The road to Machu Picchu

I'm sitting in my hostel in Lima on my last day in South America. I haven't really done much here. Most people I've previously talked to about the city has said it's a bit boring and there's nothing to really do. That may be partially true, but I think my motivation levels after Cusco and the Sacred Valley is at a low; it's time now to just relax. Besides, Lima is constantly cloudy and hasn't really caught my attention in a touristy sense. The food has been pretty good, at least.

But the whole point of Peru was always the Inca Trail. Indeed, it was what the entire South American portion of my trip was leading to. Lima is, and I guess was always going to be, an epilogue, a bridging point for the next leg.

Puno

Apart from a couple of French backpackers overstaying their visa and having to pay a tax to Bolivian immigration, the crossing to Peru at the border town of Desaguadero was uneventful. I even got my bolivianos swapped for soles at the correct rate once on the other side.

After arriving in Puno, I caught a motorcycle taxi to my hostel, checked in, and had some arroz chaufa, the Peruvian take on Chinese fried rice. With only half a day in the city, I settled on minimal sightseeing. Fortunately, the spot I picked, a short but challenging hike up to Mirador Kuntur Wasi, afforded some great views of Puno and Lake Titicaca.

I've been travelling with a weird mix of thrift and splurge, depending on how I'm feeling. For the journey from Puno to Cusco, I decided on the latter and bought a ticket on Peru Rail's Andean Explorer. The train takes longer than the bus but is much more comfortable, includes some meals, and also has some on-board entertainment.

I'll admit that the scenery on the ride was not as exciting as I was hoping it would be, especially compared to the tour between Salta and Cafayate, but it was nice being able to relax in a luxury train car for once.

The price of the ride made me think about the disparity between tourists and locals; here was a train full of tourists who have paid for this luxury service while the people in the towns and villages it passed may not even make that much money in a month. But then I saw the smiles of the people, especially the children, as the train passed, they waving, me waving back. Perhaps I was thinking of it the wrong way.

Cusco

In La Paz, I couldn't find any chicha de jora, an Andean fermented corn drink, so I made a point of finding a chicheria in Cusco. Following vague leads from the Internet, I naturally got lost as soon as I stepped onto the streets of Cusco. Even after finding my bearings, I could not find anywhere serving this drink.

The city was bustling with people, and was the busiest of anywhere I'd been on the trip with the possible exception of Buenos Aires. Its attraction of tourists no doubt contributed to this.

The next day, after a quick stop at an optometrist for new glasses, I continued my quest for chicha. Going in completely the wrong direction, I took a break for lunch at Waynapata Café Cultural, a nice little cafe uphill from the main square that served cheap, tasty food. The friendly lady serving the food pointed me towards a chicheria she knew, so it was a very fortuitous stop for me.

The chicheria was a very dingy looking one, patronised by locals. I asked the server for a chicha de jora, which cost me one sol for a large glass, called a caporal. It may be a low-alcohol drink, but it had a certain heaviness to it, and the corn flavour came through in a good way. There was also a slight tartness to it, which I found pleasant. Sadly, that place was the only chicheria I drank at during my trip.

I planned to spend just over a week in Cusco, and the main reason for that was more Spanish lessons. These ones, at the non-profit Amigos Spanish School, were held in small groups and were a lot better structured than the ones I took in Salta. It was also great to chat to the other students of the school during breaks (in Spanish or English, depending on how much our heads were hurting); there was a nice camaraderie there. I even attended a cooking class that taught how to cook ají de gallina, a tasty creamed chicken dish.

Having an entire week in Cusco meant I got to try a lot of different food. I had alpaca steak at Uchu, which was similar to a lean beef; a good pizza (my first good one in South America) at La Bodega 138, who even had craft beer (Sierra Andina Don Juan Porter from Huaraz); and a tasty Andean stew at Inkazuela. But what was probably my favourite meal in the city was a cheap (less than two Australian dollars) milanesa de pollo, a battered and fried chicken akin to a schnitzel, at one of the many places at the San Pedro market. The market had so many kitchens serving the same food and I must have picked just the right one because no other milanesa de pollo I had after that even came close to being as good.

The day before my final class, I had a quiet drink with Steve, one of the students at Amigos. This, of course, turned into a big night out, and my throat was hurting the next day. It didn't help that I woke up early to listen to the Hawks match the next day. It would only get worse, and just as my tour was about to start.

The Sacred Valley

The first day of my Inca Trail tour with G Adventures began with a van ride towards the Sacred Valley. We stopped off at Caccacollo, an Andean village that G help out through Planeterra. It was nice to learn a little bit about modern Andean life, including where the guinea pigs (to be eaten later) were kept; the process of dyeing, spinning, and weaving with wool; and how to tell a llama from an alpaca (alpacas have less wool on their necks).

The next stop was Písac, an impressive Incan ruin near the village of the same name with some agricultural terraces surrounding it. It was here that Sarah, one of the Australians, started to show signs of not being used to the altitude.

After a buffet lunch, we headed to Ollantaytambo, another town with Inca ruins inviting tourism, and our overnight stop. The ruins featured an incomplete temple that highlighted the impressive stonework performed by the Incan empire. On the top of one of the mountains near the ruins, a fire raged, making things a little hazy depending on the wind. It was a bit surreal looking up and seeing the fire at night.

Our tour guide Rosabeth recommended a place for dinner, which we promptly ignored in favour of more reasonable prices at a place called Sumac Mijuna Wasi. The lady seemed nice and ushered us in. Little did we know what a comedy we were walking into. After looking at the menu, half of the group left because they couldn't find anything to their liking. Those of us who stayed made our food and drink orders. After about fifteen minutes of waiting, the lady running the place came up to us and said, in Spanish slow enough that I could just understand, that the guy in the kitchen was used to cooking the set menu, not anything from the a la carte menu. When we expressed our disappointment/annoyance and asked for the bill so we could move on to another place, she panicked and assured us that our food was coming out. Maybe another fifteen or twenty minutes later, our food came out slowly, dish by dish. As I was eating my chicken, Amy, one of the Brits, noticed a cat eating leftovers next to the kitchen. How very hygienic. (Thankfully, I did not get food poisoning from this incident.) The food itself was not very tasty, and we had a hard time convincing the lady not to charge us for the food and drinks that never made it out.

Hungers not satisfied, we ended up having second dinner at another place before heading back to the hotel to rest for the next day.

Pilgrimage

The Inca Trail. As I mentioned in the beginning of the post, everything else in the tour and, I suppose, in the entire South American half of my trip, had been leading up to this; it was the blockbuster main event of a stacked card.

The group sat through an hour bus ride from Ollantaytambo to kilometre 82, prepared our duffel bags which our porters were to carry, took group photos, and queued up at the entrance for the formalities. Throughout all this, I imagine we were all a bit excited and perhaps slightly nervous or scared of what was ahead--a three-and-a-half day, 45km trek to Machu Picchu.

After what seemed like forever, we crossed the bridge and the hike began.

The first day of the trek was 12km of flats and rolling hills, with a maximum gain of about 400m. It was a training day to see if people could handle the long distance and climbs at a fairly high altitude, starting at roughly 2600 metres above sea level with camp site being at about 3000m. In terms of scenery, the highlight of the day was a view of Llaqtapata, which Rosabeth noted was the ruins of the largest Inca village before Machu Picchu.

My newly acquired flu was making this annoying--sore throat, leaky nose, and coughing probably slowed me down for the entire trek, and I may have infected a few others--but not unachievable. Sarah, however, was clearly struggling with the hike at altitude; she would end up having to turn back on the second day due to breathing problems. George from England and Philip from Northern Ireland also managed to get stomach bugs at the same time, so their energy levels were low for the first few days. The four boys from Perth, however, were storming through the terrain.

The second day was to be the toughest of the trek. It was 12km once again, but the first part was a 1200m climb up to Dead Woman's Pass, the highest pass of the whole Inca Trail at just about 4200 metres above sea level. To make things worse, what followed was about 600-700m of downhill to the campsite and lunch.

It had rained overnight and remained cloudy and misty throughout the day, which was a boon because we didn't have to deal with both the high climb and the sun; it was a good tradeoff for no nice vistas throughout the day, especially from the cloudy and cold Dead Woman's Pass.

Legs were starting to feel sore but spirits were up after successfully completing the difficult day of hiking, and even the two upset stomachs were beginning to settle. We were all getting along really well, too, which is always a plus with a big tour group.

Day three was not as demanding in terms of vertical gain, but had its own challenges. First of all, it was a 16km day of up and down. Second, it was a test for the knees, with the final descent, after lunch, being 1000m.

The cloud had cleared up a bit but my flu had not. After the initial 400m climb to the second pass of the trek, I formed a group with Jenny, a Melbournite, and Amy, collectively dubbing ourselves the Tres Amigos. We headed down to Sayaq Marka and then Qoncha Marka, two ruins on the way down before the next climb of the day, a beautiful section of the Inca Trail to Phuyupata Marka, where lunch awaited.

Our final lunch was capped off by a cake, ordered and delivered from the nearby town of Aguas Calientes, to congratulate us on making it that far. We also had a ceremony with the porters and chefs, where we all introduced ourselves in our native language and Rosabeth translated both ways. It was great to learn the names and stories of all of these people who had been carrying ridiculous weights--20kg packs, including most of our stuff--and still beating us, even the Perth boys, to the end of each day. They all did a tremendous job, and it was their hard work, as well as Rosabeth's leadership of them and guiding of us, that made the entire experience that much richer.

The 1000m descent after lunch was nicknamed "the gringo killer", notorious for mentally and physically breaking tourists with its 2800 or so steps. The Perth boys kept insisting that running down the steps was easier than taking them on slowly. With the path drier than the day before, I decided to give it a go. I managed to keep with them for a couple of minutes until my cardio finally made me stop. Still, they were right about approaching the steps that way, and I found myself more confident the entire way down.

The visit to Inti Pata was the day's sightseeing highlight for me. At one point, the porters branched off straight down to our campsite at Wiñay Wayna. Once the split happened, it became so serene descending towards the terraced ruins of Inti Pata, and exploring the site itself with seemingly nobody else there. I eventually ran into James, one of the Perth boys, and we headed down to the campsite together.

A cold shower at camp made me feel better (and colder) and soon enough it was early dinner where Rosabeth briefed us on the early start of the next day. It was also the final chance to say thanks to the porters and chefs as they were headed off to catch a very early train back to Ollantaytambo the next morning.

At stupid o'clock the next morning, we queued up at the checkpoint for two hours to ensure that we were the first group to leave for Inti Punku, the famous Sun Gate where, on a clear day, you could get a spectacular view of Machu Picchu. Once the checkpoint opened at about half past five, we all headed off at a pretty fast pace on an hour of hiking before reaching the viewpoint. Unfortunately, it had been cloudy, foggy, and drizzling all morning, and when we got to the Sun Gate all we could see was cloud. Still, it was amazing to have trekked it all the way there the hard way (we saw some people hiking up from Machu Picchu on our way down).

Once we reached Machu Picchu, we tried (and failed) to get a group photo with the ruins in the background--I will say that it may not have been photography-friendly, but the clouds did make the place seem more mystical while it hung around--before heading down to the cafe at the entrance to the area. As we walked along, I heard tour guides talking about the crazy people that hiked four days on the Inca Trail, probably as an explanation as to why we looked so knackered and dirty.

I was almost overcome by a wave of different emotions--relief probably the most prominent--as I passed through that imaginary line at the entrance of Machu Picchu, just as other tourists got their ticket stamped heading in.

We had celebratory beers (at 8 in the morning!) before heading back in for a guided tour of the city. It was really cool to explore the ruins, though my legs were not enjoying it one bit. The seats on the bus down to Aguas Calientes felt like the best thing in the world. At the town, we all had lunch then caught a train to Ollantaytambo, where a bus back to Cusco awaited.

Lima (strike three, you're out)

On the way back to Cusco, Rosabeth mentioned that there was a general strike in Peru the next day--this was getting awfully predictable--and that I may need to organise an early taxi. This was confirmed by the G Adventures representative at our hotel, who said I should probably get a taxi to the airport at 5:30 to avoid any blockades. So much for a sleep in.

I stayed way too long at the pub for dinner and drinks and spent way too long packing and sending emails, and ended up feeling like crap after four hours of sleep, so I was in no fit state to spend nine hours at a small airport, but spend nine hours at a small airport I did. A lot of people were in the same boat as I was and the place was packed, especially in the morning.

I slept most of the way to Lima, and managed to haggle for an oferta discount cab fare from a cabbie named Jesus because I didn't have enough money in my wallet.

Lima has been relaxed, like I said. I ate at Astrid y Gaston and Alfresco, both really nice fine dining places, and explored Miraflores, Barranco, and Downtown, but I don't feel like I've really done much. My biggest night of drinking was heading to a rival hostel's bar to watch the Hawks win in an ugly grand final.

Like I said, it's an epilogue.

Goodbye, South America

So, that brings us to the end of the first leg of this trip. It's been a bloody good one. I'm currently waiting for the taxi to take me to the airport and then I'm off to the USA, which should be great in a completely different way.

Breathtaking

"Go with the flow" was to be the mantra for the middle part of my South American odyssey, and Bolivia did not disappoint in that regard. As you may recall, my plan to cross to San Pedro de Atacama was foiled by snow. That was just the beginning.

Before I begin: the photo albums for Chile and Argentina are now complete. Some pictures may have short or slightly-longer-but-not-too-long captions.

Do as the locals do

Full from a whole lot of barbecued meat, roasted vegetables, and a little bit of beer, I caught a cab to the Salta bus terminal and bought a ticket to La Quiaca on the Argentina-Bolivia border.

As I waited for my bus to arrive, I glanced at the different operators that still had agents working. On the very left, a couple of guys chatting, one with a cigarette in one hand as he typed with the other; in the next, a woman constantly checking her makeup in a hand mirror while the man in the same booth would laugh boisterously at something evidently amusing every minute or two; in the next, two very bored women, probably waiting for their shift to end; in the last, a computer screen with a Windows screensaver that I have not seen in almost a decade. In other words, fairly standard for a long distance bus terminal in any part of the world.

"You'll get a lot of sleep," Victor had said after our sizeable meal, of which there was still a lot left over. He was right. I fell asleep almost immediately after the bus left the terminal. I was woken up a few times when the bus stopped to pick up and/or drop off passengers on the way, but I managed to get a good five or six hours worth of shut eye out of the seven hours of the trip, which was a lot more than what I got on the flight from Sydney to Santiago.

Still, I was feeling a bit tired when we got to La Quiaca and had neglected to look up directions to the border in advance, so I caught a quick cab.

The border crossing was a bridge between the Argentine town of La Quiaca and the Bolivian town of Villazón. It surprised me how lax security was at that early hour, just after seven in the morning. Most people, presumably locals, were just walking across without going through immigration control.

I followed the flow of people and tried to find where to get my passport stamped. Before I knew it, I was past the sign that said Argentina on one side and Bolivia on the other. Hmm, I think I've entered illegally, I thought to myself on the other side of the bridge, and decided I better turn back. I was directed to the other side of the road, to the flow of people heading into Argentina, where the Bolivian immigration officer looked through my passport and asked me where the Bolivian stamp was. After a few attempts in broken Spanish to convey the fact that I was trying to get into Bolivia and not Argentina, he got the message and sent me across the road again, where I finally found the immigration office for Argentina. It was all very confusing, but I did finally get into the country legitimately after being an illegal for the briefest of moments.

On the other side, I couldn't find any ATMs on the way to the bus terminal, so I exchanged the small amount of Argentine Pesos I had left at an extortionate rate at one of the many money exchangers. On the lookout for a bus to Tupiza in the general area where coaches were parked (there was not much of an actual terminal), I heard screams of "Tupiza! Tupiza!" from a woman standing in front a share van. I was initially dubious of their legitimacy, but the price was reasonable and the woman quoted the trip time as an hour (lies) rather than the three to four that the bus supposedly took. The people taking the van were also mostly locals, and I figured following the locals worked out so well for me the first time around. I hopped on.

Just under two hours later, the van arrived in Tupiza, another dusty South American town, but smaller and much higher in elevation than Salta.

The thing that struck me straight away (especially after the share van) was how cheap things were. Checking into (the very bare-bones) Tupiza Hostal cost me the equivalent of less than six Australian dollars for a night. Having a set lunch, or almuerzo, was just a little over two dollars at a restaurant in the tourist centre of town. Food in particular was a stand-out for me; I wouldn't say it was the best I've ever had, but it was tasty and the value for money was incredible.

Of course, things still cost money, and I was running short on cash. Getting money out meant a roundabout trip in the centre of the city because, as it turns out, foreign cards will not work with every type of ATM in this part of South America, no matter what your bank claims. Days later, in La Paz, I spent almost a half hour trying to withdraw cash from various ATMs until one finally spat out some bolivianos.

Getting high

Another thing I quickly discovered in Bolivia was how easy it was to get tired due to the altitude. I think every place I visited in the country was over 3000 metres above sea level, and it showed.

Tupiza, where I spent my first two days, was at about 3160m, and after short strolls around town, I found myself heading back to the hostel for a nap.

During one of these naps, I was woken up by a marching band blurting out some music a few blocks away. I encountered more of these bands in Peru; it seemed so spontaneous but I never did find out their significance other than, perhaps, plain collective enthusiasm for music.

Anyway, my first hostel was a dud so I splashed out some money (still just over ten dollars for a night) for a room at Hotel Mitru. Conveniently, they also ran Tupiza Tours, who offered 4-day Salar de Uyuni Tours. They were well-reviewed, and Victor had recommended them, so that was enough for me to choose them over everyone else to take me to the salt flats.

After a couple of days of acclimatising to the altitude, I hopped on a 4x4 with a French couple and two Brits--some initial miscommunication from the agency portrayed the Brits as a French couple, the French couple as Germans, and me as a girl--to tour the sights of southwestern Bolivia.

Ascents, descents, flats

"It's going to be cold," said Charlie, one of the Brits, translating our driver's* suggestion of keeping warm clothes with our day packs (my day back being a plastic bag). This was not a good sign, especially since the woman who sold me the tour said it was fairly warm and I did not need to rent a sleeping bag.

Not messing around with rapid altitude changes, the tour started off with a climb up to a viewpoint of El Sillar. I think the guide said it was around 4200 metres above sea level, but I can't remember exactly.

Just before lunch, the driver noticed a flat tyre and stopped to replace it. We took this opportunity to take a bathroom break (which I needed thanks to the Diamox--altitude acclimatisation pills) and to take pictures of some nearby llamas, who promptly ran away to the other side of the road upon our approach.

After the change, we moved along a bit further for our first meal of the trip, which was a surprisingly delectable dish of rice and a vegetable sauce of some description. This signalled a theme of better-than-expected lunches and dinners throughout the trip.

While our cook prepared our food, the driver was busy replacing the tube in the flat tyre. Fortunately it was only a tube that needed replacement; something worse would not have been fun on the very first day of the tour.

The rest of the day took us through more of the area outside of Tupiza, heading towards the southwestern corner of the country. There was Ruinas de San Antonio, an eerie abandoned town on the foothills of the Uturuncu volcano, and a panoramic view of one of the first of many lakes of the tour.

As the sun set, we passed the Eduardo Avaroa Andean Fauna National Reserve checkpoint and headed to our bare-bones hostel where stone beds (fortunately, with mattresses and thick blankets) awaited.

Dinner was an opportunity to get to know my travel companions a little better - Hélène and Guillaume were a young married couple from Paris on a short holiday, and Charlie and Georgie were friends from England travelling through South America together.

We were the first four-wheel drives to set off on the second day, which meant an icy crossing through a few rivers before arriving at a natural hot springs for a quick dip. I hadn't intended to go in, for I hadn't brought any swimmers or flip flops on my trip, but peer pressure got the better to me so I waddled in in my underwear. The water was nice and warm but it made drying and changing clothes afterwards a little awkward. When in the Bolivian desert, I guess.

Speaking of deserts, the 4x4 headed through the Desierto Salvador Dalí, near the very bottom of the country, near the border with Chile. The story goes that this arid desert is so named because of its similarities to some of the paintings of Salvador Dalí.

Lunch was near the very windy but picturesque Laguna Verde, which gets its colour from a mix of elements, most notably arsenic (which means it is not a lake you would want to swim in).

We then turned away from the border towards the geysers of Sol de Mañana--not actually a series of geysers but a geothermal field--past some more unexceptional lakes (which were getting a bit repetitive at this point) and ending the day of sightseeing at Laguna Colorada, an iron-rich lake with a distinct reddish-orange tint. This lake was also home to a lot of flamingoes, and the animal lovers in the tour loved the sight of them. I must admit that I thought they were cool, though by the end of the tour, much like the lakes, I was getting bored with them.

The second night's accommodation was higher up than the first night's, which meant it was a lot colder, but also meant that, combined with the dryness and lack of city lights, we got some amazing views of the night sky, including the milky way.

There was a fireplace, which was a boon for us all, who were, even before night time, feeling the cold. In an attempt to warm my socks up a little quicker, I stupidly placed them on a very hot fireplace. Result? A sock with a hole in it and a pair of thick wool socks, which I had had since my Canada working holiday year, completely written off. What an idiot!

An early start on the third day took us to some cool rock formations in the desert, an abridged tour of a few more lakes with flamingoes (i.e. boring!), and a smaller salt flat that was not as pure as the Salar de Uyuni.

The pièce de résistance of the tour was, of course, Salar de Uyuni, the world's largest salt flats. Upon entering the flats, you immediately felt a sense of otherworldliness about the place--a giant expanse of white with faint blue-green formations in the distance that might be mountains.

Our first stop was one of these blue-green blobs, but it wasn't a mountain. It was called an island, but it wasn't really even an island, though I imagine it might look like that after a downpour, when the salar would become a giant mirror made of water. Isla Incahuasi was a piece of land in the middle of the salt flats and attracted tourist because of its cacti and its two resident alpacas. It's also a good place to lunch in the middle of a tour of the area.

A trip to Salar de Uyuni would not be complete without some silly perspective-trickery photographs, and we spent more than an hour in the hot sun (and cool shade of the four-wheel-drive during breaks) coming up with as many silly ideas as possible. Our driver was particularly enthusiastic with the taking of these photos for us.

We ended the day on the base of Tunupa, an inactive volcano on the north end of the salar, where we watched the sun set behind the mountains.

Okay, so, the real reason we visited Salar de Uyuni on the third day rather than the fourth day was because, thanks to some more carefully-applied peer pressure, I was convinced to climb the imposing Tunupa the very next day. This was usually done in a fifth add-on day but our driver/guide offered to take us there--off the books, which is why I have not mentioned his name--on the fourth instead.

The climb was, well, challenging. Rewarding, yes, but challenging indeed. Starting off at just below 4000 metres above sea level and ending on the lower rim at about 4800m (or so said our local mountain guide), the climb began gentle enough for the first few hours before becoming ridiculous in the last, with a steeper gradient and some slippery rocks. I dreaded the prospect of heading down those rocks and said more than once that I did not want to go on. But go on I did, and it was a decision I was glad I made in retrospect. The climb was not only good preparation for the multi-day high-altitude Inca Trail trek but also afforded spectacular views from the top. Looking down at the salt flats from such a high viewpoint lent a surreal quality; it seemed like looking down on clouds with peaks of mountains popping out here and there.

The first part of the climb down, as expected, was a pain. However, the sense of achievement of reaching the rim of the volcano helped me navigate the tricky descent of sliding rock. We quickly visited a cave housing reasonably preserved mummies, and had lunch at the hostel before making our exit of the salt flats.

As we were heading out, there was a loud pop from one of the tyres followed by the unmistakable sound of a flat tyre (yes, another one). We stopped in the middle of nowhere so that the driver and the cook could inspect the damage, which turned out to be substantial. Something sharp must have been left on the "road" (I use quote marks because it's more of a set of tracks) out of the salar because there was a hole on the tyre itself. Fortunately, the flat from the first day had been speedily repaired, so a quick change was all that was needed before heading off again.

Our final stop of the tour was the Cementerio de Trenes in the outskirts of Uyuni, a place where old disused trains went to die. For whatever reason, I enjoy the sight of discarded, rusting machinery, so this was a treat. I even found a swing that somebody had fashioned out of spare parts hanging out of one of the trains. Lots of fun.

All in all, a great trip it was, with Uyuni and the climb to Tunupa the highlights. To be honest, it was great that we crammed this all in to the four-day tour because visiting in four days what we did in three would have felt dragged out.

We were dropped off in Uyuni, which exuded a negative vibe of dirty, dusty town, only serving as a jump-off point for tourists to explore the nearby salt flats--I was immediately glad I started in Tupiza instead. Not liking this one bit, I and the Brits hopped on an 12ish-hour overnight bus to La Paz.

La Paz

The first few hours of the bus ride was on unpaved roads, which meant a very bumpy ride getting out of Uyuni, much like sitting in a massage chair that had an unlimited stream of coins being slotted into it. Once things settled down, I got a bit of sleep, but not really enough for my liking.

I woke up just before we arrived in La Paz in the early hours of the morning, which was a good thing because I saw the lights of the city. Nuestra Señora de La Paz, or Our Lady of Peace, is situated in a kind of bowl, with the city centre at the bottom sprawling out into the surrounding hills. The view while heading down into the bowl when all the lights were still on was quite something. I know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but I immediately liked the place.

Charlie and Georgie checked in to an Irish-run party hostel, while I checked in to a rival hostel, Loki, just around the corner. At reception, I met Pierre, a fellow Aussie (the first I ran into since Buenos Aires, almost two weeks prior--imagine that!) who had also just come from Uyuni on a different overnight bus.

I had the basic free breakfast at the hostel and rested a little bit then joined a walking tour of the city. La Paz was nice to walk around, though I had neglected to take into consideration the strength of the sun and brought along my leather jacket. The Google forecast of possible rain was nowhere to be seen, so I had to carry my jacket under my arms for most of the trip, and occasionally used it as a sun cover for my head. We visited the local markets, bustling with activity as it was Sunday, as well as the tourist-magnet Mercado de las Brujas, or Witches' Market, where they sold various traditional and alternative wares, such as llama foetuses, which our guide said were used in a Andean ceremony before any buildings were built. Another stop was the Basílica de San Francisco, a church with an intermix of Catholic and native iconography, a result of the Conquistadors' campaign to conquer the Andean people by conversion.

Our guide also told us a bit about the city's history; we heard about the infamous El penal de San Pedro, an overcrowded prison for drug offenders with its own micro economy and notorious past involving daring tourists (the jail is now quite illegal to enter let alone take a photo of); at Plaza Murillo, an important location in many key political moments of the country's history, we learnt the story of Gualberto Villarroel, a former leader who was killed and thrown from the presidential palace before being hung in the square, and much later celebrated with a statue in the very place he was hung.

I had lunch after a tour at a place serving chicharrón, a fried pork dish. I love the Filipino variety, so I had to try the Latin American version. Not as good, I must say, although fairly different as it included a lot of the meaty parts rather than focusing on the rind. It was cheap, though, so I couldn't complain.

Sunday evenings in El Alto meant wrestling with a Bolivian twist--cholitas (women in traditional dresses, often found in markets selling goods), or at the very least women dressed as cholitas, featured in several matches, sometimes against men and sometimes against women. Not wanting to miss this opportunity, I opted against getting some much-needed sleep. On the way up to El Alto, I got a great look at the city from on high for the second time in the day, which was almost worth the price of the ticket. Almost.

The wrestling itself was interesting though ultimately repetitive, with the same good-guy-versus-bad guy-with-a-biased-referee theme being played out over and over again. It was fun to see some of the matches--there was a couple of wrestlers who were thrown into the tourists in the ringside seats, and there was a character that appeared to be impervious to pain, so much so that he had to be set on fire to chase him out of the building--but at the ended of the night I just wanted to head back to the hostel.

I went out to dinner with Pierre and some friends he had met while travelling; we ate at Maphrao On, an Asian restaurant, which served good food, though was a bit steep in price. The drinks throughout the night got a bit out of hand and I found out for the first time how easy it was to get drunk at a high altitude. I fell asleep quickly that night.

Hanging out

Not really having anything to do on my second day and nursing a slight hangover, I opted for a chilled out day in the city. After a much-needed and much-craved bacon and eggs breakfast, I had a slow walk around the area, visiting Mirador Killi Killi, a viewpoint involving a short hike up, and checking out the football stadium area. For lunch I went into a little cafe on Calle Jaen called Etno Café Cultural, which the walking tour guide from the day before had recommended; it was one of the best set lunches I had in South America.

I was getting sick of my thermals, which were itchy on my legs, so I shopped around at the knock off adventure gear stores. I settled on a pair, which I suspect are not thermals at all, but instead are swimming pants. The cheap price and the need for swimmers for the trip helped justify the purchase.

The next day, I attended a FIFA World Cup qualifier between Bolivia and Ecuador at the stadium with a few of the people from the hostel. The crowd was sparse since Bolivia were at the bottom of the CONMEBOL table, but the passion was there, and it turned out to be a well-fought match that ended in a disappointing (for the home side) 1-1 draw.

Cause and effect (strike two)

I had found out before leaving for the football match that there was to be a general strike in La Paz the following day, with the people protesting against a proposed increase in taxes (or something like that). General strikes in South America, I discovered, were a bit more interesting than elsewhere I had observed such things. In particular, the protesters would barricade roads around the city, especially roads heading to and from the airport as well as other cities; La Paz would, in effect, be blocked off.

I was meant to be heading to Puno, on the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca, the next day, but I decided I best delay my plans. One of the staff at the hostel speculated that the timing of the strike falling on the day after the football was no coincidence, and that it would probably be okay to travel on subsequent days.

Because of the extra day in the city, I decided to take my clothes to the laundry as most were dirty from the Salar de Uyuni tour. My jeans were part of this lot, so I had to wear my hiking pants for the day. Unfortunately, the pockets on my hiking pants weren't as secure as the ones on my jeans. With a few people from the hotel, I went to a restaurant and bar that night. It was only when I got back to the hostel that I realised my phone was no longer in my pocket. Dammit.

Anyway, let's focus on the good points. I checked out a couple of cool bars early in the evening with Pierre and Joe, a British stand-up comedian backpacking around South America. One was Etno, the cafe I had had lunch at the day before, and the other was Bocaisapo, a speakeasy that served Bolivian drinks and played music from a tape deck (pretty rad, right?). It was great to see where the locals hung out.

Oh, yeah, I lost my glasses too. This one was a bit of a mystery, because I know I had them when I got back to the hostel. I must have misplaced them somewhere there before I had gone to sleep, perhaps when I was brushing my teeth, but could not find them despite checking back again and again with lost property. I had prepared for the possibility of losing my glasses, so had brought along some contact lenses as backup. Still, it was a bit annoying, probably more so than the loss of the phone.

Of course, the lost phone meant a day wasted filing a police report--made easier with the help of an Aussie who was also at the tourist police station reporting his stolen backpack with all his valuables--and changing passwords. Throughout this, I saw the people on strike at various places; some were playing volleyball over the barricades while others simply sat around eating food. Maybe the guy at the hostel was right about the timing of it all. I knew I had made the right decision staying in La Paz an extra day when a girl arrived at the hostel with red eyes. It looked like she had been crying; it turned out that her bus had arrived that morning and the protesters had thrown tear gas at them as they passed through. Yeesh.

So, that was my time Bolivia. Perhaps too short, but certainly eventful and slightly unpredictable. I was starting to get the hang of vaguely-planned travel at that point. I will be back.

Next: Peru.

While you wait for that, I've uploaded some photos from Bolivia on my Flickr page. You can find them here.

*While I've mostly been using names here, I will not mention those of our driver/guide and cook, for it may get them in trouble for the change in itinerary. That said, if you care enough, it's probably not difficult to figure them out.