It’s only fair that Emma and I balance these chronicles of our travels with a story that does not have the familiar ‘oh-my-god-earth-shattering-life-changing-must-see-once-in-a-lifetime’ moment. The 48 hours we spent in Copacabana, a large town situated on the shore of Lake Titikaka (Titicaca depending on Quechua/Castellano translation) is a good example of this. LT was one of the reasons we wanted to visit Bolivia. We had heard the stories of the how the Incans had used the island as a key sun-worship point (no,not sunbathing) as they believed the Sun-God was born here; and that the legendary Brazilian beach immortalised by Barry Manilow, was named after the Virgen de Copacabana, patron saint of Bolivia. In addition, the turquoise waters and hike from the south of Isla del Sol are listed in the guidebooks as worthwhile ventures.
To use a Chuck Palaniuk-ism ‘Disappointed isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.’
Upon arrival, we were treat to a torrential downpour, where the streets became flowing, muddy rapids, and (much to our chagrin) the hostel we were banking on staying in was full. Not a great start but not the end of the world. Our 3 days in Potosi had started in a similar manner and we still managed to right the ship and enjoy ourselves. We checked into a grotty £2.50 hostel and decided to take the first boat to Isla del Sol in the morning. One uncomfortable night’s sleep later, we woke up sans breakfast, and headed for the cash point, as we needed a little more. None of them worked – this is Bolivia after all and sometimes, sometimes things just don’t work here.
After many calculations, we worked out that we could stay on the island for one night. Upon our arrival (and I meant literally as our two feet planted terra firma) we were set upon by Bolivian locals blockading our path, demanding 5 Bolivianos (50 pence to our British readers) . In Spanish I asked them why we had to pay them money, to which I was finally told, it was to see the ruins. When I told them that we weren’t going to the ruins, they still half-heartedly insisted on the fee. Emma and I politely but firmly barged past them to seek a hostel.
Ah the hostels. Let us now call our search for hostels ‘Hostelgate.’ A local Bolivian tout located us and offered us lodgings. The conversation went like this…
Jack - ‘Is there hot water?’
Tout - ‘Si’
Jack - ‘Internet access or WiFi?’
Tout – ‘Si, both’
Upon arrival, we learned that the bathrooms were an outhouse around the corner from our room, and that the internet was a half hour walk uphill. In addition, there was no hot water or electricity. Emma was fuming, told him off Jean Light-style for misleading us and off we went.
Next hostel…
Jack - ‘Is there hot water?’
Bolivian woman - ‘Si’
Jack – ‘Is breakfast included?’
Bolivian woman - ‘Si’
We inspected the room and upon negotiating the price, we were informed that breakfast had a surcharge of £1 each. We asked to be left alone whilst we debated, whilst outside, the rain continued to remorselessly batter the island. Again we had been mislead and so we left, but we were accosted by the Bolivian woman who said that the room was cleaned before we arrived and, as we had walked in with wet shoes we must now pay something! Incredible! Emma had gone purple with rage at this point, and again we left under a dark could. At this point we were severely fed up with the local attitudes to travellers and the heavy rainfall, which had curtailed our trekking ideas, so we decided to leave the island.
The boat back to Copacabana was scheduled for 12:30pm. As we approached the ticket booth, we were met by a French traveller who informed us that the boatman would only set sail if he could cover his £32 costs, i.e. he must make £32 each trip, and as there were less passengers as normal, we all had to pay a little extra. We were so fed up at this point that we agree to the extra charge and boarded the vessel. No so fast… we were then told that each passenger must also pay an extra exit fee to some random old Bolivian man who was sat by the kiosk. He had no badges of identification, nor did he fully explain what this charge was for (as we had already paid for our ticket) Deflated and sorely frustrated, again we handed over the cash, leaving the island having been lied to, fleeced and rained on.
So there you have it. Not the trip we were hoping for, especially on Valentine’s Day. So, to make the best of a bad hand, we headed back to fantastic La Paz and went out for a lovely curry and cold beer.
Pragmatic isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment