“Kid, the next time I
say, 'let's go someplace like Bolivia,' let's GO someplace like
Bolivia.”
-Butch Cassidy (Paul
Newman)
I was
scheduled to go back to Cusco from Aguas Calientes via a long journey
through the night by train and then by bus. The transfer from train
to bus should have been an easy one. It was included in the guided
package I had purchased a week prior. My directions were simple; I
had been told that someone would be waiting for me with a sign that
read “Scott-Boston” at the bus terminal in Ollantaytambo and that
I should follow that person to his bus where he would take me the
remaining distance to Cusco. Well that never happened. Someone had
dropped the ball and it had landed on my foot. It was late, and it
was dark, and confusion was heavy in the air. There was a lot of
pushing, some shoving, and a good amount of yelling which couldn't be
understood in any language. I waited. Some of the crowd dispersed.
I waited some more. More of the crowd dispersed. I waited again. I
was the last one there. Moves needed to be made, fast. I scrambled
to locate a bus that looked as though it could accommodate me. I
found one, opened the door, said “Cusco”, and two hours and 3
dollars later I was back to where I needed to be. The next morning I
made sure to get my 3 dollars back from the guide service. They
seemed rather unamused by my story, and so while they were getting
the money from the back I stuck my gum underneath their desk.
“Scott!”
“Oh, ummm..Eric!”
“Machu Picchu is good?”
“It was, it was good;
great even.”
“Good, Good, Good. You
buy painting now?”
“Oh, yeah, here's the
thing; I'm still traveling some more after this and don't want to rip
it. You know with the buses treating the bags the way they do; you
know, like I told you last time.”
“But you said...”
“I know, I know, but I
meant I would buy some during my last stay in Cusco, which will be
next week after I visit Puno and Copacabana.”
“Oh, Oh, I see.”
“Yeah, so next week.
They are looking really good though Eric. I especially like the one
of the two cows playing in the field.”
“These are dogs.”
“Ok Eric, I'll see you
next week, adios.”
I
watched as the Uros family used figurines made of straw to
demonstrate how the islands were constructed; it was all fascinating
I must say, and I was most taken by the part where they needed to
replace the straw every week or their island would disintegrate into
the water. After the demonstration we were taken into their homes.
The island had three homes; one for each branch of the family. The
usual greetings and show and tell inside the homes led to the
predictable soliciting of arts and crafts outside the homes. It is
always my least favorite part of any day abroad in a less than
fortunate country, but to misunderstand the process as begging would
be a terrible mistake. In fact, even though I had no mind to buy
anything, there were outstanding pieces of work on display. Some
could be sold in the United States for hundreds of dollars I'm sure,
while here they were being sold for five. No matter, when you don't
want something, you won't pay hundreds of dollars for it and you
won't pay five dollars for it. So it goes.
Another
night in Puno would have been harmless, but useless too, so I bought
a bus ticket for Copacbana, Bolivia, where I should spend the
remainder of my time in South America unabashed and in total
relaxation. Copacabana is also on the shores of Lake Titicaca and I
heard through my many channels of travel that it was cheap and had
the best grilled trout on the continent. Those made it sound like
paradise. Also, I suppose, it would nice to see where the Incas
claimed to be born out of the lake; their whole empire beginning at
ground zero at an island off the same shores where these alleged
grilled trout were to be sold. I went to the bus station.
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