The bus ride from La Paz to Copacabana was quite interesting. We entered into a suburb of La Paz on its high, outer rim and pulled onto an entirely too narrow and crowded street for our big bus. Turning onto the street, we very nearly took out the awning of a juice stand. Later on, further down that same street, I heard a crunching sound that uncannily resembled that of cars running into each other. Sure enough, a little white taxi, similar to Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi", had unsuccessfully attempted to merge onto the congested road. And enormous crowd that would dwarf that of Americans who gather to see a crash site, formed almost immediately around the carnage. Not 5 minutes after the incident, a verbal agreement was reached between the two drivers, with the consensus of the people, that it had been the little white taxi driver's fault for pulling out in front of the big, multi-colored bus. A few minutes down the road, we stopped again and the drivers of the two automobiles conferred with a police officer. Without the eternal hassles of matters such as insurance or police reports, the whole ordeal set us back a mere 15 minutes.
About 2/3 of the way through the journey, we arrived at San Pablo de Tiquina and everyone proceeded to file off the bus. I had never seen a bus empty out so quickly and with such a sense of direction for just a pee-stop, that I knew something was up. I suppose that it is your responsibility to know how the order of operations works when you're crossing a body of water, or just the fact that you are crossing a body of water, but having never made this particular 3 hour trip before, we were unaware that the passengers could not stay on the bus while it was ferried across to San Pedro de Tiquina. Frantically scrambling to collect our belongings, Gustavo, Djamel and I found the motorized vestibule that was meant to tote the passengers across the short span of the beautiful, Lake Titicaca and successfully reunited with our bus on the other side.
During the three days before leaving La Paz, I had the opportunity to climb a moutain, Huayna Potosí, 6,088 meters above sea level. On the day before climbing the mountain whose Aymara name means La Cordillera Joven más Alta or, the Highest Young Mountain Range, someone robbed my camera right out of my backpack while it was strapped to my shoulders. They must have been very sneaky because normally I'm pretty good about staying alert in public, especially when carrying my red, REI backpack. This time, a short walk down the street, crossing the main drag of Avenida Mariscal Santa Cruz and on up the tourist-laden street of Sagárnaga was all the thieving bastards needed to unzip the front pouch and snatch the camera. The good part is that the majority of my pictures were backed up on a disc, the bad part is that there were many award-winning snapshots, okay maybe not award-winning, solely saved on the memory card in the camera. Bottom line is that there was no physical violence involved, and it really was the first bad thing that's happened in my travels thus far. Knock on wood.
I greeted Thursday, the 25th of November, or "Thanksgiving" as some yanquis like to call this particular day, with bright eyes, full of anticipation. I couldn't get much sleep the night before because I was too excited to scale the first mountain of my life in the days to come. For $145 U.S. dollars, "Mountain and Jungle Tours" provided transportation to and from base camp, shelter, meals, guide and all the gear needed for the trek. Helmet, goggles, polar fleece, snow pants and jacket, mountaineering boots, crampons, gaiters, ice pick, gloves and harness assured a safe and sound ascent to the top of Huayna Potosí. The list just mentioned, a little will power and an acclimatized body were all that I needed to complete the journey. I normally multiply the number of meters by a factor of 3 to arrive at the measurement's U.S. equivalent, which would put the hill at 18,264 feet above sea level. But the "standard" to metric converter on my cellular telephone states that one meter is approximately equal to 3.28 feet, which puts Huayna at 19,973.75 feet above sea level. I'm not sure which conversion method is right, and it probably doesn't actually matter, but "almost 20,000 feet" sounds a whole lot better than "just over 18,000". That Thursday, I stashed my stuff I wouldn't need on the trail, free of charge, at the wonderful Hospedaje Milenio. Arriving at "Mountain and Jungle Tours" at 9 o'clock in the morning, I found myself plagued by a particularly nasty case of the dreaded descompuestos. The pharmaceutical drug, "ciprofloxacin", helped me out when either the food or the water gave me Bolívia's version of "Montezuma's Revenge". It's just not politically correct to say "diarrhea" in front of such a varied and cultured audience. The chofer and I were the only ones in the van, but the company let me embark on the solo mission without extra fees nevertheless. 8 people from the same company were descending that day and man, did they look whipped.
We took advantage of the first day to get better acclimatized to the elevation of the 4,700 meter base camp and practice using the new gear. My guide, Felix and I hoofed it up to the lowest glacier where I practiced climbing on the ice with crampons fixed to the bottom of my boots. A while into the training session, Felix attached a tornillo, or climbing bolt to the top of a 6 meter ice-wall. Using a figure 8 knot, I was hooked to a climbing rope that ran through the bolt that was sunk into the ice and down to a belaying device. The two front spikes on my pair of crampons and the two pick axes allowed me to scale the vertical wall twice. Felix assured me that there would be no parts of the actual ascent where I would need to climb in this manner.
On the second day, after a night of sub-zero temperatures in our refugio, I slimmed down my pack even more and we set for high camp. At an elevation of about 5,100 meters, I was thankful to reach this way point and set my pack down. That afternoon was mainly used to battle more descompuestos, read my epic fantasy and rest up for the early departure for the summit that would come just minutes into the next day.
We left high camp at 12:45 AM, which means that I had to be fully dressed, packed up and have broken the fast by that early hour. The half moon provided the light that the headlamp, attached to my helmet, did not. It felt a bit surreal trekking over the ice in the middle of the night. 3 pairs of socks, thermal underwear, fleece and snow pants, a t shirt, fleece top, flannel and jacket all worked together to keep my body temperature at an unbearably high level that I actually had to remove layers. Only one time did Felix attach a tornillo so that myself and the other climbers would be safe in case of a fall. The 39 year old veteran guide and I were the first ones up the hill that morning, followed closely by another Swiss fellow named Cedric and his guide. Cedric's wife had come down with a bothersome case of altitude sickness so she was not able to attempt the summit. When we reached the 6,088 meter mark, the sun hadn't yet even poked its head over the Easter horizon. It was about 5 AM, the wind was-a-whipping and the temperatures frigid so we didn't end up staying at the summit to watch the sunrise. I became quite annoyed with the rush and hurry in returning to base camp. Felix's normally calm and reserved nature had changed to encouraging us not to stop. I had to physically stop walking in order to initiate a much needed break, but hey, we reached the summit in about 5 hours and were the first ones to the top so boo yah. On a clear day, with the sun out, they say you can see all the way to Lago Titicaca, which also happened to be my next destination. The views of the Cordillera Real were stunning, the slightly taller Mount Illimani looming just past the valley in which La Paz hides itself. It was fun to look down and experience a bit of vertigo at such heights. Apparently, in the Southern Hemisphere's winter, people even tote their skis to the top and enjoy an extremely steep ride down. I was wishing for this opportunity on the descent, especially when the spikes of of my crampons started to slide on the loose rock scattered about the crest of the mountain that led down from the summit. I could be wrong, but the reinforced plastic helmet probably wouldn't save your skull if you were to, for some reason, take a plunge. It was scarier going down because there was much more light so you could see exactly where and on what kind of features you were maneuvering. After a few short hours of being led like a burro, we made it down to high camp, proceeded to pack up our suitcases and reached base camp all before noon. A taxi carried our exhausted bodies back to La Paz, where it was a shock to see all the hustle and bustle after 3 days of serene and wonderful solitude. If I was tired, which I certainly was, I can't even imagine Felix's condition seeing as how he had literally made the same trip back to back. I may be too close to the forest to see the trees, but I attribute climbing Huayna Potosí to one of the three greatest accomplishments I've done in my life, the other consisting in that of being named Class of 2006 "Mr. CHS" and graduating from college. The last one remains on the list even though I might have to rely on my pizza delivery skills to pay the bills for a bit longer.
Early on in my time in La Paz I had the opportunity to visit the pre-Inca ruins of Tiwanaku. The walls and gates here were a bit neglected, despite the 150 workers our ho-hum guide Fred claimed were currently working on the excavation site. There were more exhibits in the first museum that were closed because they were "under construction", than there were rooms that were open. Am enormous rock statue that was decorated in carved fish, a symbol in Tiwanaku culture for power of the sea, pumas, power on land and condors, power in the air. Braids lined the back of the giant stone neck which caused early archaeologists to think that the statue represented that of a woman. Current scholars and researchers now believe that it was common for both men and women to wear braids in their hair during the 2700 years (approximately 1500 B.C.-1200 D.C.) of this society's flourishing. These people engineered complex irrigation systems that efficiently distributed water to help cultivate the more than 300 types of potatoes, along with an abundance of quinoa and other plants. But the quinoa was not only used as a grain, as it exists in its most popular form today, but they also made a hearty milk out of the multi-faceted crop. At 3840 meters above sea level, the ancient Lake Ballivan surrounded the central site where priests, governors, nobles, scientists and other important people spent the majority of their time. Fred informed us that the Tiwanaku people would painstakingly transport the rocks needed to build the impressive structures from a nearby mountain using boats. You can bet the the upper class managed this process well. Nobility even had their own cemetary, in the Aymara language, Putuni, where religious specialists would open the tombs once a year in order to give the mummified bodies nourishment and libation to assure their contentment in the afterlife. "Mummified bodies" is not just an expression here, the Tiwanaku people, derived from Inti Wanaku, meaning "Children of the Sun", actually removed the internal organs and entrails of the dead noblemen and wrapped them in cloth fibers in order to preserve their fallen comrades' physical shapes. About 300 D.C. the level of the legendary lake rose to a level that destroyed some of the temples that the commoners strove so hard to construct. A particularly fascinating subterranean temple had 175 stone carved faces that represented different ethnic groups from not just around the continent or the globe, but the universe. There are even two alien faces and a person from the invariable land, now known as Asia. The Tiwanakus could predict the rainy and dry seasons by observing the stars from their observatory whose equivalent meanings from the Aymara word Akapana, into Spanish is Él que Guía la Luz and English, "He who Guides the Light". They had 52 weeks of the year, just as we do, but the first month of the year was June rather than January. Their most important festival was Fiesta del Sol when they made offerings to the various gods during a 4 week period. But it wasn't until the final stages of the Tiwanaku empire that they could afford human bodies for sacrifice.
A few days later, I heard "The World's Most Dangerous Road" calling my name. After doing some research on the innumerable tourist agencies lining Sagárnaga Street, I finally settled with "Pro Downhill". 400 Bolivianos seemed like a reasonable price and the guide that would lead the string of bicycles down "Death Road" seemed competent and sober. After the breakfast, included in the price, consisting of bread, butter, jam, cantaloupe, real and therefore real good coffee and mozzarella cheese, we loaded up in the van and set off for la cumbre, or, the top of the hill. The company outfitted us with knee and elbow pads, jersey, protective vest and pants, full-faced helmet, goggles, gloves and a badass "Kona" bike with full suspension and hydraulic brakes. The ride was so cushy that it felt like I was riding a motorcycle. The first part of the ride was on pavement and it was easy to pick up a good click. It was absolutely amazing to see the change in landscape so quickly after leaving La Paz. Immensely deep gorges forrested by sub-tropical flora surrounded us as we rolled from an elevation of 4,800 meters down to 1,300 in a matter of a few hours. We stopped quite often, I surmise, because without the stops, the trip would be over much too quick. The temperature change was also quite extreme, going from freezing to balmy with the descent. The Bolívian forces that be have constructed a new highway for cars, trucks and buses while the second part of the ride, the actual dirt and gravel "Death Road", is left mostly to thrill seeking tourists such as myself. We only met one car on the way down and managed to share the road in a civil fashion. When the ride was said and done, they had a cold beer waiting for us at the bottom. We also hit up a hotel complete with chicken, salad and fries buffet and a swimming pool. What a hoot.
When it was finally time to leave La Paz, I found myself nostalgically saying good bye to the baker ladies on Calle Sucre and to the great people that bust their butts to keep Hospedaje Milenio running smoothly. One of the workers, Marí and I were talking one day and it turns out that she works 10 hours a day, 6 days a week and gets paid 700 Bolivianos a month. That's an approximate equivalent to $100 U.S. dollars per month for a whopping 240 hours of work. Or if you want to think of it this way, she makes just under 3 Bolivianos an hour, or $0.42 cents an hour. But everyday she goes about cleaning up for sloppy and often unappreciative tourists like myself with a smile on her face. To all the Marís of the world, thank you.
This is John speaking...
ReplyDeleteWow!! CT.
It is so amazing to see how "unequal" the world is, Huh? It's also amazing to see how so many people go about everyday life with so much apparent contentment when you can see that they have no idea how some of the rest of the world live. When one sees such a great disparity in living conditions and "life styles," it must engender either a profound gratitude or perhaps even a jealousy for how others have discovered a new or perhaps even a better way to live. Keep up your very fun way of learning more about life and the world. I am Jealous!!
JC