Lake Titicaca, part 1: Bolivia

   From Sucre we took an overnight bus to La Paz, the other capital of Bolivia.  One of our guidebooks invited us to take in the café culture of the city.  However, with a million people and almost as many motorised vehicles packed into a small steep-sided valley the effect was claustrophobic, heightened by the shortness of breath from the altitude and pollution.  We only stayed long enough to have a curry at the genuine London curry house, complete with eye-watering vindaloo and a young American chap foolish enough to order it.  The next day we hopped on the first tourist bus we saw going to Copacabana, three hours away on Lake Titicaca.

   Kizzy was upset at the very concept of Lake Titicaca.  The locals proudly boasted it to be the world’s largest high-altitude lake.  “It’s not the highest and it’s not the largest”, she noted disdainfully, “so what’s so special about it?”  At 3,800 metres above sea level it is the best place to get altitude sickness and sea sickness at the same time.

   On our first day by the water we took a slow boat to Isla del Sol, birthplace of much of the Incan mythology.  The scenery and the weather were both pleasant and the hilly trail didn’t leave us breathless so we were satisfied that we had acclimatised to hiking at altitude.  Our second day by the lake was Good Friday and from what we had been told, Copacabana had the best celebrations in Bolivia.

   We had enjoyed the Palm Sunday service in Sucre the previous week and talked a couple of German girls into joining us for the Good Friday evening mass.  There was promise of a parade afterwards for us to look forward to.  The service was watched over by lifelike effigies of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, both of whom sustained a steady stream of pilgrims pressing through the crowd to lay hands on them. 

   After an hour the church was packed and thronging.  Jesus was taken from the cross and interred in a glass coffin.  We had the surreal experience of joining a procession of men dressed in white robes and pointy white hoods who escorted Jesus and his mother out of the church and around town, stopping periodically to mark the fourteen Stations of the Cross.  The priest led the escort, continuing to preach from a PA system on the back of a Toyota pick-up truck while the congregation packed the narrow streets of Copacabana with candles and responsive prayer.  In between stations a truly dreadful marching band provided musical accompaniment.  They atoned for their lack of talent and with sheer stamina, playing the same 20 bars of music over and over again for 90 minutes as Jesus was held up by the traffic around the main square.