On the 10th of January Claire and I crossed in Peru to the town of Puno. Puno is also on the shores of lake Titicaca which is shared by both Bolivia and Peru.
It´s just a couple of hours bus trip to Puno from Copacabana in Bolivia and with the hour we gained crossing into Peru we arrived in time to catch a boat tour to the Floating Islands of Lake Titicaca.
Titicaca is notable for a population of people who live on the Uros, a group of 42 or so artificial Islands made of floating reeds (totora, a reed that abounds in the shallows of the lake). Their original purpose was defensive, and they could be moved if a threat arose and many of the Islands contain reed watchtowers.
The Islands are extremely touristy and the locals fall over one another when a boat load of tourists pulls up to sell their arts and crafts.
Back on the road the next morning, we caught the 8am bus from Puno to Cuzco.
The next few hours were the worst of my four and a half months on the road.
The bus stopped off for 10 minutes in a town called Juliaca almost two hours from Puno. I was sitting on the top deck of the bus two seats from the front when a local leaned across the American couple behind us and started to bang on the window as to get someones attention outside the bus.
I passed no remarks and was writing in my diary when the bus was about to pull off and continue to Cuzco I decided to put the diary in my bag which was on shelf above my head or so I thought. Unfortunately the commotion a couple of minutes previous was to distract the people behind us and allow one of a group of three locals the opportunity to slide my bag along the shelf away from me and off the bus.
When I realised what had happened I was in total shock and it took me a while to gather my thoughts. Claire continued to Cuzco to get accommodation organised and I set about trying to recover the bag.
I didn´t have time to put my money belt on as we were rushing for the bus earlier and just put it in my bag. My passport, credit cards, my three cameras, marathon medals, mobile phones and all my pictures from the past four and a half months were in the bag. The only things I was left with was my dirty laundry and the rest of my wardrobe.
The people at the bus company disappeared and didn´t want anything to do with it so I went and phoned the bank and cancelled the credit cards straight away. Next it was off to the Internet to type up a page of what happened and translate it to Spanish for the police. I went to the police and got a report for the embassy and my insurance company.
The rest of the day I spent wandering around the streets of Juliaca in the hope that they may have taken what they wanted and dumped the bag in a skip or along the street. When this wasn´t sucessful I went to the local markets and scanned the electronics sections for anyone that was selling any of my gear, but also to no avail.
I decided to catch the bus 9pm bus to Cuzco but not before one last effort at rcovering some of my stuff.
The only things in the bag that couldn´t be replaced are all the photos from the start of September. I decided to print out some posters offering a reward for anyone that could return the three memory sticks that were in the bag with all my pictures. I think I was the only Gringo in the whole town and people came running out of their homes and businesses when they saw me posting my reward on the lamposts around the town.
Got the bus at 9pm and arrived into a rainy Cuzco at 4am.
After a good nights sleep I decided to treat myself to a big Irish breakfast roll and my first Guinness in four months in Paddys the local Irish pub (the highest in the world, supposedly).
Blame it on the altitude, but when I opened my tin of Guinness in the pub it was like I had struck oil. The tin exploded and a nice fountain of the black stuff sprayed out all over me.
Ever get the feeling that your not welcome somewhere?
