The Bridge At Cahors, France

This Medieval Bridge at Cahors, France (just south of the Dordogne Valley on the main north/south motorway to Carcassone and The Languedoc Region of southern France) was the dividing line between "English France," and French soil during the Hundred Years War. Its three massive stone towers and fortified gateways kept the two armies apart -- except after hours, when festive-minded soldiers from either side would sneak across the river in rowboats, wine and feast and carouse together, and return to their respective sides of the river with "fair warning" just in time for renewed hostilities at daybreak.


Monday, February 7, 2011

Copacobana and Isla Del Sol (and an unexpected Gift)

Sometimes things happen in a whirlwind.  You don´t get a chance to write down names, get important historical facts worthy of note, or really get time to mark things down for the record.  Today is one of those days.  Early start at 7 AM for a 3.5 hour bus ride north to Copacobana, on the shores of Lake Titicaca (near the Bolivian border with Peru).  Copacobana is the largest town on the Bolivian side of this sacred lake -- the highest navigable lake in the world -- with a population of about 6000.  We have to take several ferries to get there, and the ride is of interest in that the bus takes one ferry, and the passengers another.  Too much weight, apparently, for the capabilities of the ferry.  I am accompanied by Carmen Escobari, who is to have been the English interpreter for those taking the trip that require translation.  But as it develops, the others speak Spanish, and her services are mine alone for a day and one half.  Quite the gift, as it turns out.  Did not know this was previously arranged by Julio and Joel, the proprietor of my hotel back in La Paz and the travel agent who had left me a bit short yesterday.  I think they felt a little odd about stranding me -- on paper at least -- the night before and went overboard in making up for it [ Julius Tours, tourjulius@hotmail.com ].

Copacabana has all the usual tienda stalls, travel agencies, restaurants, and hostels/hotels one normally finds in a South American tourist town.  What it has that is different, are the boats that make their way to nearby Isla Del Sol And Island de La Luna (Island of the Sun, Island of the Moon), and the Copacabana Catholic Church -- original home of the so-called "Black Madonna."  It is a pilgrimmage spot of sorts, for this reason, with devout Catholics coming from all over the world to visit this spot.  It is now seen as sort of an odd melding pot of Catholicism, and adherence still to forms of animism and polymorphism. It would take too long to explain, but suffice it to say that there is no particular disapproval of concurrently being both a Catholic and worshipping Mother Earth and other Inca gods at the same time.   Carmen has been here many times, but enthusiastically shows me the town nevertheless.  It is perfectly sized, for a walking tour.  Again, I am struck by the mix of modern, and rustic.  They really don´t have mortgages here.  So many buildings are in a state of half'-completion, with their rebar antlers reaching for the sky and brick walls only partially filling in the concrete floors and reinforcment piers that make up typical construction here.  There is pavement, then mud.  Stacks of rocks in the middle of streets, for no particular reason.  Potholes are everywhere.  And trash piles.  A nice hotel, may reside next to a hovel.  Many of the buildings, have a combination of stone, adobe mud brick, and six-celled hollow red brick that is absolutely ubiquitous wherever one goes.  Carmen tells me that many of the buildings are left partially incomplete and purposefully ugly on the outside, but are quite stunning on the inside, to avoid extra government taxation.  A universal theme, it appears.

We wander the town for a couple hours, mainly looking at souvenirs and clothing, until the 1:30 boat for Isla Del Sol.  The journey is uneventful, scenic, and the waters calm.  Nothing at all like crossing the Drake Passage!  Isla Del Sol is the birthplace of the Inca culture.  Legend has it that the Inca Adam & Eve (whose names I could not get) were born in the nearby waters and were forced onto land by the Gods for fraternizing with man.  From here, the Inca empire consolidated and then spread, with the Capital eventually nestling in Cuzco, Peru (six hours away by bus).  The boat is filled with backpackers who have learned about this place from "Lonely Planet" and other guidebooks to Bolivia.  It has come to my attention, in ¨"1000 Places to Go Before You Die."  Many of them are spending the night here, and will backpack to the north end of the island, where they have stunning Caribbean type beaches and other natural attractions.  Since I am only there for the afternoon, the pursuits are limited: climb the steep Inca steps to the island´s only settlement -- where EVERYTHING has to be shipped in and run uphill by donkey train.  I am gassed halfway through, due to the altitude.  And investigate the large reed boats which originated on this lake but were made famous in Norwegian explorer Thor Heyerdahl´s book "Kon-Tiki." And check out the surrounding terraces which characterize this part of Bolivia.  The terraces are everywhere, including the steepest and rockiest of slopes.  The Incas obviously put in millions of man-hours constructing them.  Purpose was to retain moisture in this elevated but dry plateau, so as to trap water, irrigate crops, grow potatoes and squash and grains, and to nourish their animals.  Jacque Cousteau came here about four decades ago, and did some diving.  His retinue found a lost Inca city in the depths, complete with roads, temples, homes, and public squares.  Obviously, Titicaca had grown since Inca times.  The Japanese followed a bit later, and found many valuable objects of art and pieces of jewelry lying openly on the lake bottom.  These were offerings for a better life and for favor with the Inca Gods.   On the return trip to Copacabana, we stop briefly at a long abandoned Inca Temple made of unmortared stone.  I am struck by its large size, but extremely small interior spaces.  Big enough perhaps, for ten people in each room, and there are about four rooms.  It is stout enough to hold off an army.  But there is no particular space for an assembly.

The evening finds us back at Copacabana, where I wolfishly dive into a plate of spaghetti.  Not very local or ethnic, I know, but they offered four different types of authentic Italian sauces, and I could not resist.  Carmen had a local dish with meat, dehydrated potatos, squash, tomatoes, and pasta.  A caesar salad is shared (but oddly without the dressing that gives the greens its name). We horsetrade bits of each other´s dinner.  Musicians from Argentina come to serenade the diners.   And pass the hat.  So does the owner´s son, who immediately takes the coins from his offering and buys candy outside.  Everybody, it seems, is on the make here.  We add a single bottle of wine to the meal.  The wine was red, quite tasty, Bolivian, and cheap.  And I paid for it later in spades.  Forgot the altitude, and the dehydrating effects of the alcohol.  Every mountain climber knows, at altitude, it is paramount to remain well hydrated.  Woke up in the middle of the night, with a huge buzz, and the feeling somebody had put a plastic bag over my head.  A full chug of bottled water as I wobbled to the dressing table put an end to that object lesson rather quickly.

Next:  Puno and the Floating Islands of the Uros Indians

No comments:

Post a Comment