06/02/09

I caught my first glimpse of Arequipa through blurry eyes as the night bus pulled in. The early morning sun reflected off the pearl-white buildings made from volcanic stone. The volcano itself standing, ever-present over the North of the city. Finding a hostel, I crashed for a few hours to supplement the broken bus sleep I endured the night before.

After feeling slightly more human, I decided to find Simon (the Swedish guy from my hostel in Cusco). Once I found the small hostel he was in we discovered he was sharing it with the group of Brazilians and two Austrian girls that all had come at different times from my old hostel and all happened to gravitate to the same place. Convincing each other fate had played a hand, we decided to all book a bus to the relatively close Colca Canyon. Colca and it's nearby neighbour Cotahuasi are the two deepest Canyons in the world, both being around twice the depth of the Grand Canyon.

The buss, crammed to the roof with women in traditional dress and their customarily big bags, dropped us at the edge of the enormous gorge. It was like starring down the bottomless abyss from a children's fairytale. By leaning out as far as I dared, I could catch glimpses of the distant river that runs through its heart that appeared no more than a whisper-thin capillary from our bird's eye view. Birds were also on view. The giant Condor (sacred bird of the Inca culture) circled far below, soaring in and out of the bands of cloud that layered the canyon. After following the canyon's contours for a couple of miles, we hit a town where we learnt that the last bus back to Arequipa left in an hour. This gave just enough time for us to be thrashed by some locals who were playing football in a nearby road (I blame the Brazilians!).

08/02/09

I left Simon and the Brazilians in Arequipa as they were talking of ways to hit Rio in time for carnival. I headed for Puno, near the Bolivian boarder which was in the throws of it's own carnival. The small town was packed for the annual celebrations and the bus station was a chaotic clammer as word had got out that most hostels and hotels were full. I was approached by an Italian called Giovanni who'd managed to book a double room and wondered if I wanted to half the cost. Facing a long and frantic search, I gladly accepted. We dumped our stuff and headed out into the rain-driven night in search of food and refreshments, both of which were found in a small bar where we decided to pitch up.

Puno is on lake Titicaca which is the highest nagavitable lake in the world and also home to the Uros people. The Uros fled to the lake to escape the more aggressive Inkas and using the abundant water reeds, built floating Islands to live on. Their entire existence was on the lake as they built their homes and boats using the reeds. Today a few hundred Uro descendants still live on the floating Islands.

Giovanni and I decided to catch a boat out to to have a look around. It was a strange experience walking on the spongy surface and being surrounded by nothing but reeds but we were both well and truly caught in a tourist trap. I felt the whole set up was geared towards tourist tours and any existence of the authentic Uro culture had rotted away a long time ago.

I only managed to dip into their carnival for an hour or so before my booked bus to the Bolivian boarder set off. This is a shame as what I did see was quite a spectacle. The streets were an explosion of colour as everyone in the town donned elaborately lavish costumes to dance down the narrow streets. It was a fitting final testament to the Peruvian people who embrace their rich culture and traditions full heartily. Sad as I was, it was time to go as a new people awaited with a new culture and customs.

Speaking of customs, as I approached the Bolivian boarder, I noticed I had out stayed the 60 days that had been allotted to me and had actually been there for around 75. Slightly paniced by the thought of potential problems coupled by a moment of madness, I did the stupidest thing I'd done so far.

The '60' was written in black pen both in my passport and on my immigration form and as I happened to have a black pen in my pocket and pencil shavings in my brain, I decided I would cunningly change the 60s into 80s (you're usually allotted days in 30s, 60s or 90s but rarely 80s). The customs officer took one look at the changed numbers (which looked like a drunk ant had stumbled through a pool of ink and then ambled around on the pages) and silently reached for the phone.

After reading my details out to various people on the other end and with a look of impending doom on his face, he summoned over his supervisor. He in turn took me aside and asked why I had doctored the documents. I pathetically pretested my innocents (in bad Spanish), saying I remembered confusion on entering the country and the officials there had corrected the numbers to my wishes. This new, genius piece of verbal evidence only managed to convince them further that they were dealing with a floundering fool. The conversation suddenly veered in a more serious direction. From what I understood I was in big trouble, he was going to send me back to Puno to meet their senior boss and the police were going to be involved. To make sure the gravity of the situation wasn't lost in translation, he made the universal hand gesture of being beheaded!!

Images of being huddled in a ball, crying in the dark corner of a Peruvian prison, provoked beads of sweat to form on my brow. They left me to sweat like this for what seemed longer than my protruding Ponoceo nose. The second officer then took me to the end of the immigration hall and looked deep into my dilated eyes. In a low voice, he said if I admit to what I'd done, he could help me. Under pressure, it took a while for me to translate this lifeline. Once I had, I fixed his stare back and threw in the towel, 'I did it'. The result was a comparatively tiny bribe of $10 US for him and another $10 for the original officer. Feeling I'd got off lighter than OJ Simpson, I shook his hand (not really knowing the correct protocol in these situations). I entered Bolivia with the relief of a liberated man. I ran into some travellers that I'd shared the bus with, and I retold the story more times than they cared to hear over some sweet tasting beers. 'Vive la corrupcion!'

10/02/09

Copacabana is the first town along the lake on the Bolivian side. From here you can catch a boat to 'Isla del Sol', which is an Island that the Inca's believed was the birth place of the Sun. I spent a day walking round it's mazey green paths and colourful, hill side farms. Surrounded by Lake Titicaca at every horizon, you can imagine how the Inca's came to their conclusion as the Sun appears to rise from the water and finally sinks in the same way. I managed to make the last boat back and got straight onto a late bus to the Bolivian capital, La Paz.

La Paz boasts many things, one being that it's the highest capital city in the world another is it's a few miles away from the infamous 'Death Road'. This ominous sounding 63km stretch of mountain track is claimed to be the most dangerous road in the world. Realising the potential for wallies wanting a taste of that danger, tour companies take groups down on mountain bikes on a daily basis.

12/02/09

It was an early start and with the cold of the altitude and the thick, misty rain it brought back memories of the biking on the Machu Piccu trek. After enduring a punishingly cold 45 mins to reach the start of the Death Road, the Sun appeared and feeling returned to my fingers.

The road was more like a gravel track, carved into a sheer mountain side. At it's narrowest points, it's no more than 3 meters wide and has to be shared with the occasional tour bus that drives down. It snakes along the contores of the cliff with the constant threat of the dramatic drop on one side. Focusing on the stony ground in front, it's easy to zone the drop out but grave stones dotted along the sides are a stark reminder of the ever-present danger. Truth be told it's only as dangerous as you make it and a steady speed ensures a safe decent. The guide at the front set the pace and it was forbidden to overtake him which at times was frustrating but looking back, probably for the best.

Evidence of adequate adrenaline levels was displayed on the bus journey back where group sing-alongs quickly turned into ill-timed dance routines. We all bounced around the bus like a hot pan of popcorn until we reached La Paz.