9th February 2013

Ever chivalrous Barry let me stay in his favourite room in the hotel where he advised me to sleep with the curtains open. In the morning after waking from a sleep on the most comfortable bed I've known in South America I was presented a breath taking view of the Incan ruins framed perfectly by the window. Neither Shuggie or Reggie were responsive so Barry and I headed out for a bit of a meander through town. After a filling breakfast at the Curazones cafe we strolled up towards the ruins taking a back route to avoid the rather exorbitant admission fee (wouldn't normally mind paying but we were only going for a very quick squizz). Our route took us passed a buxom gold statue of a striking Incan woman (or maybe demi-god). I don't think I've ever fancied a statue quite so much, sounds like a weird ting to say but if you saw her you'd know! Along the way we picked up a female rottweiler who's friendly temperament and determination to follow us won me over despite previous misgivings about this particular breed. Barry's route took us through a field with a couple of bulls who's rather less friendly demeanour prompted us to abandon our trip and return to town. We settled in for a spot of lunch at the Coffee Tree where we were eventually joined by Reggie and Shuggie. With time running out we decided to take a spin down the sacred valley and check out the other towns and villages lining the verdant banks of the river cutting through the sheer slopes of the mountains. The valley's beauty as I've no doubt already mentioned was breathtaking and each town had its own distinctive character. It was to some small degree a little frustrating to speed through the valley as I'd love to get lost here for a month or two but you can't have it all. We ended our drive at the other end of the valley in the town of Pisco (home of the infamous sour beverage). The town's streets were narrow and in many cases only for pedestrians, with a charming central square where a number of stalls were selling all of the usual gringo gear (i.e. lama themed knitwear, brightly coloured beanies, and all the other trappings of gap year tits), but more intriguingly a local festival was in full swing with men in traditional dress garlanded with leaves and singing what Barry informed me is referred to as wino music. After tarrying a while we went for some lunch in a sort of hippy establishment (Pisco seems to be home to more new age healing charlatans than I've ever encountered) where I enjoyed a rather delicious veggie curry and vast wedge of carrot cake that would have my friend Chris Keys basking in ecstasy, much like I believe said charlatans would propose to do?

With a little more gas and a few hours to spare we took a quick detour into a nearby valley and checked out the Land Cruiser's capabilities in low diff gears before beating a retreat when the all too familiar signs of landslides began to make themselves know (rocks, well more like boulders on the road). We got back to Cusco with the car and ourselves intact and a few stories to tell. Despite the long journey we were all feeling good and found ourselves at a bohemian performance art joint that night called something like The Gathering? There I met a fellow Londoner (alright I'm a jockney at best) called Marisa and a few other members of her tour party. It was good to meet someone from London and share a few of our favourite places back home, its been so long since I've really thought about it and I enjoyed fondly reminiscing about the old place. The performance artists ranged from a contortionists and jugglers to an operatic renditions of well known pop songs (not for the feint hearted).

I spent the next couple of days indulging another holiday vice (If it wasn't already clear I've been treating the Peru leg of my travels as more of a holiday), taking time to relax read a couple of good books (Zuckerman Unbound – Philip Roth and Ulysses – James Joyce for anyone who's interested) and enjoy some good food. On Monday a couple of days later than planned I dragged myself away and bussed back to La Paz. Alas it wasn't as straight forward as my outbound journey...

I was only able to get a semi-cama bus with a change in Puno (the last city in Peru before the border). The bus journey wasn't too bad but when I got to the terminal at Puno I was informed the bus I'd planned to catch was no longer running and I'd have to switch to another less salubrious company. No problem thinks I, we're in touching distance of La Paz. Sadly this wasn't to be. The bus was a rickety old number with zero leg room and on arrival at our scheduled pitstop in Copacabana on the banks of lake Titicaca we were informed that there would be a thirty minute break. It seemed as though there were only three of us who would be making the onward journey. An Argentinian called Seba, a Frenchman called Jonathan and I. Between us we managed to scrape together enough cash (no cash machines in Copacabana) for three plates of grilled trout served fresh on the banks of the beautiful lake. Things were looking up. New friends a belly full of delicious trout and only three hours to get home (for the record I now consider La Paz my adoptive South American home). But this is Bolivia and things are never that straight forward...

We strolled back to the bus only to find the driver loading up the bus with passengers bound for the return journey to Puno. Despite our protestations little help was at hand. The first bus we were guided to was full and the driver was very displeased with our attempts to board. A twenty minute argument / negotiation ensued between Seba and a guy who seemed to have some vague sense of responsibility for our situation. Eventually we were guided to another tiny tour bus where we were allowed on, progress you might think. Sadly the seating we were provided was the aisle. So there I was lying on the floor of a bus surrounded by malodorous feet only inches from my nose with suspension barely adequate for the seated passengers. One small piece of rest-bite was provided by the ferry crossing of lake Titicaca, the bus on little more than a raft with outboard motors while we enjoyed a the crossing on a passenger boats carrying ten at a time. The lakes colours in the sunlight were like something from a dream and the Bolivian band playing what I can only describe as a chorus of kazoos supported by drums added the surreal feeling. Alas the dream was soon punctuated with the remaining couple of hours on the bus. I think it was the longest three hours of my life but eventually got back to home base.