as to who or what’s coming.
There are women in their brightly coloured skirts, carrying bundles on their backs and wearing their bowler hats. We learn later that these are not so much a tradition but good marketing. In the 1800s a British importer brought bowler hats to Bolivia but the men wouldn’t wear them. He convinced the upper class women they were all the rage in London so they began to wear them. The village women started wearing them to impersonate their richer sisters. Now it’s synonymous with Bolivian dress.
La Paz is built in a steep valley. We ride into it through El Alto which is at 4,000 metres. The downtown area is 500 metres down in the valley. The wealthy residents live a further 1,000 metres down in the south zone where the climate’s milder and the air’s much easier to breathe.
The ride down into the valley is testing and amazing at the same time. It’s a huge city clinging to the sides of the steep valley. The bloody GPS takes us through the centre of town, turning right and left down narrow paved steep streets. We go round and round and round the city. Finally Shirl catches a glimpse of the hotel just as I head into a tunnel under the roadway.
My patience is tested trying to get through the rabbit warren of streets back to the square, around a roundabout and then onto the footpath outside the hotel. Shirl heads inside to find out about the parking. Within minutes a roller door opens and I’m beckoned in. Easy.
Shirley: La Paz is a culture shock. It’s noisy, dirty, busy and steep. At 3,500 metres in the downtown area we’re both still suffering from altitude sickness.
We’re about to venture out to get some money and something to eat when the girl on the hotel desk rushes up and gets us to read the safety bulletin at the door. It warns of people posing as police and bag snatchers. Don’t get a taxi, it advises, unless the hotel organise it for you. Thanks, that makes me feel even worse about the safety issue for foreigners in this town. And we really look like foreigners, standing out like the proverbial dog’s balls.
The banks try and protect their customers when they withdraw cash. The ATMs all have locking doors and frosted windows so no one can see how much money you’re withdrawing and where you put it.
Brian: I have a headache I just can’t get rid of. Shirl is off her game too, but we seem to be learning to live with the thin air.
We’re visiting the archaeological site of Tiwanaku, outside of La Paz. The bus takes us up through the city and up to El Alto via National Route 1. This is clearly the road the GPS should have taken us on yesterday. It’s a broad highway, it isn’t steep and the traffic’s light. It’s very different at the top. El Alto is as manic as yesterday and the traffic is gridlocked because no one pays any attention to the traffic lights. It’s madness and our driver is as crazy as the rest. He overtakes slower traffic at every opportunity despite horns blaring and the oncoming traffic flashing lights.
•
The Tiwanaku people predate the Incas by almost 3,500 years and lived here until about 1200 when this area was on the banks of Lake Titicaca. Today the lake is 130 kilometres away. Our guide is passionate about these people and brings them to reality with h
is stories of the daily village life. He uses a hollowed stone as a megaphone just as the ancients did when they called the 140,000 inhabitants to the temple, built because of its strategic location for the sun to shine on the monolithic altar. The priests used this temple to predict the seasons and guide the farmers as to when to plant and when to harvest.
These people mummified their dead, removing the intestines and opening the cavity, folding the legs into the body before sewing them into bags with the head exposed and the mouth open. The mummified remains of loved ones were then fed food once every year. Now, that’s devotion. We’re shown the recovered remains of some of these remarkably preserved bodies.
Before the 70 kilometre death drive back to La Paz we have lunch at one of the local restaurants. Llama is on the menu. We opt for the fish.
We get dropped off a couple of blocks from our hotel, and despite Shirl’s fear of being robbed by everyone, we make it back safely.
Shirley: It’s raining when we leave our hotel to join a tour to the southern part of the city. A little man is selling umbrellas — two for 30 boliviano (about $4.50). I think it’s for one and walk away. As we get drenched on our walk down town and don’t find another umbrella seller Brian tells me he was sure the man was selling us two for 30, not one. I put that down to experience.
•
I just love the trivia you learn on a city bus tour. Today we find out that La Paz boasts the highest golf course in the world where even the most ordinary golfer seems quite proficient as the thin air allows the balls to just fly. We also learn that cocaine is still one of Bolivia’s major exports, making up to 7 per cent of the GDP. Bolivia has had 175 presidents in 175 years — one lasting just six hours. At times during the military dictatorships, inflation raged at 7,000 per cent, but they say things have improved in recent years.
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Heading back to the hotel we find a senorita selling umbrellas on the street. Guess what? We paid 30 boliviano for two.
Brian: When we go to the older area of La Paz, around the presidential palace and parliament buildings we opt for a taxi and take heed of the warning at the hotel. The doorman takes us up to the square and hails a taxi. He writes down the driver’s details, rego and taxi number before he lets us get in.
It’s a wild ride through the narrow streets, screeching around corners and narrowly missing pedestrians. At the palace there are police, army and ceremonial guards all over the place. People are sitting in the main square, enjoying the sunshine, eating their lunch or feeding the pigeons. It’s frantic, but no one is paying us the slightest bit of attention.
The 460-year-old San Francisco Cathedral is a city landmark. It’s also a cool and peaceful haven away from the noisy city. These monks fought for the rights of the indigenous people, people who were brutalised by various Spanish conquerors and governors. Many lost their lives fighting for the independence of the Bolivians. Today their portraits look down on visitors from the walls and corridors.
The best view of the city is from the roof of the cathedral. We climb up a very narrow, steep stone staircase and emerge on the roof. No safety rails — just watch your step. We clamber across the roof to the bell tower overlooking the church forecourt. It really is spectacular up here.
On the way back to the hotel Shirl finds a market and buys some trinkets. Where am I going to fit all this stuff on the bike?
•
I manage to squeeze everything on board, mainly because we’re now wearing our liners and waterproof clothing. We’ll have to get to a post office before the weather improves.
We pull into a petrol station and pay the obligatory double pump price for the questionable fuel. The bike isn’t running that well and that could be because of the altitude, the fuel or both.
The main road is an easy ride in comparison to the ride into town, but up on the Alto it’s madness again. We ride right through the bustling market place, dodging the minibuses, potholes, animals and people. Finally, I’m happy we’re on the right road, National Route 2 heading for Copacabana on the banks of Lake Titicaca via a ferry, even though the GPS is going crazy wanting us to go via Peru on Highway 1.
It’s a good ride once we clear the city and outskirts of La Paz. We start to climb and there is Lake Titicaca — the highest lake in the world at 3,800 metres above sea level. In one small village I ask some schoolboys the direction to the ferry. They giggle and point us down the right fork in the road, which has no signs at all. I wonder if it’s the right road as we drop down a lovely twisting road, avoiding road works, potholes, pigs, donkeys, llamas and pedestrians in equal measure, not to mention the cars, trucks and buses.
We roll into a small village right on the water, round a corner and there’s the ferry. All I can hear from Shirl is, ‘Oh shit. No way, we’re not going on that!’
The ferry deck is made up of four wooden planks a bit wider than railway sleepers. There are huge gaps in the decking, opening onto the bilge which is half full of water. A policeman appears and tells me to hold back as he waves a bus onboard. The ferry doesn’t look sturdy enough to carry the weight of the bus, but it doesn’t sink to the bottom when the bus rolls on. Now it’s my turn. Shirl gets off to make it easier. I line up the ramp and tuck in behind the bus. There’s only just enough room to put the side stand down.
It doesn’t instil a lot of confidence and I now realise why the GPS wanted us to take the road through Peru.
The ferryman uses a barge pole to push us away from the shore. He fires up his little outboard motor and we chug our way across about one kilometre of water. Shirl’s looking very concerned as the waves rock the barge. I’m too busy trying to work out how to get off this thing. There’s no room to turn around without dropping into the bilge. In the end the ferryman helps me pull the bike backwards off his pride and joy.
Shirley: Our hotel room has a great view overlooking Lake Titicaca and the harbour area of Copacabana. The only drawback is the climb up the hill from town leaves us breathless because of the altitude.
Copacabana is a really pretty little town. There are restaurants galore and shops selling lovely handmade crafts. I’m sure we’ll be able to fit another couple of trinkets on the bike. The little handmade woollen finger puppets are wonderful and perfect for our granddaughters and great nieces.
Outside the church there are cars being decked out in flowers to prepare them for the blessing of the vehicles. Maybe that’s why the drivers are so crazy — they have God on their side.
We book a boat trip to the Isla de la Luna and Isla del Sol on the Bolivian side of the lake tomorrow.
•
It’s about 4.00 am and I am sick, really sick. I can’t keep anything down, not even water. When dawn comes I check the time difference and Skype my friend, Phil in Melbourne. She’s a nurse and gives some good advice. We have some broad-based antibiotic and Imodium — the traveller’s friend. There’s no way I’m going on a boat trip. I convince Brian he should go on his own. I just stick close to the loo and sleep for the day.
Brian: The safety-crats back home would have a heart attack if they saw the ferries in this part of the world. There are about 50 kitchen chairs nailed to the deck. Some of the windows are missing or just broken, with shards of glass hanging precariously.
Isla de la Luna was a place of worship of the moon and where the old ladies brought the young virgins to teach them ‘women’s ways’, or I think that’s it. My Spanish isn’t good enough to pick up a lot of what the guide tells us. I do get that the small alcoves around the temple were used to house the young girls. I think I got the joke about keeping the young virgins, well, virgins.
The locals still use the fields to cultivate their crops of corn, maize and potatoes as the Tiwanaku people did centuries before the Incas arrived. It was the Incas who believed this island and the Isla de Sol were sacred places — if my interpretation of our guide is right.
I puff and pant my way to the top of the hill with several stops on the way for the view over Titicaca and
the islands dotted around this southern end of the lake. It’s a sight I’ll never forget. I wish Shirl was here to share this with me.
•
I buy some sweet biscuits and lemonade before making the trek up to see how Shirl’s going. To my surprise she’s still in bed. That’s not like her. She’s still really crook. We talk about going to the local clinic and staying here until she improves but decide to wait and see what tomorrow brings.
The plan is to cross the border into Peru.
Peru
18 February – 8 March 2012
Brian: Shirl knocks back my offer of another day at Copacabana and struggles out of bed even though she still can’t eat anything. She’s very weak but wants to keep moving.
I’ve been trying to find where we can buy SOAT, the compulsory third party insurance we need for Peru, without success. Everything indicates we’ll be able to buy it at the border for up to $135 for 12 months. Sometimes you can’t buy anything less than a 12 month policy, even if you’re only going to be in the country for a couple of weeks.
Getting out of Bolivia is easy. Even the moneychangers are offering a fair exchange rate.
There’s a bit of a wait at the Peruvian immigration office but with the appropriate forms it’s a relatively simple process. Aduana, the customs paperwork to bring the bike into the country is simple too.
Then the trouble begins. We’re directed to the national police and I ask where I can get the SOAT. One of the older men looks at me very seriously and indicates we can’t move without it, but he won’t tell me where to buy it when I ask.
I declare that I’m a retired police officer and I want to know where I can get the SOAT. There’s just two police in the room and me. Shirl’s outside, too sick to come and stand inside the room.
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