On to the Copacabana - Sorry Barry no relation - 17 Apr 2003
Leaving La Paz
Oh, Islands in the Sun
Her name was Lola...
Blessed are the meek (unless theyíre Gringos)
Before we left La Paz it seemed important to visit the coca museum. As weíve pointed out before, coca is something of a hot potato here. This, remember, is the country with 300 varieties of potato. The museum is advertised as being a complete cross section of the history and social impact of the coca plant and so we thought it might have some interesting stuff.
It all started with the pre-Colombian folk getting by and making their lives more bearable by chewing coca. It became pretty much central to the culture and elaborate ceremonies developed around rites of passage and marriage where planting, harvesting and a good old bit of chewing were the order of the day. In more remote villages, the traditions are upheld.
The Spaniards at first abhorred the practice and then came to realise that the slave worked harder when using it and so planted heaps of it. Its properties got around and as soon as you like every doctor, psychoanalyst and quack going was using it for various enlightening purposes. Unsurprisingly, the recreational use of the purified cocaine started to raise a few concerns and the drug eventually got banned while the synthesised alternatives flooded the market.
Meanwhile some geezer in the States had come up with a popular beverage that is widely known to this day. Originally it contained both coca and extracts from the cola nut ñ another strong drug. Must have been tricky to come up with the name, then. You guessed it, Cola Coca. Thus it was conceived as a pick me up during prohibition. You bet.
With the banning of Coca by various bodies, cocaine free coca began to be used as a flavouring. The upshot of all of this is. There are 5 countries in the world still legally allowed to produce pharmacy quality cocaine from coca leaves. One of them is the USA. Coca Cola imports 255 tons of coca leaves a year to use for flavouring. The United States is putting pressure on Peru and Bolivia to get rid of all coca plantations. Double standards? Surely not.
We are now on the difficult mission of trying to avoid Coca Cola products. You no sooner think that you have found a locally owned soft drinks company and you spot the small print on the label ¥a product of the .........í. Itís a bit like trying to avoid Nestle products, the pair of them are taking over the world of snacks. Or should I say have taken over.
At last, I got to sing the song on the way to the town of the same name. It is certainly not north of Havana, though. If it were, it would probably be warmer. The ride over was bob on. After a quick pit stop where a mechanic stitched us two quid a litre for Castrol GTX, Bertha was firing on all (OK both) cylinders. Seemingly the expense on decent oil was well worth it.
As we passed a smaller subsidiary of Titicaca, we arrived at the ferry across to the peninsular that is home to Copacabana. Crossing was fine, but the small ferry was a bit short of planking on the deck and as we got to the far side, it became clear that I was going to have to turn Bertha round to get her off the boat. None of your roll-on roll-off ferries here. The ferry pilot and the diver of a bus grew increasingly impatient as it became clear that the Gringo wimp was incapable of shifting his 350 kg beast by himself. At last they rallied round and we went for reversing off instead of risking dropping one of the wheels down a big hole.
On the far side, we had 30 km of the most stunning views and what could have been the best biking road in the world. (what, another?) The only downside was the amount of potholes in the road which meant that I had to keep the eyes down once again while Hippy had the chance to take in the views. Clearly she was actually watching the road, too, as she kept giving me the odd prod when I was going too fast. It was a good thing that she warned me here and there as the locals have the most extraordinary herds of animals consisting of a scattering of pigs, goats, sheep, cows, donkeys and llamas in random combinations. They seem to get on quite well ñ itís just the dogs youíve got to watch for.
Both Pat and I are fond of pigs and it is a shame that in the UK they are often penned up. Throughout Bolivia these snuffly creatures wander free and look very clean. There was even the odd one lounging on the shores of the lake taking a bath.
The lake itself was stunning; the mid day light was glistening on the top of the dark aquamarine waves that ripple the surface of the water. Simple fishing boats with a felucca rig with sails in bright primary colours, silently glided over the water. Although there was the odd reed boat tethered to the shore, clearly the fisherman had moved on a little to wooden hulled vessels for the practical work and the more traditional style was left as a tourist curiosity. The banks of the lake were ridged with centuries, sorry millennia of terracing, reaching to the pinnacles of the hills (OK mountains). The effect was that of ribbed green velvet varying in shade from racing to lime with the crop.
There were two missions in Copacabana. There is an island off the shore called Isla del Sol which is the supposed birthplace of the Inca nation. Along with being a nice place to visit, the scarf needed a bit of spiritual input as the game with Chelsea was up and coming. The other facet of life in Copacabana that is fascinating is that the local priest has two sessions a day where he blesses the vehicles of anyone that so wishes. Hippy and I wrestled with the hypocrisy of our having Bertha blessed and eventually decided that so long as we kept a straight face and didnít upset anyone there would be no harm done. Although agnostic ourselves, we cannot be sure of Berthas leanings and so we may well have been doing the right thing.
I was more unsure about the blessing thing. OK it may be a bit unusual, and more to do with earthy paganism than Catholicism, but I am sure that the people who take part, normally have a belief in God. And I felt that getting Bertha blessed could be some what taking the pee.
Hotel was good value and had excellent parking inside where they allowed me to clean Bertha ready for her ceremony. Regrettably, we were not in time to get her in for that dayís ceremony and so we watched jealously from a distance the cars decorated with flowers and being sprayed with beer. I fear the average Bolivians pocket does not stretch to a bottle of bubbly a la ship launching. I confess I was getting all excited about this and even resorted to toothpaste to try and get the stains out of Berthas tank. To no avail.
The blessing had to be put back a day as we needed a whole day to do the scarf thing. I think Helen thinks that Iím going a bit potty and the trip has come far too vicarious with the scarf and Bertha featuring so prominently. Has anyone seen the dreadful film with Tom Hanks and his mate the basketball?
Itís not that Iím jealous or anything, well I am a bit. He spent all day cleaning and polishing Bertha, canít remember the last time he did that for me! Not that Iím bitter at all.
In Copacabana, we met the most unusual chap, by the name of Ricard, a Norwegian backpacker. Who atypically for most backpackers carried a guitar that he was good at playing. He appeared to only have his guitar with him, and indeed he travelled with little else. Stuffed inside his guitar were a few souvenirs that he had picked up on the way, and I hoped at least one pair of spare undies and in the outside pocket of the guitar case was his camera and that was it! He seemed to be on a mission to travel as much as possible by night train, to cut down on accommodation costs. Talking to this chap, I felt like we were travelling in luxury with far too much crap, and I could almost be described as wasteful in the money department. But unlike most the annoying breed of backpacker, he was clean and tidy-ish in a motley set of gear that he had accumulated along the way.
The Isla of Sol and the corresponding Isla of Luna are probably the most religious places for the Inca culture. The ruins themselves were unspectacular but the trip made a lovely diversion. Although the ruins were very simple, sacrificial stones and the like, there is also something more meaningful about something that has not been over done. At the end of the day what is all the ornate gilding and carving for, to impress the masses or impress the Gods.
The quieter moments were filled by chatting with a great guy from Glasgow, Ian, who was of Tamil descent. He was upbeat and entertaining as well as well informed. We liked him. We were also a little confused by the apparent appearance of Patís Dad! A bloke bearing a striking resemblance to him seemed to be on our trip. Is he checking up on us?
Blessed are the meek (unless theyíre Gringos)
That only left the blessing thing before we had to head down the road to Peru. We reckoned that if we got in for the 10:00 oí clock blessing we may be able to make half a dayís travel and get the notorious Peru border out of the way.
Dutifully, we turned up at quarter to and hung around waiting for the priest to turn up. The photographers were all waiting around as they do every day and so we had no reason to suspect that nothing was going to happen.
I asked one of the photographers what was going down when the appointed time came and went. He asked if I had been in to the office and announced my intentions. Doh!
The nun behind the desk was very helpful and told me that the padre would be out at 10. Hmm. We waited and waited. Religion is all about faith and so we waited even longer. After about 3 quarters of an hour, I went back in to see the nun. ìOh, you want a blessing do you, deary? You have to make a donation to the church and I will give you a voucher.î I wish sheíd told me in the first place. A hail storm ensued that we mused was the real reason for keeping the padre at bay. Now we would have to wait for the half two session.
Oh, well, weíd have to stay another day but we could at least get the laundry done and some other bits and bats. Back at the hotel, we were told that it is forbidden to do oneís own laundry and so it was despatched to the local service wash to be done for the next morning, temprano.
Half two. Quarter to. Three. Quarter past. There were no other vehicles and it seemed that there were no officers of the church to be found. We decided that perhaps the powers that be had decided that Bertha was not worthy of their blessing or that we, ourselves, did not live up to expectations. Whatever, working on our kismet principle we decided that maybe the blessing was ill conceived and we beat a hasty retreat.