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Published: August 11th 2006
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Thursday night kebab
Why Rob loved Arequipa Good news: this is going to be a short entry, for two reasons. Firstly, we have one free afternoon in the Bolivian capital, La Paz, before we hit the road again; and second, Adele says we spend too much time writing blogs and not enough time doing things to write about in them. (She might have a point, damn her.)
So, to cut a long story short... Last Wednesday we entered Bolivia via a hideous all-night bus journey from our favourite place so far, Arequipa in Peru. And if I'm honest, first impressions weren't great. We got ripped off by money-changers at the border, then for tickets on a decrepit bus smelling of human waste which shook, rattled and rolled us to Copacabana - not the beach resort of Barry Manilow fame, but a hippy tourist town on the shores of Lake Titicaca that was in the throes of independence day festivities.
Said festivities seemed to comprise blessing cars with beer at the cathedral (I kid you not), relieving yourself in the street at will (the women too) and being as awkward as possible towards foreigners; indeed, the owner of our hostal was so taciturn and mean-spirited that he
Copacabana
The blessing of the cars made Nicholas van Hoogstraten look like Jonathan Ross. Unfortunately, his tendency to look upon gringos as
plata on legs seems to be a staple of Bolivian behaviour - perhaps not surprising, because this is easily the poorest place we've visited so far, but it doesn't exactly encourage you to hang around.
But no matter. We went for a fantastic day walk on a tiny island on Lake Titicaca - which is massive and magnificent - called the Isla del Sol. From there you get incredible views of a snow-capped section of the Bolivian Andes called the Cordillera Real, a mountain chain so inspiring that we shelved our ideas of scarpering back to Peru as soon as possible and instead headed for La Paz to book our places on something called the Condoriri Trek, which takes you into the heart of the Cordillera.
The trek looks reasonably straightforward (it's 'only' 30km, and you get the thick end of three days to do it), but wasn't for a number of reasons. For starters, we were taken to the trailhead by a death-or-glory cabbie at the wheel of his son's Kia Pride, which he proceeded to do his best to destroy
on the rough dirt road leading to the start, getting out on one occasion to inspect the front end because he 'thought he'd broken something' crashing over a boulder. We had no idea who our guide was going to be until the cabbie said that the little old woman in the front passenger seat - who hadn't uttered a word up to that point - was in charge of proceedings. And we stopped to eat our lunch sat in a farmyard in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dust and donkey poo, whereupon a dog and a chicken had a fight on my backpack. Stranger still, the chicken won then proceeded to eye up the drumstick I was munching on. All a bit too close for comfort...
As it turned out, we needn't have worried. For starters, our guide, Domi, turned out to be amazing. Bolivia has the highest population of indigenous people in South America; Domi is one of them and hikes in traditional dress, which includes a full length
polleria skirt, three petticoats and what Adele could only describe as ballet slippers on her size 1 feet. There are only 15 women guides in the country, and
Tent chic
How Adele found the funny side of being cold she is one of only two who dress traditionally, so all in all, she was pretty special.
And there was more: she cooked restaurant-standard food on one tiny stove in the middle of a yurt and, despite being of indeterminate age, could leave us for dead walking uphill or running down it. She recruited a mule called Ave Maria (at least, we think that's what Domi said, though we later discovered from walking behind the beast that she was a he...) to carry our gear. And the trail she took us on was the best I've ever walked: mile after mile of soaring peaks, technicolour lakes and tundra that sort-of resembled a high-altitude Lake District, only with burning sunshine, snow on the hills and absolutely nobody else around. It´s a terrible cliche, but at times the silence was deafening.
It was hard graft, however. Domi only spoke Aymara (of which we know absolutely nothing) and Spanish (which we are rapidly forgetting), and everything here is high up. The lowest point on the Condoriri is 4600 metres above sea level - quite a long way up when you consider that Ben Nevis is all of 1350m - and the
Tent s***
We didn´t really stand a chance altitude does all kinds of weird things to you: your lungs feel tiny, you can find yourself wobbling about like a drunk and when you are climbing, it feels pretty much like Neil Armstrong in reverse.
Far harder was the camping by night, though, because it was ABSOLUTELY BLOODY FREEZING. Once the sun went down we were on borrowed time, not helped by our rubbish hired camping gear, including a tent whose outer and inner layers had clearly never met before. On the second night, I went to bed in two pairs of socks, long johns, trousers, three layers on top and a woolly hat, with my gloved fist jammed in the hole in my sleeping bag hood that I was meant to breathe through... and woke up to ice on the inside of the tent. How Adele, who really feels the cold, managed to see the funny side, I just don't know.
But the whole thing was nothing less than fantastic, especially as the trek ended at a climber's refuge at the foot of Huayna Potosi, a gorgeous 6088m peak that's a seven-hour ice-axe-and-crampon climb from base camp. Having spent much of the last few weeks looking
Ave Maria
Rob supervises as the ladies get on with the hard work up at mountains, we're both itching to have a go at climbing one, although experience (our combined total: nil) is an issue. However, this didn´t stop the first-time climbers we met during our night at the refuge, most of whom will not be submitting Mensa applications any time soon. For example, a friendly Canadian bloke called Nick, though excellent company on a night out, had never heard of Guantanamo Bay...
Of course, this wouldn't be Bolivia - we're fast learning - without some kind of sting in the tail: in this case a non-materialising taxi from Huayna Potosi to La Paz this morning, which led to much swearing and hat-chucking (us) and much couldn't-give-a-monkey's shrugging of shoulders (trekking company) when we finally made it back about two hours ago.
Right: it's picture-upload time, our favourite bit of the week. We're off to The Jungle tomorrow in search of heat and wildlife. Talking of which, let us know how you're getting on, 'cos we're missing you all loads.
Rob and Adele x
Catchphrase of the week
No. 4: 'I can't feel my legs, Kaiser.' [As spoken in our tent at 2am, recalling the closing scene of
The Lake District
Only not up North and there´s no-one about Usual Suspects. Only a bit colder.]
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Daz
non-member comment
Weight Loss
Is it the crap photography, poor lighting or dodgy blog pictures or does Rob look like his lost his facial chubbyness?