Hooning through Bolivia

My journey to Puno on the shore of Lake Titicaca with Charlie and Clarissa was my first experience on a long haul bus in South America (actually, ever) and it was a bloody ordeal. The semi-cama (half-bed) seats didn't recline to anything even resembling half a bed and it was freakin freezing; had Charlie not been farted on by a Peruvian man-lady all night, I would not have been amused.

My mother always said "if you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all" (mother also said I'd go blind if I played with it too much, I bet she didn't foresee the advent of Braille keyboards); fortunately Puno isn't a person, it's a place, and a crap one at that. Unfortunately it's also the only departure point for tours to the floating islands of Lake Titicaca. I know two trivial facts about Lake Titicaca: 1) it's the highest big lake (and biggest high lake - make that three) in the world; and 2) in earlier times it was the primary defence for the inhabitants of man-made islands (buoyant blocks of reed roots covered with reeds) from less buoyant tribes (both in temperament and transport). Given their secondary defence is apparently singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" off-key in seven sort-of different languages (as unleashed upon our tour group - THWACK!), I understand the historical requirement for this inconvenient postal address.

After hastily ignoring the particularly cheesy pizza we ordered for lunch, we were straight back on the bus to La Paz for our second ordeal of the day. For those who've been lucky enough to avoid the bus journey from Puno to La Paz, there are two bonus-features that make the trip particularly abnormal:

1. The border crossing: not too tricky unless you happened to overstay your tourist residence period, in which case the border guards will demonstrate that they can, given enough time, count to 90 (I guess they're lost without their quipus). During this period, the bus driver will probably leave with your bags because he's bored and run out of coca leaves.
2. The lake crossing: this was the first time in my trip when I was convinced I'd never see my backpack again. Some time during the night, our bus arrived at the edge of a lake; clearly the guys building the road were faced with the same predicament and just gave up (instead of going around, yes, around the lake). So we were herded off the bus and onto a not very lake-worthy dinghy while our bus rolled onto a nearly bus-sized barge to navigate the lake after us. By navigate I mean "succumb to the mercy of", as the bus-barge combination immediately drifted off in the wrong direction; though it was probably just a Captain Haddock wannabe at the helm.

An unfortunate overnight stopover in La Paz later and we were back at the bus station wondering why our bus to Uyuni had knobblies, six spare tyres and was being loaded with parquetry chips (I'm convinced it ran on steam). The three of us had the battery-hen-like run of the back seat to ourselves so we settled in for the 12 hour steam South. Clear skies and a full moon afforded a wonderful view for the passengers of the surrounding countryside, and for the driver of the surrounding road; though when I noted a river and riverbanks on either side of the bus somewhere South of Oruro, I suspected our steambus captain either needed the headlights too, or had simply forgotten he was driving a bus - not a boat.

Had Charlie not at that time orally ejected his most recently consumed Burger King vlue meal out of the window, things may have taken a decided turn for the worse. Twenty minutes, a jammed window and two handfuls of burger #2 later; our fortunes were really heading skyward.
Upon our arrival in Uyuni, we had planned to go straight on a 3 day salt flats (Salar de Uyuni) tour, but with Charlie needing at least 36hrs me-time before brushing his teeth and Clarissa still walking like a Thunderbird (thanks over-the-counter valium!); we elected to have a day off. Fortunately our lodging was super-cheap (US$3/night) and there was an awesome market in the main street where I bought an awesome cardigan (which, despite buttoning up from the left, is most definitely not a woman's cardigan).

Crissa (who had by now regained full control of her limbs), Charlie (with full control of his digestive tract) and I (in my so-awesome-it's-out-of-control cardigan) were joined for the tour by a lovely English couple (Nick and Paula) and our fairly lucid driver/cook: Alejandro. After a cursory tour of a salt harvesting operation (like this, but without those pesky machines to speed things up); Alejandro took off across teh salt flats at a decent clip and promptly nodded off. I did not realise I would be lumped with the responsibilities of driver-reviver/emergency obstacle avoidance when I stuck my hand up for shotgun; but I was more than ready to spring into action lest any object threateningly appear over the horizon.

This long period of dozy driving pretty well set the scene for the next three days - we were in the car for 8-9 hours a day, passing amazing scenery (salt flats, more salt flats, flat salty patches, geysers, vicuñas (like alpacas), alpacas (like llamas), llamas (like vicuñas), multi-coloured steaming lagoons; loads of pink flamingoes and strange rock formations); so you'd think we'd welcome the opportunities to stop and get out for a stretch and a photo once in a while. Not on your bloody life. Freaking freezing temperatures and howling winds have an interesting effect on your need to appreciate nature without a piece of glass between it and you. Even still, I'd thoroughly recommend the tour: Incahuasi (cactus covered island); our salt hotel; the Salvador Dali deser and the train graveyard were all definitely worth the trek.

Our bus back to La Paz was considerably less eventful than the outward journey; the highlight for me was trying the new peanut-butter filled Twix (a victory for chocolatiers). La Paz is a crazy city: where else do they pay people to dress up like zebras at the zebra crossing? Where else can a pensioner crack whore keep a very well known gringo-friendly nightclub-cum-coke den running for months? Where else can you still easily find Casio talking and solar powered watches? Where else do they have seven minute intermissions in the middle of new-release movies? Though, at the time, our debate revolved more around the reasoning for the selected duration of, rather than the necessity for, said interval.

As cool as all this was, by far the best thing about La Paz is its proximity to the World's Most Dangerous Road. Mountain biking down this monster was one of the best days of my holiday so far and I'm ashamed to say I may have done more high-fiving with Charlie that day than in my life to that date. Tearing down a hill at top speed (they gear the bikes low so you can't really peddle downhill) from 4,760m to 1,100m over 64km tends to get the blood pumping a little.

It was a rather fittingly climactic day before I quite sadly bade farewell to my Mexico-bound pals. I'd had a smashing time on our brief whirlwind tour of Bolivia and I may have to go back at least once more (to get me one of them new-fangled watches!). But my holiday keeps on trucking, next-stop: Arequipa!