This past month, we have been far too busy to write. We’ve journeyed from the islands of Lake Titicaca, to the peaks of the Andes, to remote Incan ruins, to the depths of the Amazon jungle, and ended up in central Lima (that last one is a shock to the system!) At risk of sounding incredibly cliche, our time in South America has been filled with some of our highest highs, but also some of our lowest lows.
I left off in Bolivia, en route to Copacabana. Copacabana is a quiet, dusty lakeside town, not to be mistaken for the tropical party beach of Copacabana, Brazil. Before we arrived, we spent time deliberating on how to split our time between Copacabana and Puno. The first, on the Bolivian side of the lake, offered the Isla del Sol, the purported birthplace of the sun. The second offered the floating reed islands of Uros, as well as homestays on other islands in the lake. We ended up splitting our time between both, a luxury we have on this extended trip.
What we hadn’t realised, when we asked other travellers about their thoughts on the two locations, is that Copacabana and Puno are chalk and cheese. Puno’s narrow streets are filled with cars, tuk tuks, and people crossing without looking at the incoming traffic, resulting in prolific horn use. Copacabana’s streets are not filled with much at all, unless you’re there on Sunday, when everyone from Bolivia and Peru makes a pilgrimage to have their new car blessed in Copacabana’s main square.
Cars ready to be blessed in Copacabana's main square
ISLA DEL SOL
We ventured out on a boat to Isla del Sol, and saw plenty of the sun, as promised. I don’t pretend to believe that the sun was birthed from the lake here, but I will say, the exquisite sunsets in the area do give credence to the belief.
Our time in Copacabana was blessedly sunny, and we enjoyed tasty trucha, or lake trout, at the kioscos down by the waterfront. If you visit, we can vouch for kiosco #12. Both the garlic and lemon trout dishes are delicious. We also had a lovely quirky accommodation. The wiring in the shower left a bit to be desired, but the hammocks were a big win.
Squeezing work into all this adventure has proven slightly more difficult than other sections of our trip. It’s difficult to update social media when you’re 200km away from everything else, in the Bolivian altiplano or on a remote island on a lake. I’ve slotted it in as best I can. The dangers of me having work when Jerry doesn’t is that it gives him designated time to plot. This is how we frequently end up with an entire holiday planned and budgeted for, while I am completely unaware. While I worked at a “Mexican themed” cafe in Copacabana (which seemed to be just Bolivian themed, with a sign saying “Mexico” on it), Jerry spent his time thinking and formulating, but this time it was planning for the rest of our day’s activities. As I shut down the laptop, feeling a bit depleted from trying to fit six hours worth of work into two, Jerry hopped up, ready to hike up a hill. He forgot that his planning did not include “inform Caitlin of this plan”, so as we approached the hill of all hills, which should probably enter to compete with Baldwin St in Dunedin, I had 30 seconds to acclimatise to this plan before gasping my way up. While Jerry was inspired, I was instead filled with ire. You’ll notice that our photos include me looking out at the, admittedly spectacular, view, as there was nothing on earth that could possess me to smile for a photo, and Jerry had regained his wits enough not to ask it of me.
We had a remarkably smooth crossing from Bolivia to Peru, thanks to taking the much quieter route across the border. Most buses take the inland route, but we went on the route that requires crossing a river on a raft. Despite witnessing other buses stranded following the perilous journey, our bus made it across unscathed, and we entered Peru giggling. Why were we giggling, you ask? The immigration officer asked me in Spanish if Jerry and I were siblings, with no hint of humour whatsoever. I guess when people say they don’t see skin colour, some of them really mean it.
Our bus made it across on its raft, but other buses didn't have the same luck...
We didn’t spend much time in Puno, and instead hopped on another boat to stay out on Lake Titicaca. Tourism based around remote local communities is always an ethical risk. While we don’t always get it perfect, we do try to consider the impacts of our choices on the community we are visiting. After a lot of reading, we went with a company that had extensive positive reviews, and clearly outlined information about tourism on the homestay island, Amantani. We could still see that there is potential for damage from overtourism, particularly in the fragile Uros floating islands, where very few people truly live anymore. The majority of people from this community now live in Puno, and come out to Uros to demonstrate this way of life for tourists. This part of our time was well structured, likely to spread out the tourism opportunities for the different groups, and to avoid overcrowding on one of the small islands.
The trip really shined on Amantani Island, where we stayed with local hosts, Esther and her family. Their warmth and enthusiasm for hosting us made this experience what it was. Esther’s family live in Occosuyo, which is a smaller community that mostly makes a living through agriculture. The region of the island, as well as the family you are placed with, can make all the difference. Esther explained that the other side of the island, Pueblo, has become much more populated. As she put it, “it might as well be the city!”.
Sunset at Pachamama sanctuary
We were dressed in traditional clothing for the town fiesta, and headed off with Simon, Esther's dad, for an evening of dancing in the town hall. Late in the evening, we headed back and cosied up for a chilly evening.
There is no denying that travelling in Bolivia and Peru has been more physically challenging than most other countries we have visited. In the first month, the combination of high altitude, low temperatures with no heating, and the incredible dryness caused by lack of humidity was rough on our bodies. Settling into speaking and translating everyday using my high school Spanish, while Jerry managed cash and currency in the midst of a currency crisis, exercised our minds as well. That, combined with overnight buses being the main way to travel between destinations, meant that by the time we arrived in Arequipa, we were in need of some respite. Unfortunately, we arrived into Arequipa at 5:30am, off another overnight bus. We sat in the darkness on a park bench, at a complete loss of what to do. Promises of “many” cafes that would open early, every door seemed to be shut. Understandably so. However, as the sun rose, it shone on our safe haven, Masamama. This bakery felt remarkably similar to a cafe back home, and was just what we needed amongst all of the unfamiliarity we had thrown ourselves into for weeks.
Peruvian cuisine offered more variety than Bolivian, and we took advantage of Arequipa’s cafe scene to start experiencing it. Some dishes were standouts, and we’ve become fans of having soup with most of our meals, but I will admit that Peruvian cuisine is still probably not our personal favourite international option, particularly in the more remote regions. Did you know that there are 3500 types of potatoes in the Andes? We were intrigued, the first time a guide shared. By the end of our time here (having been told this fact 12 more times), we bemoaned that we could not eat one more potato dish. Potatoes rank lowest on both Jerry’s and my carbohydrate ranking, so all the different options do not wow us quite the way it might for others.
Important side question: 5 carbohydrates. Pasta, rice, potatoes, noodles, bread. How do you rank them? This question gave Jerry an existential crisis early on in our relationship.
Before we made it to Cusco, we had one last long-distance bus ride. Thanks to some undisclosed detours (i.e. going back to Puno, which we were not impressed with), we spent 14 hours bumping and bouncing our way towards Cusco. Jerry turned green the second we set foot in the bus, which was not a good sign, but he remained stoic, staring unseeingly forward for 13 hours towards the horizon. Alas, he fell at the final hour, and spent the final jerky moments into Cusco sequestered in the tiny bus bathroom, puking his guts out.
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