More from South America

Well for those readers of my blog, but not my emails, below is a the second edition of my updates from South America. This sent from Bolivia in early February.

The image above is an old Quechua woman I had the pleasure of photographing while I was on Taquile Island in Lake Titicaca, Peru.

I'm writing this as I look over the city of La Paz from my hotel room. I

should be writing this from the rainforests of upper Amazonia, but as you

will soon hear that has yet to come. As I write this, through the glass I

can hear and see a city-wide waterfight. Kids of all ages are wandering

the streets in packs drenching each other with water guns capable, as far

as I can tell, of dishing out the approximate volume and force as a fire

hose. There are no less than 50 kids in the street below, and others on

the neighboring roof-tops (taking advantage of the opportunity to drop

water balloons on the opposing forces). I'd venture out into the streets,

but gringos are fair game in this ongoing battle. This I learned last

night as I walked down the street about 9pm and had a knee-high child

stroll up and spray me square in the face. He then took off running,

giggling like a crazed midget. Even some of the parents are taking part

(generally from the safety of their apartment windows). I've been watching

one father sitting in a chair on his fifth floor balcony a full bucket of

water waiting beside him. I'm hesitant to look away too often for fear

I'll miss his strike.

So here I am in La Paz. I arrived here on the evening of the 30th,

overwhelmed by the size of the city, the volume of the traffic, the sheer

numbers of people. The streets are filled with white Nissan and Toyota

micro-buses which play the part of public transit. They are capable of

packing an extraordinary number of people into a very small van. (Update:

the father with the bucket just attacked, drenching not the hordes of kids

prowling below, but a pair of unsuspecting, adult, pedestrians. The

bucket-man seems elated at his success. This is why I'm not venturing out

until the streets are again peaceful. If only I had a handful of water

balloons...). The plan was to spend just one day here and then head to

Rurrenabaque, a small city in upper Amazonia, on the first. I spent my

intermediate day exploring the city, continuing to be overwhelmed, seeing

museums, exploring markets, and wondering just what the hell all the dried

llama fetuses are about. (As I later discovered they are buried beneath

the corner stone of new house to bring wealth and luck to the owners).

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's revert back a few days: After my

rainy afternoon in Puno, Peru, I headed out on Lake Titicaca aboard a

tourist boat. My destination was Isla Taquille, a very traditional little

island just north of the Bolivian border. After a brief stop at the Islas

Flotantes (the famous floating islands of Lake Titicaca) a visit which was

disturbingly contrived, we headed across the open water toward Taquille.

From 11am to 2pm each day the island is inundated with tourists who stop

here for lunch on their all-day cruises of the lake. The people who live

there have fought hard to retain their lifestyles and traditions, going so

far as to kick out all the non-island businesses and turning their entire

tourist operation communal. I arrived on the island with the group from my

boat and was the only one attempting to spend the night. I struggled up

the hill to the village bearing my over-sized pack and was soon greeted by

an older man who asked in broken Spanish (most islanders speak only

Quechua) if I needed a place to stay. Gratefully I said I did and he led

me down a short slope toward a tiny little house with an even tinier door.

In fact the door was so small that I had to remove my pack and push it

through before squeezing myself past the frame. I worked my way through

and stumbled into the room just in time to see the man disappear through

another tiny door. I followed, grunting through into the family kitchen (a

dark, dirt floored, adobe brick walled room where the woman of the house

was cooking). I nodded hello and was led through (you guessed it) another

teeny door and into a small, flowery courtyard. On one side lay a building

I can only describe as a hobbit apartment building: two floors, two doors

on each floor, the whole building no more than 20 feet wide. Presumably

for their own enjoyment, the family decided the best place to put the

220lb gringo and his 80 pounds worth of gear was on the second floor,

which required climbing up a ladder onto a rickety balcony and through yet

another tiny door. I hauled my stuff up to the room, doing my best to

ignore the giggling emanating from the courtyard below. I dumped my pack

grabbed my binoculars and camera and headed straight out explore the

island. I didn't return to my tiny room until after sunset when the

electricity free island plunges into darkness.

When the last of the tourist boats left shortly after 2pm, the entire

character of the island changed. Suddenly I was the only gringo, and

everyone wanted to say hello. As I wandered around looking at birds and

chatting in broken Spanish to the locals, little girls would come up to me

and ask me questions in the quietest of whispers. I stopped to play soccer

with a couple boys atop a hill amongst Inca ruins, I watched Mountain

Caracaras, Wing-barred Cinclodes, and Andean Flickers foraging in the

afternoon sun. Finally I settled down on a stonewall overlooking the lake

to watch the sunset. Shortly I was joined by three men (all dressed in the

traditional white shirt, black vest, black pants, ornate woven belt and

red stocking caps) and three little girls of about 12. The men were

knitting hats, the girls spinning yarn with hand spindles and we sat and

chatted for more than an hour as the sun slowly sank into the lake. When I

realized I was hungry I asked one of my new friends where I might find a

restaurant. He gave me a quizzical look and explained, as though to a

child, that the restaurants were only open when the tourists where there,

the locals after all, had kitchens. How about a store? I asked. Again a

quizzical look, no he said, they are all closed by now. Thinking at this

point that I was sure to go hungry, I looked around for help from one of

the girls, who grinned and said that her family owned a small tienda just

down the road and she'd open it up for me. Gratefully, I followed her to

the store and purchased a selection of health foods like Ritz crackers,

saltines, and cookies which became both dinner and breakfast for the

following morning.

Around ten that night I woke up to rain, hard, pouring, drenching rain;

the kind of rain that vibrates houses. It lasted all night, making me

wonder at times if the adobe bricks were going to erode away as I slept.

Finally about 6:30 it let off and eventually stopped. When I heard the

first Rufous-collared Sparrow sing, I got up, grabbed my camera and big

telephoto and headed off to photograph birds. It was a perfect morning for

it. Muted, cloudy light, the grass and stones fresh after the rain.

Chiguanco Thrush, Cinereous Conebill, Peruvian Sierra-Finch,

Black-throated Flowerpiercer, my shutter went snap, snap, snap. It was a

fantastic morning. That afternoon I talked my way onto a tourist boat

heading back toward Puno and arrived there, feeling a touch of culture

shock about 5pm.

OK back to the more recent past: On the first of February, (yesterday), my

flight to the Amazon was supposed to depart about 4pm, being the rainy

season, I had been warned that there are many flights cancelled so I

called ahead and received no answer from the airline. I took my chances

and headed to the airport. (Interesting fact: La Paz is home to the

highest international airport in the world, located about 4080 meters

above sea level or more than 13,000 feet.) I arrived to find my flight on

time. Much relieved I checked in and took a seat to wait. A rumor spread

among the few waiting passengers: flight delayed an hour. Delayed is

better than cancelled I reasoned and continued to wait as I looked out the

window toward the lower slopes of Bolivia's second highest mountain

Illamani (the top was obscured by clouds). Then when the hour was up and I

figured we were about to board, a woman from the airline came through and

very apologetically told us the flight was cancelled. Back to the city I

went...

Determined not to spend the next morning moping around, I asked the cabbie

who took me back to town to come by and get me the following morning

(today). He arrived about 745 and we crawled through the traffic toward

the Corioco Road, also known as the most dangerous road in the world. The

upper portion however is not so dangerous and is in fact a surprisingly

well built two-lane highway. The road climbs up out of La Paz to a high

point of about 4800m (15360 feet). At the top there is a small lake where

we stopped as I glassed for birds. It was quite empty, except for several

black-headed Andean Gulls, and single male Ruddy Duck. The road then

plunged downward toward the Amazon and I had the driver make several stops

along the way to look for highland species. The weather was foggy and

clouds were rushing through in curtains obscuring then revealing the

surrounding mountains and valleys. Huge waterfalls tumbled down the slopes

carrying the recent rains toward the Amazon. We stopped at a somewhat

degraded stand of Polylepis (a short, high elevation tree that plays host

to a small group of specialized bird species). None of which were to be

found at this particular spot and so I had the cabbie turn back toward the

city. I arrived back at the hotel shortly before noon allowing plenty of

time to pack my bags (again) before heading to the airport. I called the

airport at 2pm to ask about the status of my flight. Much to my

disappointment...cancelled, but at least I didn't need to make another

trip to the airport to find that out. So now I'm scheduled to leave

tomorrow morning at 10am, or 2pm, or 4pm, whichever flight manages to get

out. So please, all of you, say a little prayer to the weather gods for

clear skies over Bolivia tomorrow.

Final water fight update: It has started to rain, which ironically has

driven all the wet children from the streets. I'm relishing the irony.