A Bolivian Fleece

Puno, Peru to La Paz, Bolivia – Altitude: 3,800 metres

“I’m gonna go out to the country and get myself some peaches…”

PEACHES – The Presidents of the United States

The striking teachers of Peru did not stop us leaving this time. Our bus to the Bolivian border was waiting for us conveniently just outside the hotel. From Puno, it was to be an approximate three hour journey to the Bolivian border town of Copacabana. From there we would be swapping buses in order to travel the remaining three hours to La Paz. The bus journey went without incident and offered even further spectacular view of Lake Titicaca, particularly as we approached the Bolivian border. Despite the previous night’s antics the Cusco Crew were in great form and there were only but a few tell-tale signs of hangovers.

The Peru/Bolivian border was unlike no other border I’ve seen. It was extremely crammed with locals selling souvenirs. We exchanged some money at the Cambio, relieving ourselves of our remaining Peruvian Soles and exchanging them for the Boliviano (or Boli for short). Bolivia being the poorest of South American nations has a currency weaker than a gringos stomach.

Gringo to Boliviano Conversion

• 1 US Dollar – 7 Bolivianos
• 1 Aussie Dollar – 4 Bolivanos
• 1 British Pound – 10 Bolivianos

We visited the Peruvian Immigration office first and obtained our exit stamps without any problems whatsoever. Walking up the sloping roadway Margaret and I kept our eyes pealed in search of the Bolivian Immigration office. We were keen to beat the queue, as a number of tour buses had also arrived at the border shortly after us, so we quickened our pace. We found the office eventually and it would appear in Bolivia, the early bird does not necessarily always catch the worm. There was certainly no queue, and we were seen to straight away. On inspecting our passports, the Bolivian officer demanded a 10 Boli entry-tax from the both of us. In our heart of hearts we knew something was awry and despite protesting, the officer remained quite steadfast. “Diaz Bolivianos, por favor!” We reluctantly handed over the money despite it being just over 2 Australian dollars each.

As we left the immigration office, a queue had formed and we relayed our story to a number of other tourists. They seemed to be in the know, and informed us that corruption amongst Bolivian immigration officials was quite common and that no taxes were necessary in crossing borders. We determined from a few English tourists, after they had had their passports successfully stamped, that indeed UK passport holders* were not required to pay an entry tax. Well, Margaret and I were peeved. In we went back into the office, jumping the queue that now stretched a good way outside and demanded our money back. After making us wait several minutes, and the officer feigning an important conversation with one of his colleagues, the officer fished our money out of the drawer and returned it to us. His only words to us were “PROXIMO!” which essentially means next time. Next time, we shan’t be as gullible I thought, you cheeky bugger. We left the Bolivian immigration office with a sense of accomplishment after reclaiming our whopping ten Bolivianos. It was soon quelled though, when I gave thought to the currency being counterfeit. A few hours later after doing some further reading about Bolivia in our Footprints South American handbook, I laughed when the text warned to be wary of corrupt Bolivian immigration officials.

* So why was an Australian and his Irish partner travelling on a UK passport? Well, for one thing, both Margaret and I were both born in the UK and while embracing our new nationalities since, we learned that travelling in South America was so much easier on UK passports than our Australian and Irish. UK passport holders required no visas whatsoever for any country. This was particularly beneficial for entering Paraguay. Australia does not have a Paraguayan embassy and given Margaret and I were in Sydney at the time of booking our trip, it would have been an extremely expensive and awkward exercise in obtaining one.

The remainder of our Tucan Group had no problems obtaining their Bolivian entry stamps, and so we were soon back on the bus for a short drive into Copacabana. Copacabana is a Bolivian holiday resort and actually has a beach on the shores of Lake Titicaca. I was sure, it wouldn’t rival Rio’s namesake, but it was surprisingly pleasant all the same, and exhibited an almost Mediterranean and Moorish feel. We had done some reading about Bolivia. Simon Bolivar established the territory and since its inception it had been on the losing side of just about every territorial conflict with its Latin American neighbours. It’s borders actually used to stretch as far as the Pacific Ocean, until the War of the Pacific, which saw Chile push back the Peruvian and Bolivian armies in order to claim the coast and the Atacama desert. Peru also took territory off Bolivia in this conflict. Bolivia were further defeated by the Paraguayans, in the Chaco War, and so too lost territory there. So the now smaller, land and lake locked country has a struggling economy, which among other things relies on mining, oil and the harvesting of the coca leaf.

We had time for lunch, so we had a meal of trout at a local Copacabana hotel. The sun was streaming down, and my Doxy stupefied skin was feeling the sting. The ordering of drinks with lunch proved to be interesting. I noticed that Peach Juice was on the menu, so I ordered one. Dany, looked at me oddly at the time, but I thought nothing of it, as it’s an expression I’m accustomed to receiving. When my beverage arrived, it was actually a dessert. Tinned peaches in juice! What I had meant to ask for was “Jugo de Durazno!”, but I actually asked for “Durazno al Jugo”. The difference being of course that the former was Peach Juice and the latter was Peaches in Juice. Margaret, Dany and Jo all had a great laugh at my expense. I knocked back the peaches anyway, as we were on a tight schedule. All in all, my midday snack was just … peachy.

Sprawling La Paz and magnificent Mt Illamani

With lunch finished, we hauled our rucksacks from the Puno bus to our new La Paz bound transport. The La Paz bus was much smaller than the one we had had from Puno. Like many buses in Bolivia, it resembled something out of the Partridge family, only with a much more tasteful coat of paint. The bus was quite uncomfortable as well, and miraculously I managed to sleep most of the journey. An hour and a half into the trip and it was time to wakeup and alight once more in order to cross the Straits of Tiquina. The Tiquina Strait is a small channel within Bolivian Lake Titicaca, and the only means of crossing is via ferry. While the bus was carried across on a transport ferry, our tour group all flocked into a small, unstable boat. When crossing the strait we were unsure of whether the boat hauling our bus or the boat carrying us would be the first to sink. By sheer Bolivian luck, both bus and tour group successfully negotiated the strait. We arrived on the other side of the strait before the bus, so it was time to explore the small town square of San Pablo, which is situated sleepily along the Straits of Tiquina. We didn’t have too much time to explore, but the most interesting feature for me, was some sort of Bolivian military monument. It showed a soldier being cleft by an axe. The sculptor even had the artistic flare to include quite a lot of blood and gore in the soldier’s wound. Fantastic!

The bus arrived for us, and so too did the relief in knowing that our luggage was not resting at the bottom of Titicaca. I slept for the majority of the journey to La Paz although I did wake up on a number of occasions to enjoy the views of the ever approaching Bolivian Andes. We passed through some poor farming communities before arriving at the fastest growing city in South America, El Alto! El Alto is a shanty town that is burgeoning with activity and is undergoing a population explosion. The poorer citizens of La Paz and indeed the outer lying farming areas of Bolivia are converging on El Alto to make something of themselves. The streets are narrow, jammed with traffic, and the buildings are ramshackle, roofless, brick dwellings stacked precariously atop of one another. El Alto overlooks La Paz at an altitude of 3,800 metres, and provides for some magnificent views of the sprawling capital city in the valley below. Our panoramic view also extended to the majestic, snow-laden mountains of Illamani, Huanya Potosi and Chacaltaya. We stopped for a photo during the descent from El Alto into La Paz. Despite the poverty within La Paz, it would still have to reside in one of the most picturesque settings. From El Alto, it must have taken at least another hour to negotiate the bustling streets of La Paz given that it is effectively just one huge flea-market and the largest at that in the world. Our hotel, the Hotel Senorial Montero was right in the city centre and was surprisingly modern. Arriving in La Paz marked a milestone in our journey across the South American continent, and so it was time again to farewell a number from the Cusco Crew. Over the next few days we would also be welcoming five new people to the tour.

That night we ventured out as a group to have dinner at the Tambo Colonial hotel restaurant, where we met one of our new tour group members. Enter Kim, a British woman in her mid-late forties and now residing in Adelaide, Australia. Dinner at the Tambo Colonial Hotel was very nice for most of us. Kim didn’t last long though. After literally flying into La Paz that morning, the altitude had taken its toll, so she left shortly into the meal to gain some much needed rest. Paying the bill at the restaurant was akin to a bizarre Bolivian dance. Granted, it’s always difficult accounting for the meals and drinks of a large tour group, but this particular restaurant had overcharged us quite a bit. Given that all of us had put in a healthy 10% tip (which seemed to be almost mandatory in Latin America, whatever the quality of the service), we were still short about 100 Bolis. After much reluctance and frustration from a number of us, including Dany, we paid the outstanding amount. We had been fleeced yet again.

After dinner we returned to our hotel. While the majority of the group had an 11am La Paz orientation tour with Dany, the following day, three intrepid, somewhat insane members of the Cusco Crew had elected for an 8am start in order to participate in a mountain bike ride along the most notorious road in Bolivia: “The Death Road