Sympathy for the Devil

The Cathedral in Sucre. Closed, obviously.

Now then, now then. After the excitement of the leather faced Kiwi´s departure, you could quite fairly suggest that whatever followed would be something of an anti-climax. And while you would, in some respects, have a point, that fact should in no way detract from the blinding, stultifying, almost-so-bland-it´s-impressive pointlessness of Peru´s capital, Sucre.

Famous primarily for its use in pub quizzes (no, La Paz is not the capital - this place really is), Sucre is as a quaint a city as you could hope to encounter, but utterly devoid of character. We arrived on a Sunday, but all the churches were closed. This was a little bizarre, but when they remained closed on Monday, we started to wonder why. The doors remained bolted on Tuesday, and we were seriously asking ourselves what the hell we were doing here. The honest truth was "not very much at all". We ate good food in the touristy, but lovely, Bar Florin, feasted on  wonderful chocolate from the fabulous Para Ti, and grabbed some great pizza. Our hostel, the Cruz de Popayan, was unremarkable and more than a little dirty. Our trip can best be summed up by my personal highlight - visiting a local tailor to get my backpack fixed. We swapped stories, mainly using Lou´s ever-improving Spanish, laughed, suggested bands he might like, and marvelled as he chopped my rucksack to bits with his bare hands before reassembling it as a surgeon would a leaky aorta. All of which was pretty cool, but not really city highlight stuff. Which was Sucre all over.

Next up was Potosi, the highest city of its size in the world, and largely unremarkable save for the numerous mines housed in the Cerro Rico. Brought to the world's attention (or at least the attention of fans of German documentary the world over) by the wonderful The Devil's Mine, the silver mining industry that once made Potosi one of the richest cities in the world is now a slightly tragic affair. The relatively high pay that miners can earn, along with international demand for silver, ensures that the mines keep operating, but the conditions are truly abominable. Deaths and serious accident are a regular occurrence, while those that don't die in the mines are also certain to never see fifty, their bodies hollowed out by acute lung diseases and their blood riddled with chemicals and toxins.

What makes this ongoing horror show all the more poignant is the presence of a few hundred children, some as young as nine or ten, working in these mines. Forced by grinding poverty to help boost the family income, perhaps the cruellest irony is that many of these youngsters are only there as their fathers have died a miner's death. All of which made the hour we spent walking, climbing and crawling through a working mine all the more special. Having stopped to buy dynamite, drinks an gloves to give as gifts - and yes, you can buy sticks of the stuff in a grocery store here - we entered a world unlike any other. Dodging the hand-pushed carts that rattle, Indiana Jones style, along poorly lit tunnels, the air became gradually more oppressive, the light somehow cloudy and more dangerous.

By the time we stopped at a small shrine to pay our respects to the Tio (Devil) that guards each mine, we were in quite a state. Splattered with the blood of slaughtered animals and littered with offerings of cigarettes, coca leaves and beer, the idol was all the more petrifying because of the obvious fear and respect is commanded in the miners. Though good Catholic folk above ground, they believe that Christ's dominion stops at the door, and here so close to hell they must turn to Tio to keep them safe. And, whether thanks to Tio, good fortune of the Lord himself, we escaped the mine unscathed and better people for having visited.

The miners themselves, working up to twelve hours a day in conditions that boggle the mind, treated the few strange Gringos who paid good money to gasp through their workplace with a bemused courtesy, unfailingly polite even as they risked life and limb to feed their families. We particularly enjoyed handing over the dynamite, fuse and all, and getting thanked warmly in response. Not something you get to do every day.

Many of the miners turn to drink to help them cope with the lives they lead, though they do so mainly at home or in some of the small bars away from the centre, and away from the small number of tourists that pass through Potosi. And so it was that we found ourselves celebrating the 'One Night Only' return of the lovely Choppy in a frankly bizarre Karaoke bar cum pub cum weird sex place just off the main drag. Drinking rum by the bottle and confusing the locals with both our song choices and interpretations thereof, Scott and I rocked out (what would later prove to be the first of many renditions of) the Phil Collins classic Easy Lover. All of which, and getting to bed just before 3am, meant that the seven hour bus trip to Uyuni the next day was pretty horrific. As was Uyuni itself, an unforgiving dust-bowl of a town dropped, as if by the hand of a particularly cruel town planner, slap bang in the middle of a sodding desert. More disturbing than the town itself was the surrounding forest of plastic bags caught on bush scrub that surround the place, a scar of epic proportions stretching as far as the eye can see. Somewhat bizarrely, we also had one of the best pizzas we've eaten outside Italy in the European-run Minute Man pizza, opposite the train station. Choc full of delightful imported goodies, it was a real joy. If you're passing, try and bag a table.

But truth be told, we were not in Uyuni to see the sights; it was, in practice, simply a start point for our three days traversing the Salar de Uyuni, the salt flats that neighbour the town. So, pausing only to eat said pizza and buy an absurd amount of toys (all will be revealed), we took off in a 4X4 into the dusty mid-day sun.

TTFN,

Luke and Louise

(Posted by Luke)

Ding dong, the Witch is dead

Travelling in any sort of group while hoofing across the world is always a tricky affair. We had a ball in Europe doing things on our own, but always planned for some of our time in South America to share the love and do at least some of it with other people. And it´s fair to say that, for the most part, we had a blast.

At various times in Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia our trip was made more fun, and more drunken, by an evolving bunch of pretty fab people. Zara, Dave, Jen, Scott, Karen, Jo, Choppy, Frances, Vicky, Richard, Sophia (often when you´d least expect it) - step forward, take a bow. You guys were great (pauses to cry gently).

There is, however, a flip side to this fun loving, laugh-a-minute, raucous whirlwind of travelling wonderment. In our case, the exception looked like this:

It would take too long, and in all honesty be too painful for reader and writer alike, to detail the catalogue of horrors that the woman in question unleashed on fellow travellers, waiters, shopkeepers and random locals during her reign of terror. (And no, I´m not putting a name to this face. I think the face does a good enough job on its own.) But, in the interests of scene setting and background, I´ll run you through some of her greatest hits. Along side the general, hateful rudness, she would regularly rant drunkenly - this being the way she did most things - about immigrants, scroungers and benefits cheats. During a night out in Peru, she inhaled so many cocktails that a nineteen year old travelling companion had to take her back to the hostel after she became violent and tried to punch anyone who came within range of a flailing bingo wing. She then proceeded to push our local guide, refuse to go to bed, and instead sprawl next to a pool while a hapless bar man stood watch over her all night lest she choke on her own vomit. Personally, I would have left her there. On her back.

Using this outburst as a springboard to a more refined brand of vileness, she then proceeded to bring her nasty, petty meaness into every dorm, shared room and bus she stepped foot into. Reducing people to tears with her inane but hatefull rants, screaming at people in shops while accusing her victims of ´lacking manners´ - she was the real deal. After falling  arse over tit down some stairs and dislocating her shoulder, a fellow traveller with a medical background took her to hospital, administered drugs and care as the hospital could not, and even left her own passport as bond on the medical bill. She was rewarded with shit for thanks and a few weeks worth of snide comments. She even had to go and get her own passport back. 

But, like the lunatic she clearly was, all the hate started to go to her head. Which is why, by the time we hit La Paz, she had turned into quite the weird confection. Talking to people now only to insult them - any semblance of normality long since abandoned - she took to wearing shades at all times, and covering her diseased mouth and chin with an elaborate, middle-eastern style scarf. Which at least had the handy virtue of hiding her face.

And it was while wearing this bizarre outfit that she finally met her match. In the shape of the inimitable Karen from Croydon. You do the math... Looking back, the night had not started well. We´d gone out for dinner to say our farewells, as we were going our seperate ways that night. By the end of the meal the mouth scarf had been lowered enough for her to neck a few beers and two wines. Two bottles, that is. In the restaurant she was doing weird dances, groping passing men and demanding they teach her to salsa. Which was positively genteel compared with her dancefloor antics in the bar an hour later, where she was doing a bizarre sex grind with a slightly scared local, while drawling that she would be ``the dirtiest fuck of your life´´.

And then things went very wrong... or, I guess, very right. In something approaching slow motion, she pulled her hand up to her crumbling mouth - she was going to spew, and she knew it. But instead of dashing for a door or corner, she lurched purposefully over to the table where we were sitting, people, bags and fleeces all around. And then she hurled like a goodun, showering people and property alike. Most people fled, but not Karen from Croydon. Good natured person that she was, she sat down, wiped vomit  from the flaky mouth, and gently suggested that it was time to go home. At which point, She Who Must Not Be Named flipped, grabbing Karen´s throat, screaming obscenities and generally going utterly sodding crazy. But Karen, who as we already know is from Croydon, was utterly unfazed. This sort of shit, it must be remembered, happens in her hood most days. Karen fought back, holding her own, before bouncers and stunned clubbers - about five of them - piled in and, quite literally, threw her out.

And that was about that. Much later that night, letters were written to keep her out of the country for good and vouching for Karen´s noble behaviour. Stories were swapped, and battle scars compared; fleeces were washed of vomit, bits of glass removed from shoes. But most of all, people breathed a massive sigh of relief. And as we sauntered to bed that night, a song drifted down the corridors and on to the streets of La Paz. ´´Ding, dong, the Witch is dead´´....

Way Beyond Blue

After spending a day sleeping, recovering (both from the Inca Trail and a drunken journey home) and drinking Pisco Sours in Cuzco, we journeyed to our final destination in Peru. It's seemed appropriate to finish Peru with another superlative, this time the highest lake in the world, or the largest high altitude lake; Lake Titicaca.

The two days we spent travelling on Lake Titicaca in between our time in Puno, were probably two of our best in Peru. The lake doesn't disappoint. The sun and clear sky are reflected in the glorious, glisteningly blue water, which seems to stretch on forever with just a glimpse of Bolivian mountains in the distance.

Island Taquile was our first stop on the lake, where a traditional Quechua speaking community have lived for thousands of years. They still live a traditional life, relatively untouched by mainland Peru, and are famous for weaving. Men, women and children on the island wear a variety of woollen hats and woven clothes, which denote marital and social status. They also cook fantastic, fresh trout.

The day we arrived was an exciting one; the annual election for community leaders, who run life on the island. It's fair to say that Luke and I probably found this more interesting than our travelling companions. These local elections are not ruled by Peruvian law, so it's not compulsory to vote (as it is in Peruvian regional and national elections) and they don't have to field female candidates - in fact women aren't allowed to stand (in contrast Peruvian law requires political parties to field at least 30% women). Only married men and women are allowed to vote in these election, which takes place in the main square where votes are cast by a show of hands. The married men elected to be leaders for the following year, receive their brightly coloured woolly hats at the end of the electoral process, determining their new status.

The real highlight of the two days was the night we spent with a local family who live on a Peninsula on the Lake. The traditional community are mainly agricultural, and tourism hasn't yet spoilt this tranquil and beautiful place.

Daniel and his wife Juanla came to greet us as we got off the boat, and as they spoke Amara, Quechua and Spanish we managed to get by with our broken Spanish. They had nine children, three of whom still lived at home -Ferdinando, Julio Cesar and Wilfredo and all five of them made us feel unbelievably welcome.

The food was fantastic and cooked, for seven people, in one pot over a fire in the small kitchen, and the manzanillia tea was freshly picked.

While there we played volleyball at the local school - locals versus tourists (its fair to say they kicked our arses) and had a fire with music and cerveza on the beach.

We loved it so much and were actually offended that previous guests in the village had complained so bitterly about the basic accommodation being... well basic. The room we had was clean, warm and comfortable, and using an outdoor toilet for one night is hardly a trauma. Especially when you consider you're staying with people who live like this everyday.

Daniel told us how his wife, who can now only see a few metres, recently had to have an operation on her eyes. As there is no free healthcare in Peru the operation had cost $700 (American). This price seems outrageous to someone who has lived with the benefits of a NHS even before you realise that 70% of those living in rural Peru live below the poverty line. For many this would be more than three months salary.


It makes you realise how lucky we are to have the magnificent free health service we have in the UK, and long may it remain.

Following the fab and very real experience of the peninsula, the experience of going to the reed islands was a more touristy one. That said the floating islands of the Uros people are well worth seeing. The islands are made entirely from reeds and the Uros people have lived on reed islands for around 600 years. They were pleasantly springy to walk on, and I got to eat some reed. What more could you want?

Puno, is described as the perfect base for exploring the lake, and you would be correct in reading that as “there's very little to do there”, what sites it does have (an old British ship) we didn't manage to visit in our two nights there.

That said it was not an unpleasant town, made almost entirely from concrete, it had a wide selection of restaurants and bars aimed at the many tourists on Lima street in the centre. We managed to celebrate our last night in Peru with a good night out in Puno, with several of our fellow travellers. This started in a lovely little pizza restaurant - Pizza & Pasta - a bit off the main drag, was followed by a selection of cocktails (which Luke, Dave and the utterly fabulous Edwin are modelling here) accompanied by a relatively impressive local dance display, including women wearing very little, women dressed as mountains and men dressed as condors.

This was followed by more beer, wine, cocktails and five hours of less traditional dancing in the funky Rock and Reggae Bar on Lima street.

The border crossing over to Bolvia was surprisingly painless, if not slightly bizarre and Bolivia had the friendliest border guard I've personally ever met. The five hour bus journey from Puno to our first Bolivian stop allowed for some spectacular views of Lake Titicaca, including a magnificent sunset.

It's fair to say that this arrival was perhaps the most spectacular thing about the night we spent in the Lake side Bolivian town of Copacobana. Whilst the cold beers and freshly cooked trout I had in a quiet local eatery were excellent and amazingly cheap, I don't think it's an unfair summary to say music and fashion were certainly not the passion. In this Copacobana stray dogs, bad stenches and buildings made of cement seemed to be all the rage.

Following, only one night in this haven, we moved on to capital of Bolivia, La Paz.

I'll finish by saying if you've been disappointed by the length, dryness and down right do gooder nature of some of this blog -please log back in for our next post, which will only include, drunken debauchery, cocktails, silly dancing and the slating on the internet of a truly terrible woman.

Stay warm,

Luke and Louise

Posted by Louise