Our five day stay in Puno was too many by about three. I swore I would not become the kind of traveller with nothing good to say, too intent on the negatives to appreciate the positive things about different places and cultures, and so I hesitate to expound upon this, because it might somehow cast an unwarranted shadow over Peru, which is, in its own right, a fascinating place.
It just didn’t keep its charm for long.
On day three, I succumbed, finally, to Montezuma’s revenge. I have an iron gut, and it came as some surprise to find myself utterly bedridden trying to hold down soup. (Which I couldn’t). Luckily, these things are easily passed, and a day later, I had mostly recovered, if but still cursing my bad luck. If only I knew I really did have something to curse about.
It was bound to happen. We were robbed.
Now. There isn’t a single person in the world who wouldn’t say this wasn’t entirely our fault. In our travel greenery, we took what appeared to be a secure, better-than-standard hotel at face value, and left our OWN valuables, well hidden, behind lock and key. It was not enough. A very clever thief got into the room and meticulously relieved us of about $120. Which is not nearly the amount he could have taken, and was probably the reason we did not realize the hefty gringo tax had been extracted until it was four days later, and I already wanted to throttle Peru.
This wasn’t a fun lesson to learn, but it was an important one. In the great debate of whether or not you can leave your valuables in ANY hotel room, no matter how recommended it comes, our final conclusion is a resounding no. Let me repeat, however, that this should not be taken as a reflection of Peru’s tourism industry, only that we made a stupid mistake, and accept the consequences with red faces, and white knuckles.
It was time to leave.
Onto Bolivia. The bile we were spitting on our way out of Peru was made worse, much much worse, to have arrived in a town called Copapabana, right inside the Bolivian border. As Canadians remain on the “nice” list for the time being (not so for our southerly neighbours), crossing the border overland was an amusing exercise in sprinting 50 meters in the pouring rain and a few furious stamps in the passports. Ole.
And if you could forget for a moment that we were coming from a place that was dangerous, noisy, crowded, cold, loud, polluted, frightening and (let’s face it) a pretty miserable place to have to spend $120 unintentionally, the single solitary reason you should TOTALLY FORGET PUNO, skipping right over to Copa, is the food.
Ohmygod. Edible. Food.
We were wasting away. I kid you not. Now – budget travel means skipping meals at the best of time. In Peru, we were skipping meals simply because we couldn’t bear to stomach them. Now, it goes to follow that not all cuisine will appeal to our fickle foreign tastes, but seriously? How. Do. You. Screw. Up. Pasta?
Arriving around noontime, and having wasted away on saltines for two days, I implored D-man for a hearty lunch. “It might be better!” I offered. Out of pity, he indulged. We ordered giant plates of curry and tortillas, expecting the same, half-hearted attempt at food as we had grown accustomed to, and were utterly floored to get full portions of healthy, delicious, hot lunch. It was criminal to eat so well. And at $2 per plate, it was downright cheap.
Because here’s the thing. Bolivia’s cut of Titicaca is more beautiful, more friendly, more relaxing, more delicious, and – in case you ever thought you might want to leave, -- incredibly, delightfully affordable. The rest of South America knows it too, as the place has been overtaken by tall and handsome hippies from Argentina, who tend shop and sell jewellery up and down the cobbled streets. Choking down the most delicious sandwiches in a candle-lit café last night, the Doors blasting on the stereo, D-man and I stared at each other, gobsmacked to have ruined the first few days on this glorious lake on the OTHER side.
And so, if you’re looking for the FINAL word on travelling to Titicaca, here it is: Skip Puno.
And put your socialist dancing shoes on.
******
A brief rant, because dude, we’re in Bolivia:
Landlocked, and massive, Bolivia’s beef has nothing to do with cows. It has everything to do with a country in constant political turmoil, the cultivation of the culturally significant coca leaves, the big bad West, and the consequences of history. Most compelling, perhaps, is the coca leaf, which must be understood as an incredibly important crops tied to history, medicine and of course, blow.
Some decades ago, the War on Drugs (sigh) saw the U.S. send representatives to oversee the cessation of coca production. Corruption abounded, as the officials found it far too lucrative to continue smuggling the leaf (which, when combined with a catalyst forms the deadly drug we can legitimately fear). Production of the drug increased, and powerful lobbies formed here to protect the farmers, whose very livelihoods depended on coca production, in its more legitimate uses.
Frustrated, the U.S. demanded Bolivia impose deadlines for cessation, under threat of losing essential foreign aid packages, which the country depends on even now. Hands tied, Bolivia started offering the princely sum of $2500 to farmers to cull the growth. Which did little, beyond encourage impoverished farmers to plant MORE coca, so that the government might continue to pay them off.
Sound like another drug crops we know of? Hark, Hillier.
Ok, lecture over. This story isn’t new, and by all accounts, Bolivia is an incredibly engaged population, which for political buffs like me makes for fantastic dinnertime fodder. Scouring our Lonely Planet guide (for mentions of theft in Bolivia) the only warning we heeded was that this country is prone to protest, and to stay away, should one develop. But pending further ventures into this country, where we spend the next three weeks, my earnest hope is that I can come to recommend Bolivia (beyond Copa, which I already heart with all my soul). But don’t take just my word for it;
