| Jeff Poulter & Graham Tillotson: 2nd October 2004 |
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Puno to La Paz (315 km)
Currency: the Bolivian Bolivar, about 15 to £1, 8 to the $
We left Hotel Buho early, having extricated the bikes from their reception. We were unsure both about the distance to La Paz (we estimated 270 km but it turned out to be over 300) and how long it might take us to depart Peru and enter Bolivia. Plus we cross another time zone so we'll lose an hour as well. An early start, then.
Temple at Chucuito
However, 20 km outside Puno is what the guidebook refers to as "one of Peru's unmissable sights" the fertility temple at Chucuito: a garden of huge phallic statues. We had to stop, which we did in a nondescript village square. While I set off to locate this important site to which there were no signs and no sign, Graham looked after the bikes. He was immediately surrounded by ten year old kids who harangued him unmercifully until I returned, which didn't take long at all. I'm tempted to remark that it was all a load of old cock: twenty mushroom-like erect penises about two feet tall carved from stone, and one daddy penis about five feet high. Most of the smaller penises were headless. And that was it. One big tease. GT agreed that it was a waste of time, so we left in short order.
Lake Titicaca
The ride along the southern shore of Lake Titicaca was lovely. The water was mostly a deep greeny-blue, the colour you see when you look at the edge of plate glass. Far out, where it was very deep, it took on a more intense, almost purple hue; where it was shallower the water was a light turquoise. At the edges a surface weed was growing, so the multi-blue lake was fringed with a vivid emerald green. We could see the far shore, a series of brown and ginger hills, which perfectly framed the water.
After 60 km of picturesque ride, we turned up into a peninsula towards the Bolivian border, which cuts the tip off the peninsula. The border then zig zags across the lake to the far side, roughly northeast. We nearly didn't complete the 30 km to Bolivia as a dickwit local decides to U-turn his truck without looking, as GT and I approached at 100 kph. Graham, who was leading, just managed to swerve across the front of the truck but, for me there was no way past a completely blocked road. I just heaved on the anchors and cursed, impressed that the Dominator could stop so quickly, otherwise dickwit would be wearing me as mascot pinned to the side of his truck.
Unexpectedly, the border was a doddle. Three-quarters of an hour and job done. What's more everyone was polite and efficient, in deep contrast to most of Central America. And no money changed hands, except our fund with the legit money changers.
Beach at Copacabana
About 10 km into Bolivia is a beach resort with the ambitious name of Copacabana. We just had to stop for lunch, after which we wound our way through steep hills down to the little port at the tip of the peninsula. As we turned the corner to the docks I was surprised that there was no ferry. I looked closer and my heart sank just about as quickly as would the barges I was looking at. These rectangular, flat-bottomed, open, wooden barges big enough to accommodate one 40-seater coach were to be our transport across a lively stretch of water. My disappointment at the lack of catering facilities turned to horror as I contemplated boarding the barge. Closer inspection revealed that laid upon the crossways ribs of the flat keel were loose-laid, rough-sawn tree planks about four or five inches thick. They had been there some years and the water had warped and twisted them so that the height difference over the lengths and widths of the planks was a much as a foot. Six planks were laid in two rows of three with gaps of up to six inches between, each as warped as the next to resemble a fairground ride. The arrangement was clearly designed to accommodate the wheels of a truck, 4x4, or coach. But definitely not a bike. The only course was to choose one plank and ride its length, hoping we didn't need to dab down a foot, because there would have been nothing there, only the gaps between the ribs of the keel. It was a bit like riding a bike over a Scalectrix track laid in an unfloored loft. Only, this time, the consequences for tipping the bike over would almost certainly have been a broken leg. I seriously considered turning round and riding back through the border and on to La Paz the long way round. But laziness got the better of judgement and fear: I chose a plank and rode its length to the front of the barge. Massively relieved to have arrived safely, I was then stranded since the plank to my left had warped down and away from the plank I was on, so that I couldn't lean the bike onto the sidestand without it toppling over into the bilges. I was pondering how to resolve this dilemma when one of the barge hands arrived with a thin piece of wood to slide underneath the side stand to equalize the heights of the planks.
We were rocking and rolling the waves across the lake. I was grimly supporting my bike from the side. GT has decided to stay astride his to help maintain some semblance of balance.
It then slowly dawned on me the nature of the predicament of disembarking
the bikes. This was no Roro ferry: we had to leave the way we entered,
which would mean backing the bikes along the writhing planks, feet up.
Simply impossible.
Evil Knieval makes a come back !
My panic subsided a little when the two barge hands found some more planks with which to fill the central void so that, in theory at least, we could eight-point turn the bikes and ride out forwards. With Graham aboard, paddling his feet, me at the back and a barge hand on either side, we slowly turned GT round, each of us finding it difficult to maintain our feet on the rolling deck even without the deadweight of the bike. Eventually Graham was pointing towards land and I said 'just gun it'. He accelerated the length of the barge like Evil Knieval and took off over the apex where barge planks overlapped shore planks before leaping once more onto dry land. Hats off to GT.
Then it was my turn. Me on the bike, heart in mouth, being turned, wondering how to pray (to the God of planks?) and then emulating Graham's leaps onto dry land. What an episode. What a laundry bill.
Roadworks travelling to La Paz
The final 150 km into La Paz was a breeze, although the road was blocked on a couple of occasions. The first for a roadworks where traffic was diverted through a tiny pueblo, through its muddy, potholed back streets which were often too narrow for two lanes of traffic to pass. Then, round the corner, head on to this hooting, honking, stinking traffic mess came a procession similar to the magnificent one we saw in Lima with the same music and twirling dancers. Chaos was elevated a notch. Impatient drivers were nudging their way through the advancing dancers and musicians only to meet all the traffic trying to go in the opposite direction which had, of course, completely blocked the road. On bikes we finally slipped and weaved our way through, leaving the carnage behind. Back on the main (now empty) road we made good time until we arrived at another pueblo which was also having a celebration. To do this they had, quite logically, chosen the biggest piece of flat land on which to build their displays and hold their dance. Except that happened also to be the main road through the village. So they blocked it off to prevent traffic interfering with proceedings. Coaches, trucks, cars and we two were thus forced to drive off the road onto the mud shoulders and around the festivities. This could easily be Italy.
As we approached the outskirts of La Paz we mentally closed our eyes at the mile upon mile of desolate, dirty urban sprawl which appears to precede large cities in South America. There were no signs to the city centre. We stopped and asked and were given a combination of vague and confusing directions but one thing was clear, we were going precisely the wrong way down a road with a fenced central reservation. I write "going" but actually we had been stationary for some minutes in another totally grid locked traffic jam. We did what the locals do and just lent on the horn, confident that this would help the situation.
Toll booths - No way around !
After half an hour and 100 metres we U-turned at a junction and returned
only to be confronted by toll booths. One normally encounters toll booths
on the way out of cities not into them so we turned around once more. Many
further confusing directions later and just as many illegal traffic maneuvers
found us back in the same traffic jam. Again we U-turned and, as there
was simply nowhere else to go we rode through the toll booths. Immediately
the most extraordinary vista opened to our right: we were riding the rim
of a 1,000 ft deep bowl which was lined with La Paz. On the opposite rim
was the 20,000 ft snow capped mountain, Illimani. In the low late afternoon
sun it was a wonderful sight. We were also massively relieved to at last
have sight of our objective.
La Paz is a big city of 1.5 million souls, not one of whom needs a road
sign or a street name. We rode around for three hours, covering 30 km looking
for hotels. Finally, exhausted and pissed off we plumped for the only one
that could keep our bikes safe, the Hostel Claudia. It smelled of old cigarettes,
new urine and, faintly, sewerage, and cost £7.00. We slept like babies.
Jeff 02.10.04 |
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