Amor Porteño

10.30am. I sit with a cup of coca tea at a table in the hotel lobby waiting for the rental car girl to show up so we can conclude our negotiation. I feel strangely transported to North Africa. Perhaps, it's the stories of roads that aren't wide enough for two cars to pass; nose-bleed-high mountain passes that can be shut on a moments notice; unrelenting truck drivers and vast precipices inches away from the passenger side wheel. Or, perhaps, it's that things have a way of happening at their own pace. In either case, I feel very relaxed, surrounded by a sense of familiarity.

Finally, Soledad shows up together with the car and a mechanic, Fidel. I immediately try to make friends with Fidel. After all if I don't trust him who could I trust. After half an hour of English-Spanish translation and inspection of various car parts, we're ready to go... The gas tank is empty! Right, first thing I'd want to do getting behind the wheel in a foreign country with crazy traffic is worry about running out of gas. I promptly get out the car and direct my new friend Fidel to go and put some gas in the tank. Soledad explains that she didn't want me to have to worry about having to return the car with a full tank. I just laugh and go and get another tea.

Half an hour later I am honking my way out the city at 2 mph. By the time I reach the freeway to the airport it's 1pm. As soon as I exit the freeway before the airport, as instructed by the small going away committee which had gathered in the hotel lobby in my honor, I lose all sense of direction. I ask a man who moments earlier had tried jump under my car, and he does an interesting figure eight in the air. I assume that means turn right. At the next intersection I see cars making a left turn, so I promptly get in there with my right turn right-of-way. To my delight, a cop jumps out of nowhere. There's my man, he's going to point me in the right direction. For some reason he starts pointing to the sky to my left. I look up. There, almost halfway to the next intersection is the smallest and most dirt-covered traffic light I've ever seen. It's red. 

The officer gets on the passenger side and opens the door. Then he asks for permission to get in. I say sure and explain to him that I'm sorry for not seeing the light and assuming that it was my right-of-way, but perhaps he can tell me the way to Copacabana. Somewhat incredulous, he asks for my my license and whips out a little book with traffic rules. From it he quotes me the entire paragraph about running a red light as well as the appropriate penalty. It's seven dollars. I pay with a smile, he shakes my hand and jumps out.

Finally, I am flying. There are fewer and fewer cars and it takes me no time to reach the straight of Tiquina on lake Titicaca, where a ferryboat is supposed to take me and the car across 800m of water. Now, the word ferryboat doesn't really describe it. In what looks to be a slightly oversized rowboat, taking a single car and passenger, the tiny straight suddenly looks quite menacing and exciting. But we get to the other side alright, and now all I have left is a scenic route to the opposite end of the peninsula.

Nestled between two large hills and the lake, the tiny fishing village of Copacabana reveals its dusty streets before me. I'm still driving, but I can tell that everything here is ultra slow and calm. La Paz seems a universe away. As soon as I check in, I'm off to the top of the Cerro Calvario. At the bottom of the hill, right by the beach is a military base. I go to the guard and ask how to get up there. He points straight up. Ok, so frontal assault it is then, is it? A couple of guys are slowly walking past, taking pictures. Perhaps they are also headed there? I start on the tiny little 50 degree angle path. I'm breathless inside of 30 seconds. I look behind. The grinning soldier gives me thumbs up, but the two tourists are walking away. I guess this is too much for them. For the next hour I bravely fight the hill, stopping every 5 minutes for air and wondering where all the broken beer bottles have come from. Surely, no one in their right mind, not even the locals, would be crazy enough to climb this rock under the influence. What kind of superheroes are these?

I finally get to the summit. To my astonishment I see the two guys again, sitting on a bench at the top, no sign of of sweat or exhaustion. Next to them are two girls smoking and laughing. With my last strength I mumble, "How did you guys get here so fast?" They laugh and point in the other direction. So that's it then, there's a perfectly normal trail on the other side of the hill, while the one I just took must be for goats only. Despite life flashing before my eyes, I feel some small sense of pride. Time to enjoy the stunning view of the sunset over the highest lake in the world. For a moment it's easy to convince myself that I'm on the ocean, 4000 meters below.

The summit itself is a small plateau with about seven shrines topped by massive crosses and insignias. From what I can comprehend each is devoted to a specific saint in gratitude by some family. The next thing I see is completely out of place. Several stalls are offering everything from model cars to model houses to fake money and all sorts of other miniature trinkets. They must really think all foreigners are stupid. Which tourist in their right mind will climb all the way here just to buy a little toy car, I wonder, but soon forget.

As I descend the path meant for humans, I observe three 4-year olds outdoing each other with hand stands, one handed flips and other insane tricks. How can they be so good? I want to be like them. I continue on to my hotel past lots of young travelers, most of the South Americans. I grab dinner, determined to explore nightlife in the village afterward.

Surprisingly the bars are almost empty. Most of the young people are sitting in circles on the beach or on the main street, talking, drinking, singing. It's very different and quite alluring but Spanish is all I hear and remain an outside observer. Finally I spot a strange little bar and venture in. As soon as I do, all four people inside get up and leave. Well, I came in for a beer, so I'm having a beer. This is the first sip of alcohol I'll be having in a week. The interior design is bordering on the ludicrous, but fits in with my mood. The walls of the small space are covered by plaster of all conceivable shapes -- grapes, lambs, tigers, lamps, insects, owls... All species of artificial flora hang from the low ceiling. Fake lamb skins cover the benches. I cozy up, choose a bolivian cerveza and drink up slowly. The most interesting thing about the beer is how very difficult it is to pour a proper mug in the perfect head to body proportion because of the altitude, but I try anyway.

Once I am outside again, I consider my options. There are no other functional bars in sight, but there's a cafe quite full of people. I decide to wash down the beer with a cup of coca tea. There's only one table left in the middle of the room. Without looking around I sit down, and then realize that my friends from the top of the mountain are sitting on the next table. I ask them how long they stayed on the summit after sunset. Their English is probably rusty because in lieu of an answer they give me a point by point itinerary for the rest of their trip. I laugh, but now the conversation is on. They are all from Buenos Aires. The boys are Miguel and Alex, the girls -- Pamela and Madelena. Pamela is the best speaker of English so the bilingual conversation goes through her. I decide to have another beer instead.

The conversation soon starts answering some of my questions. Most of the young travelers here are from Argentina. Argentina being rather poor, when young people want to explore the world, their choices are limited to either roam their own country or go to the exotic neighbor Bolivia. Not that any of them say that they feel limited. The hippies among them aren't really hippies, but boys and girls who fund their travels around South America by making and selling little pieces of jewelry and clothes, or playing music. The two man band playing in the cafe is also from Buenos Aires. So what are people from Buenos Aires called? Porteños...

I mention the strange stalls with all the toys on top of the hill. Pamela explains to me that the locals believe that all their wishes will be granted at the summit. So every Sunday they go and have a priest bless a miniature version of their desire. There are two different ceremonies. One conducted in Latin and one is led by an Aymara priest. The ritual apparently involves chanting, dancing, flames, and several bottles of beer sprayed over the alter. I think the Waygoer and I will definitely be back here.

The cafe is closing, so we try to find a working bar. Our one hope is closed. Then we meet Jose, a 60-year old with long hair and an impressive mustache, who came from Argentina 20 years ago and never left. He announces that he knows where everybody is and takes through the back alleys to a very suspicious looking dive with loud strange music and no apparent human presence inside. We thank him for his effort, grab a couple of canned beers and head to the beach. 

My new friends introduce me to the Southern sky. It's interesting to think that I've never seen most of these stars. Southern Cross, Tres Marias, Scorpio... I remember reading about them in children's books about pirates and treasures, and here they are before me. I get lost for a moment.

It's very late and cold by now. We get going. Next morning they are going to Isla del Sol in the lake, which they've heard has an amazing beach. Perhaps, I'll go with them. Perhaps, I'll stay and film the Bolivianos take their hopes and dreams to be blessed. Perhaps, I'll drive to my next destination... I'll decide in the morning.