Hooked on Titicaca’s trout or Trout and Titicaca’s cars

This is a story that was original put up on http://www.foodtripper.com/. A jolly good website, I heartily recommend to anyone who like food and travel. They have pix and no mention of feaces.



In La Paz, fresh fish is a luxury—the coast is a country away and, while there is a river, the Choqueyapu is now so filthy that even the microbes that live on faeces cannot survive in it.

And yet, it is true that Amazonian river fish can be brought up from the lowlands and seafood is flown in from Peru or Chile (restaurant owners tip the wink to favoured customers when a flight is due).

There are even ceviche stalls serving the Peruvian marinated delicacy, which ought to be elbowing some of the world’s ubiquitous sushi bars aside. Sold from an electricity-free stand hours from the sea, however, it’s more Russian roulette than lunch.

A safer solution is to make a trip to the vast turquoise expanse of Lago Titicaca. Any suspicion Titicaca was named by a committee of helplessly sniggering schoolboys is confirmed on discovering its water then feeds into Lake Poopó.

Lago Titicaca, the largest lake in South America, is a welcome break from La Paz, as well as the unwitting home to trout. The trout were imported and are now farmed. While there are wild fish in the lake, they tend to be unappetizing and illusive.

Fishing can be a fruitless exercise anywhere; a frustrated guide here once lost patience with my endless incompetence. Unable to bear my failure any longer, we puttered over the nearest fish farm where he suggested dropping a line into the seething water. Whether he would have followed this up by proffering a barrel of fish and a shotgun, I don’t know.

“The lake” is only a three hour drive from the capital through the aptly if unimaginatively named Altiplano (high plain). We (my wife and two Swedish friends) were spending the night at Copacabana, a tourist town on a pretty peninsular.

Tiny boats provide the only access to the peninsula from La Paz; ours was manned by two boys, as well as a man. The other side of the strait, seemed to have been taken over almost entirely by children.

The road snakes along the peninsula’s backbone looking down to the lake on both sides and passing burning scrubland. Children were begging from the passing traffic, shepherding their animals, walking unaccompanied along the road—some carrying firewood—or sheltering from the sun.

Copacabana is famous, mention it in relation to food and Bolivians will automatically think of Pollos Copacabana—a sub-KFC chain that pollutes the air around its outlets. Strangely, while their malodorous presence is felt widely elsewhere, they have no franchise here. Instead, the “beach” is lined with stands selling trout and kingfish.

A queue of freshly washed cars were lined up outside the town’s Moorish Catholic cathedral. Once Sunday’s Mass was over, three young priests began blessing their automotive flock, while a lady shaman trailed behind attempting to flog her more earthly services.

Some of the cars were festooned with garlands of flowers and laden with petals. Bonnets were open to reveal crucifixes, icons, and good luck charms such as frogs.

Once the priest—my favourite sporting baseball cap, jeans, socks and sandals under his vestments—had flicked holy water with a plastic flower onto the car (in and out, as well as under the bonnet), the proud new padrino (godfather) and the owners; the party could begin. Firecrackers exploded onto the road and beer was sprayed all over the newly blessed vehicles.

Besides the trout at the stalls, food options in Copacabana include the legs of the world’s largest aquatic frog (they’re also liquidized as a “natural” Viagra). Tempting, clearly, but we were off to the restaurants at the lakeside village of Huatahajata.

Competition for customers is stiff in Huatahata. Passing cars run the gauntlet of men, women and children (even a gringo!), almost throwing themselves into the road to attract the attention of passers by. From the street, the restaurants in the strip are indistinguishable; closer up, it’s still difficult to tell them apart—they are all on stilts over the sparkling water and offer a seemingly identical menu of trout-based treats.

Purely by luck, we found ourselves in Sol de Los Andes (Sun of the Andes). Commendably, it’s run by the Voces Libres foundation for orphans and children working in Bolivia’s colonial-era mines or living on the streets of La Paz.

Inside, under the ceiling swathed in blue material, the tables were packed with Bolivian families. Outside, the lake spread across to Peru, while in-between ducks, boats and the occasional catamaran bobbed about.

We were greeted with a plate of what appeared to be grey stones. Further investigation revealed them to be a relation of the broad bean, to be peeled and vitalized with a dash of spicy llajua sauce.

I picked the trout a la Diabla. Like all the other dishes, the fried fish came with chips, rice and vegetables. Mine was covered in a “picante” onion-tomato sauce, so mild it left me in no fear of a chilli cook-off at Beelzebub’s.

The fish was fabulously fresh, succulent and perfectly filleted, the chips perfect and the vegetables cold (but we weren’t there for the broccoli anyway).

The trip back to La Paz through the Mars-like Altiplano was spectacular, as always. Even from our height of nearly 4,000 metres, the snowy Cordillera Real Mountains towered ahead.

To our right, sand storms spun, lightning flashed and dark clouds emptied rain. In places, the sun pierced through the darkness, while behind us wispy clouds floated in the dazzling blue.

Lakeside llama and blessed cars

The next morning we took another boat trip, this time to a small island, Isla Pariti. Home to donkeys, birds and few people; plonked in the deep blue lake and in view of the Andes, it seemed idyllic. In reality, the lack of shops, drinking water and electricity would get trying pretty fast.

Our departure from Puerto Pérez was held up by a passing rally. The Gumball 3000 has nothing to worry about: pouting blokes in Daihtsu Charades with stickers on strained along, with their bored girlfriends in the passenger seat.

Once the rally passed, it was an interesting drive. Sunday must be a popular day for blessing cars at the Copacabana. It’s a strange business: shamans and Catholic priests perform a ceremony to ensure the safety of vehicles. The cars are lightly doused with alcohol and decorated before being sent on their way.

It was an interesting drive past the former home of Victor Hugo Cardenas. The Aymara politician had been Vice President (1993-97) and was now a critic of the government. This is a dangerous position to take in the Altiplano—last month, while he was away, his neighbours broke in, beat up his wife and children, and took over his house. It’s still covered in graffiti and the family has moved.

Having randomly picked one of Huatajata seemingly identical lake-side restaurants, we bumped into a mate. She’d had an interesting morning having been chased by a frying-pan wielding mother defending her children from my friend’s morally corrupting influence.

After compulsory—and delicious trout—we went next door to the museum of the Altiplano, where I held a baby llama and a vicuna nibbled my trouser area.

We were sailing, they were sinking

We made a trip to Puerto Perez to stay in the Swiss-chalet style there and spend some time on Lake Titicaca. In the first afternoon, a little wooden sailing boat took the seven of us on an outing. It was beautiful, and really relaxing despite being a little squashed.
As we returned to land, an endless stream of dressed-up Bolivians piled into a sister boat. I asked our captain what was the maximum possible aboard. 15, he said. When I pointed out there seemed to be more than that, he said there are 25, I think.
They set off, the boat perilously low in the water, happily singing along to an on-board guitarist, somewhere lost in the crowd. It was fortunate it did not sink because few Bolivians can swim and the water is unforgivingly cold.
Bruce and I watched the sunset from the end of the pier. As the cold wind blew over the lake, the snow-capped mountains turned a delicious shade of coconut-ice pink. At every side, the view was wonderful.

27.9.8 Sailing, singing and dancing

A weekend jolly away. We bounced along tiny dirt roads on the Altiplano in our 4x4. Eventually, we arrived at a small town (a sign read the water supply was funded by the UK), to find the town’s entire occupants were half-cut and standing around in the road. It was a blockade! Bolivia is beset by blockades—people stop work in order to stop other people from working. A lose-lose situation that is amazingly popular here. Anyway, this was my first.

The country has been covered by politically motivated blockades in recent weeks (sometimes opposing sides blockading the same roads) but this one had a simpler motive. We were on a smugglers’ route to Peru and the locals tax the contrabanders to drive their tankers through the town. Not having any gas or petrol, they hit us for some soft drinks. Clearly, standing around in the sun getting sloshed all day is thirsty work. Mikael mollified them with a few words of Ayamara and we were cheerily sent on our way with waves and £3 lighter. Mugging with a smile. We later learnt that 12 trucks loaded with diesel had passed through the day before.

We were here for a bucolic weekend and were staying in the most thatched place I have ever seen. The roof, floors and walls of our adobe cottage were all covered with dried reed. Outside, donkeys brayed in the sparse farmland under the biting sun and wind. Susi loves donkeys and rode one down to the lake. This was all going very well.

As we were punted out to a small island, endless birds flew overhead and sang. It was an even lovelier scene returning to the land under our bright sails as flamingos flew in front of the Andes.

The evening was equally unforgettable. After an impressively bland meal, we were given an introduction into local music. In came a man, one trouser legged rolled up, a llama-patterned hat on his head with a large Bolivian flag stuck in it, wearing a dead bird around his neck. This was a talented ladies man, who simultaneously sang, played the drum, pan pipes and maracas, and danced.

I left the room and returned to hear the recorder being played staggeringly badly. It was hard to believe a musical instrument could make such a terrible noise. My friends' shoulders were shaking with subdued laughter, Karin was compulsively eating to distract her giggling and everyone studiously avoided each others’ eyes to try to hold it together. Eventually, it finished and we were given an in depth analysis of the tablecloth.

Sadly, I had stomach cramps so left the others learning a new song with its own dance. The lyrics seemed apt: “Why? Oh-why? Oh-why-er?” Indeed. The dance began by snaking around the room in a line and developed into Hokey Cokey-style bumps.

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.