El Camino de Muerte -- Mountain Biking "The Road of Death" (And Flying Fox Zipline Ride)

Use to be, this precarious stretch of road leading out of La Paz and over the Cordillera Real portion of the Andes and descending to the western Amazon basin of Bolivia was a necessary segment if you wanted to travel to points east.  No getting around it, really.  It was a risk you had to take.  Three years ago, this impossibly engineered (what bong was that engineer on, the day he chose this route?), toss-the-dice and hold your ankles carve-out from jungle cliffs was understandably replaced by a new road. The replacement “El Camino Nuevo” would still be a “B” road by US standards but is a vast improvement over the Diablo of a road that it has replaced on which we are playing with fate today.  Largely only daredevil mountain bicyclists, support vehicles, and the absolutely desperate taxi trying to take a shortcut now use this old byway.

The approach starts in La Paz, and truly begins at about 45 kilometers distance.  It is officially known as The Road to Coroico.  The altitude tops out at 15,700 feet.  I have previously only been to 14,492 feet, but the altitude has little effect.  A good sign, I think [ One bad sign is that, despite 30 days in South America without any digestion troubles, I have come up with Montezuma's Revenge on the night before the ride.  I am desperately afraid of getting the runs in the middle of our mini-expedition, and sullying our crowded van with unauthorized drippage and fouling vapors .   But I have prepared well with Pepto Bismol and other remedies, like camping on my hostel room's toilet for three hours before the ride.  Throughout the day luck remains on my side ].  The bike trip (99% of which is downhill) usually begins here at the pass.  On this day, it was snowing, and had freezing sleet and rain.  We descended lower on the eastern slope, to begin on our bikes perhaps 1500 feet lower -- around 14,200 feet altitude.  For those reading in Seattle, that is just about the summit of Mt. Rainier !

 Our host -- Madness- Bolivia [ www.madness-bolivia.com ] had issued our equipment at 6:30 in the morning.  It consisted of a crash helmet that would make most demolition derby drivers envious, so-called rain pants, a bright orange visibility vest, and safety gloves.  Now they demonstrate its use.  And how to get the most out of the Canadian, top-of-the-line mountain bikes.  Two types are available: one with minimum suspension for about $70 for the day, and one that could support a Hummer for about $93 for the day.  I chose the latter.  No sense in underestimating on a trip with such a telltale name.  We are also told a few rules (1) Stay with the group (2) Go single file (3) Don't pass your guide, and (4) Watch intently for hand signals.  Such as "Look" and "Slow Down!"  Most people found it a wee bit odd, that a complete rookie mountain biker such as myself, would choose such a destination for an initial run.

We start out in earnest, going perhaps 35 - 50  mph downhill on a very normal paved road.  But the conditions are awful.  The driving rain freezes our hands, penetrates the "rain pants" and soaks everything underneath, and lashes our eyes.  It is miserable.  Now we know why they call this the "Road of Death."  You freeze, long before you tumble.  We assemble regularly, to let the slower riders catch up.  And to thaw out.  Most of the group is British and Aussie.  By the time we are ten minutes into the ride, a 25 year-old London girl has misestimated a rock and fallen, seriously damaging her kneecap.  She is taken by ambulance back to La Paz.  Another has altitude sickness, and returns to the support van.  Some of the group already wish they could join her.  After a couple ten to fifteen minute riding segments, we stop to pay our entrance fee of 25 Bolivars at the entrance to the National Park.  No idea what the name of it was.  My undercothes and jeans were as wet as if I'd gone diving, were shrink wrapping on me, and I could only think simple thoughts.  And we were still on asphalt ...

After paying the park fee, we put the bikes on the top of our supports vans, and  drive for 20 minutes on an extended uphill leg to another area where the road forks.  Pavement to the left, steep dirt track descending to a river too far below to be seen or heard to our right.  We take the right track, and alight from the vehicles once more.  Only now it begins to warm.  The rain becomes a friend.  It begins to thaw us a little.  Other riders from different vendors are now adjacent to us.  They have plastic ponchos and ski goggles.  I ask our primary guide, Hector, why if Madness-Bolivia is supposed to be the best, we don't have the same equipment?  "We are the most established and best of the providers," he said.  "We have learned the hard way.  The goggles fog up and cause visibility problems.  The results of that are tragic.  The plastic whips about and interferes with peddling, and often gets caught in the gears.  Not a good place for that to happen.  It will get warmer, and you will all be fine."  We mount the bikes a second time.  "Now you are on the 'Road of Death' finally," Hector announces.  "That was just a warmup."  We look at each other, our band of 22, with a little bit of incredulity.

No waiting now.  Just get on the bikes, and peel downhill.  You have two sets of brakes, front and back.  If you hit the front brakes first, you fly over the handlebars.  So RIGHT hand first, two fingers of pressure, followed by the left hand, and one finger of pressure.  This happens often.  We whiz past potholes, rock slabs, loose gravel, and occasional tracks.  Confidence is gradually gained, and the differences between a laughable twisty dirt road and asphalt become ingrained.  The cliff is at first to our right.  But it alternates from side to side as we pass successive gullies.  A solemn stop at the edge, reveals a drop of at least 2000 feet and much more in places.  Too steep to survive a fall.  And nothing to grab onto.  If you go over, you are "con los Angeles" (with the Angels).  One member of our group, a Scottish lass, had a friend who braked too late in miscalculating the edge and went clean over within the last six months.  For the edge, does not remain constant.  It dips out, just wide enough for two very careful cars to pass within about an inch of each other going in opposite directions, and not tip over the precipice.  If the shoulder holds, that is.  Then it dips in.  The "safe" vertical mountain side, has boulders and loose trenches filled with rainwater that does not allow too close an approach.  The opposite cliff edge, indents in and narrows the "track" to about four feet at times.  Try it some time at home, at about 25 to 35 miles per hour.  There are constant curves.  They pitch and roll.  Constant changes of surface.  Loose pebbles, slick rock, hard dirt, wet clay, you name it ... much anticipation and braking is needed.  And nobody sticks to the single file rule.  Some near wipeouts, send more than a few chagrined riders to the rear.  I take my turn, following Hector directly, and the experience is very sobering.

Hector works seven days a week.  He has no family as a result.  Starts at 6 AM, and often gets through cleaning equipment back at Madness' location on Sagarnada street (near the church of San Francisco) past midnight.  He is joined by two other guides.  But Hector loves his work.  And he loves to ride.  Plus he knows this track.  He tears through at great speed, even on the steepest portions.  On one occasion, he points to the right at seven crosses, then whips into a hard left hand turn around a hairpin turn.  He utilizes the perfect banked path.  Often times, he comes within six to eight inches of the cliff edge.  His gliding turns, are a confident marvel.  When I attempt to replicate him at a safe distance, my wheels wobble.  I am not use to the changes in surface, the presence of rocks and ruts, the potholes, the change from hardtrack to muddy clay, and the correcct lean to accomplish his perfect execution.  I slide.  I kick high and bounce.  I take the wrong arc and must overcorrect.  Only to necessarily overcorrect again.  And again.  I don't feel the same centrifugal force he does.  The edge glares at me.  I brake furiously.  I come close to the edge and consequently foreswear anything but the middle path thereafter.  No matter how slow, or ugly the curve, or how much braking is necessary.  Somebody else can follow right behind Hector.  I've had my shot at the ring ...

Our descent is continuous.  There are planned stops, of course, to allow the slower riders to catch up, and get a briefing on what is yet to come.  The weather warms.  Off comes some of the layers.  We do some early woofing and celebrating.  We begin to see multiple waterfalls.  We must slice totally through several of them, as there is NO detour -- waterfalls blanket the road.  It looks like Kauai out there!  The mist closes in, and we can't see the road 100 feet ahead.  It opens up again five minutes later, and we see switchbacks descending for thousands of feet below.  Every so often, we examine the cliff edge, and are continuously impressed by both the drop and steepness of the slope.  And if the steepness doesn't impress you enough, more crosses by the side of the road do.  There are hundreds of them.  That is a fraction, of what they represent.  Big crosses, represent multiple fatalities -- say, a busload of 40 that has gone over the edge.  Buses, taxis, cars, and bicycles.  There are clusters of single crosses, at particularly nasty turns.  You hardly have time to contemplate them, as every inch of the road demands intense concentration.  But crosses on the mountain side of the ... uh, road ... remain preserved or fall over and can be seen laying in mud puddles.  Occasionally they are restored to a vertical, memorial position.  Those crosses on the cliff side, rarely survive.  They get swept along by mud, by rain, by avalanche, by road movement (yes, road movement) and other forces and fall down the cliffside to join their intended honorees.

We finally reach a flat section.  Even though we have descended over 10,000 feet to close to 5000 feet in perhaps 54 kilometers (1 mile equals .62 kilometers), you still feel the altitude.  Breathing is difficult, with this kind of exertion.  The protective mask in front of you, does not help.  It blocks taking in enough air for rapid peddling.  My legs feel like rubber, and my lungs like blowtorches.  But the road is wider, firmer, and safer now.  One last descent and then a final dash through a swollen stream (nobody makes it all the way without having to use feet), and we are the village of Yolosa.  Time for Chino's Beer Shack -- home of some of the world's most welcome beer, and some of the worst toilets.  One of our lighthearted moments following is spent wondering what the postal address might be,  for the handful of occupants that have maintained residences along this stretch of hell ?  But we have survived the Road of Death !

A dozen of us (me being the oldest), elect to move on to a excursion option known as "The Flying Fox."  We are told it is "only 15 minutes further.  That there are hot showers.  And a pool."  You get told a lot of things like that, in South America.  At 500 meters downhill, and then 500 meters back, it is the longest jungle zipline ride in Bolivia.  Perhaps in South America. And certainly one of the longest in the world.  (Will make this short, the Road of Death has exhausted me).  A late lunch follows, and we are offered the opportunity to swim in the Lodge Pool.  It is very green.  And the showers are cold to lukewarm.  But it is an awesome ride! Across the jungle canopy, across the road, and across the face of a waterfall to our right.  Photo ops abound.  The equipment is top drawer, the instruction very careful, and nothing goes amiss.  Our return trip, follows the same torturous road we had spent an hour extra from Yalosa using to get to the Lodge.  Only now, it is at night.  The underpowered Toyota extended van, holds 15 people -- three of which are guides.  We get to follow the inside edge, or mountain side, this time.  When vehicles must pass, there is often backing to do.  Track is simply too narrow most of the time for a speedy progression by one vehicle, let alone two.  The cliff edge continues to instill shock and awe.  Occasional mushiness in the cliff shoulder, the observance of yet more crosses (even though we are past The Road of Death) and the angle of the slope continue to impress us.  Many fingers are crossed as we negotiate turn after turn.  Bladders begin to arrive at in nuclear terms is called "the point of critical mass."  Each bump, is an uncalculated bit of sadism.  But finally, we hit the New Road.  There are steady interruptions in the asphalt.  It takes four hours to climb 8000 feet to return to La Paz.  We should -- but do not, due to our fatigue -- contemplate the wisdom of riding at night in an overloaded ascending van, on some of the worst roads on earth, with drivers doubling as guides who are working a 7-day week and operating on only five to six hours of regular sleep nightly.  We arrive back at our hotels about 11 PM, exhausted, filthy, hungry, desperate for a shower, but exhilarated.

Next: Lima, Peru

South American "Fever" on the return to La Paz

This will not be a long post.  Had to get up at 6:15 for what was supposed to be a short and direct bus ride (only five hours, short by South American standards) to return from Puno and the floating islands of Lake Titicaca -- on the Peru side -- to La Paz, capital of Bolivia.  Of course, it didn't work out that way.  My handler, Raul, announced at the bus station there "wasn't enough interest" (!) in a direct trip by enough paying passengers, so they routed everybody through Copacabana.  Again.  The spot I had left yesterday.  And they waited, and waited.  Riders gradually filtered in.  No real schedule here.  They just keep waiting until the bus fills up, THEN depart.  It would drive the Swiss nuts.

Made the usual stop at the border.  Time consuming, but no problems with paperwork this time.  I have learned to say "No Entiendo" (I don't understand)early and often.  And then just stand there ... that often gets me pushed through rather quickly.  I try to position myself at the beginning of a large group, so the customs officer will get frustrated and wave me through.  Usually works.  The Spanish speaking fellow travelers get a big kick out of this approach, and are in full support.

As we approach La Paz after 12 hours of driving (not five), a border stop, and a reverse ferry ride back to Bolivia, we suddenly get redirected.  Somebody making a political protest has dumped two huge piles of dirt and rocks across the primary highway, and every vehicle hoping to get in or out of La Paz in a northerly direction is forced to innovate.  There are no police to assist.  Nothing is being done about the dirt and rock obstacles.  Just lorries, buses, individual vehicles, taxis, and whatever else has motorized propulsion is suddenly going off into side roads in the barrio -- where the "Campesinos" or peasant class lives.  Traffic goes down blind alleys, and has to reverse out.  Two buses pass in a narrow lane in opposite directions, and somebody has to back up.  Taxis try to wedge themselves between the buses.  And get cursed roundly.  People hop out of their vehicles and walk ahead to investigate, leaving all behind them frustrated.   Initiative goes to the bold.  There are many narrow scrapes.  Lots of horn honking.  Incessant, really.  There is no plan.  No signs.  Just mud, potholes, barrio walls, and amused onlookers.  It is what you would best call, "A Chinese Fire Drill."  Then one Bolivian lady doesn't like the amount of traffic in her neighborhood, and stands in front of a bus.  The bus of course blocks travel in both directions at that point.  It is somewhat akin to the lone student blocking Chinese tanks in Tien Amen Square in Peking in 1989.  She has her arms folded, is probably swearing, and refuses to budge.  A stream of traffic perhaps half a mile long, comes to a complete standstill.  We all stand in the bus, to watch the standoff.  Other campesinos nearby, decide to pull the same stunt on THEIR corner.  I don't know what finally made her yield.  But it takes 45 minutes of ten feet at a time, to go the two blocks needed to surmount the dirtpile on the main road.  When we finally merge with rush hour traffic beyond the barrier, the driver gets a standing ovation.  Luckily, my now chagrined travel agent in La Paz has been in touch with Raul in Puno, and knows I will be late.  Very late.  Amazingly, he has somebody waiting at the station with a sign bearing my name.  I am whisked off in record time and at the hostel in ten minutes, while all the others on the bus must sort out their own dilemnas.

A couple of amusing thoughts.  Carmen, my wonderful guide at Copacabana and Isla De La Sol, has in a slow moment told me something that is one of those local truisms.  Three Things to Watch Out For (with wariness): a Bolivian policeman, a Peruvian "friend," and a Chilean woman.  Got a big laugh out of me, considering my status as a chump with Chilean women in getting robbed.  Of course, there are alternate versions in different countries, that collide with this theory.  They say further south, that the Argentinian women are the fun ones, the Columbian women are the most beautiful, the Venezuelan women are the ones who win the beauty contests, but it is the Chilean women you fall in love with.  And I believe with that, the Chilean women have just about covered the spread and the points ...

Next: "El Camino de Muerte," Bicycling The Road of Death

Puno, Peru and the floating reed islands of the Uros Indians

After a good sleep-in, am treated to a full Bolivian breakfast of bread, tea, tomatoes, cereal, eggs, ham, orange juice, and yogurt.  I am not use to eating breakfast, but the portions are very small so it all works.  Tour the Copacabana Catholic Church, home of the Black Madonna.  Apparently, near as I can understand it, as the Spaniards were assimilating with the Inca, one of their overlords was attempting to depart.  But it rained heavily, interfering with the trip.  So a painting of a native Mother Mary was presented as an offering for fair weather.  The skies cleared.  Both sides were duly impressed with this blessing.  Later, a Spanish sculptor turned the painting into a three-dimensional statue.  And the legend of the Black Madonna began, with the original resting quite accessibly near the altar in the church.  Also visited the public market.  Fascinating, for the smells, the quality and variety of goods, the mix of new and old technologies to prepare the foods, the lack of sanitation (not quite as critical, I am told, in this high and dry climate) and the vendors themselves -- often with their kids in tow, and the kids often selling or preparing alongside their parents.  In concentric circles around a central hub containing grains were alternately colorful displays of corn and maize of all types, legumes and squashes, vegetables such as tomatoes, then a meat ring (including llama, which is delicious, and very good for those suffering from high cholesterol), and finally fruits of every description. Many of these edibles were smaller than normal, but concentrated in flavor, due to the altitude.  A little clothing shopping followed nearby.

Carmen set me off on the bus to Puno, about a four hour ride, and took another bus herself back to La Paz.  I wil miss her.  She was wonderful company, and saved me many excruciating language challenges -- necessary for somebody like me who is curious about everything, and always asks more than my fair share of questions.  Much of my trip is taken up of course with the needlessly complicated stop at the border with Peru.  We create a long queue on the Bolivian side and I am asked for documents that were not brought to my attention to retain.  So in rough English, the stamping officer just has me create mine anew.  When presented to him, he doesn´t even look.  Just slams the stamp down and sends me onward. I could have written "Your Mother Is A Troll" and they would not have noticed.  You have to walk across the border, then wait in line once again -- and fill everything out in triplicate, AGAIN -- on the Peru side.  Bus goes across separately, sans passengers.  Road in is a combo of dirt, potholes, roadside hovels, buses playing "chicken" with each other, occasional asphalt, similar types of architecture to what has been described previously, and once again numerous pathetic looking animals roped into semi-grassy enclosures. Several of these animals (sheep, llamas, alpacas, goats, and cows) have broken free and terrorize the bus driver with a "will they or won´t they cross the road?¨" guessing game.   And this is the MAIN highway between these two countries ...

At Puno, a city of 190 thousand, I am met by Raul.  Another gift from Julio.  Raul has a sign bearing my name, and immediately whisks me out of the throng clogging the bus station and into a waiting taxi.  From there, a couple miles to the port.  Then out of the harbor by slow boat, to the Floating Islands of the Urus Indians.  The trip out takes perhaps half an hour, but since we are in a reed marsh much of the way, it is hard to tell the distance.  Distance is an important factor, for the original reason these Indians took up residence out on the lake was to avoid the Conquistadores -- the Spaniards.  Out of sight, and inaccessible on a practical level, and thus out of mind.  You might call their habitation ¨"The Venice of The Andes."  Their "floating lily pads" consist of reeds cut from the lakeshore, harvested daily, and replaced by top-stacking every 15 days.  As the reeds rot on the bottom, new ones replace them on top.  Walking on the surface, is somewhat like walking on a waterbed.  At times, your feet get wet.  But for the most part, it is solid.  The villages consists of up to 40 islands with a total population nearing 2000.  No more than six families may occupy a pad.  Each pad has a slightly Polynesian air to it, with huts, a central seating area (but sans firepit), an observation tower, and some areas of course for marketing to tourists.  The huts are very basic: small, with a reed platform bed, some clothing hooks, a dim lamp powered by solar energy, and a small collection of personal articles.  A few apparently have radio, small televisions, and even internet. Three yellow roofed schoohouses occupy several of the islands.  We meet ¨"Willie," the Presidente of the Islands" (not however, King of the tribe).  He is a relatively young man, who introduces us to his wife Maria -- who promptly tries to sell us "original" tapestries.  And other trinkets.  We walk around on short bridges connecting several of the islands.  Prices are much higher on the main pad where Willie holds court.  They drop considerably as one steps further away.  Also, as the hour draws nigh for our departure.  Bargains galore are to be found then.  It is a fascinating culture, not completely understood, but one that has stood the test of time and held its own in a most unusual environment for nearly half a millenium.  It is only slightly tarnished, and I get a certain amusement from, rounding the corner between islands, only to find a sign advertising a website for the Urus Islands, and offering international phone service.  Sure enough, thirty feet away, there is a phone (probably connected by underwater cable to Puno).  Followed by the proverbial tourist bar, sixty feet away.  Some things never change ...

Raul faithfully picks me up at the boat landing.  Traffic is crazy this evening, given that there is a huge Fiesta or Pageant going on in town.  Brightly dressed dancers and musicans in Carnivale type outfits clog the streets and sidewalks.  We fight with taxi cholos -- small enclosed cabs powered by motorcycles or bicycle power -- for position on the roads.  There are no lines on the road surface designating anything resembling a lane.  Only converging streams of traffic.  And yet, there are no accidents.  These drivers seem to have the lay of the road, to within a llama whisker of the vehicle next to them, no matter what direction they are being challenged from.  Only rain, eventually disperses the Fiesta participants.  I am back at the hotel (which is actually Raul´s home) earlier than I am accustomed to.  And very isolated.  Nowhere to go.  No streets to roam.  No pub to investigate.   No company to query about their travels.  Just an early wake-up call for a long, long us trip back to La Paz tomorrow.

Next:  El Camino Del Muerte, "The Road of Death."

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

Tiwanaku and Pumapunku

Stayed up too late and woke up too early.  Had not adjusted time zones.  Thus slept on the way in to Tiwanaku -- about 72 kilometers or 44 miles from La Paz and perhaps 20 kilometers from the shores of Lake Titicaca -- and missed much of the countryside.  What I did see was a throwback to 1850's Kansas.  Lots of prairie sod homes, with thatched roofs, scrawny cattle and sheep tendered via long ropes to sparse grass, and not a lot else.

Tiwanaku is the most important Pre-Columbian (read as: largey Pre-Inca) archeological site in all of Bolivia.  It flourished as a ritual and administrative center for approximately five hundred years.  The culture went through three different periods, before being supplanted by the Incas, and 100 years later by Spanish Conquistadores.  The site is noteworthy for its massive stonework, which -- much like Stonehenge and The Pyramids in Egypt -- remains unfathomable just how it was transported to the site, and then assembled. 

The site has three primary points of historical interest: The Piramide de Akapana, a seven-tier stepped pyramid (now largely rounded but being restored) that largely served an astronomical purpose, with its primary orientation being toward that of the Southern Cross constellation.  A secondary site, The Templete Semisubterraneo, remains complete and is submerged below ground level at the foot of the Akapana.  It is also oriented toward astrology and seasonal record keeping.  Sundials in the courtyard of this temple, are aligned with the Southern Cross as well.  Best preserved of all, is the adjacent Templo de Kalasasaya.  This temple is dedicated to the Tiwanaku deities.  Its 360 degree rectangular stone perimeter is the object of much conjecture as to "how did they do that?"  The large colorful blocks, when fitted together, are so tight no mortar is necessary to adhere them, and a knife blade will not fit in the joints.  That, and how these massive blocks were conveyed to the fairly isolated location remain the enduring mysteries of Tiwanaku.

Nearby Pumapunku is theorized to have been directly adjacent at one time to Lake Titicaca, now 20 kilometers away.  Its purpose is agricultural and irrigational in some way.  Water gates and canals, reach from the site down its northern bank to what was once clearly a shoreline.  While the remaining stonework is not as impressive as the temples a mile away at Tiwanaku, artifacts and archelogical evidence suggest its stone at one time did not play second fiddle to anybody.  Massive H-blocks, which fit together to make apparent water gates, were so precisely cut modern milling machines could not duplicate the effort today. It is said, such precision can not be accomplished now even using lasers.  How this then came to fruition thousands of years ago, remains the primary mystery of the site. 

Returning "home" to La Paz, I go through yet another trial a la Job with South American efficiencies.  The situation I am about to illustrate, is very typical here.  I go to the travel agency that arranged my excursion today, to pick up ticket vouchers for my follow-on Lake Titicaca leg of the Bolivia segment.  The gentleman who arranged it after much map discussion and reassurance as to timing and prices, had me stranded in Puno !  That is six hours from here, in Peru.  No trip out to the famous Urus floating islands, no overnight stay, and no trip back to La Paz.  Just stranded.  On top of that, he had already arranged himself for a really exciting bike tour the next day nearby to La Paz, on "The Road of Death."  I had told him I was relying on him for everything, as I've found the discussions between those with little Spanish and little English break down quickly without an accomplished guide or translator present.  He just kept looping into the fact "this can't be done for the price I arranged and will cost more money."  He never did grasp that money was not the object, having all the details arranged by somebody who spoke English was.  Well, that and actually coming back to La Paz as part of the itinerary, since I fly out of here for Lima in five days and changes are NOT what you want to do in South America!  Lesson reinforced: you have to confirm everything here. Actually write it down: who, what, when, and where, and at what price?  Draw maps.  Draw arrows.  Who will pick me up, and where?  So I pay an extra $55 to have it the way it was supposed to be in the first place.  And now the Titicaca extension will take 3 days, not 2.  At least I'll be active, seeing worthwhile pursuits, and not baking or standing in line or getting robbed in Santiago. 

Next: Copacabana, Isla Del Sol, Puno, plus Urus Floating Reed Islands (to be posted Feb 9 or 10th) 

La Paz - Lofty, Authentic, and Fun

Until arriving at La Paz at 4:30 this morning, it was a 3-legged dog.  Santiago to Iquiquie in Chile, Iquiquie to Santa Cruz in Boliva, and finally La Paz.  Then ... wow! The airport is on a high plateau at over 4000 metres (each meter being about 39 inches, or 3.1 feet, so you do the math).  Below, as you descend to the city at over 12,000 feet still, you see many tightly clustered lights in the streets and houses as they cling to the hillsides.  They are terraced like Asian rice contours.  Really quite impressive.  Especially to see that much light, for a relatively poor country.  When I get to the hotel area, it is obvious this area is a third world economy.  Chile and Argentina were modern.  Their bus fleet is better than the one we have in Seattle !  But in Bolivia, you can see the distinctive character of the city right away.  There are obvious cultural differences.  THIS IS WHAT I CAME HERE FOR ! 

In Buenos Aires, there is a completely different look to the inhabitants.  More linear faces, given so much Italian and other European heritage. Fairer skin.  Once crossed over the Andes into Chile, there is a large German influence.  The faces round out, and the skin coloring can be quite white, or even a deeper chocolate.  In parts of southern Chile, like Bariloche, it loooks positively Bavarian, and one can get by speaking only German in much of southern Argentina and Chile.  But up north, in Bolivia, the faces become more ethnic ... more Indian.  The youngest folks are handsome and social, but the older ones are very dark skinned and very weathered, which I am told has much to do with the altitude and sun.  You don't see sun worshippers here.  People dress in layers.

My karma seems to have changed (again).  The staff is friendly and multi-lingual.  My hotel has five floors.  No walking up flights.  They have a modern elevator.  The rooms at $12 nightly are to die for.  Each has its own bathroom, its own shower, own desk, phone, a bed better than mine, a security safe, racks to hang clothes, and the most beautiful murals painted on the walls.  Connected to the hotel, is a travel agency.

First thing I do today is go up to the 5th floor terrace for a cityscape view (taking the elevator, of course).  Walking at this point bring unnecessary pounding to the temples.  The view is stunning.  Concrete brick construction for miles and miles, brightly painted and so festive, yet so vulnerable to earthquakes.  Red tile roofs, or sheet metal ... as far as the eye can see.  The hillsides that are built on, would stun a mountain goat.  And busy-ness, everywhere.  Awkward traffic, jaywalking, 30 year old buses like I had expected from South America, more taxi vans than a Toyota factory, and barkers hanging out into traffic pitching for destinations unknown.  They do this from open doors, like exposed gunners on helicopter gunships.  Really incredible view!  Then enjoy my second cup of coca tea (first helped with the altitude headache one initially gets here), and then walk the city.  The famous Witch Market with all its native conconctions and Church of San Francisco are within three blocks of here -- I am in a great location !  Symbolically, I bought a native crafted coin purse again.  Refused to buy one again in Santiago.  Didn't want any attachment to that place.  La Paz, is my new Shangra La.  At least until I learn otherwise.

This place appears as if it is built on the slopes of a volcano.  It is both the highest, and steepest capital city in the world.  No idea why they coagulated here, to the tune of 1 million souls.  I know a LOT of mining was done here.  One could retire anywhere in the world, after running a brake repair shop here for a mere ten years.  We are talking steep, steep, steep!  Walking is difficult, until you get over the initial altitude sickness with a little acclimitization. Other things that help are sleep, coca tea (same ingredient that has the DEA in a constant war down here, only not "refined"), and something called Sorojchi pills.  Could make a nice retirement off those, too, eventually.

The sidewalks are pitted, warped, narrow, and often dirty.  A properly American trained attorney could retire in a day by bringing a busload of clients down and having them pratfall here about every 15 feet, given so many pothole opportunities.  But nobody cares.  The streets are full of people, into the late evening.  It is a little foul in some places.  But I love it.  It is authentic.  And the culture has been preserved.  You know where you are when you land in Bolivia.  The older women in their peasant garb and telltale undersized English Bowler hats and everybody trying to market something.  It is hard to keep a straight face, when a short, wide, grizzled Babushka type Bolivian woman in her full native regalia and bowler, suddenly pulls out a cell phone.  It is so incongruous!  Many folks here do double duty, as travel agents, taxi drivers, interpreters, and shopkeepers.  Whatever it takes, to survive in one of the world's most unusual environments.

I have never seen so many shops.  Tiendas, they are called, due to their small size.  They look like rabbit warrens.  Everywhere, there are handcrafted leather purses and coin bags, colorful alpaca and llama sweaters, shawls, vests, shirts, and other implements of the tourist circuit.  Fruit stands.  Basic housewares and hardware stands.  Stands selling jewelry, potions, trips, soccer shirts, athletic gear, travel bags, and in some cases, shrunken llama fetuses.  Don't ask me why.  Or who would buy one?  No idea how they all stay in business.

In the central district, I vist the Church of San Francisco.  Solid building, didn't catch the age, not much English literature available on it.  Unlike the classic cathedrals of Europe with their spider veined arch vaulting, this one has a more basic barrel vaulted structure.  It is not large, like Chartres or Salisbury or Notre Dame.  But it has amazing gilding.  And really old, basic, livestock type doors.  They must be 250 years old, at least.  Gold, statues, flowers, more gold, more saints, naves dedicated to particular martyrs of the Catholic Church, and otherwise a very fair representation of the people of this country.  Simple, friendly, hard working (dawn to dusk and beyond, as witnessed tonight walking home), deeply faithful for the most part, and generally very behaved.  The army and police are heavily represented here and see well to that.  Outside, they help escort a man down the block and away from the tourists.  He was probably drunk.  But it was a captivating site.  Had the worst case of Rostafarian uproar I'd ever seen.  His clothes were soiled and disheveled.  His pants were off.  He was bare assed, lying face down on the ground.  One shoe off, one on.  Snarled, when the police tried to prod him up.  Finally, he struggled to put on and then pull up his pants.  Then he reluctantly hopped down the street, one pant leg taking the place of the missing shoe so that it dragged like a wedding dress train and his feet never touched the cobblestones.  But the beltline on that side never remotely reached his waist, either.  It was both sad, and comic at the same time.

Near the church, I dive into the culture.  Know I am not supposed to eat street food.  But saw some ceviche I could not resist, served in bowls.  Alongside was a smaller bowl of something that looked like dried raisins.  Couldn't and didn't ask what was inside.  Everybody was eating them.  So I did too.  Figuratively grabbed my sack, popped a few down the hatch (both raw and with my soup), and only later asked what I was ingesting.  It was dried maize (corn), combined with dried baby cockroaches.  If you find me crawling on the ceiling in future months ...

Tonight's meal was shared with a Canadian couple, Chris and Sarah from Alberta, who came in with me on the last plane this morning.  We looked for two hours for an Indian restaurant we were referred to.  It was always "just around the corner."  Again, so very few speak any appreciable English here.  After walking two miles, jaywalking constantly (there are no red lights here, or hardly any for a city of this size, so you just put your hand out to warn a vehicle you are challenging his right of way and then make a dash for it) and not seeing street signs worthy of the name, we gave up and went to a Thai/Indian restaurant close to the hotel.  Food was adequate.  Service was so-so.  The South Americans don't check on you much while one is eating, unless you flag them down.  Great to sit though, after all that walking, and half of it steeply uphill. All in all, a good first day here, and a welcome change from Santiago.

Next: Tiwanaku, Most Important Pre-Inca Archeological Site in Bolivia   

"Please Cry For Me, Santiago" -- February 1st through 3rd

It may be no fault of Santiago's.  It may actually an awesome place.  I budgeted four days here, primarily to sample the nearby wine country.  Instead I have run into a bureaucratic nightmare of Kafkaesque proportions, that has not really enabled me to enjoy the city at all.  On top of that, I got robbed two nights ago, of $350.  Had been warned.  Everybody warned me.  My reasoning demurred, figuring: "I'm 6'2" and 210 lbs, can defend myself, have lots of locks on my backpack, they will pick on somebody else."  Not so.  They don't care about locks.  The cabbies tell me they will just take a box cutter of razor knife, cut a vulnerable part of the backpack from behind, and reach in to get what they want.  Or cuts your straps and take it all.  Or distract you from the front, while an accomplice picks your pocket fromt the rear.  I suspect it is something akin to the latter, that occurred with me.  My Dad told me about a similar experience, where he was assaulted in Moscow and relieved of his wallet.  My situation was perhaps worse (at least for the ego).  I was conned.  That actually hurts a little worse, I think.  It doesn't make you want to mix with others for long, however.

I have described the first two days here in the last post.  Next two, were spent primarily getting my Brazilian visa.  I stood in that Consulate for four days in a row!  They normally take six days to issue a visa.  Told them I won't be here for six days.  Or any city, for that matter, until I actually get to Rio for Carnivale in March -- "The World's Biggest Party."  They said I would have to return.  Told them instead I have at least 12 flight legs already set up, and none of them return me to Santiago, as I am visiting all 13 countries on this continent.  They say: "Well, aren't you staying at any of the other countries?  Perhaps you should pick it up there."  And I tell them I am only going to one other location in Chile, and that is Easter Island, where there is no embassy or consulate.  And I won't be staying long in Lima, or any other city.  They tell me that is a problem.  Start to walk me to the door.  I refuse to leave.  I tell them that their embassy in Washington, D.C. advised me I could get a visa for Brazil at another country en route, on an expedited basis.  They tell me it is impossible.  Then I virtually shout out "Well, you ... uh ... (it was something remotely close to 'folks') lied to me, and now I have a ticket to Rio, and no way to get in, because your personnel are not on the same page.  You need to make good on this."  And I refused to budge.  They came back 15 minutes later, acting annoyed and officious, demanded a long list of documents, and sent me out after others (including different sized passport photos, an itinerary for my flight out of Brazil, copy of passport, plus copies of several credit cards).  Then the money.  Price was now doubled.  "Bring the documents back tomorrow," I am told.  Along with $200, but they are ambiguous about the timing of the money.  Price of the visa has now doubled.  I decide not to risk this bit of grace with further challenge.  That afternoon, seeking passport photos in a familiar area (Plaza De Las Armas), I run into Ana and Alicia again -- the two students who must make the rounds there, selling their poetry.  They help expedite some of the documents I need, which helps.  But by the time we take leave of each other, they have called it a 'tour' now and want a generous contribution to cover their time and lost fundraising opportunity.  I get the distinct impression, upon leaving, that this town -- or at least major parts of it -- consists primarily of stages for Grifter University.  This is confirmed later on, when my money is stolen, right after visiting a cash machine.  Many ways to do it, but they make it a fine art here in Santiago.  Shadowing tourists, be they big or small, soccer goalie or diminuitive American students, everybody needs cash here as a foreigner and ultimately we are all easy marks.

So yesterday morning, Wednesday (Feb 2nd) I go to the Brazilian Consulate to deliver my documents.  They help, retrieving a document available only via my computeron its Outlook feature.  This was the itinerary and ticket showing I had a way out of Brazil.  Could not have done this without the excellent online help of my awesome travel agent, Cindy Brunotte of Captain's Travel in Seattle [cindy@captainstravel.com ]. She is simply amazing.   South America, is a document hell.  Everything is "hurry up and wait," but also "I need that in quadruplicate."  Finally get that taken care of.  All requirments in.  Then they ask for money.  I tell them they said I could deliver that the final day, when I actually pick up the visa.  They say "No.  NOW."  I explain I was robbed, had taken a decent size cash advance the night before to have cash to pay them, and the banks only let you do that once a day up to certain amounts.  I wouldn't be able to deliver the $200 until the morning.  They indicate they don't care.  I ask them what time they close, promise a solution, and run out.  The one credit card -- and I have five on this trip -- which has a PIN # is the one just utilized the previous night.  24 hour rule is still in effect.  Debit card didn't work.  It works with some banks, not others.  Banks close here early.  And so it goes, around and around and around ... yet finally found one that worked, got $200, delivered it to the Consulate, and went home to the hostel cashless to sulk.  Which is to say, spend 12 hours on the computer, until 3 this morning, finding and booking hostels for future stops.  Big problem was Rio.  It is a month until Carnivale, and yet everything is already gone (they are expecting half a million for this party), or pricing bumped up fivefold so even the raunchiest hostel is getting over $100 daily rate to stay there.  I don't have a solution yet, but know I won't be paying that.

One other example, and then some good news.  Getting a phone.  They have you by the sack here.  If you bring in your own US phone, you'll get incredible roaming charges, even if your phone is continent compatible and is a 4-band model.  And that is rare.  If you buy a phone, you have to have a new SIM card for each country.  You heard that right!  EACH country.  It costs about $10 to $15 for this, per country.  Except you have to make a service stop for each new dominion at a designated dealer in each new country, to get this done.  There is an extra charge for that.  Or you can rent a phone.  And the first time you do it, requires something like a 30 day delay.  But you must go to the airport for this.  And it only works inside the country of origin without incurring massive roaming charges.  So a lot of travelers without long-term stay plans, simply do without a phone.  Had I had one, I'd have been able to call my bank, without looking for an international calling center for three days.

So finally the good news.  Today, Thursday the 3rd,  I mail back to the US half the contents of my large suitcase.  Cold weather gear from the Antarctic portion of the journey, I no longer need.  Extra shirts, a few trinkets, etc.  The cavern it creates in my checkable luggage, is encouraging.  Now I can put the computer case, inside the big bag, and carry only the small backpack.  Oops, better not, considering all I've learned so far about this place.  Okay, I'll be satisfied with traveling lighter.  Next, I pick up my expensive Brazilian visa (4th day in a row now I've been to that, my Santiago "home away from home").  Without a hitch!  Can this be possible?  Spend the last of my cash-- now down to about a quarter -- taking a taxi to the Bolivian embassy.  Explain I am flying there tonight, have no visa, and to save time, indicate in advance THEIR EMBASSY spokesman earlier in the US said I could land in Bolivia, get the visa on the spot, and move on.  To save time, I also indicate I am not leaving without a visa.  I firmly plant myself in a chair.  Now by way of contrasts, within five minutes I am seated with a top officer of the Bolivian staff.  He looks at my papers, my new passport sized photo, confirms I can land tonight in La Paz, and handle all necessary items right at the airport.  Incredulous, I am gone within another five minutes.

Drunk with success, I go to a nearby cash machine.  It is a multi-mile ride back to the hostel, and I don't even have taxi fare.  I calculate enough for the taxi, lunch, taxi later on to the airport, and a little extra.  For a coke or two (it remains very hot here).  You don't want extra money in changing countries, because they hit you hard on the exchange rates.  So you try to calculate how much you need, and save $5 to $10 for the airport.  Fingers crossed, I jab the card in, and ... it works !  You never know when this will be so, or not so.  To add to the string, venture is made to a nearby international calling center.  Am able to (I think, hope, and pray) finally straighten out problems with the Bank of America card, get a long distance PIN # for another bank card in my possession, and my support crew at the UPS store where I get my mail open up all bank documents until they find PIN numbers for yet another credit card.  It costs me over $20 for the calls.  But now I have working numbers for the debit card, and three credit cards, to be able to draw cash whenever I want and need (Fingers crossed and three Hail Marys and several novennas to boot...).

This is the first time I have EVER been in a city, spent all my time on admin duties, and never seen one single tourist or historical point of interest.  It is also the very first time, I haven't even pulled the camera out of the bag and taken at least SOME photo of a point of local interest.  In both senses, I am terribly disappointed.  But thus situated, and now fully armed financially, I think I am really going to like it in La Paz!  Will first have to get the 12,000 foot + altitude to agree with me.  We will know in the morning.

Next: La Paz, Lake Titicaca, and "The Road of Death"