I exited the bus, strode rapidly through the bus station and made my way to the street. There, instead of the expected mode of transportation in the form of a taxi of any shape or size, I found a bike-trolley. The double front-seater with a small flat bed to our rear would be a sufficient yet slow transport to the main plaza of Puno.
Puno, which is located on the western shore of Lake Titicaca, was established as the capital of the Paucarcolla Province in 1668. At an elevation of roughly 12,500 ft., Puno is the highest elevated "big" city in Peru. During colonial times, Puno was a key hub in commerce (mostly commodities influenced by silver mining) going from Potosi, Bolivia (to be discussed later) to the shores of Peru, most notably Lima/Callao. The economy of today, like yesterday, is focused around agriculture, fishing, textiles and, biggest of all, tourism. It is said that the origins of the Inca Empire spurted from the waters of Lake Titicaca.
As the myth goes, Viracocha, the Inca god, elected his son and daughter to manifest as humans and find a place to establish the Inca Empire. And so he called upon Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo to do so. These two gods, in their own right, spouted out of Lake Titicaca and commenced their search for the divine spot while venturing north. Eventually, once reaching the Valley of Cuzco, the two siblings (though they were interchangeable as a couple also) decided upon this large valley just over the crest from the Sacred Valley to establish home base. From there, the first inhabitants, the Quechuas, settled. Over a couple of centuries their society progressively grew into what we know of the Incas and their Empire today.
I was eventually let off at my hostel of "I can't remember" (I guess it wasn't all that impressive), from there I packed my stuff away and got to my tour of Puno. With camera and carrying bag in order, and with just a couple hours more of sunlight, I left my room and headed out to the Plaza de Armas.
There, with a nice plaza to offer, though paling in comparison to those of the "Big Three" (Lima, Cuzco and Arequipa), I shot pictures of the key sites during the perfect afternoon shadow and light play. As I snapped shots of the cathedral and surrounding historic buildings in the plaza center, the fresh breeze from the cool lake whisped over me as I zipped up my sweater while preparing for a brisk evening. I then walked past the Plaza de Armas and up through the outerlying city blocks, making my way uphill with sights set on reaching the vista point at the mountain's crest by nightfall.
On my way up, every now and then, I would turn back in the direction of the main plaza, which also looked out toward the great lake, and take a picture of the new elevation at which I stood. I did this at probably five different elevations during my climb up toward the lookout. As I made my way closer to my goal at the top of the mountain, a comical sight came into view: the overseeing and omnipotent condor statue.
Standing, or I should say perching at a good twenty-five feet tall, with a wing-span of some twenty feet, this less-than-impressive (in my eyes) condor statue marked the location of, conversely, quite an impressive view: the out-stretched city of Puno and the blessed expanse of Lake Titicaca. Brushing off a few deep-rooted laughs in reaction to the hilarity of this cheesie bird-art, I relished the vantage point that I had earned following my thirty minute jaunt up one of the hillsides of the Puno basin mountainside.
With strong winds cursing through the lookout, and the sun quickly reaching the set-point, I sat and took in the thin high-altitude air. Lake Titicaca was enormous, and from here I could make out each aspect of the city: the Plaza de Armas, the soccer stadium, government buildings, various residential areas, the myriad markets, among other highlights.
Standing high atop the lookout, I felt an intense calm permeate me; it was something with the sun setting in a high altitude lake town/city that instantly carried me back home, to Lake Tahoe. I began to miss home and all of my friends and family; I had experienced numerous nights of watching sunsets at my California lake, and found it to be uncanny the similarity between the characteristics of this Peruvian sunset and those of my accustomed one.
I met a friend at the lookout. He was the nightwatch and was paid (very modestly) to be the security/tourist guide/people counter/... Juan Marco told me about the lookout, the construction date, a brief history of Puno, the power of God, who comes to the condor's lookout, among numerous other topics. We exchanged stories of our lives and I mentioned to him the similarity between all humans, with the big differences being one's access to capital/credit and one's freedom to cross borders. Juan Marco liked this idea: if capital can freely cross borders, then why can't people? We discussed at length this idea and I eventually invited him to visit me in the U.S. one day. He laughed and said ironically, "Man, California?...at the very least I'd like to make it to Lima one day before I die!"
Juan Marco and I talked for a good two hours as evening turned to night and cool turned to frigid. At which point I asked him where he lived. He pointed over just off of the lookout to a 6x6 (in feet) wood shack which formed the doubly task of tally/information shed and apartment. Like George Jefferson and Co., a deee-luxe apartment in the sky! I was feeling overwhelmed from the cold and had to retreat to my retreat a thirty-minutes jaunt down by the main plaza. I thanked him for our conversation and we wished eachother well.
The next day, just before entering my La Paz-bound bus, I spotted a familiar character: Kazuhiroooo!
A bit of background information: Kazuhiro ... was a Japanese-born Paraguayan harp player who had been living in Cuzco for many months while studying the Cuzquena indigenous melodies and songs. Straight-up, he was an odd character, eccentric, talked to himself, spoke three (or more?) languages, attempted to romance the girls (to little avail) and lived off an all too-steady diet of noodles and rice and chicken.
He and Ana were housemates and he once told me during one of my many visits, "Patricio, do you want to see my origami collection?!" I mean this wasn't out-of-the-way weird initially, but once he invited me into his room and began to shape something improv for me, I started to get the picture: harp player, origami, noodles, girl fantasies (there were three or four other girls living at the same house; not a coincidence), man, and who knows what else! The fact is that this cat was a mystery; he'd talk and say a few things, but it was difficult to read the guy; he was elusive, he didn't address things head on. Anyways, what a sight it was to see him at the bus station: harp stowed away, Cuzco Region-weaved vest on, Cuzco-made small leather sobrero-like hat (a cheesy touristy thing) and he being him.
I saluded my friend enthusiastically upon locating him in the packed-full bus. We hugged and spoke only briefly since we were sitting in different spots. After spending some time in Bolivia, he would be heading back to Paraguay, his home. Though, he told me he'd be venturing through Bolivia for some time and invited me to go; I agreed on the spot and soonafter I took my seat as the bus began to pull out.
I assumed my seat and greeted my neighbor, a French man. Eves was from Paris, a children's book writer, and currently traveling through the southern Andes to find inspiration for his next book. I saw little connection at the time, but I would soon be commencing my writing career, due in large part to my inspiration found from the characters, locations and sights, met, seen and felt, respectively, during my trip through the Andes Mountains. Eves and I immediately hit-it-off and we proposed to travel further through La Paz and to other areas. I wanted to see Potosi and the Salar de Uyuni (Coincidentally, when we arrived in La Paz, the trio [Kazuhiro, Eves, and I] were all in agreement; the stage and plot was set).
In store for us prior to reaching Bolivian grounds was our crossing the border at a brief and easy crossing just eight kilometers from our arrival to Copacabana. This small beach town, though the beach wasn't much of one, was a tourist destination for its quantness and its close proximity to the Isla del Sol y Isla de la Luna. These two islands are the materialization of the creator Gods of the Incas (discussed earlier), Manco Capac (god) and Mama Ocllo (goddess). Many people travel by boat to these islands in order to, among other things, connect with the strong energies coming forth from them. There are also other places in and around Lake Titicaca, and all of Peru, that are suggested to be important energy centers. Our trip to Copacabana would be only brief; just a short lunch, a taste of the local brew, and we would be off. Or, so we thought...
All the passengers formerly on board the full-sized bus coming from Puno, including the three of us, were let off at the beach town. We were informed to return in one hour and we would leave to La Paz.
Passing through Copacabana....Sounds of Barry Manilow flowing through my mind in a rum-readied haze of happiness or, better described, contentment. Gotta love it, the quintessential lounge jam, an indoor compliment (if ever there could be) to the beach side cantina rhythms of Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville. I'd say another difference between the two would be: the former is a bit more classy (read: upscale)...yessss...honey....how about another cocktail....response: ohhh...sounds great hubby.... YUCK!
Back to the lecture at hand: No, this Copacabana had no connection to these preconceived unfortunate notions of an island, or lake, paradise found. This place was purely Andean, albeit with a principally touristy flair and livelihood. The town is comprised of a five by five (or so) Spanish grid pattern of streets eventually tailing off down hill unto the shores of Lake Titicaca.
The weather was calm and warm, the reflection of our December arrival to this greatest of lakes. Promotions of island tours were omnipresent posted on advertising wood boards planted outside of tourist agencies. Restaurants with daily specials etched on chalk boards and marketing employee callers hired to attract clientele were on parade. Calls of: "Amigo, tenemos ceviche..." Others: "Friend, would you like to try the fresh fish?" Our inseparable trio union could not be coaxed into these perceived traps, instead we sought that perfect place on the shore of the Lake so as to create the desired fusion of calm current coming from waves and tasty food comes from fresh fried fish. Oh ya...not to be forgotten: a cold local beer to add to the solution.
This intended destination and reality was found in the shape of our "Little Margaritaville on the Shore." And who said we needed to be in the Caribbean to experience the lavish delights of fresh fish, alcohol and, oh
S#!^!!!...we needed some ladies!!! Well, trust me, my radars were running rampant (given my newfound freedom from my short-term girlfriend) and no sign of "life" could be detected within the perimeter. Necessary to me, and us, now: TRUST! Trust of a better, more complete, future. A more complimentary and feminine one as well.
The fish was great. The rice, a perfect pairing. An even better partner was the La Paz-made beer that we downed delightedly. We took a few pictures, toasted to our accepted bacholar-status and diligently assembled our things so as to return to the bus. "Can't be late!"
When we returned, within the alotted fifty minutes, our bus wasn't there! To make things more interesting, the replacement bus was half the size of the first one! Our driver told us that we needn't worry, for all of us would fit inside and that we would be leaving in twenty minutes. Ok, good enough.
Twenty minutes later, it would now be twenty minutes more; we were waiting for more passengers or something...? So we waited.
Twenty minutes after this, the driver and side-kick started loading the bus. Once seated, I found the tight quarters between seat rows to be unmanageable. This, coupled with the size of my tall German neighbor/row-sharer, was enough to merit calls for recall!
No such thing would happen, for we were officially out of Peruvian jurisdiction and on our way further into Bolivia...
Loud protests were heard, made by the uneasy tourists not happy with this unforeseen change. Loudest of all was my neighbor, the German, who insisted that the busdriver stop and return to us our former bus. There was a brief exchange, and in the end the issue, as always, was based in a communication breakdown. I could hear the cutting lyrics and music of Zeppelin loudly cursing through the little space available on board our bus as the incensed passengers fumed their discontent.
I, on the other hand, flowed with the new ride. And, once things settled a level, began to chat with my neighbor Roland. He was a smart guy, very passionate; he told me about his eight-month stay in Lima while dating a lovely Limena. She and her family expected marriage and all that goes with it, so he reacted angrily by breaking the whole thing off and leaving. Similarly, I could see that in our current case of change (i.e. the bus exchange) that Roland was reacting in his familiar way. Our talk quickly returned to the former topic of anger as the small bus made its way to the shores of Lake Titicaca and to our lancha crossing. The further we descended the hill to the shore, the more intense the fear and anger rose in Roland and in others. More shouts of rebellion (or for justice) were affirmed as the bus just kept on keeping on.
We parked in front of one of the docks and our driver asked us to exit the bus. This was the climax, the resistance built, but onto deaf ears it fell. The driver instructed us to purchase a ticket for the taxi boats that would transport us to the other side, at which point we would commence our trip anew onto our next stop at La Paz. Everybody on board heeded the instructions, except for our Roland, our German justice officer, who couldn't seem to let go of his self-righteousness (was he not American?!?! haha). In fact, he was still so pissed that he refused to exit the bus for fear of thieves, instead demanding to ride the bus, which would be riding a raft, across the isthmus. The baffled driver's response (due to this guy's persistence): so be it!
On the other side, after a pleasant and relaxing trip (given the absence of the Our Man of Justice), we disembarked the raft. Humorously, as we caught our bearings being back on solid ground again, I noticed that the bus's raft was still in motion approaching the shore. All of us passengers watched as Roland could be seen through the window of the bus, still arguing with the driver whose head was turned forward and away from the incessantly incensed German.
Afterwards, having calmed down a touch, Roland continued to make his case: "They could have ripped us off!" "You don't know what they'll do...!" Yadda Yadda Yadda...(I don't like using that, but thank you Jerry Seinfeld). Point blank, I had to get away from this guy; so I did.
Back on board the bus, it felt as if a new chapter was approaching. With the past left behind (and Roland sitting elsewhere), one could feel the presence of the big basin of La Paz up ahead in the distance. Rolling over the great hills of the high Andes, with ominous clouded late-afternoon sky and plenty of breeze, our bus drew closer and closer to our anticipated destination. What would the grand city of La Paz hold for us there...?!
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