After reports of attacks on tourists by opportunists taking advantage of the chaotic environment of the road blockages, I decided to spend a few more days in Cusco before making a break for the Lake Titicaca region. Highlights included more lactose-heavy breakfasts at Granja Heidi, and a visit to the Ollantaytambo ruins in the Sacred Valley about an hour outside of town (the only place where the Spanish lost a major battle when an ingenious Inka diverted the river and flooded the plains below the fortress, making them impassable to Spanish calvary). On a signpost in a small plaza in the historical center I also picked up my first phrase in Quechua, ¨Allin Kaypacha Wiñay Pak Kachun.¨ Roughly translated: ¨peace eternally prevails on Earth¨. I figure that if I get into any trouble with the highlanders on my quest to pass the blockades, this phrase will either incur goodwill and cross-cultural understanding, or will so confound any would-be attackers that they will be left scratching their heads while I run away.On Wednesday morning, we decided to take our chances and hop on whatever bus was heading south towards Lake Titicaca and Bolivia. Perhaps we should have been tipped off by the 18 bus companies at the terminal telling us 22 differing stories about the road conditions along our intended route--but in Peru, this is often par for the course as companies jockey for clientele. Or maybe we could have taken as a sign the fact that the bus we boarded was graffitied with the smeared words ¨que muere Alan rata¨(death to President Alan, the rat), and ¨paro Sicuani¨(blockade in Sicuani). At this point, however, we were more than ready to get out of Cusco, and willing to face whatever lay ahead along the way.
Not half an hour outside of Cusco, the luggage compartment under the bus popped open, spewing backpacks on to the highway. A quick recon mission later, and we were back on the road. At least until we got to Sicuani, where several days earlier protesters had burnt the only bridge across the river. Pedro and I knew this bridge had been burnt, but had been assured by the bus company that they were taking an alternate route. As it turns out, they knew quite well they were taking us to an impassable point, but hoped to return us all to Cusco without having to give refunds, thus assuring that the road blockages didn´t make a dent in their business.
After several hours of standing in the hot sun with 40 other angry bus passengers and being told half a dozen different things about the state of the roads on the other side of the burnt bridge, Pedro and I, along with our two new friends Scott and Keith from NYC, decided to retrieve our packs, cross the bridge, and walk as far as necessary to find transport--to Lake Titicaca if need be, which is roughly a two day walk in scorching daytime heat and sub-freezing nighttime temps. I have a great sleeping bag with me and yes, we were ready to get out of Cusco.
After crossing what was left of the bridge--a single rickety plank over a steep ravine through which flowed a shallow river that would surely not soften the potential fall--we arrvied at the other side to find that the bus company had been pressured by fellow passengers into negotiating a passenger trade with a bus on the other side. We ate avocado and queso fresco sandwiches, and boarded the new bus, which was quite a step down from the first. Scott and Keith had to change seats because the ones they were originally assigned had been peed on.
The new bus took off at a snail´s pace on what they called the ruta alternativa (alternate route) through the dusty, potholed streets of tiny villages packed with mud houses, children in school uniform, and skeletal dogs scurrying away from the bus tires. We passed occasional remnants of blockades--large rocks and piles of stones scattered on the roadway, as well as a rather frightening shell of a burnt bus covered in graffiti and smeared with excrement. Just before nightfall, the bus came to a stop for what appeared at first to be a bathroom break, but turned out to be a bus breakdown. The village we had landed in had likely not seen a group of visitors this large in some months. Children gathered around to gape at the passengers, vendors came by to offer fruits, sodas, and Jello snacks, and some local youths celebrated by getting so intoxicated that they were holding on to each other and falling down in the streets. All this ruckous was punctuated by the occasional clatter of tools underneath of the bus. Some hours later, the welcome sound of the engine starting was heard, and we were off. Night had fallen, and the temperature was falling even faster. The windows on the bus became sheets of ice, and passengers were huddling together for warmth. Pedro had the ingenious idea of stripping the bus seats of their cloth lining and using them as makeshift sleeping bags.
The bus coughed along winding roads barely wide enough to fit a car, and with holes big enough to topple a vehicle on its side if not properly negotiated. Every time we came to a switchback, the driver would have to back up in order to execute the turn. With each pothole, it seemed that another nut came loose underneath of us, until we seemed to be riding atop nothing more than a cacaphony of rattle and hum. At one point, the bus ran squarely into something--perhaps a concrete barrier.
At some point in the journey, we all had to make peace with the fact that we might tumble off the side of a cliff into oblivion--something that happens with some regularity in Peru. But the saving grace was the amazing celestial display--Scorpio, the Southern Cross, the Milky Way. I had a completely sleepless night, but one filled with stars. It was such an absurd journey, that all I could do was laugh merily at the utter implausibility of it all. Allin Kaypacha Wiñay Pak Kachun.
At 3am, eight hours late and still an hour from our destination, the driver pulled over and said he didn´t have enough gasoline to continue on. It was quickly discerned that he wasn´t telling the truth and just didn´t feel like driving anymore. Passenger threats of broken windows ensued, and he was convinced to go the distance. We arrived at a very basic Hospedaje Santa Rosa just after 4am, the private bathroom nothing more than a closet housing a toilet, sink, and shower all on top of each other and with a shower curtain for a door. Collapsing into the hammock-like mattress, I awoke several hours later to piercing sunlight and the tune of car horns and cries of street vendors. I decided we needed to escape Puno as fast as we could.
After a breakfast of fresh juice at the market, we got on the first micro out of Puno and headed to the Bolivian border--I had Pedro take my picture to prove that we actually made it!!
We´re now in Copacabana, best known for being the most convenient transit point to the islands. It is also famous for its cathedral, where a black Virgen del Candelaria statue resides. Local superstition says that if the statue is ever removed, devasting floods of Lake Titicaca will ensue. This cathedral is also where thousands of people come every year to have their vehicles baptized in holy water for good luck. Bus and taxi drivers come from all over the country. If you are hoping for a new car in the coming year, you can also buy small car figuirines and have them blessed. Not having any vehicles to bless, we are just spending the afternoon recovering from the bus ride and heading out to Isla del Sol first thing tomorrow.
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