[ Zoom Map ]

Copacabana, Bolivia
21° 47' S 65° 5' W
Feb 22, 2006 23:44
Distance 1410km

Choose another map, showing:

• South America (central)
• South America
• The World

Other entries in Copacabana

The land of Uncle Scam

Text written in: English

After sad goodbyes, we hit the trail once more, for the other side of the lake and Bolivia, poorest country in South America and the only place to have ever lost a war to Paraguay. Having shopped around for the cheapest fare, we left with the bright pink Pony Express (it's a bus) and were dumped off at Puno bus station at 6am. With an hour to kill, we had to first go into the station, check in with the bus company, which was closed, and had been replaced by one called Peru Express, operating out of an office emblazoned with the logo Inca Tours, running buses marked Tour Peru whose seats all bore the emblem of Interbolivia. Easy enough, when you ask the right person. Unfortunately the right person seemed to have gone for an extended coffee break, so I had to make do with a series of incompetents, fabricators and couldn't-care-lessors. Next up was the infuriating departure tax. This is a sum of money (usually about fity pee) payable by all passengers on leaving the terminal by the departure dock. All passengers, that is, except the locals who know the bus will stop for them on the next street once they stick out a hand. It's not a whole lot of money, and if it were included in the ticket I wouldn't give it a second thought, but it's just irksome to have these ridiculous, makey-uppey taxes everywhere you go, so naturally we set about avoiding it (or evading it, whichever is not actually a crime), as we'd done successfully in the past. We had only two soles left in the world, and wanted to buy breakfast with them, so, leaving by the entrance we walked around to the wide gate through which all outbound traffic passes. No luck; the guard behind the smoked glass was having none of it, and the old nonchalant whistle/slow sidle approach came to nought. Back in to the terminal and I made a dash for the exit, bleating pitiably that I'd left a bag on the bus I'd just arrived on. On production of my ticket, the goon let me past - success! He must have gone for a break just after, as Carole strolled through unchecked after me. W00t! As we smugly explained to Swedish bloke (he of the detailed map, whose name we now learned was Mat) how we'd foiled the evil money-grab, we wondered which of the remaining buses was ours. Asking an ever-so-helpful station attendant which one might be our carriage, he pointed nonchalantly at an orange machine now making its way up the street and out of sight. The bus company's (one of the many involved in the ticketing process) office was downtown and we were assured we could catch up with it there as it pulled in for a brief halt. With the karma police snickering at our backs, we hailed a two-sole taxi to the allotted spot and forewent breakfast. After a brief wait, the bus set off, passing right in front of the terminus on its way out of town.

The border country along Titicaca's perimeter provided a soothing foil to the vexation of the double-cross and the pangs of hunger and in a couple of hours we reached the promised land. I'm not sure what exctly it was promised, but Bolivia must have the intenational equivalent of the huff of a Chistmas morning child opening his present to find a pencil case instead of a BMX. No, seriously, the scenery is to die for, but it's not easy to make it rich here, with average monthly wages hovering at about 60 US dollars, and kids as young as five working ten-hour days selling sweets and shining shoes for ungrateful gringos (malo!). So you wouldn't begrudge them a few pence... oh yes you would dammit, as the way they go about it just galls. We stop on the Peruvian side of the border, where our guide (for some reason, the bus company had appointed a chap just to tell us when to use the toilet and how to open the windows) runs through the procedure for changing money at the officially sanctioned exchange centre and which way to hold our passports for stamping. By no coincidence whatsoever, the officially sanctioned office was selling bolivianos at 2.20 per sol, while just outside vendors were offering up to 2.35. An inquisitive Belgian was informed with no shame that the office was on the make from every busload of eejits coming through, with kickbacks all round for our rotund friend on the bus. It was only 8km to Copacabana, and as we approached, gordito produced another gem. His mate in a dodgy plastic jacket came aboard, all officious like and we were all ordered to hand over what he farcically referred to as Municipal Tax. Not only the passengers for Copa, but all those en route to La Paz with a forced hour-long stop in the town were expected to pay for the upkeep of the roads and waterways of this placid frontier town, rather than, say, the government or the inhabitants - no wonder the whole place is in such rag order. It was only a one-boliviano charge (about ten eurocents), and most paid up with no more than a raised eyebrow or a grumble, but the man from Flanders and his companion were having none of it. Demanding to know why exactly he should cough up for this highly dubious town charge, he was fed the most ludicrous excuses until he backed down, paid up and sat back for the short ride into town. Not us, though. Having looked at the phoney tickets (for some sort of sanctuary in Copa, according to the smudged print) and been told that the office where one should normally pay this sort of thing, if it existed, was closed on Mondays, there was no way we wanted any part of this web of deceit and corruption (see, there's some sort of moral crusade thing here, not just unconscionable stinginess) and flatly refused to pay. The red-faced guide gave us a final ultimatum - to cough up or get off. We walked, the hundred or so metres into town, arriving at the same time as the bus, twenty pee to the good and integrity intact. Breakfast earned. A couple of salteñas did the trick - pastry bicorns filled with meat, olives, eggs, onions and goo, and a hostel was not long in the finding, on a recommendation from the Parisian triumverate in Cuzco. The single night in Copacabana, with its empty streets and emptier bars was spent in the company of a couple of Irish travellers with some gruesome stories and handy tips, relaxing over Bolivian beers (not the finest brew on the planet, bless) and punctuated by loud jazz.

It was with no great surprise as we checked out to find the price for the room had magically inflated itself and the owner stricken by partial amnesia. With a mixture of humour and exasperation, it was all I could do to ruffle the guy's hair playfully, and them slam his crooked face repeatedly into the counter for good luck.