Follow that Backpack!

It was a bit unreal watching as our bus slowly floated down a narrow channel of Lake Titicaca, amidst waves a couple feet high and a persistent current. ¨If it suddenly vanishes and sinks to the bottom with all our backpacks, I honestly won´t even be surprised at this point,¨ I said to my new traveling companions Rachel and Adam (from Canada and England, respectively). It had been a long day since we had left Puno, Peru at 7:30 that morning, and we were barely halfway to LaPaz and it was already about 2 p.m.. Travel agencies and heckling hotel owners will swear to you, ¨Direct bus! Semi-cama! Seis horas!¨ But, seven hours later, sore and exhausted, we were standing lake-side paying yet another sort of fee to cross the lake to the pueblo on the other side, and the likelihood of our bus getting safely to the same pueblo on its´dingy barge seemed improbable. But this of course was just the icing on the cake.

Hours earlier, seated in the back row of a different bus, 10 minutes from the Bolivian border, one of the bus attendants marched through the aisle, ¨Americanos?!!!¨ I wearily raised my hand, a lone American on a tourist bus. Unusual? No. I have quickly learned that we are not liked by the rest of the world and though I have thoroughly searched every city I´ve visited, I have met in total, three Americans thus far, and that is not alot. Sometimes I feel like a lone soldier fighting to represent my country in a respectable way when people I meet make comments like, ¨Oh I couldn´t stand that guy! He just sounded soooo ... American.¨ Helloooo ... American, right here. Anyway, regardless of all the American prejudice I´ve encountered, I was still stunned when the gruff man shouted that I would need to pay $135 at the border. WHAT??? $135? ¨I am only staying for four days!¨ I argued. ¨I didn´t read anything about this in Lonely Planet!¨ (Sidenote: However tempting, DO NOT keep any sort of Lonely Planet book as your Bible, it will fail you time and time and again ...) My main feeble argument to this man, however, was, ¨No lo tengo ...¨ (I don´t have it ...) I´ve already had everything that was worth anything stolen from me on a bus ride (very much like this one I might add), do you honestly think I now travel with American dollars ... $135 of them? Well, the answer is no, I do not. And after several weeks in Peru where three soles is roughly a dollar, this amount of money was almost difficult for me to grasp. Apparently, for anyone interested, this entry charge is a sort of backlash of the Bolivian president, because, what do you know, we charge Bolivians a fortune to enter our righteous country. (Don´t even get me started on having to fend for myself against Bush complaints overseas.) So, luckily, Adam accidentally got dollars out of the ATM the night before and he spotted me the money.

This, however is not all, the next hour is spent being removed from one line of non-Americans to the next. I also need a photocopy of my passport and a record proving I´ve had my yellow fever shot. Of course, these two facts are told to me at separate times, inevitably adding 15 minutes to my sentencing. I do have my yellow fever shot, but received it in Ayacucho last year and (of course) have misplaced it since then. I am lucky. The scary Bolivian border patrol man is very busy and barely glances at my other immunization chart, before cutting right to the chase and demanding my money. I have managed to sneak into Bolivia. Hours later, back on the bus stuffed full of back packers, bumping along the other side of Titicaca, I feel guilty, angry, frustrated and homesick. Things could be worse: the bus could have drifted on down the lake as I imagined without ever touching land, or it could have left without me at the border (very common). Even so, I can´t shake the feeling I´ve wasted too much money with this border tax plus the flight I resignedly booked from LaPaz back to Lima on Wed., in an effort to squeeze in a few more days of exploration. But then I look at my window at the houses made of mud bricks scattered along the shore of Lake Titicaca, with the gorgeous icy-blue mountain peaks in the distance and I secretly smile. I will make the most of this city in the little time I have. Plus, it will make a great story everybody assures me.
It´s funny, pre-bus crossing, at another hour stop in Copacabana, backpackers were lined up for the bus connection fighting to get their packs squeezed underneath in the storage compartment (the alternative is having your pack thrown atop the bus). Some were not very lucky. A flustered girl plops down beside us in one of the two empty seats when asked by another passenger for the empty seat. She explains that she is saving it for her friend. HA! We all hide smirks. I ask if her friend is on the bus yet. ¨No, he´s outside waiting to get our bags on,¨ she tells me. The bus is full. There is literally only one seat left and it is being saved by a girl whose luggage I can see parked next to the bus. Not smart people, not smart. The boy vying for the space has already safely seen his backpack to storage. Rule number one, never take your eyes off your backpack. The buses and companies here hold zero responsibility for lost or stolen items. I try to advise the girl that she might want to jump off and stay with her friend because once the next person sits the doors will close and the bus will pull away without her boyfriend or her backpack. When she´s finally gone we all talk smack. A backpacker without street smarts is not a respectable backpacker we agree.

LaPaz is breathtaking. It is huge and its´ houses cling to the sides of a canyon. It´s unlike anything I´ve ever seen, but the altitude is killing me, my head hurts and everytime I move with a hint of speed I feel a bit nauseous. Still, I push my body and meander the twisting streets as long as I can, finding llama fetuses and mini guitars sold side by side (not in the market for either). I am going to make this $135 last an American lifetime damnit.