I decided that the results of my first impulsive action were so good that I would do it again. This time, I discarded my plans to fly to Argentina on my own and instead hooked up with El Ultimo Inka to explore a possible new career - travelling overland around South America flogging cheap earrings and T-shirts... surely a step up from life as a chronically under-achieving Afghan editor...
The first stage of the journey was to cross Bolivia (not a good place to flog Peruvian tat as the economy there is worse than in Peru). Originally, I did not want to offend Bolivian sensibilities by describing it as a mere transit country, but after my experience, I vowed to change my itinerary and return to Peru via Chile - yes, it was that bad.
Before elaborating further, I must say that we arrived in La Paz on 2 June in good spirits. The de facto Bolivian capital is quite a spectacular sight - it lies in a canyon and a chaos of higgledy-piggledy housing tumbles down its steep sides. The whole scene is rendered even more dramatic by the snowy triple peak of Mount Illimani looming above it. We arrived on the day of the biggest festival in La Paz's calendar, though nobody seemed able to explain exactly what this festival was all about. All I can say is that whatever its religious origins, this festival is now firmly pagan and getting drunk in the sunshine was the order of the day. The whole centre of La Paz was closed off as troupe after troupe of dancers whirled past, the women sporting flared skirts, flirty lace-up boots and the tipsy-looking mini bowler hats which stay in place on their heads in defiance of all the laws of gravity. Each vivid dance troupe was accompanied by a spivvily-attired marching band in dazzling suits of white, blue or red. The incessant beat set the spectators' benches vibrating.
When we reached a park with a crowded funfair, the dancers who had completed their turns were relaxing amid a beguiling sizzle of heartily meat-based snacks and gallons of the local Pacena beer. When I tried to take a photo of one group, a particularly sociable band leader tried to press a beer on me and discuss the errors of Tony Blair's Iraq policy, but I felt that the sunny day demanded a rather more lighthearted topic of conversation and rather less alcoholic refreshment.
From La Paz we journeyed to Santa Cruz, which is an incredible contrast to the altiplano. The wealth is palpable as you drive into town, with well-kept farms and cattle herds and impromptu car showrooms in the middle of each tiny village, showcasing a dazzling array of shiny 4x4s. Apparently, the people of Santa Cruz and the surrounding area - the so-called cambas - really resent that the fertile wealth of their area subsidises the people of the barren altiplano - the so-called collas. Evidence of this was available in the men´s toilet, where one piece of graffitti written by a gay from Santa Cruz gave his name and number and added that he was even happy to do collas - nice to see there is no prejudice in the Bolivian gay community.
All this sounds relatively pain-free, but what scarred me for life and made me decide to return to Peru via Chile was my bus journey from Santa Cruz to the Brazilian border.
We'd planned to take the train, but the service has been dramatically reduced and there was no Sunday service so a dodgy chap in a baseball cap persuaded us to take his bus service instead. What should have been a 17-hour journey ended up taking much longer. My doubts were first triggered when I saw our vehicle, which even before being loaded sagged like a 70-year-old's buttocks. Somehow, a team of sweaty and slightly inebriated men managed to load it with everything from a chest freezer to crates of young chicks. Now people in South America do not travel light, but this was ridiculous. Set this bus on a road in the process of construction and you have a recipe for disaster - not one, but two blown-out tyres.
The driver and his band of helpmates, all of whom looked like one-cheeked hamsters as they chewed their wad of coca leaves throughout the journey to keep them awake, set to work with enthusiasm but little skill to change the tyre each time by the light of a single torch. Their efforts were accompanied by the comforting tinkle of urinating male passengers relieving themselves up against the remaining tyres. All of this took ages and was made more uncomfortable for me as I was practically pinioned to my seat for the duration by a rather large lady traveller in front of me and her defective reclining seat.
Oh, how welcome the sight of the Brazilian border! In my next entry, I'll write and let you know if the sunny welcome in Brazil was a mirage or a sign of a change for the better.
