Here we are; the supposed epoche of a journey around South America, the don; the daddy; the godfather of tourist detinations: Machu Picchu. Historically, for those who have only just retreated their proverbial cage like Mowgli from his respective jungle, this is possibly the prominent example of the history of south america: The Europeans arrived, trashing the place like unwanted houseguests, bringing with them 'culture', 'society' and religion (they definitely brought this one) and in return literally obliterating the cultures, societies and religions. Things were knocked down, things were raised; complex webs of society ripped apart to cater the growning need for indo slaves. Nations, Powers and societies rise and fall throughout time, some being deliberately erradicated from history. Machu Picchu is a hidden treasure, frozen in time so lucky American and Japanese tour groups can exclaim how 'purty' it is/was (and whatever the Japanese equivalent would be). But perhaps, in contrast to the initial intent to enlighten the present through the gems of the past, we instead continue to rip apart and destroy these remaining gems through our own form of disneyland colonialism. Thinking back to Puno and the fact that an ingenious and beautiful society of people living independently and simply on self made islands, is now little more than a ride in the 'Kooky Ancient Peru' section of the South American theme park.
So, from the above it's evident that I managed to see Machu Picchu. From my arrival in Cusco this is how Operation Picchu 'went down'. Solo, and in need of a bit of a social scene I arrived at the ever popular Loki pleading and begging for a bed. The tears were thick and steady, and the face of a 7 year old who's just fell off the swings did its job. I was given habitation and went off in search of a party. Sat at the bar and sunbathing in the garden were the strings of previous stints in party hostels, desperately attempting to recover in time for another celebration that night. Old faces mix with new, and the almost tribal releasing of the demons was performed with an evergrowning skill in this field. The next morning, however, distaster had stuck: earthquakes, hurricaines, volcanic activity and the fires of hell had descended to create a world of pain (or at least that's how it certainly felt). Too much time in Cusco would be bad news; I needed to get me a large slice of hot piping culture and the Picchu was calling. I booked a tour and retreated to another hostel to hang with a throng of Irish boys who were all dressed in togas and wedding dresses upon introduction. We chilled, bantered, ate and smoked through the next few days. Picchu Preparation was a major success.
The next day myself and a small bag, containing all of the essentials required to deal with mountains, rivers and the odd jungle puma (which is a threat I live with from day to day), were plucked from Loki Hostel at a quarter past ridiculously early O'clock to be dumped on a bus with a load of strangers who i'd be sharing my "life changing Machu Picchu experience" with. Most of which were couples from South America's favourite colonial exploiters of yesteryear, and a rag tag selection of solo travellers: myself, a south korean who spoke virtually no english or spanish and responded to polite enquiries into his health and happiness with "Machu Picchu!", and an American girl. The latter traveller was a bundle of locally crafted bags, piggietails and a sweet smile below her slightly sun reddened nose. In spite of our first day being a 30km downhill mountain bike ride, she couldn't ride a bike, but had been promised transport by the cash hungry Peruvian tour office. I'm not sure if there are sayings about the value of a peruvian promise, I'd imagine that it would be that it's worth its weight in dust. So many interesting surprises would rear their ugly, disfigured heads when the time was right. The first of such being 'no car; you ride'. Emily and myself hung back and I bunny hopped around the bumpy tracks while Emily tried to find out the range of ways to ditch it off the bike. This was going to result in her really hurting herself, so we gave up and walked. We arrived late, shouted at our ambilivently incompetent guide, ate and slept.
The next day we were to walk through the jungle side of Machu Picchu across the mountians. Due to rain we left late, and the beginning half of the day was sodden. As we climbed the sun came out and dried our wet clothes. With the sun the sand flies came out and immediately began looking for exposed places to bite us; the found them. To begin with, the repellent worked, but apparently it's not as effective when you accidentally drop it off a cliff and can't use it anymore. The climb rose and fell on the narrow trails clinging to the steep sides of the mountains, with the slightly lagging hoards in close pursuit. Even with a decent level of concentration required you could not help but be awed by the landscape surrounding us: the green mountains rose and fell sharply in every direction, with snaking whitewater rivers powerfully fighting their way through the valleys. The clouds, when present, were effectively blown through natural wind tunnels that the imposing valleys created and would dance around the summits quickly but daintily. On this trip describing some of the natural beauty I have seen thus far has been difficult and pictures never really do justice to what I'd love to share but just can't. Anyway, I digress. As the hours passed, the sun dipped and the bite count mounted on my legs; we were all pretty tired and in need of some rest when we arrived at the hot springs. Locally known as 'Gringo Soup', the big pool of hot springs steamed in the distance like an oasis for fly bitten trekkers. We were in the pool quicker than the water draining from the side of the mountain, and it was pure bliss. As we splashed around in the hot pools, beer sitting by the side of the pool, the sun dipped behind the imposing mountains.
By the next morning the itch from my many many bites had begun to drive me crazy, and by many I mean from my knees down to my ankles possibly a couple of hundred. Furthermore, my shorts were soaked from swimming from the day before leaving me with my coarse jeans to persistently irritate my bites. Walking for hours was going to be a challenge. After of two hours of walking, and our first sighting of Mighty Picchu from below we arrived at Aguas Calientes (Hot Waters). The plan was to lunch and then take an arduous climb to a viewpoint over MP, however walking in my jeans was now beyond being an option and Emily was tired from the last few days. We slipped from the group and went off to find more hot springs to bathe in. Later that evening major arguments errupted between the guide and the group regarding the fact that the scenic (and not so cheap) train journey back that we had paid for had now been replaced with a much cheaper and time consuming journey in a cramped minivan. In addition to this the day that we had paid to spend at Machu Picchu would be shortened as we would need to leave much earlier. The weasel of a guide was verbally attacked from all sides by seven furious trekkers and slumped away quickly saying there was nothing he could do and that he would wake us at 4am in time for a sunrise at Machu Picchu. 4am came and passed and we were eventually awoken on the cusp of 5am by the guide, questioning why we hadn't left. Shouting followed. The little shit had fucked us over one last time and we left hastily to board a bus to MP in hope that we hadn't missed our tour.
Machu Picchu recieves thousands of visitors on a daily basis; for a reason, it is a wonderfully preserved and magical place, that in spite of my aforementioned thoughts pulls the crowds for a reason. Sadly the past 24 hours had put the seven of us in a dreadful mood, hardly prepared to be taken by the surroundings. Furthermore the thick, wet clouds clung to the mountain and visibility was minimal. The tour was good and the place definitely worth visiting but our consequently sour moods an the unlucky weather ruined our experience to one of the big boys in world heritage sites.
The van returned late, and Emily and I spent the next couple of days in Cusco planning our route through northern Peru n our way to Mancora: the most highly recommended beach spot in Peru, where we planned to pass a few weeks. Long bus journeys were ahead to get there and unknown intermittent stops along the way as the Equatorial line beckoned us Northwards.
Monday, 25 August 2008
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
Reflections Upon A Big Lake
WARNING, THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS RIDICULOUSLY SELF INDULGENT AND SHOULD BE APPROACHED WITH EXTREME CAUTION!
At this current moment I am in Puno, Peru; lying in bed trying not to throw up everything and anything that I ingest. I'm not remarkably ill, just feeling crap enough to not want to go wandering round the city. So after reading the best part of a book, I have still been left with a sizeable amount of time for reflection and writing. This, from a writing sense, couldn't really have come at a more appropriate time, as in a few days I will be reaching the four month mark, and, what is loosely to be, the half way point of my travels. Thus, before catching up on my most recent activities I thought I'd lay down some statistics, retrospective thoughts and hopes, wishes and dear-santa-dreams for the future.
Stat time: In the four months of my wayward journey I have:
Slept in 39 beds;
Visiting 25 cities;
Spanning 5 countries;
Travelling by Plane, Bus, Taxi, Car, Boat, Moped, Raft, Tuk-tuk (ish) and Foot;
Reading 15 books;
Narrated in 38 Blogs.
In fact it's definitely been a whirlwind of varied experiences. I've made countless acquaintances, some good mates who I will likely keep in contact with for a long time after my travels (rollcalling Matt, Bobby, Rob, Hannah, Kat, Majo, Andy and Adam in no particular order). In spite of looking back over so many activities, experiences, people, hangovers, sunburns, natural wonders, traces of forgotten empires, stunning landscapes and thousands of miles covered so far, it feels like it's shot by in such a whirr that it contrastingly seems like I have really lived the last four months and also that it has all been an eventful dream devoid of the reality that I've known in my previous 24.92 years. Perhaps this all sounds a little excessive, I don't know, but after a third of a year living out of a backpack and moving every few days, in it's very nature, life itself has been excessive. And what's more, there are around another 4 months, going through at least 10 countries before heading home to take on whatever unseen challenges may appear.
People say that travelling changes you, that your perspective on life changes somewhat and that it will set a new or more clearly defined direction to the way you step forth. I'm not so sure I can say that I have been profoundly affected in the aforementioned ways thus far, but who can say that this will not appear at latter stages. Some things have, however, dramatically changed: I can sleep pretty much anywhere at any time (still, sadly, excluding buses though) in spite of shaggers, talkers, door bangers, barking dogs, flickering lights, shitty mattresses, squeaky beds etc. I can now read anywhere for remarkably long periods of time, I can now play the charanga that I bought in La Paz, speak decent spanish, and pack in ten minutes in the dark while utterly hungover at 6am. Disregarding the trivial and light nature of these I have now fell into a routine state in constantly changing situations and places, everything about travel seems pretty natural to do, with the unexpected becoming the norm.
Who knows what's to come but I look forward to it. I know as a virtual certainty that the latter half will be more challenging in many ways, but hopefully as rewarding in parallel.
So, mind dump out of the way (thank god for that I hear you murmer from your semi-sleeping states), what's been going on of late? Where we left off last I was escaping from La Paz with the gusto of Gordon Brown after his weekly drilling at Prime Minister's question time. Lake Titicaca, sitting at over 4000 meters above sea level and setting part of the border between Bolivia and Peru, would be my last destination in Bolivia and my first of Peru (funnily enough). On the Bolivian side I visited Copacabana, checked into a quiet hotel with the noisiest doors on earth. In my first real feat of exercise for what feels like months I set off to climb one of the massive hills overlooking the bay, which may sound quite simple but feels like a 10km run at 4000m above sea level. The view was spectacular and remarkably photogenic.
The next day I boarded a vessel to the Isle del Sol for a 3km walk along the ridges of the island. Although I had spent the morning with a few people I took the first available opportunity to split so I could don my iPod and powerwalk to the southen port. The views across the lake were beautiful at every twist and turn of the path, and the sun poured down on the island with very little respite leaving me with the beginnings of a rather nice tan. We returned on the boat as the sun dipped below the snow capped mountains in the distance and ate early. I passed the rest of the evening working through a book before turning in for an early night.
The next morning I awoke feeling pretty sick and scoffed down a selection of drugs in hope that I could get to Puno without throwing up or dying. Upon arrival I checked into the first available hotel, threw up, booked a tour for the next day to the floating islands, and retreated to bed to feel sorry for myself (which I did with expertise). The floating islands on the following morning were an interesting experience: around 300 people living on islands made entirely of the reeds that cover much of the lake. They speak an entirely different language (very little spanish) and spend their days hunting ducks, fishing and building various forms of homeware out of reeds. Or at least that's what they used to do before the tourist invasion, nowadays they spend their entire days harassing tourists to buy tat made of reeds and giving boat tours for a few pounds. Not that this is something that they are to blame for, but more than anything to me felt like another distinctly wonderful culture that had been turned into a South American Disneyland by the relentless tourist trail. An interesting day but also rather saddening upon seeing the exploitation that we sometimes bring upon the innocently diverse cultures that we visit around the world. That evening myself and an english guy called Richard went for a stroll around Puno, which to our surprise felt remarkably clean and more affluent than Bolivia despite its proximity. That (being this) evening the sickness returned leaving me with much time to reflect upon the past four months and the next section of my trip: Cuzco and Machu Pichu.
At this current moment I am in Puno, Peru; lying in bed trying not to throw up everything and anything that I ingest. I'm not remarkably ill, just feeling crap enough to not want to go wandering round the city. So after reading the best part of a book, I have still been left with a sizeable amount of time for reflection and writing. This, from a writing sense, couldn't really have come at a more appropriate time, as in a few days I will be reaching the four month mark, and, what is loosely to be, the half way point of my travels. Thus, before catching up on my most recent activities I thought I'd lay down some statistics, retrospective thoughts and hopes, wishes and dear-santa-dreams for the future.
Stat time: In the four months of my wayward journey I have:
Slept in 39 beds;
Visiting 25 cities;
Spanning 5 countries;
Travelling by Plane, Bus, Taxi, Car, Boat, Moped, Raft, Tuk-tuk (ish) and Foot;
Reading 15 books;
Narrated in 38 Blogs.
In fact it's definitely been a whirlwind of varied experiences. I've made countless acquaintances, some good mates who I will likely keep in contact with for a long time after my travels (rollcalling Matt, Bobby, Rob, Hannah, Kat, Majo, Andy and Adam in no particular order). In spite of looking back over so many activities, experiences, people, hangovers, sunburns, natural wonders, traces of forgotten empires, stunning landscapes and thousands of miles covered so far, it feels like it's shot by in such a whirr that it contrastingly seems like I have really lived the last four months and also that it has all been an eventful dream devoid of the reality that I've known in my previous 24.92 years. Perhaps this all sounds a little excessive, I don't know, but after a third of a year living out of a backpack and moving every few days, in it's very nature, life itself has been excessive. And what's more, there are around another 4 months, going through at least 10 countries before heading home to take on whatever unseen challenges may appear.
People say that travelling changes you, that your perspective on life changes somewhat and that it will set a new or more clearly defined direction to the way you step forth. I'm not so sure I can say that I have been profoundly affected in the aforementioned ways thus far, but who can say that this will not appear at latter stages. Some things have, however, dramatically changed: I can sleep pretty much anywhere at any time (still, sadly, excluding buses though) in spite of shaggers, talkers, door bangers, barking dogs, flickering lights, shitty mattresses, squeaky beds etc. I can now read anywhere for remarkably long periods of time, I can now play the charanga that I bought in La Paz, speak decent spanish, and pack in ten minutes in the dark while utterly hungover at 6am. Disregarding the trivial and light nature of these I have now fell into a routine state in constantly changing situations and places, everything about travel seems pretty natural to do, with the unexpected becoming the norm.
Who knows what's to come but I look forward to it. I know as a virtual certainty that the latter half will be more challenging in many ways, but hopefully as rewarding in parallel.
So, mind dump out of the way (thank god for that I hear you murmer from your semi-sleeping states), what's been going on of late? Where we left off last I was escaping from La Paz with the gusto of Gordon Brown after his weekly drilling at Prime Minister's question time. Lake Titicaca, sitting at over 4000 meters above sea level and setting part of the border between Bolivia and Peru, would be my last destination in Bolivia and my first of Peru (funnily enough). On the Bolivian side I visited Copacabana, checked into a quiet hotel with the noisiest doors on earth. In my first real feat of exercise for what feels like months I set off to climb one of the massive hills overlooking the bay, which may sound quite simple but feels like a 10km run at 4000m above sea level. The view was spectacular and remarkably photogenic.
The next day I boarded a vessel to the Isle del Sol for a 3km walk along the ridges of the island. Although I had spent the morning with a few people I took the first available opportunity to split so I could don my iPod and powerwalk to the southen port. The views across the lake were beautiful at every twist and turn of the path, and the sun poured down on the island with very little respite leaving me with the beginnings of a rather nice tan. We returned on the boat as the sun dipped below the snow capped mountains in the distance and ate early. I passed the rest of the evening working through a book before turning in for an early night.
The next morning I awoke feeling pretty sick and scoffed down a selection of drugs in hope that I could get to Puno without throwing up or dying. Upon arrival I checked into the first available hotel, threw up, booked a tour for the next day to the floating islands, and retreated to bed to feel sorry for myself (which I did with expertise). The floating islands on the following morning were an interesting experience: around 300 people living on islands made entirely of the reeds that cover much of the lake. They speak an entirely different language (very little spanish) and spend their days hunting ducks, fishing and building various forms of homeware out of reeds. Or at least that's what they used to do before the tourist invasion, nowadays they spend their entire days harassing tourists to buy tat made of reeds and giving boat tours for a few pounds. Not that this is something that they are to blame for, but more than anything to me felt like another distinctly wonderful culture that had been turned into a South American Disneyland by the relentless tourist trail. An interesting day but also rather saddening upon seeing the exploitation that we sometimes bring upon the innocently diverse cultures that we visit around the world. That evening myself and an english guy called Richard went for a stroll around Puno, which to our surprise felt remarkably clean and more affluent than Bolivia despite its proximity. That (being this) evening the sickness returned leaving me with much time to reflect upon the past four months and the next section of my trip: Cuzco and Machu Pichu.
Friday, 1 August 2008
Leaving La Paz
I title this leaving La Paz as even before returning to the city I couldn't wait to leave. People have different experiences of cities that they visit depending on what occurs when they are there. Although the partying was good and the prison visit was an unmissable, I found La Paz to have little to do during the day, the people generally quite rude and an overwhelming stench of rotting food and urine. Bolivia, in my mind was beautiful and yet heart wrenchingly depraved, but La Paz did not endear itself to me as the rest of Bolivia had.
When returning from Rurrenbaque I decided to treat myself to a flight back, the 20 hour bus journey was notoriously bad and I didn't have enough people for a jeep. Plus since this was a sidewards excursion returning to La Paz, it did not affect my plan to do every mile over land and water. As with most things, however, this was not to be a simple affair: after booking my flight the previous day for 12:15 I arrived at the office (where my pick up was from) to to be told that my flight didn't actually exist. The lady suggested that I took the 5pm flight instead. I kicked off. She then responded that there was a flight leaving for 20 minutes and that I might be able to make it. She went outside to get a 'taxi' for me. The taxi turned out to be a moped where I was expected to sit on the back holding on for dear life with my full massive backpack on my back and my camera bag slung precariously around my shoulder. Time was of the essence, though, and I climbed on the back of the moped before it sped down the dirt tracks to the airport.
I arrived unharmed and rushed into the airport to catch the check in just as it arrived. Relieved I boarded the little plane and we took off the grass runway moments later. A great little flight ensued with spectacular views. I arrived in La Paz, checked back in to Loki Hostel and spend the next three days eating, sleeping, reading, sorting stuff out and sending my cold weather clothes home.
My next destination would be the deeply majestic blue waters of Lake Titicaca, before working my way to Cuzco and Macchu Pichu.
When returning from Rurrenbaque I decided to treat myself to a flight back, the 20 hour bus journey was notoriously bad and I didn't have enough people for a jeep. Plus since this was a sidewards excursion returning to La Paz, it did not affect my plan to do every mile over land and water. As with most things, however, this was not to be a simple affair: after booking my flight the previous day for 12:15 I arrived at the office (where my pick up was from) to to be told that my flight didn't actually exist. The lady suggested that I took the 5pm flight instead. I kicked off. She then responded that there was a flight leaving for 20 minutes and that I might be able to make it. She went outside to get a 'taxi' for me. The taxi turned out to be a moped where I was expected to sit on the back holding on for dear life with my full massive backpack on my back and my camera bag slung precariously around my shoulder. Time was of the essence, though, and I climbed on the back of the moped before it sped down the dirt tracks to the airport.
I arrived unharmed and rushed into the airport to catch the check in just as it arrived. Relieved I boarded the little plane and we took off the grass runway moments later. A great little flight ensued with spectacular views. I arrived in La Paz, checked back in to Loki Hostel and spend the next three days eating, sleeping, reading, sorting stuff out and sending my cold weather clothes home.
My next destination would be the deeply majestic blue waters of Lake Titicaca, before working my way to Cuzco and Macchu Pichu.
The Feast and the Famine: The Famine
Firstly lets just establish that this is a reference to a lifestyle famine and not my food intake. I know how parents and grandparents do worry when they think little Liam isn't getting enough nourishment. He is. Now onto the important part: pink dolphins, crocodiles, snakes, piranhas and mosquitos (and Swedes so I've been forced to add).
We awoke early in a whir of excitement, except for Nick who woke and got ready as late as humanly possible (but still in a whir of excitement). Today was the day we were to embark on the Pampas tour (or what we had now labelled 'the pump arse tour'). We piled into the Fluvial Tours office to be greeted by 'johnny five', the tour sales man slash marijuana dealer, who introduced us to two grinning Swedish girls before piling us into a jeep for a four hour ride on a road that resembled the surface of the moon.
We arrived sore of bottom yet high in spirits, and were bundled onto a little boat before we were aware that there was a river for it to float on. The sun beat down in a firey wrath from above, and before long we were 8 hot, sweaty and bothered individuals. The wildlife was abundant with birds, monkeys and alligators, and by abundant I mean there was rarely a point where you couldn't see one of the snap happy beasts sunbathing on the shore. So it came as a great surprise when Negro (our 9 fingered guide) stopped the boat and barked "swim". We looked at him, then each other... "but what about the crocs?" one of us replied. "pink dolphins in the water, crocs stay away". That was more than enough for our intrepid team, and we piled off the boat like it was the Titanic. The cool river water was a blessing in spite of the initial concern about cayman alligators ripping limbs off. We returned to the boat to view more of the abundant wildlife and watch the sun set over the wild terrain. The night was far from over, however, as we still had to go nighttime croc hunting (not killing just spotting) clad with torches and mozzie spray. We left in the midst of darkness and trawled down the river; our torches flashing around to expose the two reflected eyes in the water. Negro, the guide, pulled to the side, jumped out of the boat before climbing back in with a 4ft alligator in his hands. We took turns in touching the scaley beast while he pointed out various characteristics. The night ended soon after as we were to be awakened for sunrise over the Pampas.
Day two commenced with the aforementioned beautiful sunrise, followed by breakfast and preparations for the day's main event: big snake hunting. We walked under the strong near equatorial sun hours, clad with boots and suntan lotion, through thickets, bogs and marshes in search of snakes. At one point we waded through a marsh filled with crocodiles and reeds up to our waists, our boots filling, and clothes becoming sodden, with the putrid water. After pretty much giving up hope, on our return journey back to the boat we came upon an anaconda, which was passed around to be held. However, as I was about to elect to hold the snake, it bit our guide on the hand. He casually removed the venomous little shit, assuring us that he'd be fine. This, though, was enough to put me off holding it. We returned to find a large anaconda constrictor wrapped around a tree in the camp, which was not poisonous. This snake I gladly held and the necessary photographic evidence was captured. After which we ate, showered and were ushered out to go Piranha fishing. I caught three. We returned to the camp to try our Piranhas after stopping at some river bar for sunset, beer and a game of volleyball.
The next day we undertook our daily routine of swimming with dolphins whenever possible before finally being returned to Rurrenbaque. We ate, drank cocktails and swung in hammocks before my parting ways with the guys. The fllowing morning I would fly back to La Paz before leaving as quickly as possible for Peru and the north.
We awoke early in a whir of excitement, except for Nick who woke and got ready as late as humanly possible (but still in a whir of excitement). Today was the day we were to embark on the Pampas tour (or what we had now labelled 'the pump arse tour'). We piled into the Fluvial Tours office to be greeted by 'johnny five', the tour sales man slash marijuana dealer, who introduced us to two grinning Swedish girls before piling us into a jeep for a four hour ride on a road that resembled the surface of the moon.
We arrived sore of bottom yet high in spirits, and were bundled onto a little boat before we were aware that there was a river for it to float on. The sun beat down in a firey wrath from above, and before long we were 8 hot, sweaty and bothered individuals. The wildlife was abundant with birds, monkeys and alligators, and by abundant I mean there was rarely a point where you couldn't see one of the snap happy beasts sunbathing on the shore. So it came as a great surprise when Negro (our 9 fingered guide) stopped the boat and barked "swim". We looked at him, then each other... "but what about the crocs?" one of us replied. "pink dolphins in the water, crocs stay away". That was more than enough for our intrepid team, and we piled off the boat like it was the Titanic. The cool river water was a blessing in spite of the initial concern about cayman alligators ripping limbs off. We returned to the boat to view more of the abundant wildlife and watch the sun set over the wild terrain. The night was far from over, however, as we still had to go nighttime croc hunting (not killing just spotting) clad with torches and mozzie spray. We left in the midst of darkness and trawled down the river; our torches flashing around to expose the two reflected eyes in the water. Negro, the guide, pulled to the side, jumped out of the boat before climbing back in with a 4ft alligator in his hands. We took turns in touching the scaley beast while he pointed out various characteristics. The night ended soon after as we were to be awakened for sunrise over the Pampas.
Day two commenced with the aforementioned beautiful sunrise, followed by breakfast and preparations for the day's main event: big snake hunting. We walked under the strong near equatorial sun hours, clad with boots and suntan lotion, through thickets, bogs and marshes in search of snakes. At one point we waded through a marsh filled with crocodiles and reeds up to our waists, our boots filling, and clothes becoming sodden, with the putrid water. After pretty much giving up hope, on our return journey back to the boat we came upon an anaconda, which was passed around to be held. However, as I was about to elect to hold the snake, it bit our guide on the hand. He casually removed the venomous little shit, assuring us that he'd be fine. This, though, was enough to put me off holding it. We returned to find a large anaconda constrictor wrapped around a tree in the camp, which was not poisonous. This snake I gladly held and the necessary photographic evidence was captured. After which we ate, showered and were ushered out to go Piranha fishing. I caught three. We returned to the camp to try our Piranhas after stopping at some river bar for sunset, beer and a game of volleyball.
The next day we undertook our daily routine of swimming with dolphins whenever possible before finally being returned to Rurrenbaque. We ate, drank cocktails and swung in hammocks before my parting ways with the guys. The fllowing morning I would fly back to La Paz before leaving as quickly as possible for Peru and the north.
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