20.7.8 Amboro and back again

In the morning, the mist had settled in the areas where the vast expanse forest had been cleared, beyond that mountains fringed the earth below the pink sky.

After a taxi and then a bouncy jeep trip through forest and river, we reached our jungle eco resort in Amboro National Park. I didn’t know what “eco” actually means, my fear was it meant little more than there would be no hot water. In fact, its owner appears to be responsible for clearing rain forest as well as collecting puma cubs. And there was no hot water. Aside from the eco-credentials, it was a great place to stay.

While our time in the primary rain forest was beset by sand flies, we also saw tarantulas, snakes and frogs. Not a great tally admittedly but a large hairy spider also attached itself to the underside of the brim of my hat. Branches were moved by monkeys, bubbles perhaps from alligators appeared in a lagoon and a crashing on a night walk eminated from we-don’t-know-what.

Each trek featured a magnificent waterfall or lake to swim in, which was truly delicious in the heat. After a few days, we returned to Santa Cruz. On our way into town, we passed some policemen who had pulled over two boy racer cars and were questioning the drivers. We were impressed to see the disrespected Bolivian bobbies doing their jobs. As we passed it was clear that they were merely closing off the road so it could used as a drag strip.

Continuing the Santa Cruz theme of employing girls, young ladies, some of them old enough to vote, handed out pro-autonomy leaflets in the plaza.

Even the worse taxis here are a little smarter than back in La Paz, of course, there’s still no seat belts. Returning to Santa Cruz there was little room for our luggage in the boot given the huge bass bin. In the front, the CD player pumping out reggaeton had a screen showing videos. I can only assume that reggaeton (South American R&B) is an acquired taste.

16.7.8 Buena Vista, and indeed it has

Susi picked up somewhere to stay as a stop-gap before we hit the jungle. On the basis of this I can highly recommend coffee plantations as a place to lay your head. All sat at the top of the slightly rickety wooden viewing platform, there were endless views over the jungle—perfect for watching the sunset with a Cuba Libre.

A clean, friendly, well-organised place in a beautiful location—we were all amazed. On the down side, the promised monkeys failed to materialise. This was the first in a series of simian no shows. And strangely, they weren’t great at making coffee.

16.7.8 The charms of Santa Cruz

We’ve made it down to Santa Cruz, the home of the drive for autonomy. The city has a very different feel to La Paz, its western rival. The drive into town from the airport follows a long, flat strip of stores and restaurants. Curiously without potholes, it’s about as different in terms of topography and culture from El Alto as is possible to imagine.

Our grotty hotel was just off a glorious plaza, with an impressive cathedral, where the citizens were strolling between the palm trees in short sleeves enjoying the warm evening. As residents of La Paz, we are pre-programmed to dislike Santa Cruz, so this was all a little disarming.

In the morning, we returned to the plaza, which is emblazoned with the green-and-white flags of Santa Cruz. One of a group of friendly girls in the city’s colours gave me a pro-autonomy leaflet belonging to a right-wing political party that called itself “socialist”. Not great connotations in an area with a flourishing fascist youth movement. There’s no doubt the genetic makeup is different here—there are very few chollitas, and the people are noticeable whiter and taller.

We belted out of the city in a taxi, heading to Buena Vista in the countryside at breakneck speed. At a garage, our old cab was filled with petrol by a pretty girl in tight trousers and a low-cut top. Looking round it was clear to see this was the employment policy. I reminded myself that I disapproved—there’s a level of machismo here that I am not used to.

14.7.8 So good they named it comically twice

I can now categorically state that Lake Titicaca does exist (this is probably only news to me), not only that, but it’s vast, cold and beautifully blue. We’re back from a weekend there. Our first night was at Copacabana, which was curiously short on showgirls called Lola or anything else. A tourist Mecca, every conceivable form of Andean ethno tat is on offer as you step out of the bus into the bustling town square.

In the morning we took the ferry out to Isla del Sol. The walk from north to south started with some ropey old Inca ruins and follows the ridge along the island’s backbone. Even from the highest point, the lake disappears, shimmering into the horizon. It is huge.

The route is littered by locals charging to walk on their section of path and their children flogging rocks and sweets or posing for photos with llamas. At our destination I went to bed for a while and watched the sun set out of the window on to the lake and mountains. Stunning.

9.7.8 Death roaders, let’s go!

This was not something anyone had ever said to me before and, frankly, it’s a bit silly. Anyway, off Robin and I went, down “the most dangerous road in the world” (™UN 2004). It’s a 40km ride down 3,100m from rock and ice to sultry jungle. In fact, now there’s no traffic on it, it’s considerably safer than Hyde Park Corner—as long as you avoid the precipice perpetually to your left. The days of 100s of deaths each year are over. However, we were overtaken by another group, at the back was a man old enough to be indifferent to another birthday. Trying to keep up, he screamed past us; dangerously out of control, he dragged his right climbing boot as he tried to pull himself around the bend and away from the sheer drop—nothing but air for hundreds of feet.

Exercise here is a confusing business—there’s very little of it, apart from the ubiquitous football. The swimming pool is a place for standing around, flirting and showing off. My attempts to swim lengths involve slaloming around teenagers chatting, catching their breaths after two or three furious strokes of front crawl or recovering from landing on their backs after an ill-conceived dive.

There’s very little running, with the exception of the busy main road from La Paz to El Alto. Even in the dark, the slender hard shoulder of this steep climb, which rises 550m, is lined by people in tracksuits pounding the long dangerous route. The air is thin of oxygen but thick of carbon monoxide, so these guys’ lungs would be a wonder to scientists.

Bar the very odd, very solitary, lycra-wearing nutcase, only the police cycle in La Paz. On cheap bikes donated by the Chinese, they puff along (often on the pavements). Bicycle policemen are an utter farce here, a brisk walk up any hill would be enough to let any robber escape with his swag.

1.7.8 All the essentials

We are lucky enough to have guests to visit, which requires the provision of luxuries like somewhere to sleep. In La Paz’s number one department store, there may be a dearth of tasteful John Lewis-style goodies but they do offer a fine line in luxury, quilted washing machine covers. I bought two.

In the black market, we bought alpacha wool blankets and the only bed cover we could find — soft-focus tigers on one side and cuddly pandas on the other. Book your flights now.

Having visitors means we have to take them out. After a rather unfortunate day, we took Emma to the Radisson. This is as swanky as La Paz gets, and from the 14th floor bar the night-time cityscape beneath the stars was spectacular. My eye was caught by a new light as the moon rose from behind the mountains. Fabulous.