Thursday 10 February 2011

Throw Away Your Guidebook!

That's it! I have dumped my Lonely Planet. finally, ridding myself of the hefty tome that practically every gringo burdens themselves with. I have had enough. Lonely Planet, you officially suck. Now, time for a rant!

In bus stations across the continent you see tanned gringos with their ludicrous hippy trousers that they wouldn't be seen dead in back home, all dressed the same, "free spirits" poring through the same guidebook which tells them all to go to the same places. They rely entirely on their little book, so there is no adventure left in their "adventure". Lonely Planet is a slayer of spontaneity. What hostels to go to, where to eat, how to walk around a city, all dictated to you by the didactic book in your backpack. But guess what, the whole thing is a swindle. The listings for hostels, for example, are completely arbitrary. Places that are excellent are left out of the book, whilst the institutions of the crumby Hostelling International organisation always get a mention, despite Lonely Planet's firm assurance that they do not indulge in the unsporting practice of supporting other organisations, and are completely unbiased. Whatever.

Another gripe of mine, is that Lonely Planet is badly written. The tone shifts from deadly serious to pun-ridden text, and the writers are obsessed with superlatives. The fastest this, the highest that, the deepest blah blah blah. Every single place is "magical," or "wondrous." Every site, every city, is so hyped up that being underwhelmed is depressingly common when you arrive in a new place.

This wanderer's Bible, that has the power to make or break restaurants, hotels, even entire towns, is also terribly inconsistent. One case in point is Lake Titicaca:

       In the Bolivia section of the book, it says "Lake Titicaca is often wrongly described as the highest                         navigable lake in the world."
       Then, in the Peru section of the same book, "South America's largest lake is also the world's highest navigable lake."


What drivel! Give the editor a slap, and give the person who thinks "highest navigable lake" is a worthy accolade a slap too.
Another case is Buenos Aires, which apparently has the best coffee of any capital, and pizza to rival New York or Naples. Well, the coffee tastes like sweetened piss, and I had that opinion seconded by many Italians, and I've had better pizza in the Bolivian jungle. 

On this trip of ours, every highlight has come without the aid of the Lonely Planet. The caves in Tilcara we heard of by asking locals, and I felt like a bona fide explorer of old as we scrambled up to them, panting under the baking sun, sweat dripping into the dust. The town of San Pedro, near the Iguazu waterfalls, unmentioned in the backpacker's bible, and so devoid of backpackers. The lakes near Perito Moreno that we discovered by letting Tash get behind the wheel of a car and just drive around. All without the help of a silly book. Jack Kerouac and company didn't need guidebooks, the genuine hippies in the sixties didn't need to be told how to get to India, they just jumped in their magic buses and drove. And I too have decided that I no longer require the services of Lonely Planet. I am firing my guide! A footnote in my tirade is that the book is also bloody heavy, so I want to get shut of it!  


So, Lonely Planet, you have rested on your laurels too long, and this traveller has had enough. In the bin you go, you inconsistent, uninformative, downright lying book of loo-roll. Good riddance! And I urge other travellers to do the same thing...have a real adventure, don't be told what to do by a book! You might just discover something you didn't know about, or find a town you hadn't planned on visiting, or sleep in a bed you didn't book via the book. If you get stuck, every single town has a tourist Information centre, and the people who work there are happy to help, and know what they are talking about. So, wandering gringos, I beseech you, throw away your guidebook!

Monday 7 February 2011

At The Copacabana

Copacabana. No! I´m not in Brazil, sipping piña coladas on a beach populated by tanned beauties and samba rythyms. Sadly not today. No, we are in Copacabana, Bolivia, on the shores of the magnificent, if frigid, Lake Titicaca. A lake that, in Inca mythology, gave birth to the Sun, and the first Incas, Viracocha and Mama Ocllo. Today, the lake is no less inspiring, a vast sapphire inland ocean, situated 3800 metres above sea level, on the stark Altiplano (high plain).

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.

More Dispatches From On High: La Paz Part 2

The old woman takes my suitcase, measuring about 4 inches wide by 2 high, and places it over the slightly acrid smelling smoke billowing from the stove in front of her. Then, she sprinkles alcohol over the suitcase, pours grains of rice over it, mumbles an incantation I don´t understand, and hands it back. The suitcase is stuffed with rolls of fake euros and dollars, and this blessing it has just been given will bring me wealth and good fortune over the coming year.

This is the Alasitas Festival, the Festival of Abundance. Hordes of Bolivians crowd the streets, coming to buy their miniature desires and have them blessed in a curious mix of Christian and Pre-Colombian beliefs. Market stalls sell miniature cars, houses, shops, farms, university degrees, literally anything, and people buy them, hoping to acquire the real thing later in the year. It is a curious and chaotic time. My suitcase, I hope, will ensure I stay safe on my journey.

But today I am going to receive a lesson in irony. After my suitcase was blessed, we went into the cathedral on Plaza Murillo...the most crowded house of God I have ever entered. The pews had been removed, and a swarming mass of people were pushing and shoving in a most unholy fashion, trying to enter the radius of the Holy Water that priests were showering everywhere. I was sucked into this crowd, and felt like I was in a rock gig, not a church, as I was shoved towards the priest. The Holy Water splashed my tiny suitcase, and, feeling like the congregation might stampede at any moment, I battled my way out of the cathedral. By the main door, I turned to get a photo of the insanity. I reached in my back for my camera, but my bag was empty. No camera, no wallet.

Being well aware that thieves abound in South America, I had attached two carabinas to my bag, to stop any would-be pickpockets. I looked down...my bag was empty, but the carabinas were still secure. How the hell? I turned my bag upside down, and there it was...a four inch wide slash across the bottom of my bag. I turned a burning crimson colour. How could I not notice somebody hacking away at my bag? They had taken our camera, and my wallet, which luckily had no bank cards, and only 15 pounds worth of cash. Even luckier, my dear Natasha diligently uploads our photos onto facebook once or twice a week, so we only lost a few snaps. But I didn´t feel lucky. I felt angry, and foolish. At least, even as an atheist, I felt sure that whoever had just robbed me, in the middle of La Paz´s most sacred cathedral, was going straight to hell.

It turned out I was not the only victim. A Bolivian man ran up to Natasha and I when he saw us talking to a policeman. The inside pocket of his suit jacket had been slashed in the same manner as my bag. They may be wretched little thieves, but they are good at what they do.

So, what is the lesson? I guess, no matter how careful you are, if someone wants to steal from you, they will. Or maybe the lesson is always be wary, especially at church? Not particularly heartening lessons. What I think I have learnt from that day instead, is, forgive, but do not forget.