CAMPFIRES
7 March 2008
CAMPFIRES … primitive peoples use them as a means of survival; heating, cooking and fending off potentially dangerous animals. Modern man makes use of a campfire for the odd bit of enjoyment; a weekend braai or winter warmth accompanied with a glass of red wine. I prefer to think of them as a way to interact with people from all walks of life. Unlike other public places where groups of people socialize, a complete stranger will be accepted in the hospitality of the flames. It is in such warm environments that I have met some indescribably interesting people who have left a lifelong impression on me. However, due to a desire I have to share with others just how beautiful a moment can be, I shall attempt to expand on a few of these personalities and occasions.
I began reminiscing a few minutes ago when I made myself a cup of tea from the last of the tea leaves in my camping box. Now, this is not just any tea … it was given to me by a particularly eccentric character I met around a campfire one memorable night while living in Namibia. I realized that I have met some of the most interesting people around the fire. One in particular happens to be this gentleman, Fredrik. I had heard about him from some colleagues and his peculiar reputation intrigued me. Being a vegetarian, almost unheard of in a meat-eating society, he travels around with a huge basket full of fresh fruit and vegetables in the back of his Land Rover. Apparently, his vehicle can be easily identified in the desert by the trail of fruit-flies in his wake, not the average dust cloud which follows others. Having spent an evening in his company around the campfire at Puros, north-west Namibia, I feel privileged to have met him. Not only because he gave me a container of his tea concoction, but because he has the ability to give off part of his endless energy, to enlighten all who listen to the wonders of nature and to make one realize how grateful we should be for this gift of life.
It was by accident that Fredrik ended up camping with us that night. The Hoarusib River near Puros had been in flood for a few days, obstructing the track which ran through the normally dry river bed. The options during the rainy season are to attempt a river crossing further upstream, which took a few days due to the route, or to wait in the hope that the water would subside to a crossable level. After the excitement of someone getting stuck in the river and almost having their vehicle washed away with the current, Frederick decided to wait it out. His Land Rover, along with another two heavy-weight vehicles, came in handy for the rescue operation which took place to pull the submerged 4X4 from the muddy torrent. The fruit-flies, however, missed the whole show as the basket had been offloaded before the action began.
Once everyone and all vehicles were safe, we retired to the campsite alongside the river. Under the cover of Acacias we made a fire and the kettle was immediately placed next to a cozy flame. Before thoughts about what tin should be opened to flavour the staple pap, Frederik was fluttering about the fire place with a one litre tin mug. I approached the fire, my own humble-sized mug in hand, and asked if the water was boiling; to which he tossed a teaspoon of what looked like dried herbs and sticks into my mug, topped it up with steaming water from the spout of a singing kettle, and smiled a triumphant voila. This, he informed me, was his own brew made from different local plants and spices. I sipped the flavoured water through gritted teeth to sieve the insoluble pieces floating around in my mug, of which there were many. I was skeptical, but first impressions aside, it was one of the most delicious warm beverages I have tasted to this day (and this is coming from someone with an adventurous pallet).
The star-filled evening continued until eyes had to be rested. We had touched on topics which were beyond one’s average campfire conversations. Every time Frederik spoke, even if he was voicing a humble opinion, his audience was captivated by his enthusiasm and passion. The tea leaves never quite settled on the firmness of the mug bottom as mugs were continuously being topped up. If I were that kettle I would have taken a well deserved retirement package after the tea-soaked conversations we enjoyed. I finally had to lay my mug to rest after I had stayed up long after the others gazing at the remaining glow of the fire, content.
The river had subsided during the night, making it passable for 4X4 vehicles. Frederik was off at first light, taking his loveable ambiance and basket of fruit-flies with him. I was not to see him again, but he had left me an old jam bottle filled to the brim with his tea. Even as the last of my tea supply dies, the memory of that night around the campfire will live on.
On a more primeval encounter, there have been the many faces and names I cannot pronounce of the Himba people whose fires I have shared in north-west Namibia. Not being able to communicate on a verbal level presented an interesting challenge, one which embellished humility upon my life.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
BUS COMPANIONS IN SOUTH AMERICA, July '09
July '09
BUS COMPANIONS IN SOUTH AMERICA
"Kiwi", as she was nicknamed, was the first person I sat alongside on a long, overnight bus journey in Argentina. A shy, non-talkative, middle-aged Bolivian woman on her way back home. In response to my interested expression she gave me a detailed monologue of the beautiful plaza I was gazing at just outside of Buenos Aires where we left. Unable to comprehend how a person couldn't speak Spanish, she continued to ask me questions in an ever-increasing annoyed tone. She did, however, give me one of the three kiwi-fruits she was carrying, and thereafter removed herself and her belongings to a vacant seat a few rows back. She returned a few hours later, easing my hurt feelings (not to mention the cold seat next to me). But salt was added to the wounds when the bus driver announced I was at my destination. the old bag knew I was departing the bus and so took up her origional place, with me out of the picture. The kiwi-fruit giving still baffles me. Maybe where she is from it is a hoax. Who knows ... she might have even attempted to poison me with it. Travel hint to others: learn how to speak Spanish before boarding public transport, or risk your life being seated among the elderly.
"The snoarer", be it male or female, who periodically passes gas in their relaxed state. This scenario occured on more than one ocassion while I travelled through Bolivia and Peru. I am sure most people can sympathise, having been in a nearby seat to one of these oblivious souls before.
"The drunk, obese, excuse for a human being" who takes up more than is comfortable of your already-tiny seat, squashing you into the corner of the side of the bus while he/she spills fat rolls and sausage appendages into the isle. My former experience did not end there. The former frunk (fat drunk) who passed out half on top of me momentarilly awoke to a blurred world through his drunken stupor. Without realising, he sang at the top of his lungs to whatever hideous song was blaring from his overloud earphones. This was syncronised by flinging flabby arms and sausage fingers wide open. During one of these outbursts I received an unexpected blow to the head, followed by a minor knock from the follow-through of blubber which followed his limb's actions like a wake. He got up at some point during the night, probably in search of more beer. I took the opportunity to relieve my toes of my bag, placing it carefully on the beer-soaked seat beside me - now dented with indistinguishably wide buttock cheeks. Before I knew what was happening, a giant shadow covered my bag, followed by the heavy load of the frunk. He had passed out on his feet, which gave way, and gravity forced his body downwards onto my bag. The attempt at politely waking him proved fruitless. I proceeded to push with all my strangth, growing increasingly worried that my camera and other belongings were on their way to material heaven, smelling of beer. Not a pleasant way to leave this life. I eventually managed to pull my bag out from under his heavy hind, unscathed. After waking the entire bus and missing the toilet bowl at the back of the bus, the frunk was threatened to be kicked off the bus. He left for a mere ten minutes at one stop but, to my dismay,was back next to me by the time we started moving again. Needless to say I had a sleepless night, guarding my chest area in wait for the unpredictable arm-flinging outbursts which continued well into the uncomfortable hours of the morning. The looks of sympathy from other passengers I glanced back at through exhausted eyes were the most genuine I have ever seen.
Then there is the screaming kid who must be dehydrated from so much tear and snot loss at the end of ten hours. As for the rest of us ... deafness, sky-rocketing irritation levels, headaches and another sleepless night. Add a grumpy man who makes it his life's purpose to make it impossible for you to cross over him to go to the toilet (at this point I would like to point out what a luxury it is to have a toilet on the bus, even if it is the size of a cardboard bus, spells of urine and lacks toilet paper), and you are guaranteed a third world bus experience.
This brings me to Jeorge. Not much company on the bus as he slept half the time and ate the rest, but a genuinely pleasant day we spent together. I made contact with him the previous night via email, arranging to fly over the Nazca lines the next morning as my bus arrived in Nazca, southern Peru. Jeorge was a tour guide and was recemmended by the travel-guide I had. Having arranged the fee and details, I arrived at 5 a.m., on the street as the bus companies operated independantly from small offices just off the main highway. Not knowing where I was, in the dark hours of the early morning, a solitary female, no Jeorge in sight, I seeked refuge at the closest hotel I could find, laughing at myself to have thought something this casual could have been pulled off. But, to my surprize, one phone call later and Jeorge and I were shaking hands in greeting. He had been drinking coffee waiting for me, a simple explanation. The skeptic in me kept looking out for signs of having been ripped-off as we took a taxi to the small airport. The deal we had seemed a bit shadey, and could have been had it have happened with another guide. The weather was coming in and even though I was amongst the first to arrive at the fixed-wing runway, I had to wait three hours before boarding a six-man plane. The standard price and airport tax were the only other necessities I was charged. Jeorge kept me informed of the progress. The weather cleared eventually to a cloudless day and I squeezed into the first available single seat. I had booked last minute whereas some tours were arranged a year in advance. It helps being single on occassions and knowing the right person to go through. Even though I had a dent in my wallet after the flight and an uneasy stomache, I was ecstatic. The 40 minutes in the air were breath-taking. A certificate and peruvian broach from Jeorge were a nice touch. We walked back to the bus stop via a friend's house, a local potter who makes ceramic replicas, dated BC, from the Nazca, Moche and Paracas cultures. The full-on demonstration I received of how a piece is made using clay and later painted made the skeptic in me wonder if this was just for show. But the genuinity and easy attitude of the man when it was clear I was not going to buy anything made me warm to him. Jeorge accompanied me on the next bus to the next major city. He was meeting his niece and taking her to the cinema. On arrival he made sure I was safely on my next bus before even thinking of saying farewell.
The tip I gave him felt like too little and too much at the same time as I felt he deserved more than what I could afford but then again it felt wrong paying someone who had become my friend. A promise from me to stay in touch and a promise from him to see the movie I had recommended left us both feeling as though we had gained the most of our time together. A warm hug later and I was on yet another bus, happy for the empty seat next to me for the first time.
BUS COMPANIONS IN SOUTH AMERICA
"Kiwi", as she was nicknamed, was the first person I sat alongside on a long, overnight bus journey in Argentina. A shy, non-talkative, middle-aged Bolivian woman on her way back home. In response to my interested expression she gave me a detailed monologue of the beautiful plaza I was gazing at just outside of Buenos Aires where we left. Unable to comprehend how a person couldn't speak Spanish, she continued to ask me questions in an ever-increasing annoyed tone. She did, however, give me one of the three kiwi-fruits she was carrying, and thereafter removed herself and her belongings to a vacant seat a few rows back. She returned a few hours later, easing my hurt feelings (not to mention the cold seat next to me). But salt was added to the wounds when the bus driver announced I was at my destination. the old bag knew I was departing the bus and so took up her origional place, with me out of the picture. The kiwi-fruit giving still baffles me. Maybe where she is from it is a hoax. Who knows ... she might have even attempted to poison me with it. Travel hint to others: learn how to speak Spanish before boarding public transport, or risk your life being seated among the elderly.
"The snoarer", be it male or female, who periodically passes gas in their relaxed state. This scenario occured on more than one ocassion while I travelled through Bolivia and Peru. I am sure most people can sympathise, having been in a nearby seat to one of these oblivious souls before.
"The drunk, obese, excuse for a human being" who takes up more than is comfortable of your already-tiny seat, squashing you into the corner of the side of the bus while he/she spills fat rolls and sausage appendages into the isle. My former experience did not end there. The former frunk (fat drunk) who passed out half on top of me momentarilly awoke to a blurred world through his drunken stupor. Without realising, he sang at the top of his lungs to whatever hideous song was blaring from his overloud earphones. This was syncronised by flinging flabby arms and sausage fingers wide open. During one of these outbursts I received an unexpected blow to the head, followed by a minor knock from the follow-through of blubber which followed his limb's actions like a wake. He got up at some point during the night, probably in search of more beer. I took the opportunity to relieve my toes of my bag, placing it carefully on the beer-soaked seat beside me - now dented with indistinguishably wide buttock cheeks. Before I knew what was happening, a giant shadow covered my bag, followed by the heavy load of the frunk. He had passed out on his feet, which gave way, and gravity forced his body downwards onto my bag. The attempt at politely waking him proved fruitless. I proceeded to push with all my strangth, growing increasingly worried that my camera and other belongings were on their way to material heaven, smelling of beer. Not a pleasant way to leave this life. I eventually managed to pull my bag out from under his heavy hind, unscathed. After waking the entire bus and missing the toilet bowl at the back of the bus, the frunk was threatened to be kicked off the bus. He left for a mere ten minutes at one stop but, to my dismay,was back next to me by the time we started moving again. Needless to say I had a sleepless night, guarding my chest area in wait for the unpredictable arm-flinging outbursts which continued well into the uncomfortable hours of the morning. The looks of sympathy from other passengers I glanced back at through exhausted eyes were the most genuine I have ever seen.
Then there is the screaming kid who must be dehydrated from so much tear and snot loss at the end of ten hours. As for the rest of us ... deafness, sky-rocketing irritation levels, headaches and another sleepless night. Add a grumpy man who makes it his life's purpose to make it impossible for you to cross over him to go to the toilet (at this point I would like to point out what a luxury it is to have a toilet on the bus, even if it is the size of a cardboard bus, spells of urine and lacks toilet paper), and you are guaranteed a third world bus experience.
This brings me to Jeorge. Not much company on the bus as he slept half the time and ate the rest, but a genuinely pleasant day we spent together. I made contact with him the previous night via email, arranging to fly over the Nazca lines the next morning as my bus arrived in Nazca, southern Peru. Jeorge was a tour guide and was recemmended by the travel-guide I had. Having arranged the fee and details, I arrived at 5 a.m., on the street as the bus companies operated independantly from small offices just off the main highway. Not knowing where I was, in the dark hours of the early morning, a solitary female, no Jeorge in sight, I seeked refuge at the closest hotel I could find, laughing at myself to have thought something this casual could have been pulled off. But, to my surprize, one phone call later and Jeorge and I were shaking hands in greeting. He had been drinking coffee waiting for me, a simple explanation. The skeptic in me kept looking out for signs of having been ripped-off as we took a taxi to the small airport. The deal we had seemed a bit shadey, and could have been had it have happened with another guide. The weather was coming in and even though I was amongst the first to arrive at the fixed-wing runway, I had to wait three hours before boarding a six-man plane. The standard price and airport tax were the only other necessities I was charged. Jeorge kept me informed of the progress. The weather cleared eventually to a cloudless day and I squeezed into the first available single seat. I had booked last minute whereas some tours were arranged a year in advance. It helps being single on occassions and knowing the right person to go through. Even though I had a dent in my wallet after the flight and an uneasy stomache, I was ecstatic. The 40 minutes in the air were breath-taking. A certificate and peruvian broach from Jeorge were a nice touch. We walked back to the bus stop via a friend's house, a local potter who makes ceramic replicas, dated BC, from the Nazca, Moche and Paracas cultures. The full-on demonstration I received of how a piece is made using clay and later painted made the skeptic in me wonder if this was just for show. But the genuinity and easy attitude of the man when it was clear I was not going to buy anything made me warm to him. Jeorge accompanied me on the next bus to the next major city. He was meeting his niece and taking her to the cinema. On arrival he made sure I was safely on my next bus before even thinking of saying farewell.
The tip I gave him felt like too little and too much at the same time as I felt he deserved more than what I could afford but then again it felt wrong paying someone who had become my friend. A promise from me to stay in touch and a promise from him to see the movie I had recommended left us both feeling as though we had gained the most of our time together. A warm hug later and I was on yet another bus, happy for the empty seat next to me for the first time.
4-DAY SANTA CRUISE HIKE, HUARAZ; July '09
4-DAY SANTA CRUZ HIKE, HUARAZ
Chilling with the Israelies in Huaraz before setting off on the Santa Cruz hike. Check out the magnum-look on this bad boy!
Left: Sunset view from the hostel in Huaraz
Left: Chris, Alex and I got the awesome overflow room at the top of the hostel ... sweet!
Chilling with the Israelies in Huaraz before setting off on the Santa Cruz hike. Check out the magnum-look on this bad boy!
Left: Sunset view from the hostel in Huaraz
Left: Chris, Alex and I got the awesome overflow room at the top of the hostel ... sweet! The Three Muskateers: Me, Alex and Chris (brothers from New Zealand)
Fun in our tent!
Our guide, Carlos, chilling.
There was a shop selling beer on the third day - woop woop!
Left: the Brits
After the 4800 meters above sea level pass.
Down into the Santa Cruz valley we go ...
At the top of the Santa Cruz pass, 4800m ASL.
And I did it, I swam in a mountain stream originating from the icy mountains! The beer was well deserved afterwards!
Sheeips and Han did every step!
Alex and the snow ... brrrr!
There was a shop selling beer on the third day - woop woop! And there were donkeys just calling to be messed with!
The many 'vistas' we saw every day.
Altitude sickness, men down!
Left: the BritsBelow: the Kiwi
More headaches, the altitude took it's toll with Alex.
Camp
sites were beaut, and cold!
sites were beaut, and cold! After the 4800 meters above sea level pass.
Down into the Santa Cruz valley we go ...
At the top of the Santa Cruz pass, 4800m ASL.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in Peru, use a donkey to carry your luggage!
BEAUT SCENERY of the over 6000m ASL peaks in the Cordillera Blanca
...
...
Tea and cards at camp.
Alex loves his trees
! No seriously,
! No seriously, the bark was papery
and red - awesome!
"
Caramello," ordered many a kid as we passed through.
Caramello," ordered many a kid as we passed through.MIELIES!
July '09
4-DAY SANTA CRUISE
Sitting on a rooftop in the sun at 7 a.m., I am waiting for a bed in the hostel along with a few other early arrivals. Many adventure seekers, mountaineers and climbers use Huaraz as a base for the many outdoor activities and treks into the Cordillera Blanca and neighbouring Cordillera Huayhuash. A simple breakfast of bread and jam, coffee and mate is served to those already awake. The 21 people inside are departing shortly on one of the many trekking expeditions into the snow-capped peaks. Those of us having just arrived on the overnight busses are lazily sipping on warm brew. I was welcomed to Hebrew coffee and sweet manly voices singing to the strumming of a well-travelled guitar. The sheesha which was passed around by the Isarealies which I ended up spending the day with was a bit too early for my smoke-free lungs to partake.
After scouting out the different companies in town and the options of hikes into the cordillera, I signed up for the four day hike into the Santa Cruz valley. With surrounding icy mountain peaks over 6000 meters above sea level, it was important that one has acclimatised before heading out into the mountains. Along with two brothers from New Zealand and a party of three from England, we set off with a guide and four donkeys to carry the tents and luggage.
In the next four days we walked over icy passes, in the snow, passing lakes and mountain rivers. The slow flakes drifted peacefully onto beanies and exposed noses. The second morning began with the sound of rain on the tent and proceeded to wet us on and off as we cleared the saddle at almost 5000 meters above sea level, heading down into the Santa Cruz valley. Flanked by cliff faces and steep mountains, the valley leads eventually to a small village. Children watched intently as cards were played while we waited for a bus back to Huaraz. Dust from the passing vehicles and donkeys settled on tired bodies already in need of a shower.
4-DAY SANTA CRUISE
Sitting on a rooftop in the sun at 7 a.m., I am waiting for a bed in the hostel along with a few other early arrivals. Many adventure seekers, mountaineers and climbers use Huaraz as a base for the many outdoor activities and treks into the Cordillera Blanca and neighbouring Cordillera Huayhuash. A simple breakfast of bread and jam, coffee and mate is served to those already awake. The 21 people inside are departing shortly on one of the many trekking expeditions into the snow-capped peaks. Those of us having just arrived on the overnight busses are lazily sipping on warm brew. I was welcomed to Hebrew coffee and sweet manly voices singing to the strumming of a well-travelled guitar. The sheesha which was passed around by the Isarealies which I ended up spending the day with was a bit too early for my smoke-free lungs to partake.
After scouting out the different companies in town and the options of hikes into the cordillera, I signed up for the four day hike into the Santa Cruz valley. With surrounding icy mountain peaks over 6000 meters above sea level, it was important that one has acclimatised before heading out into the mountains. Along with two brothers from New Zealand and a party of three from England, we set off with a guide and four donkeys to carry the tents and luggage.
In the next four days we walked over icy passes, in the snow, passing lakes and mountain rivers. The slow flakes drifted peacefully onto beanies and exposed noses. The second morning began with the sound of rain on the tent and proceeded to wet us on and off as we cleared the saddle at almost 5000 meters above sea level, heading down into the Santa Cruz valley. Flanked by cliff faces and steep mountains, the valley leads eventually to a small village. Children watched intently as cards were played while we waited for a bus back to Huaraz. Dust from the passing vehicles and donkeys settled on tired bodies already in need of a shower.
ISLAND OF THE SUN, LAKE TITICACA; July '09
Sunday market in Copacabana and the blessing of new cars. Herding the livestock at dusk.
Sunset swim and a bottle of rum.
Local boat from the northern village of the island to the mainland
once a day
Isle del Sol (Island of the Sun)
once a dayIsle del Sol (Island of the Sun)
Below: According to the Incas, this rock is the birthplace of the sun, with accompanying footprints!
Inca ruins ...
A local crop called abba drying.
Good luck with that entrance!
Rayms chilling in a reed boat.
Llama llama llama!
Left and below: More llamas!
Looking good Han! Walking to the peninsula of the mainland to get a boat to Isle del Sol, Lake Titicaca. 
Inca ruins ...
A local crop called abba drying.
Good luck with that entrance!
Rayms chilling in a reed boat.Llama llama llama!
Left and below: More llamas!
Boat from the mainland's
northern peninsula to Isle del Sol
.
. 
The rural scene around Copacubana.
Looking good Han! Walking to the peninsula of the mainland to get a boat to Isle del Sol, Lake Titicaca. 
A Bolivian woman and her load, the guy on the bike just happily rode on by after a casual chat.
The giant bags of popped wheat at the street markets.
Buses also cross part of the lake on route to Copacubana.
July '09
ISLAND OF THE SUN, LAKE TITICACA
Overlooking the vast expanse of Lake Titicaca's water, I have to remind myself that I am finally on Isle del Sol (Island of the Sun). It has been a lifelong dream of mine to travel this historically rich area where the ancient Inca civilization began. Said to have been born here, this southern island has been under the watchful eye of Pachamama, mother earth. According to Inca mythology, The Sacred Rock at Challa'pampa, a village on the north of the island, was the first place the sun ever touched. To the east of the this land mass, the northern Cordillera Real in Peru line the horizon with snow-capped peaks. To the west, the barren purple-brown hills of Bolivia greet the morning's sun.
At 3800 meters above sea level, what should have been a three to four hour walk, took us five and a half hours. Our party of three acclimatised rather well, when I compare us to the other gringos (tourists) who have suffered terrible headaches, dizzyness, nauseousness, etc. for consecutive days. Most people who visit the Isle del Sol, and its neighbouring Isle del Luna - Island of the Moon, catch a ferry from Copacubana on the mainland to the island's southern village, Yumani. But, as we preferred to take the road less travelled, we walked to the northern peninsular on the mainland and arranged to be rowed the short distance to the island's southern point. Here, there is an old Inca Palace, part of the ruins which are visited on the island. Our bargaining skills as South Africans came in handy and we were soon in a small wooden boat used by local fisherman. The chilly wind being blown in from the Cordillera Real made the journey longer than expected. We still had another hours walk up to the village on the old Inca trail. We passed terraced fields, typical of Inca cultivation, still used by locals today. It was early evening when we walked the trail along with shepard girls and boys bringing their stock home for the night. The many sheep, donkeys and llamas strewn between us added a rural charm which was most welcoming. We dined on quinua (local crop) soup and trout fresh from the lake. Our moonlit walk back to our humble accommodation overlooking the lights of Bolivia and Peru on either side respectively, was well worth the freezing air we suffered. Comfortable warm beds was all we required, a nice change from our previous nights accommodation.
After a hearty breakfast on top of the village's ridge, we set off for the day's walk to the north of the island. Over hills, along more Inca roads and through scenery blessed by Pachamama, we made our way to the ruins on the northern point of the island. We were saturated with awe by the time we came to the small fishing village. Arranging transport back to mainland proved a challenge as we had done the island backwards, compared to the other grinogs (tourists). There was only one boat leaving the following morning, three times as much for non-locals. Our night proved to be as entertaining as any other. A cold, quick swim was followed by rum and coke on the beach, watching the cattle being herded back along the shore. And to heat up we made our way to a local hole-in-the-wall restaurant for more soup and trout. The daily set menus where real value for money.
Once back on the mainland after an hour and a half's boat ride, we said farewell to Bolivia over one last meal of fresh trout.
ISLAND OF THE SUN, LAKE TITICACA
Overlooking the vast expanse of Lake Titicaca's water, I have to remind myself that I am finally on Isle del Sol (Island of the Sun). It has been a lifelong dream of mine to travel this historically rich area where the ancient Inca civilization began. Said to have been born here, this southern island has been under the watchful eye of Pachamama, mother earth. According to Inca mythology, The Sacred Rock at Challa'pampa, a village on the north of the island, was the first place the sun ever touched. To the east of the this land mass, the northern Cordillera Real in Peru line the horizon with snow-capped peaks. To the west, the barren purple-brown hills of Bolivia greet the morning's sun.
At 3800 meters above sea level, what should have been a three to four hour walk, took us five and a half hours. Our party of three acclimatised rather well, when I compare us to the other gringos (tourists) who have suffered terrible headaches, dizzyness, nauseousness, etc. for consecutive days. Most people who visit the Isle del Sol, and its neighbouring Isle del Luna - Island of the Moon, catch a ferry from Copacubana on the mainland to the island's southern village, Yumani. But, as we preferred to take the road less travelled, we walked to the northern peninsular on the mainland and arranged to be rowed the short distance to the island's southern point. Here, there is an old Inca Palace, part of the ruins which are visited on the island. Our bargaining skills as South Africans came in handy and we were soon in a small wooden boat used by local fisherman. The chilly wind being blown in from the Cordillera Real made the journey longer than expected. We still had another hours walk up to the village on the old Inca trail. We passed terraced fields, typical of Inca cultivation, still used by locals today. It was early evening when we walked the trail along with shepard girls and boys bringing their stock home for the night. The many sheep, donkeys and llamas strewn between us added a rural charm which was most welcoming. We dined on quinua (local crop) soup and trout fresh from the lake. Our moonlit walk back to our humble accommodation overlooking the lights of Bolivia and Peru on either side respectively, was well worth the freezing air we suffered. Comfortable warm beds was all we required, a nice change from our previous nights accommodation.
After a hearty breakfast on top of the village's ridge, we set off for the day's walk to the north of the island. Over hills, along more Inca roads and through scenery blessed by Pachamama, we made our way to the ruins on the northern point of the island. We were saturated with awe by the time we came to the small fishing village. Arranging transport back to mainland proved a challenge as we had done the island backwards, compared to the other grinogs (tourists). There was only one boat leaving the following morning, three times as much for non-locals. Our night proved to be as entertaining as any other. A cold, quick swim was followed by rum and coke on the beach, watching the cattle being herded back along the shore. And to heat up we made our way to a local hole-in-the-wall restaurant for more soup and trout. The daily set menus where real value for money.
Once back on the mainland after an hour and a half's boat ride, we said farewell to Bolivia over one last meal of fresh trout.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)