Copacabana, Bolivia June 14, 1979

One incredible day… .  The bus that Sue and I should have gotten from Puno to Yunguyo never arrived, so finally at 9:30 they decided to enlist the service of another empresa (bus company).  Unfortunately that company’s buses are about half the size, and in less than half as good condition.  Boarding took over half an hour – arguments, counter-arguments, who would get on, who wouldn’t; people climbing over bags and other people to reach ‘their seats’ (have to use the term loosely, as no seats are assigned, and many seats are in a such a poor state of repair that they could hardly be called seats).  I was lucky and got a seat up front, on the right hand side, just behind the flip-back driver’s assistant’s seat, on which were perched two very heavy Swiss guys and the driver’s assistant.  Sue ended up somewhere in the back...

The bumpy ride over a rough, pot-holed, dusty road in a bus with no shocks left me with two very bruised and sore knees.  But there was no escape – all of the seats, aisles, and under-the-seat areas were crammed full of people and their possessions.  It didn’t help that I had all of my possessions on my lap, as well as a couple of ‘loaners’ from other people… .  It might have been my most uncomfortable bus ride ever.  But… the scenery was amazing – an altiplano ‘desert-scape’ of straw coloured bunch grass, interrupted now and then by patches of water-reed-filled ponds, low areas that have been inundated by the lake on the other side of the road.  Lots of llamas, many relaxing in a half-lying, half-sitting pose, watching us in their haughty self-important manner as we rumbled along.  Also several small herds of cattle, browsing wearily on the bunch grass, trying to find a decent mouthful.  Some had given up on the dry, tasteless fodder and were wading chest-deep in the ponds, where they were trying out the reeds.  



This is a post-card I bought in La Paz.  It shows exactly what

the altiplano looked like when we entered into Bolivia from Peru.

 

At one point we had to cross a river – literally, as the bridge was out – and there were several rather hair-raising detours through deep sandy areas, rocky riverbeds and donkey-trail ‘roads’.  Fortunately the landscape was more or less flat, so the danger, or rather the feeling of danger, was minimal.  Still, the driver was a moron, and at one point purposely ran over a small pig.  The Latinos all found that hilariously funny, and from then on the driver looked at everything on the road as a target – dogs, pigs, and children included.  Luckily everything managed to scamper out of the way in time.

 

We arrived in Yanguno around 1:30, and amid confusion regarding immigration, border crossing and transport, we managed to find a bus heading to Copacabana.  A nice, big, fairly new bus, but the ride was spoiled by the driver’s impatience when we were detained at the border because the Guardia were still having their lunch at 2:45.  The driver kept threatening to leave all of us gringos – there were a half a dozen of us – there, and I half thought he might, but apparently his bark is worse than his bite.  When we finally got on our way, and entered into Bolivia, I noted that the appearance of the landscape and settlements hadn’t changed at all: here Bolivia looked much the same as Peru.  I suppose that’s no surprise.  The people – poor indigenous highlanders – are the same in both countries: only the government is different.

 

We arrived in Copacabana in the midst of a very colourful Corpus Christie festival.  There was music – being broadcast as loud as possible of course – and dancers in the street.  We found a hotel fairly close to the bus station, and started looking for somewhere to eat.  But everywhere we went the response was the same: “no hay comida” (there is no food).  So we headed to the market for bread, cheese and tomato, the traveler’s standard fare, and then back to check out the festival.  It was a remarkable event.  Several dancers were clad in outrageous costumes of hard plastic – stand-out ‘skirts’, armour-like vests and sleeves, masks, and embroidered boots.  They were all pretty drunk and basically just stamped about in rough time to the rather sporadic and very repetitious ‘music’, played haut-force by a small brass band.  

 







Just as colourful as the dancers was the crowd of Indian women and children lining the sidewalk and sitting in clusters in the street.  Pink seemed to be the favourite colour, especially for shawls, and the rest of their garments were day-glo bright.  Multi-skirted women twirled about with their men, or with one another, their different coloured skirt layers revealed, as they swayed and twirled, in a riotous celebration of colour.  The men were dressed much more somberly, in browns and blacks, and limited their dance steps to shifting from one foot to another, only vaguely in time to the music, and frequently falling over their partner, or one other, in their drunken ‘dance'.   




The bottom picture is from a post-card I bought when I was there.
It shows the multi-coloured skirts worn by dancers.


Regardless, the whole spectacle was surprisingly solemn.  The dancers danced with poker faces – no trace of a smile, no sign of communication between them, no indication that any of them were enjoying themselves.  The kids seemed to be having the best time – wide-eyed and drinking it all in, or joining in the dancing, trying to imitate the steps of the costumed dancers, which were significantly more complicated than those of the locals.

 

Later that day we got caught up in another scene regarding bus transport – this time to La Paz.  Apparently the campesinos between here and La Paz are fed up with the rising bus fares and are blockading the roads.  So after tomorrow there will be no buses to La Paz for two days, or two weeks, or… who knows?  So we booked one for 6 am tomorrow.  After a depressing series of unfriendly “no hays” at the various places we thought might have food, we settled for yet another repast of bread, cheese and tomato, and headed for bed, with the alarm clock set for 5:15 am, in hopes that the bus will actually leave, never mind on time.

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