Thursday 17 May, 2018, Arequipa to Puno.

I’d booked on the 10:30am coach but got up early and packed and tried to take a shower but couldn’t get any hot water so just moved on and had breakfast and left the place early (it wasn’t the place I’d booked – I’d been switched). The taxi to the coach terminal should have been in the crusher – a wreck with no suspension. I worked out the fare on my way there – 7.7 soles, 70 cents more than I paid on Uber for the same journey. The driver didn’t question it, not surprisingly, considering the state of the vehicle. I arrived at the coach terminal at 8:27am and knew there was a coach departing at 8:30am so quickly paid my departure tax and hurried out to the coach – just my luck it was the same old rust bucket I’d come up from Tacna on (I recognised the rust pattern). I dropped my bags at the door and rushed back inside to get my ticket changed – no problem. Back outside I waited for my bag to be loaded without any joy and eventually took it with me onto the coach at 8:35am. As soon as I was on we pulled out. I wondered if in fact they’d been waiting for me to get on with my bag. If I get to Puno early enough I may be able to hang out my laundry which almost dried last night. The coach was almost empty so plenty of room for my bag and I have the same front window seat I’d booked on the 10:30am departure so I’ll enjoy the scenery en route. As usual I’m the only gringo on the bus.  I have my phone at the ready to capture the magnificent volcanos surrounding the city. After crossing to the other side of the terminus we stop to pick up the economy passengers who presumably have paid less than 20 soles for the trip. After an inspector gets on to make sure everyone has a paid ticket we depart but before we’re out of  the city we stop and more passengers get on who I suspect pay the driver cash and even less again. The windows are dirty so it’s hard to find a spot to take a photo but I manage a couple of the mountains and a car from the 40s or 50s like you’d see in Cuba. The front window of the bus has a large message painted across it which makes photography tricky between the letters – I’m not sure but maybe it says “This coach for the crusher in March 2018”). If there is Aircon it’s not working or switched on and the coach is uncomfortably warm and stuffy. I’m in the “suicide seat” in front of the window but the seat belt is broken and this mountainous route is notorious for coaches going over the edge – I reason that a seat belt isn’t going to be much help in that situation anyway so just decide to have faith in the driver and put my trust in God. After 90 minutes we finally reach the outskirts of this huge city and the delimited speed zone. The double yellow lines on the road don’t seem to mean the same as they do in NZ – here they’re an invitation to pass, apparently. At last I see a very active volcano in the distance and hope we pass close enough for me to get a good picture as it’s sending up lots of smoke and ash. As we continue to climb my ears are hurting and we pass an older B-train that the tractor unit’s 400 horses have found too much and died – the trailer unit’s partly blocking the road but we sneak past without going over the edge. A few kilometres further on we start passing not the single shrines that populate the sides of the roads here but multiples of 10 or 11 where a minibus full of unfortunate travellers have gone over the edge to their death. I half expect to see a group of 40 or 50 where a coachload have met their waterloo. We finally reach a plateau and a sign advising “ Zona de Vicuna” and within minutes I see minibuses stopped on  the side of the road and numerous of the native animals being photographed by tourists. The coach doesn’t stop of course but I manage to capture a photo of the back leg of one of the Alpaca-like animals. They are numerous and often close to the road. I’m feeling light headed and wondering if my phone has an altimeter app I can download – I’ll look when I get to Puno if it’s not too late by then. I saw some coach companies have oxygen masks on them, but not this El Cheapo one. En route the coach stops in the middle of nowhere a couple of times to let women in their 50s or 60s off with their huge bundles at the start of dirt footpaths that wind their way up into the hills for miles. My guess is that they’ve been into the cities to sell their handwoven Alpaca rugs they’ve spent weeks weaving for a few Soles and are returning with things they need for living in their remote locations. At midday we pass through a village called Imata which is nestled alongside a nice clean stream. We’re still climbing across the plateau and it’s so hot up front I have to move to the back of the coach where it’s cooler on the shady side. The window is wired shut and the toilet has a padlock on it so no-one can steal the contents (?). Everything in Peru seems to be locked up against theft. Except the hundreds of abandoned derelict cars in the back streets of the cities. I don’t think some owners have ever heard of oil and so the cars only run until they run dry. I hear a few knocking big-end bearings in cars being driven around the city. ­­­­After cresting the plateau edge at an altitude of 4,400 metres there’s a large cobalt blue lake in the valley below which I guess may be an arm of Lake Titicaca. We descend to skirt the lake and I have doubts about my previous assumption – we’re heading away from it. An hour later we stop for a comfort stop in a small village where  the toilets are the “Asian” style level with the ground and “squat if you can” type. I just about knock myself out on a low lintel above a doorway in the darkened room but manage to grab a cold bottle of Sprite on my way out of the shop cum toilet. The cashier doesn’t even flinch when I hand her 1.5 soles in coins (despite me being a gringo). If I’d asked “Que Precio?” it probably would have been 3 soles. On this route every other vehicle is a tanker carrying around 50,000 litres of fuel – we have passed hundreds, sometimes several at a time, and with Bolivia having lost its coast access in the War of the Pacific I surmise they may be heading there. The coach starts down a river valley with a sizable braided river which widens the further we go and I expect we’ll reach the shores of Lake Titicaca before long as we’ve been traveling for about 5 hours now. A few kilometres before we reach Juliaca the side of the road looks like the local tip for hundreds of metres. Before long we reach Juliaca where the roads through the town are so bad we risk breaking an axle and crawl along at 5 kph. I log on to Google Maps and see that Puno is the next town about an hour away. Eventually we get back onto a paved highway and resume normal speeds. For some reason we do a U-turn and head back in the opposite direction. I wonder if the driver is lost – I know we’ve changed drivers because this one won’t even pass slower traffic when there’s 2 kms of clear road on straight stretches. The last one only needed 200 metres clear ahead of a blind bend while passing petrol tankers. We’re back on the rough road and I can’t type any longer – too difficult. We stop at the Juliaca terminal for 10 minutes and when we go to leave the driver selects the wrong gear and we move forward instead of back. I’m thankful he wasn’t the driver for the first half of the trip over the mountains. We finally reach the outskirts of Puno at 3:30pm. What I’ve seen of Lake Titicaca so far resembles the Okavango Delta (rushes) but in the far distance I can see water. As we crest a hill into Puno the lake itself is revealed in all its glory. I’m glad to see that Puno is much smaller than Arequipa and looks more prosperous. Tourism injects a lot of money into the economy here. The Airbnb is a bit hard to find – the numbers on the street jump from 724 to 700 but I see a door with doorbells in between the two numbers and press all 8 buttons as there’s no names or clues as to who they belong to. In a minute Roberto, the host, arrives and I’m relieved to find he speaks good English – it just makes communication that much easier, especially as he has to explain the water system for the shower, which involves switching on a pump and the best time to get any water pressure (this is Peru, remember!). The room is spartan but clean and I’m sure I’ll sleep okay on the rock-hard mattress. Unfortunately there’s no clothes line so I may have to buy a piece of cord tonight and hang my laundry in the bathroom or somewhere – maybe across my room, if I can find two anchor points.

I went out to find a street vendor selling anything palatable and soon found one selling bowls of noodles with spicy chicken pieces, which I requested. I suspect I’d been charged gringo prices at 5 soles but I didn’t question it – everyone has to make a living. The bowl is half filled with lukewarm (as usual) fries and the noodles stacked on top. Next time I’ll ask for “No papas”. The noodles on their own are enough. The air is noticeably thinner here and I find I'm having to consciously breathe deeper to get enough oxygen and I still feel lightheaded. I walked around looking for a store that might sell cord or string but the best I can find is one that wants to sell me a 2000 metre roll of cord just the right diameter for 20 soles. I explained that I only needed 5 metres hoping I could get that much off the roll for, say, 5 soles. No joy. I’ll just find a laundromat tomorrow, it’s easier. At least I did finally find a map of Peru and of Bolivia (I'm on the border now and may go there, but since it's even poorer than Peru, will be booking top class Airbnbs).With nothing else to do I’ve returned to my room to finish this post and will watch TV tonight if I can find an English language channel. Ciao.

A distant volcano erupting en route to Puno.