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Passenger ferry
No bar or movies I'm afraid Matt Writes : At 8am we leave the fantastic Lake Titicaca town of Copacabana in an awful minibus heading for the Bolivian capital of La Paz, a sprawling city in a basin surrounded by mountanous ranges, the highest capital city in the world. Only after arguing with the bus driver does he stow our backpacks into the boot of the bus and not on the roof rack in the pouring rain. Even the locals are hurling abuse at him for being already late and already overfull yet he remains greedily touting to get more customers to board.
We wind our way to the Strait of Tequina where we all abandon the minibus for a small boat equally crammed as it wobbles the kilometre across the water. Our journey however looked far less precarious than that of the bus which took the far slower option of a barge that was not much more than a 30ft by 10ft plank of wood helmed casually by its captain who seemed to be struggling with the mighty outboard that looked that it would stuggle if mounted on a moped (going downhill).
Cholitas in hip widening Pollera and bowler hats bought bright
flowers from a stall while others busied the multitude of refreshment vendors, all of us waiting for the floatilla of busses to get across the water.
With the pushing and shoving of punts to guide the barge to shore, the bus was guided back onto dry(ish) land and we made our way through the devistatingly beautiful Altiplano. 14000 feet above sea level, its horizon lined with the snow capped Cordillera Real. Dwellings soon built in their concentration forming the ghetto city of El Alto positioned above La Paz that filled the basin shaped canyon below.
And here, the rain started in the same vain as it had that morning but multiplied by four, and not subsiding.
Bumping into Kiwis who we had befriended the day before whilst walking on the Isla del Sol (fabled birthplace of the Incas), we decided to put a brave face against the rain and hit the bars. Our first bar seemed a little jaded and poorly stocked, the reason of which soon became apparent that the wedding they had catered for the night before had drank them dry (my kind of wedding). Next Orange Bar and then onto Ram Jam who (at
a price) offered a fix of Oxygen to alleviate the altitude sickness. We thought is was a waste of time until later on when we found ourselves dancing on furniture, playing 'pile-ons', and generally causing a nuisance of ourselves until about five in the morning.... Nah mate, can't feel a thing.
Our next day was spent nursing hangovers and hiding from more rain in our great hostel with comfy sofas and a movie. Butch Cassedy & the Sundance Kid, who's final days were spent creating havock in Boliva, seemed a good choice. After a birthday call to my nephew we joined a hostel trip to El Alto for an evening of wrestling.
"Titanes del Ring" as the poster declared, looked promising with fighters such as Tortuga Ninja, Mister Atlas, Milenium & Picudo to name but a few. We were bundled through the queuing crowds and into to our VIP ringside seats with complimentary snacks and fizzy drinks.
Now ever since I used to watch Big Daddy knock seven bells of shite out of Giant Haystacks every Saturday with my Nan, I had become disillustioned with the whole wrestling farce. Firstly, it reduced my devout Roman Catholic Nan
Nice head
At this altitude, pouring a beer without half a pint of head is not easy to a cheering, growling maniac, spitting explitives (otherwise strangers ino her vocabliary) at the TV. Secondly as I got older, it not only got boring seeing the good guy winning all the time but it became obvious that these guys were not
really hurting each other. And the final nail in the coffin in my opinion was discovering that Big Daddy's real name was Shirley Crabtree.
Incidently (and quite fancinating in my humble opion) is that in August 1987, Shirley Crabtree hung up his pro wrestling leotard after an incident in the ring which left his opponent dead. Although the inquest found cause of death to be a heart attack and not the belly-splash that Big Daddy had administered, he would always rest the blame of the fatality firmly on his own shoulders......Crikey. No fan of WWF am I but what Emma and I were witnessing was pure class. The fighting was absolute pantomime, compares with rediculously tight perms, the enevitable good guys vs bad guys, crazy costumes, and that was before the crowd had got warmed up. It suddenly became apparent as to why the tourists were given the ringside seats when the fighting spilt out of
High City
Andies backdrop the city the ring and over the barriers into the crowds. Dazed and displaced off their chairs, some could only spectate sitting on the floor as their own seats turned into weapons. The crowd hurled abuse, then popcorn, then drinks, to a point where you couldn't tell if you were watching wrestling or a food fight. Kids mugged the baddies as they made their entrances and their mothers bellowed encouragement from the stands. "Comando" (yes you guessed it) dressed for the Army even spat at Emma for giving him a dowsing of cherryade.
Then it was time for some girl on girl action, then tag team girl vs boy verses girl vs girl vs all four (2 men 2 women) smashing each other to bits. This place was off the hook!
On the way home we got some night photos of La Paz but rushed back to the hostel to join in a pub quiz. "Fresh Jugs" (to do with the vessles our beer was served) came a very close second. We managed to persuade the judge to give us match winning bonus points if we could answer one of the religious questions in arabic. Our bluff failed spectacularly on
Basin of La Paz
Looking down on the city the discovery that the Quiz master was Israeli and thus our second position remained.
The following day, the rain continued in rivers and reports of floods throughout the country were coming in. Our downhill mountain bike experience would prove to be a wet one and our most eagerly awaited trip to the Salt flats was to be a no go as buses were cancelled left right and center. We were truely stuck in La Paz...
We heard horror stories of passengers getting off busses in the middle of the night, wading through mud and waiting until the buses got through the landslides. Further stil,l as the rain showed no sign of subsiding residences began to be displaced from their homes. Our inconvenience was another man's disaster and brought home to us both how lucky we really are.
Our options limited we headed to the drier lands of coastal Chile.
Thanks to Adventure Brew Hostel for keeping us sane, for your free daily pancakes, free glass of daily beer, great staff and hostel that comes highly reccommended.
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ben
non-member comment
I showed the whole blog to my class on the white board at school,they asked me lots of questions. they liked the wrestlers.