Viajar el mundo: How to deal with Border Guards

23 de Septiembre

The Titicacans had unique ways of hatching eggs

After recovering from our epic journey (epic for us, as we are quite lazy travellers), we left Cusco at the crack of dawn, deciding to take the tourist bus to Puno. A tourist bus is essentially a busload of foreigners, on a trip not dissimilar to the packaged coach tours you see running through Europe or the US. Time is of the essence when on one of these, as you must depart at x time to arrive at y time and everything is planned out, including length of visits to sights and lunchtime, (even piss stops were calculated) all for that goal of arriving dead on 5.00pm in the afternoon. And that we did. Truth be told, the sights along the way were quite boring for us, having come from the splendour and grandeur of Machu Picchu, and trying to get excited about some other piddly ruins, which I’m aware were extremely significant to the Incas and the time, but to be perfectly honest, we couldn’t give a flying fuck. So I do apologise for not being able to describe any of the sights for you, as I was asleep most of the way down, and only woke for lunch and to play with the llamas on the side of the road.

On the way to Puno, we passed through a town, or a rubbish dump resembling a collection of habitations, called Juliaca. Didn’t seem like the place to be when the welcoming committee of toothless locals greeted us with middle fingers raised and a quick practice of Spanish vulgarity.

Puno is not much of a place either, but a necessary stop to explore the uniqueness of Lake Titicaca and her Floating Islands. The lake itself is the highest altitude navigable lake in the world, just a few short breaths below 4000m above sea level. The local people, steeped in tradition of their forefathers, still inhabit the permanent islands, and also have set themselves up on the famous floating islands, made entirely of reeds.

The reggae llama was too cool for the flock

The girl was outraged the house wore the same outfit as her

The incontinent sheep was forced away from his flock

It’s an extremely odd place to visit, and very exciting to be able to experience the people’s way of life. Every month, the families have to pretty much relay the foundations of their plot, by gathering reeds from the lake, as the rising waters or currents eventually soak through from underneath. The huts are also made of the same reeds, so of course these need to be constantly replaced and topped up, especially after storms. The islands are anchored so there is no danger that you could wake one morning and find yourself in a shipping canal. The locals live off the land, and considering each island is not much bigger than an average suburban house plot, there is not much to choose from. It is not possible to hope that one day a wild animal may saunter past your house, allowing you to catch and eat, but the people improvise and adapt. They are excellent fisherman, and the lake has an abundance of delicious trout, which they catch, and trade, to the mainland for pigs, coca leaves, and M&M’s. They are also adept at catching birds, especially heron. Once they have caught one, the wings are clipped, and then the birds are eaten or dried and traded on to other islands, as are ducks and any other sea bird that might be unfortunate enough to get collected by a stray arrow. Occasionally they will strike it lucky and the birds will lay eggs, where the chicks are raised and the above process is repeated.

We took a tour with a chap named Edgar, a local to these parts and a superb guide, as we managed to avoid all the other tourist groups, thanks to Edgars knowledge, and had pieces of this little paradise all to ourselves, including private beaches (although the waters were extremely frigid so the word beach shouldn’t be used with too much enthusiasm). Lunch was cooked on coals in a hole in the ground for a few hours; chicken, trout, vegetables and soup. We visited the locals, who of course had all the usual garb; blankets, necklaces, alpaca sweaters, ready to vend to the tourists. We also met the local judiciary, an elder who lives on the main island of Taquille, who is the go between for the people should one’s cow stray onto another’s property, he is your man to sort out any differences. He wears a black hat.

The local men would knit to keep their women happy. Seriously.

The wife's constant nagging about sand in the food turned Hector to drink

Lunch, right from the ground to the table

Once the infants get their reed legs, walking would be a cinch.

Once the eggs hatched, tasty treats abounded.

Floating islands, crowded.

The thin air would parch even the biggest lips

After two nights in Puno, it was time to leave Peru, and all the magic she had given us, and head towards Bolivia.

We took a bus to the border, and as all international crossings go, this seemed relatively smooth. Get out, line up, passport stamped, change money, back on bus, and continue. Easy, right?

The night before in Puno, I had just finished reading a book called Marching Powder, a poorly written book but very addictive true story of a prison in La Paz, Bolivia, where up until ten years ago tourists could actually visit a foreign long termer incarcerated there on drugs charges, who would ultimately be a tour guide for visitors around the prison. This whole process was only made possible largely due to the corruption of Bolivian prison guards and officials. The last few paragraphs of the book stated that “Bolivia is a corrupt country, what can you do about it?”

Kylie and Nicole had their passports stamped, welcome to Bolivia, enjoy your stay. I was third in line behind them, and the policeman on duty flicked through my Australian Passport, then pushed me aside, no explanation. A few others proceeded through the rigmarole, so I stepped back in the line for an explanation. On receiving my passport yet again, Officer Dodgy explained that s there was a tear in the corner of my passport, the size of approximately half a fingernail, and due to this, I would not be allowed into the country. “Ah, no problemo Senor”, I explained “Yo tengo otra passaporte”. I have another passport, an Irish one, as I am a dual national, and that he should get his fat fucking frame out of the way and let me through. No. He wasn’t moving. He explained to me that as I hadn’t left Peru on this passport, I wasn’t coming into his country on it. So the bullshit continued, and I started to assume that to get in the country, it was possible I was going to have to pay for the privilege.

At this time, the two girls were also after explanations, and also couldn’t believe what was going on. More and more travellers were filing through, formalities completed, and heading back to the bus. A customs officer, responsible for stamping the passports, was even less sympathetic to the events. He wrote in capital letters on my entry form, NEGATIVO, and brushed me aside, no time for me. So I was standing at a Bolivian border post, running alternatives through my head, do I return to Peru for one night, and try again the next day or try another border post? And what about Kylie and Nicole? The Law states that you cant cross a border and return to where you came from within 24 hours, and as they were already stamped in, there was a real possibility that we would be apart.

The girls turned on the water works, but this even failed to sway them. The policeman now seemed to show some empathy with this, and rubbed his thumb and two forefingers together, suggesting this may be the resolution I was after. No shit.

“Cuantos?” I asked. How much do you want? Here I am, offering to bribe a policeman in a third world country, knowing their prisons where you may spend some time for such actions are hardly Club Med, but feeling relatively safe in the knowledge that this is the way things are done here. He distanced himself from the loot, always pointing to the man with the stamp, motioning that it was his say in the end.

Fearing we would be left in no mans land, as the bus began to near capacity, with our bags on board, I asked the prick with the stamp how much he would like. The arm waved me back. He again pointed to my passport, like it was some heinous crime to have a tear and I would almost certainly be up to no good should I be admitted, and refused me entry. Other police came and investigated. Again, I was offering any of them money, some nice, fresh, crispy US bills, just to let me go.

The bus had then left. The driver couldn’t give a shit about us, turfed our bags into the dirt, and continued into Bolivia. Then there were only three of us, a handful of cops, and some stray dogs.

After nearly two hours, I was taken into a back room with Captain Corruption, the customs guy. He whispered some stuff to me I didn’t understand, all the while he was looking around his environs in secretive fashion, like he had discovered an enormous truth. He asked for my passport again, and stuck to it were a couple of greenbacks, $40 USD. This magically got me a new entry form, and a stamp into Bolivia. He then came closer to my face, his index finger pressing his pursed lips in a hushed, shooshing motion, “Please don’t tell the police out there what has happened, this bribe is illegal and its out secret, comprendes?” And, “If the border guards at the border you try to leave from ask you what happened to your passport, tell them some lady in a hotel accidentally ripped it. They’ll believe you”. Gold.

Ha ha ha!! I nearly pissed myself. I couldn’t believe he was saying this. Surely he wasn’t not going to share the dough with the cops outside and spend the loot on a couple of hookers and snort coke off her breasts?

But I was reunited with Kylie and Nicole, we grabbed our bags, took a taxi to our destination, which luckily was only 8km away in Copacabana, and laughed about it all night, and even toasted a beer to the border crew, who were sniffing the freshness of our bills.

We now carry extra USD in the event of a future bribe.

Copacabana is situated just over the Peruvian border, sharing the beauty of Lake Titicaca. It’s a small, high elevation town. Many people visit to do day or overnight trips on some of the neighbouring islands while others, like ourselves, just relax and enjoy the stupidly cheap prices Bolivia has to offer. Five bucks for a steak meal is pretty ideal.

Copacabana also attracts the filthy feral foreign hippies in gringo pants we have previously blogged about, but in seemingly greater numbers than anywhere else, presumably due to the cheapness of the place. Which is a mystery, as soap costs about 5 cents, but clearly these buckets of filth aren’t selling enough of their stupid trinkets made from their own hair to cover this.

Copa isn’t a friendly place, the locals don’t seem too keen on welcoming visitors. While shopping for books I was thrown out because the storekeeper wanted to close, and the local fruit and vegetable sellers are reluctant to sell to you. We put this down to the angst that they feel against the gringo hippies, who live in communes and don’t seem to contribute to the community at all. They take up the turf of the local women who sell their souvenirs by selling their own crap. Seriously hippy, who is going to buy a feather decorated with seashells because you said it fell from the sky because it was the seagulls spiritual destiny to leave this with you? God I hate them.

But the views of the lake are sensational, and we had a relaxing two days soaking up the sun from our beautiful $40 a night hotel room, complete with private garden, deck chairs and hammocks. $40 buys you some interesting things in Bolivia.

Council had many problems with homeless books

Mum was always angry when Billy left his toys in the bath

We crossed the lake a few days later, crammed onto a ferry while the bus took a barge, and drove through the stunning Andes to La Paz, the capital of Bolivia.

La Paz is a dusty, dirty city, but doesn’t feel that large. It is the first major city in Latin America that doesn’t have a focal point of a Plaza de Armas, or main square, unlike other stunners like Arequipa in Peru or San Cristobal in Mexico. It has a central cathedral, but it is lacking the atmosphere of its neighbours. There is not a lot to do here, although the excellent choice of western restaurants serving giant steaks and traditional pub grub for a fraction of the price we are used to, does make for many fulfilling nights. The beer is cold and cheap, and the main economy in town is the black market, which sells everything from designer rip off clothes, winter trekking gear, shoes, TV’s, and just about anything you can want, even dynamite, for next to nothing. Actually, yesterday I did see a young army cadet seemingly purchasing explosives, so keep your eyes and ears on the news. And also junk food. Not needing it, but wanting it, we all bought bulk boxes of chocolates, usually $2 a packet back home, for about $5 for a box of twenty packets. Eating some now.

La Paz also has a cool artesanians market, called The Witches Market, which sells everything from tarot cards, natural Viagra, and dried llama foetuses, which are actually popular as they are dug into the foundations of new houses by owners during construction as a good luck charm. So the trick is, if you are a llama, don’t let anyone see you are pregnant, hide the pending bundle of joy as much as you can, otherwise it will be supporting a four-bedroom home on the outskirts of the city.

On Friday, we said goodbye to Kylies sister Nicole, drove with her out to the airport for her billion-hour flight back to Australia.

The 21^st of September is Dia del Amor in Bolivia, which translates to Day of Love, or as we know, Valentines Day, just not in February. It coincides with the fist official day of spring here, and the city is packed with lovers as guys spoil their gals and treat them too a special day. So we joined, by as far as getting on the end of a twenty-minute queue for ice cream with other couples, and eating it in the park. The park, or the Prado, running through the commercial part of the city, was also filled with zebras. Well, actually, students dressed as zebras, collecting love letters from kids and attaching them to tree branches, whose trunk was covered in toilet paper like some high school prank. Only in La Paz.

Men were roaming the streets with giant teddy bears bigger than themselves, bunches of roses and boxes of chocolates. Money was no object, and now I know how my $40 was spent. Although you could spot the cheap blokes, they were the ones who bought their girls teddy bears with Pepsi t-shirts on them, being sold by some old lady on the side of the street.

We are spending longer in La Paz than we anticipated. We are trying to arrange activities that don’t involve hiking or catching our breath from this thin air that surrounds us, so visits to mountains are out for now. We are over that. Anyway, we are on the fourth floor of our hotel, so the frequent climbs up the stairs to our room are more strenuous than a trek to the ranges circling the city. We are hoping to check out some national parks in the east, but communication lines are pretty dodgy at times, so we are just sitting and waiting and having some down time, as we have a busy few months ahead off us. There is a big fireworks display going on at the moment. The problem is, its only one o clock in the afternoon. South Americans just don’t seem to understand that these things have much more of an impact at night.

Quote of the week goes to Edgar, our guide in Lake Titicaca, who reminded us as we gazed over the glassy waters, that it is important to live for now. If you keep worrying about the future or the past, you will only live half your life.