A Walk on the Isle of the Sun (Part 2)
Trip Start
Apr 13, 2008
1
13
17
Trip End
Jun 03, 2008
La Paz,
Bolivia
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Unfortuately these words of wisdom have yet to penetrate the small minds of some people. I find it difficult to understand how anyone can walk in the path of ancient civilisations, or step into pristine forest or gaze upon wonderous cathedrals and still discard their empty water bottles or biscuit wrappers in their wake without a tinge of guilt.
I trust there is a special place in hell for litterers, vandals and graffiti writers.
I have seen too much evidence of the work of these lowlifes in my travels during the past few weeks. Although I do have a soft spot for the young romantic who scribbled on the stone walls of one colonial building in Salta: You are my light, you are my life, you are my chikka (girl)
A view to remember- Isle of the Sun
. I have to admire his sentiments, if not his chosen canvass. I hope the young woman in question was worth it.
Still enough of the complaining. At least I can say I farewelled Maccu Picchu and the Isle of the Sun carrying more than I went in with.
I awoke yesterday (Wednesday) morning with the sun glinting in through my window and for the first time in days, my insides were not dancing the hula-hula.
So I celebrated the return of life with a big breakfast and a bouncy stroll down to the water´s edge where I caught one of the small tourist boats (a reconstructed runabout really with a couple of outboard motors) for the two hour slow slow trip out to the Isle of the Sun.
So why is this place so significant?
http://www.mountain.org/work/andes/isleofsun.cfm
An account of the walk
Isle of the Sun
.1100 As the three or four runabouts disgorge their daily quota of visitors, which today comprises mostly mostly of the adventurous young European backpacker breed, a guide appears suddenly on the beach and beckons us to follow him into the local museum where we are asked to pay an entry fee to the nearby ruins of 10 Bolivanos.
Actually he is probably one of the few genuine official guides on the island. The museum, and his explanation in Spanish, are actually rather informative.
1200 The 20 or so walkers break out in small groups and pairs. We have three hours to walk from the north to the south of the island, following the traditional Inca route, which I am told is roughly 11km in length. The trail is clearly marked and except for a few slight climbs, follows the cliff line. Easy walking for anyone who has completed other high altitude treks. We are informed that the boats will pick us up at 3.30pm for the return trip to Copacabana. Some of the backpackers have elected to stay overnight at one of the half dozen hostels on the island. Wish I had the time and freedom to do the same.
1247 At every turn there are stunning views oiut over the Lake and in the distance, the snow capped mountains. That nearby island, I am sure, represents a crouching puma. Just when I am thiinking I wish I had brought some snacks with me, I spy a roadside stall, staffed by your ubiquitious bowler hatted middle aged mama, who is selling biscuits, drinks and rather ripened bananas. I buy two of the latter for one Boliviano. Eat one of the bananas. Delicious. Hope the lower half of me does not object.
1310 By now the pack of walkers have spaced themselves out a long the track. Everyone walks at their own pace, this is not a footrace, just a chance to glimpse into history at your own space and relish a sense of freedom and spiritual renewal. Which would be fine if except for anothe wily local who appears out of nowhere every few kilometre or so to demand another five Bolivianos or so out of we ignorant gringos to enter another so called sacred Inca site. By the fourth or fifth appearance most of us recognise the con and refuse to pay.
1325 Have already drunk half of my 600ml supply of water. Am wearing the obligatory hat, sunglasses and dollop of sun block on my face as you can easily get sunburnt at this altitude, even if there is enough chill in the air to remind you that this is early winter.
1415 I walk past abandoned adobe built huts and forgotten shrines of stone crosses, dodge the piles of donkey droppings and other roadside hazards and stop every now and then to admire the view and inhale the sweet scent of eucalyptus that wafts through in the fresh mountain air.
Yes, there are plantations of alpine eucalyptus trees all over the island, which is all rather unsettling and makes me feel momentarily homesick.
(In fact lots of communities in the Andes have established eucalpytus groves as a cash crop. The trees grow quickly in this climate and terrain and the long straight timber is used in house construction.)
1440. Arrive at the southern end of the trail at at Yumani which is the largest town on the island. Read somewhere that there are 206 Inca Steps around here leading to a sacred stone fountain containing three separate springs said to be a fountain of youth. Or something. Except all I can see is a motley collection of newly built pizza restaurants, a mock adobe hut advertising Internet and a handicraft stall or three. And yes, here come three more 'local officials' each carrying receipt books demanding another five Bolivianos to enter this traditional Incan site.
I pretend not to understand their Spanish and focus on the downward path to the dock where the boats are waiting. I walk on past a charming picture of three local women filling their heavy pitchers with drinking water from the communal tap to carry back to their houses. I wonder if the houses back on to the shop advertising Internet services. A cackle of children coming home from school push past me and then dodge in between a couple of mules straggling the stoney path.
Then a dirty faced child stops and turns to me to ask for a photo. I tell her that she is very pretty but no, I will not take her photo. She then asks for a "caramelo" and when I contine to shake my head and continue walking she then openly calls out for money. When I ignore her she calls out in what is probably the local Amayru language, which was probably something rude.
1447 Having survived the guantlet of artesanos selling their alpaca knits and painted souvenirs, I arive at last at the pick up point for the boats back to Copacabana. Time for a quick cheese and chicken sandwich at the conveniently located food stand and a visit to the newly built and rather flash toilet at the end of the beach.(receive three strips of toilet paper for my two Bolivianos from the middle aged man running the facility which goes to show who are the smart ooperators in the tourism industry here).
1755 After another excruiating slow journey back to the mainland I retreat to one of the nearby cafes for a steaming cup of hot chocolate - the best so far I've tasted in this trip- before collecting my luggage from the hotel and climbing on board a local bus for the three hour ride to La Paz. Glad I have booked ahead at a hotel near the centre of town. I am thinking fondly of the hot shower that awaits me.
1847 The driver gets on the bus, starts the engine. We move a few metres up the street. then stop. This happens a cuple of times. The driver disembarks and looks anxiously at something at the side of the bus. The rather portly couple sitting across the aisle from me produce from seemingly nowhere several blankets, a pillow and the biggest bag of toasted popcorn I have ever seen. Someone at the back of the bus yells out "vamos!" We eventually get going.
1910 .I am sitting squashed up against the side next to a friendly but rather stocky businessman returnig home to La Paz. Have yet to meet a thin Bolivian. Wonder if I will get DVT. Decide watching the passing shadows and patchwork of stars in the night sky is not going to entertain me for the next three hours. Atempt to get some sleep. Not easy when you are travelling on an unsealed road.
1940 The bus suddenly stops and everyone gets out. Apparently we have come to a river channel somewhere on the far reaches of the Lake. The bus will be punted across while we passengers have to pay another 1.5 Bolivianos for the dubious pleasure of being carried across the 500m of water on a small motorboat. The ride is again achingly slow and the boat is so heavily loaded that I can almost feel it sinking. I keep my eyes on the lights shining from the houses on the shore. When we do reach land, there is another seemingly long wait for our bus to appear. A road sign reveals that it is 112km to La Paz. I watch a family cook their evening meal in the street outside their house and crave for a steak sandwich, or a llama burger. I am not the only passenger to breathe a sigh of relief when our bus finally appears.
2115 I must have dozed off as I suddenly jolt awake by the lights coming on inside the bus.We have finally reached the outskirts of La Paz . The city stretches high up the mountain sides. From the bus window I watch the stray dogs and beggars scratch at piles of rubbish left in in the centre of the street and wonder if the whole city was as bleak as these outer suburbs. We slowly wind down the highway into the heart of the city which looks a bit more enticing. (Actually La Paz is one of the few cities in the world where the poor live on the heights and the affluent get to live down the hill where there is supposedly more oxygen.)
The bus arrives at the terminal. Like a fairy godmother a 'tourist police officer' suddenly appears and within a few minutes has organised a taxi for me, jotting down the details of both the driver and me for my safety.
2150 After five weeks of being on the road and staying in a range of hostels in Argentina, Chile and Peru, I have reached the end of this particular South American trip. I am staying at the Hostal Republica, a pleasant mid range hostel set around a couple of courtyards on a busy street just up the hill from the San Francisco cathedral and the main commercial thoroughfare. Hello La Paz, a city that quite literally lies at the top of the world.
It has been a long day.
http://wikitravel.org/en/La_Paz_(Bolivia)
