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Published: February 2nd 2008
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Forget what they say about robberies, kidnappings and violence in South America. Public transportation is the scariest thing about this place. Never before have I employed so many (shady) modes of transportation in 24 hours. Satisfied with the Peruvian experience, Takeo and I began the historic pilgrimage into neighboring Bolivia. From the plaza in Puno we squeezed into a moto taxi that should have been retired a decade ago. With only a 100cc engine towing 500+ pounds of weight we crept uphill at 3 m.p.h. slowing traffic and infuriating motorists everywhere. At least twice I saw our driver hang his foot out the side and try to help push us up the inclines. Once around a corner and headed downhill we learned that the brakes too, were long past their expiry date. Despite the screaming metal on metal discs we continued to accelerate rather than slow our descent through busy streets. Thankfully other drivers were forewarned by the horrific squeal and gave us wide berth as we swerved through flowing traffic. I was sure we'd die as we blew through a red light that was thankfully free of equally maniacal bus drivers, and the icing on the cake was driving
against one way traffic on the final stretch to the bus terminal.
Once out of the deathmobile we refused the luxurious tourist bus and opted instead to travel like the locals in a cramped colectivo bus. For over three hours we rolled over potholed highway, feeling every bump as the bus rattled like a bucket of nails with no shocks to speak of. As the inside temperature creeped into the nineties I was shocked not only that no one would even crack a window, but that all the other passengers wore sweaters and jackets while I was sweating bullets in a t-shirt. The Peruvian regaton techno pop music blasting on the PA ensured psychological torture as well, with ridiculous synthesized melodies and singers wailing like they'd just lost their first born.
Happy to escape the rolling sweatlodge in Yunguyo, we were hounded by bike taxi drivers fighting for our business and obliged to take a rickshaw ride for the final stretch to the border. Thinking it was only around the corner, I was amazed when my chauffer pedaled and wheezed for over 2 miles uphill to the border town of Kasani. Furthermore, he requested only 3 soles ($1)
for the lift, half the price of a proper taxi but for 10 times the work. At the tiny immigration desk we paid $100 for a visa and officially crossed the Peru-Bolivia border on foot, stepping over the invisible line with much relief and excitement. We hopped into a tiny trufi (communal minibus) and cruised the last 8 miles into the gorgeous and tranquil lakeside city of Copacabana. The place has a real laid-back bohemian feel to it, with travelling hippies cruising the streets and transient Argentinians jammin' music on the pier. Fresh kingfish and cheap beers for dinner served as a welcoming reminder of just how inexpensive things were as well, as did the 25 boliviano ($3) ensuite hotel room. Before leaving the next morning we observed an curious and fascinating ritual taking place out front the main cathedral in town. Many cars were parked in the plaza out front, extravagantly decorated with flowers and streamers. We learned that twice a day, Bolivians from all over would make long pilgrimages to this particular cathedral to have their vehicles blessed by a catholic priest. This is so that the car would continue to run well and bring good fortune to
the family for the upcoming year. Thus, drivers would park out front, buy holy water, cases of beer and champagne (sold on the cathedral steps) and then pour it on the windows, tires, bumpers and engine of the car. Copious amounts of the alcohol was shared among family, resulting in uber-intoxication by about 10:30 a.m. The priest would arrive and splash holy water on the vehicle while saying a blessing, and then the pilgrims would leave in the fresh new ride, happy and drunk (and likely to crash the blessed new vehicle on the voyage home). Never seen anything like it.
For our last leg of travel we climbed aboard a tourist bus bound for La Paz, and traded laughs and stories with travellers from all over. A couple hours into the trip we had an interesting intermission when told to get off the bus so that we could cross the Estrecha de Tiquina, a narrow stretch of lake Titicaca too wide to permit a highway across. We piled into a small boat and watched nervously as the massive tour bus rolled onto a rickety old barge, driven by one man and a tiny outboard motor. While crossing the
strait I imagined one rogue wave rocking the barge, toppling the bus and sending $10,000 worth of backpacker luggage to the bottom. Fortunately, passengers, bus and belongings made it safely to the other side and we continued on into the Altiplano of Bolivia. While cruising the high plains I was stunned by the first glimpse of the snowcapped Cordillera Real - towering 20,000 foot peaks dominating the horizon and begging to be climbed. Drooling out the window, my daydreaming was once more interrupted when traffic stopped behind an accident that had just taken place. Hundreds of locals flanked the scene of the crash and we had to detour through a cornfield to circumnavigate the gruesome wreckage. Through the mass of curious onlookers I caught only glimpses of tangled metal, though it looked pretty bad. I said a little prayer for the passengers involved, hoping for the best. We later learned that a minibus had crashed head on with an oncoming dump truck, killing 15 people. This was a sobering discovery, as we could have suffered a similar fate had we been 20 minutes earlier. Immensely thankful to have a responsible driver, we later pulled safely into the busy capital city
of La Paz. From high in the el Alto outskirts of the capital we spiraled down the bowl-shaped valley into the heart of the city, relieved to arrive and excited about the experience to come. Little did I know just how wild things would turn in the days to come...
Thanks as always for following and stay tuned for stories of la vida loca in La Paz. (shown below)
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