Have Itch, Will Travel

As I dozed to my music on the way to Cuzco , I noticed something. It was nothing new, but in my semi-bored state I thought to test it. I had observed during a previous long bus trip, Julie's tendency to occupy space. My space. Since she is oftentimes restless just prior to falling asleep on overnight buses, I try to allow some distance between us in order to prevent connecting with a stray elbow. As she tossed from one side to the other on that previous trip, I noted that the space I had consciously left became occupied by either a pair of knees, or feet, depending on which side she happened to favour at that point. Not that I minded; I had been reasonably comfortable and it only made sense that she should be too. I had assumed then that she took the space because it was available. On the trip to Cuzco, however, she was not asleep. She was devouring a novel this time, so I thought it within my right to claim the airspace above my seat and sat in it square. But there was an elbow ...

Copacabana 's busiest hilly, cobbled street was populated with shops displaying signs in multiple languages. The lakeside town welcomed the sun to drive the evening's frost away. Ice on the stone roads returned to puddles, windows grew misty, and eaves began to surprise the few tourists with stealthy drips of freshly melted frost. Our stay on  Lake Titicaca  was to be chilled out, so after a noon sleep-in and lunch, we hired a paddleboat for an hour to enjoy the sun and stillness. Several hundred metres from the shore, we were only in the company of the rhythmic churning of the paddles, the water lapping at the hollow fibreglass form of the swan, and the frequent squeaks of a poorly lubricated rudder. Paddling was enough to remind fatigued legs of the Death Road bike tour, but surprisingly soothed any remaining aches. Wobbling on the shore and still hungry for the sun, we sought out a café with outdoor bamboo lounges that pumped out chilled reggae tunes and spent the rema...

We had heard recommendations for tour companies that would arrange for you to charge down the World's Most Dangerous Road on a bicycle. Some hostel-faithfuls would parrot guidebook and advertising posters, proclaiming that Gravity  was the safest and only reputable company for the exhilarating task. They recollected the tour as they strutted around in striped happy pants and alpaca jumpers with bored llamas knitted on them. They were embracing the local culture while hanging around Irish pubs. This set paid  over $b600 ($AU100) for their experience, when there were options available for as little as $b200 or so. We favoured the middle ground and signed up with  BSide Adventures   who charged  about $b410. Our small group and guide drove to the starting point after paying $b25 for bike passes. There was a  bitterly cold wind at 4500m altitude where we donned our gear, became attached to our bikes, and received instructions. The first section of the to...

The three hour trip to Santa Rosa across bumpy stone and dirt roads was rewarded with the sight of pink river dolphins quietly grazing on small sardines, a promising start to the wildlife spotting tour. A narrow motorised canoe would take us to the ecolodge another three hours upriver. Our guide, Oscar, a cheeky local topped with a white cowboy hat, pointed out scores of caymans basking in the sun, turtles stacked upon each other on branches sticking above the water, many birds, curious squirrel monkeys, and docile capybaras. The day was mostly gone when we arrived at our accommodation, basic wooden cabins on stilts. Before the last of the light left, Oscar took us to a sports field where tourists were able to mix with locals playing volleyball and soccer. Dusk arrived with the mosquitoes and we made our way back to the ecolodge in the canoe, shining our torches at the river banks where the eyes of many caymans lurking in the dark glinted back. The following morning, we embarke...

It was all worked out perfectly. That morning, we would check out at 9am and take our cold weather gear, boots, and souvenirs to the post office. By 10am we would have posted our packages home and have a few minutes to buy some snacks for our bus trip to Rurrenabaque, in the Amazon. Then, catching a cab to an unknown location of the bus station, we would arrive at precisely 10:30, exactly the right time to check in at the station office, load our bags, and be on our way to shorts and singlets weather, and an exotic jungle experience. Perfect. It was nearly not to be. Julie Versus The Post Office At 9am, we dragged ourselves and our heavy mochilas out of a cab, one arm occupied by a bulky package, and the other, fumbling with change for the driver. The post office looked like an airport or train station; big, empty, and very official looking. We found the information desk in the corner and were directed downstairs to the international parcel area. There, the man behind the coun...

A rickety van dropped us at a block where locals and tourists were milling between rows of tables. Unlike local markets we had visited so far, selling scarves, bags, and bead jewellery, this market offered breakfast and tools for the local miners. Fuses, detonators, TNT, and nitrate were laid out, the sight of them strange, yet familiar from hours of watching television. Our palms itched for some explosives, and we asked our guide if we would have an opportunity to blow something up on the tour. He answered with a nervous laugh and incomprehensible mutter. Our persistence paid off and he begrudgingly allowed us to open our purses. In addition to the precious dynamite, we bought some coca leaves and alcohol as a gift for any miners we might meet, and were fitted with our outfits, headlamps and all. The mine tour had us first, clumsily descending a wooden ladder into a shaft splattered with ritual llama blood. Step after cautious step was made in too-big gum boots that flapped a...

The culmination of days' of discomfort was cracking Julie's sanity like the hairpins and switchbacks on the bus' gears; they seemed to groan and sigh as we steadily climbed to Potosí , the highest city in the world. The extreme cold, broken promises of agua caliente , lack of sleep, sunburned shoulders, restless legs... these seemed trite compared to the prospect of overnight travel in a broken seat, surrounded by annoying people. The man behind Julie kept standing up and resting his elbow on her head rest, and sometimes her head. That was solved with a quick backwards head butt to his elbow... who said you need to know Spanish to communicate? There was again a child behind me, his minty chewing gum breath sickening my stomach, while his wet smacking noises and chewing sounds worsened it on a different level. Fortunately, by the time the bus left Uyuni, he had decided to sit down instead of hanging off the back of my seat. Julie was tortured with discomfort; tossing and...

The wind had died and the dust settled, exposing a clear day. The flat desert opened to an oasis of colourful  lagoons  surrounded by yellow grasses and faded mountain ranges in the distance. Flocks of  flamingoes , usually associated with pineapples and the tropics, at once looked out of place and natural. Their figures broke the monotony of the frozen surface, quietly pacing, their heads bent low, and their subtle pink blush complementing the muted desert landscape. Accommodation was the most basic yet, with lumpy mattresses, sometimes-flushing toilets and definitely no agua caliente . There was little to do after dinner except freeze or choke on the smoke from the leaky Franklin stove, so we crawled into our sleeping bags and prepared for a cold cold night , having been told that the previous night reached an incredible -35C. Just before dawn the following morning, we visited a field full of sulphur-smelling pits and mist, the steaming geysers  surr...

The sand was alive! Each particle was a cell in the greater organism, and the wind animated the relentless, undulating mass. Fingers of sand crept up the tyres of our Landcruiser, and the windscreen was vigorously peppered until the sand slid in fractured sheets. The convoy had stalled, the faded path towards a seemingly arbitrary destination swept away by salted dust and sand. Ahead was a blur of pulsating beige. Behind, more blur. More beige. There was no horizon, no volcanoes, no lagoons. The only thing apparent was that our reluctant 6am rise from warm bedclothes to see the salar 's landscape was for naught. Instead, we passed two hours in the parked Landcruiser, playing the Julie-Invented games of "Guess Which Latin American Country I Am Reading About In The Lonely Planet", "Who Can Put Four Super Sour Lemon And Lime Flavoured Pringles In Their Mouth Without Making A Face" and I-Spy. Our guide Edgar offered us lollipops, but these were only good to silenc...

Image courtesy  Alamy  to illustrate cholita fashion Uyuni  is a desert town barely more than a mile wide, but serves as an important transit point and gateway for tourism to the world's largest salt flat,  Salar De Uyuni .  Cholitas  huddled in the markets, their knitted woollen shawls worn close to the chin. Their long skirts were pleated over layers on layers of petticoats, distorting their silhouette to liken that of an Elizabethan noblewoman in a farthingale. Bowler hats seemed to balance precariously over the ladies' hair, which was pulled tight in neat buns. Varied wares were displayed on plastic sheeting in the markets, and European tourists in Columbia jackets and Salomon hiking boots rubbed colourful scarves between their fingers, asking if it was indeed made of llama wool. (The queries were warranted; close examination of certain articles would reveal a discrete label "100% Acrylic Made in PRC".) An icy, cutting wind blew dust up from the ...

The bus trip to the border town of La Quiaca from Salta was 8 hours of fitful sleep. I awoke to a landscape quite different to the barren nothingness of Patagonia to which I had become accustomed. Red rocks and soil, cliffs, mountains and cacti still presented a barren scene, but an undeniable excitement grew inside me. If this was indication of a Bolivian panorama, I was sure to be blown away.