We are here for yet another fiesta. Undeterred by our bad experience at Alasitas in La Paz (see previous blog) we have joined thousands of Bolivians for the biggest party in Copacabana's calendar...The Virgin Of Candelaria festival.
But first, we did some trekking. After two weeks in La Paz, a city situated in a smog filled bowl, fresh air, nature and exercise are what we needed. So, after a day of R & R, we set out with our newfound Aussie mate Grant on a 17km jaunt to Yampupata, a small village situated on a peninsula, from which we would take a boat to the isolated Isla Del Sol (Island Of The Sun).
Walking at altitude is hard. the slightest incline steals your breath immediately, and so we took the walk slow, and took a few detours. The first was to Baños Del Inca (Inca Baths), a 500 year old natural spring that had been tamed by the Incas to irrigate their land. There was also a 2 metre deep pool carved out of a single stone, which highlighted their skill at engineering. The keys to the baths were held by an enterprising kid of no more than 8, who tried to extort us by charging us entry to the baths, after we'd already paid to get into the small onsite museum . His cheeky grin gave him away though, but I'm sure in future he'll rip off many a gringo (foreigner).
The next stop, after walking 5km up a road that skirted the edge of the lake and gave us spectacular views of the two hills that towered above either side of Copacabana, were Islas Flotantes (Floating Islands). Although they may sound like something out of Gulliver's Travels, these were simple reed constructions that the inhabitants of the area have lived on for hundreds of years. Primarily, it was to escape the war-like Incas, and then the marauding Spaniards, but nowadays they attract tourists. I say the islands were made of reeds, but that was in the old days. Now, they are constructed using nets filled with plastic bottles, over which wooden planks are put, and for aesthetic value, and tradition, reeds are scattered over the wood. So, although not "authentic" they are still islands that float! After a lunch of beautiful Titicaca trout, we continued on our journey.
Another 5km brought us to an old Inca road, a handy shortcut. Imagine a Roman road, and you get the idea. The Incas built their highways to be direct, and whilst the main road for traffic looped around the surrounding hills, climbing gradually, the old Inca road went straight up. It was a tiring walk, and strange feeling that the crumbling rocks under our feet were once an artery of the greatest empire in the Western hemisphere.
From here, it was a relatively straightforward walk to Yampupata, and we were treated to views of bays and inlets that were invisible from Copacabana, shimmering under the slowly setting Sun.
Eventually, with a few hours of daylight remaining, we arrived in Yampupata, and chartered a boat with a reliable old sea-dog. At least, I thought he was reliable. I could have sailed a boat better than that old nutcase. The cabin was full of suffocating petrol fumes, and I think they went to the old man's head! He sailed side on into the waves, which, given the size of the lake, were considerable. So, with our boat rocking, and the shore retreating into the distance, I began wondering if I would be able to swim back.
Luckily, our inept captain got us to the dock on Isla Del Sol...but the wrong dock. I have been here before, in 2005, and so knew where we were supposed to be. Our destination was fuente Del Inca, the old Inca stairway and fountain, but this cowboy sailor (?) had dropped us in the middle of nowhere on a half built jetty, and tried to fob us off by telling us it was the fuente Del Inca. After a brief argument, in which we told the captain we wouldn't pay him the full amount, he sailed away, leaving us in the twilight in tierra incognito. Our celebratory end of walk beer would have to wait, there was more walking to do.
We set off towards the other end of the island, through pathless fields, and after another hour of walking, a child ran towards us, and guided us to a hostel, situated on the stairway where we were supposed to be. I flopped own on my bed, exhausted; the Isla Del Sol is a hilly, windswept place, and despite its small size, spanning the island on foot is deceptively arduous.
After another day of trekking, and a night in which Grant was attacked by a mouse in his bed in pitch black darkness, it was time to leave the Island. At 7am we made our way down the ancient inca stairs, which directly faced the rising Sun (no coincidence), and got a boat piloted by a responsible man back to Copacabana. And then, the party began...
Ostensibly, the Virgen De Candelaria is a religious festival. During the daytime, this is true. Many pilgrims come from all over Bolivia and neighbouring Peru to see the model of the Virgin displayed in front of the Moorish Cathedral in Copacabana, which is an architectural gem, with mosaic covered domes atop gleaming white walls. Makeshift stands for spectators had been erected in front of the Church to see the many processions that would pass in front of the virgin and offer prayers. We had front row seats.
At 2pm the marching bands struck up, and the procession began. First came the band...a mix of brass and percussion, and old traditional Bolivian instruments such as panpipes and flutes. Then, following came the dancers...women, young and old, in a dizzying array of costumes and colours. After half an hour of incessant playing, the band moved on down the street, followed by the fatigued dancers. Show's over, we thought, ready to leave our seats. Then, blaring from the corner of the plaza, another band's trumpets sounded, and another wave of dancers came. These dancers sported different costumes. Then, another lot, and another, all afternoon, bands and dancers in swift succession. The costumes were as varied as they were fanciful...some dresses looked like three tiered wedding cakes, there were men adorned in suits of shiny gold (plastic), men dressed as condors, conquistadors, slaves, dragons. there was a man in a (literally) explosive firework suit, there were cars ornately decorated, all accompanied by jovial big band music. It was an amazing specatacle.
Then, as the final dancers shuffled away and the sun set, all thoughts of religious practice were lost, as beer started to flow. An endless river of beer. Streetside stalls had piled crates of the amber nectar 5 deep and 5 high. Figuring that one crate contains 12 bottles, one bottle is 620 mililitres, and these stalls must have numbered over 100, that is an immense amount of beer.
Such drunkenness I have never before witnessed. The Bolivians, dressed so sharply and parading so proudly hours before, became a shambolic, messy, gregariously brilliant rabble. The stern women in their traditional dress cut loose and started dancing, men literally drank until they dropped, and children carried those who went too far to bed. Grant, Natasha and I were in the middle of the madness, dancing away merrily.
The bands tried to play, but their perfect rythym of the afternoon became garbled, and instruments were out of tune. But, dancing like an idiot, it sounded brilliant!
Towards the end of the night, I was walking across the grassy plaza, and noticed that the grass squelched underfoot. Sodden. But it had not rained all day. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man "watering" this lawn. then I realised that I was walking across the toilet, men everywhere hosing the plaza down. the streets too were awash with a cocktail of urine and spilt booze. Such debauchery! It reminded me of something of the days of Dickens! I ignored it, and carried on dancing!
I woke up with a bad head. I groaned, rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Then, suddenly, I heard a familiar sound. The sound of drums and trumpets. Was I in Groundhog Day? No, I was not. The party was starting all over again. We joined in again, but with much less enthusiasm. And then, on the third day, when it started all over again, again, we decided that it was time to leave Copacabana, and say hello to a new country, the real land of the Incas...Peru.
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