A quick disclaimer: the two towns mentioned in the title - Copacabana (like the Brazilian resort town) and Isla del Sol (literally ¨Island of Sun¨) would imply that we´d begun the tropical part of our trip. Sadly, this is not the case. At something like 3,800 meters, Lake Titicaca is frigid even on the sunniest of days.
Border Crossing: Characteristic poor planning
As a citizen of the United States, it is obligatory to pay $135 for a Bolivian visa upon entry to the country. This relatively astronomical sum (a month in Peru costs about $600) had tortured both Scott and me for several weeks; we weighed the value of visiting the Amazon jungle and the mysterious Salar de Uyuni against our wallets, and in the end we´d decided (somewhat grudgingly) to make the intial investment in a country touted above all for its cheapness.
Obtaining U.S. dollars to pay this sum, however, turned out to be a bit easier said than done. Our unwillingness to withdraw money from any bank but Scotiabank (Bank of America´s sister, no ATM charge), and Scotiabank´s policy not to dispense more than 100 USD per customer per day led us to embark on the border bus with only barely enough money to pay the crossing. I had $40 in reserve in addition to my $100 withdrawal, and Scott had his $100 plus about $30 worth of Peruvian soles...we were cutting it rather close. In addition, we lacked the 4x4 color photograph the U.S. State Department said we´d need, and Scott had lost both his immunization records and the copies of his immunization records somewhere back in Puerto Rico. Needless to say, we were a bit nervous upon arrival to the border crossing.
Fortunately, Scott was able to change his Soles for dollars (and my remaining Soles for dollars) on the Peruvian side of the border, and we happened to be carrying copies of our passports that the officials accepted as photos. As is becoming customary, the officials gave Scott trouble for having a water-stained passport, but eventually we got our visas, our entry stamps, and back on our bus. We had $5 USD and 3 Soles between us as we entered Bolivia.
Copacabana
Arriving in Copacabana, in true fashion, we were informed that the city didn´t have any ATMs. Thankfully, this turned out to be faulty information, and - pockets full of bolivianos - we checked into our (unbelievably fancy) ho(s)tel (the State Dept also told us we´d need proof of hotel reservations in Bolivia in order to cross - they didn´t), then, along with a new friend, we headed to dinner. As we sat down, laughing, I joked that I was due to get sick soon, since several travelers had informed us Bolivian food was not exactly sanitary much of the time.
Isla del Sol: Sick Boy returns
This joke proved prophetic: on the boat to Isla del Sol the next morning, after boasting loudly that I never get seasick, I began to feel incredibly sick indeed. By the time we docked on the island, I was close to full stomach upheaval, and it was all I could do to stumble to a nearby patch of grass and fall to my knees. In a true homage to Sick Boy, I stayed in that exact spot for the next eight hours, belching noxious fumes and making speedy trips to the restroom.
By the end of the day, I was feeling somewhat better, and Scott and I finally rose, and were surprised to find that from a standing vantage point, it was possible to see that we were on a very thin isthmus, with an infinitely nicer, sandy beach on the other side. We crossed through the tiny town, plopped ourselves down on the beach, and leisurely set up our tent. It was about that time that I needed the restroom again, and was informed by every proprietor that the water had been shut off throughout the town...which made for an eventful night. Throughout the night, my stomach gurgled in harmony with the requisite guitar of the grungy Argentinian travelers camping nearby (Scott and I have begun to notice that traveling Argentinians, at least, are easily recognized by their dreadlocks, beaded accessories, barefootedness, musical instruments - the more homemade the better, and blankets spread across park benches with trinkets for sale. It will be interesting to see if Argentinians in their home country fall into our stereotype).
The next day, feeling much better, we breakfasted, then embarked on a short hike to the Incan creation site before our early afternoon boat. After being ambushed by a man requiring a 10 boliviano checkpoint fee at a random spot along the trail, we caught up with a free tour, stopped at the entry ¨gate¨ (stone ruins), and listened in awe as the guide related how it used to be required to enter the site on your knees, and that non-believers who visited the site would sometimes be struck dead upon exiting through the holy gates. Which didn´t exactly make sense, considering the tour guide presumably has led this tour before, and probably wouldn´t be invited back if 90% of his tour group died each time. Interestingly, he claimed that tourists often found their watches or cameras stopped functioning upon entering the sacred site, but assured us they´d work again when we left (mine worked the whole time, but then again there is a certain power that comes with being Sick Boy). Upon entering, we were led to La Roca Sagrada - the Sacred Rock (not to be confused with La Piedra Sagrada - the Sacred Stone) - which was supposed to resemble a puma, one of the Incans´ sacred animals. I was thrilled at recognizing the profile of the lean form of a puma´s body spanning the linear stone, until the guide explained we should be able to see only the puma´s face, from a head-on view. According to legend, this rock is where humans began. It is also where the guide on the free tour tells you that the tour is not, in fact, free, and that there is a mandatory tip of 10 bolivianos. Tipping less, as did an Italian tourist who´d only just arrived, gets you a public shaming.
We then briefly visited a sacred springs, and the guide used Scott´s empty Quina Kola bottle to offer the springwater to the assemblage. Everyone drank from the spring for its purported healing qualities. My stomach had only just returned to semi-normal, so it seemed like a great idea to drink unfiltered water from some mossy-looking rocks in Bolivia. It was actually really delicious, and didn´t make me sicker (Sick Boy power, I´m telling you!).
On the boat back to Copacabana, Scott and I amused ourselves by betting about how many times the American tourist sitting across from us would say ¨uhh....SI!...¨ in response to the soft-speaking Bolivian boy attempting to chat with him in Spanish. We stopped counting at 45 times, after about ten minutes.
Our boat docked just in time for us to book a ticket to La Paz for that night, and we paid extra in order to be put on the ¨tourist bus,¨ which would drop us at the Terminal, rather than the sketchy neighborhood the locals landed in.
We grabbed some breads for dinner, then headed back to catch our bus. Upon arrival, the woman who had sold us the tickets frantically grabbed the tickets from my hand, replaced them with different tickets, and shepherded us away from the large, tourist-y bus, and towards a smaller bus of questionable road worthiness. I had the sneaking suspicion that this woman intended to put us on the cheaper, non-tourist bus, which would drop us at 11pm in the most dangerous part of La Paz, and thereby pocket the extra money we´d paid for the more expensive, safer bus (see, Mom? we at least try to be safe). I questioned her repeatedly to this effect, and she reassured me that she was putting us on the right bus. There was nothing more I could do, and - with deep misgivings - we got on the bus.
An hour or so into the bus ride, just as I was settling into one of my familiar bus-naps, the lights suddenly came on and we were all bidden to descend. Groggy, confused, and mistrustful, Scott and I were guided - along with the rest of the passengers - through the near-pitch darkness to a small dock at the edge of a large, dark lake. We watched, mystified, as our bus was loaded onto a barge, and we were loaded into a speedboat, and ferried across the narrow leg of what must have been Titicaca. This was one of the first of many incidents that would only happen in Bolivia.
Much to our surprise, when the lights of La Paz first appeared below us in a deep canyon, a group of girls on our bus burst suddenly into song - ¨Oh, linda La Paz!¨ (Oh, beautiful La Paz) - and startled everyone who had been sleeping. We began descending into the incredibly dirty, hectic city, nearly killing pedestrians at every corner. When we finally arrived, we immediately recognized we were at nothing so much as resembling a terminal - we´d literally stopped in a wide part of the street, and people were descending from the bus. At the prompting of a helpful girl who´d taken pity on us, I asked the driver to either take us to the terminal, or give us our money back. He responded sadly (and, I think, truthfully) that the woman who had sold us our tickets had only paid him the amount for the cheaper bus, and must´ve pocketed the rest. It was a rather small sum, but I was furious - we´d done everything in our power not to be swindled, only to find ourselves taken advantage of. This would be a common theme throughout our time in Bolivia.
La Paz
The woman who´d suggested I talk to the driver warned us that the area was, indeed, incredibly dangerous, and offered to let us ride in her colectivo to the town´s center. Along with two other bewildered tourists, we followed her as she led us to a hotel she deemed safe, then bartered a price for us. Of course, when she left it turned out she´d gotten a room for the four of us that only had three beds, so we wearily worked out our own deal.
We spent a few days in La Paz, of which the highlights were:
-trying to watch the 49ers game in any of the backpackers´ hostels, only to find the game wasn´t broadcast in the city
-getting grossed out at the alpaca fetuses at the Witches Market - the fetuses are buried under new homes for good luck
-buying salteñas (tasty empanada-like snacks filled with potatoes, chicken, or meat), tucumanas (similar snacks that are fried, rather than baked), and rellenos (meat and potatoes packed inside a fried ball of potatoes, rice, or plantains) multiple times per day at a specific corner
-using the really fast internet!
-visiting Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon) just outside of La Paz. The Valle is a rocky park featuring strange, moon-rock-like minnarets and pinnacles, deep crevices, and dizzying drops.
Then Scott got the brilliant idea to try climbing the giant mountain next to La Paz, and I wasn´t about to be left behind.
Border Crossing: Characteristic poor planning
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| Looks innocuous enough.... |
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| All ready for his border crossing! ...kind of. |
Fortunately, Scott was able to change his Soles for dollars (and my remaining Soles for dollars) on the Peruvian side of the border, and we happened to be carrying copies of our passports that the officials accepted as photos. As is becoming customary, the officials gave Scott trouble for having a water-stained passport, but eventually we got our visas, our entry stamps, and back on our bus. We had $5 USD and 3 Soles between us as we entered Bolivia.
Copacabana
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| Non-photoshopped image of the sunset from Copacabana |
Isla del Sol: Sick Boy returns
This joke proved prophetic: on the boat to Isla del Sol the next morning, after boasting loudly that I never get seasick, I began to feel incredibly sick indeed. By the time we docked on the island, I was close to full stomach upheaval, and it was all I could do to stumble to a nearby patch of grass and fall to my knees. In a true homage to Sick Boy, I stayed in that exact spot for the next eight hours, belching noxious fumes and making speedy trips to the restroom.
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| View from my resting place, at sunset |
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| Incan creation site - do you see the puma head? |
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| Scott and his holy water, next to the questionable source |
We then briefly visited a sacred springs, and the guide used Scott´s empty Quina Kola bottle to offer the springwater to the assemblage. Everyone drank from the spring for its purported healing qualities. My stomach had only just returned to semi-normal, so it seemed like a great idea to drink unfiltered water from some mossy-looking rocks in Bolivia. It was actually really delicious, and didn´t make me sicker (Sick Boy power, I´m telling you!).
On the boat back to Copacabana, Scott and I amused ourselves by betting about how many times the American tourist sitting across from us would say ¨uhh....SI!...¨ in response to the soft-speaking Bolivian boy attempting to chat with him in Spanish. We stopped counting at 45 times, after about ten minutes.
Our boat docked just in time for us to book a ticket to La Paz for that night, and we paid extra in order to be put on the ¨tourist bus,¨ which would drop us at the Terminal, rather than the sketchy neighborhood the locals landed in.
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| Hey! ...that doesn´t look like chicken...typical Bolivian fare |
An hour or so into the bus ride, just as I was settling into one of my familiar bus-naps, the lights suddenly came on and we were all bidden to descend. Groggy, confused, and mistrustful, Scott and I were guided - along with the rest of the passengers - through the near-pitch darkness to a small dock at the edge of a large, dark lake. We watched, mystified, as our bus was loaded onto a barge, and we were loaded into a speedboat, and ferried across the narrow leg of what must have been Titicaca. This was one of the first of many incidents that would only happen in Bolivia.
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| Late-stage alpaca fetuses |
La Paz
The woman who´d suggested I talk to the driver warned us that the area was, indeed, incredibly dangerous, and offered to let us ride in her colectivo to the town´s center. Along with two other bewildered tourists, we followed her as she led us to a hotel she deemed safe, then bartered a price for us. Of course, when she left it turned out she´d gotten a room for the four of us that only had three beds, so we wearily worked out our own deal.
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| The ¨trail¨ through Valle de la Luna |
-trying to watch the 49ers game in any of the backpackers´ hostels, only to find the game wasn´t broadcast in the city
-getting grossed out at the alpaca fetuses at the Witches Market - the fetuses are buried under new homes for good luck
-buying salteñas (tasty empanada-like snacks filled with potatoes, chicken, or meat), tucumanas (similar snacks that are fried, rather than baked), and rellenos (meat and potatoes packed inside a fried ball of potatoes, rice, or plantains) multiple times per day at a specific corner
-using the really fast internet!
-visiting Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon) just outside of La Paz. The Valle is a rocky park featuring strange, moon-rock-like minnarets and pinnacles, deep crevices, and dizzying drops.
Then Scott got the brilliant idea to try climbing the giant mountain next to La Paz, and I wasn´t about to be left behind.
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