The Arena Of The Unwell: The Road To La Paz - Halfway Between The Gutter And The Stars

In OneWorld terms, I'm travelling a land segment between Lima and La Paz. OK, so I jetted out of Lima a bit sharpish ahead of The Inca Trail but I still have to plot a course from Cusco to La Paz. There's plenty to see along the way and not really enough time.

Cusco has been very kind to me. Lovely people, decent accommodation, good food and a generous helping of western entertainment but the altitude here sucks big donkey dobblers. Whilst not exactly the epitomy of coolness, mouth-breathing is something of a necessity here. We spend years near sea-level breathing through our noses but up here it simply doesn't work anymore and old instinctive habits die hard. It's a weird experience which I can only liken to a conscious form of sleep apnea. You'll be casually going about your business until you're overcome by lack of oxygen and need to inhale like your life depends on it. I've got about another nine days of this before returning to something a little more natural.

I'm heading east and an overnight bus to Arequipa seems like a good first step. Cruz Del Sur is the daddy of comfortable land transportation round these parts so I take a taxi (which in Cusco is more like an underpowered go-kart) to the bus terminal and hop on the best looking bus I've seen in a long while. I collpase into my leather chair which doubles as a bed for the night, take my boots off and settle down. A couple of hours later the whole bus is awoken by a squeal of brakes and a huge bang which throws everyone up in the air. I work out the dozy driver has gone full pelt into a speed ramp. No harm done but I think the stewardess should have been handing out new underwear with our complimentary drinks. Getting up to take a piss a few minutes later I notice how cold the bus has gotten. The speed-ramp mishap hasn't helped matters as there's now a huge wet patch of "something" on the carpet outside the toilet which I walk straight into ... in my socks! When I ask the stewardess if she can do something about the temperature she shrugs her shoulders and bizarrely appears to blame it on the time of year. What the ... ? This bus is like a spaceship masquerading as a cryogenic chamber - they'll be hacking us out with ice picks in the morning. Wet socks removed I spent the rest of the night shivering and wishing I'd heeded Neil's advice before leaving London which I'll now pass on to you. Take a sleeping bag on the overnight buses ... and consider keeping your footwear on.

After Lima, Arequipa is Peru's largest town and a popular destination with travellers. I'm staying at The Point which upon first viewing looks more like a youth club for failed graffiti artists. The main bar area is covered from floor to ceiling with badly articulated obscenities and crudely detailed genitalia. Sure, I'm disgusted now, but within 48 hours I'll be pissed and standing on a chair with a marker pen in my hand too. Shameful.

Not wanting to waste any time I head into town and get cultural. Entry to the Santa Catalina Monastery is a little overpriced by Peruvian standards but it's absolutely fascinating. A small number of nuns still occupy one corner but the majority of this city within a city has been handed over as an attraction for snap-happy tourists. The combination of smoke blackened walls and late afternoon sun streaming through the rooms make for some pretty eerie scenes inside. The views across the city to the mountains from the highest point are impressive too.

Many of the staff at these hostel bars are English speaking volunteer staff and it's good to get to know them. They work for a free roof above their heads but party pretty hard too. They often get to know the locals and the best places to go out in town so once the bar closes we all head out to a place in town named Deja Vu. Downstairs is a little generic for my liking but the superb DJ on the rooftop terrace has a music collection to kill for and keeps the punters bouncing until dawn. Somewhere along the line a local dude in a suit decides he wants to go a couple of rounds with me because he spilled my drink. Clearly my fault. Through a rum-drunken haze I manage to remember I'm in his backyard and thankfully maintain my composure.

Needless to say, the next day is a bit of a struggle but I do manage to get my act together in time to plan a trip to Colca Canyon for the following day. Being short on time and coming so soon after the Inca Trail I decide against one of the much hyped multi-day hiking tours and take the fat tourist bus option instead. It's a criminally early 3am pickup which puts to bed any idea of a repeat performance at the bar tonight. On the bus we have a Peruvian tour guide and I think I'm the only English speaking passenger. Sucks for her, because now she has twice the dialogue to get through. She runs through her Spanish spiel at the front of the bus, bounces over to my seat and repeats it to my face in English then skips back again to continue in Spanish. It's worthy of a comedy sketch and it continues all day. I haven't got the heart to tell her I'm not all that interested in the average wingspan of the adult male Condor, we certainly didn't see any of the bastards to check. By the way, the scenery here is absolutely jaw-droppingly beautiful so, iPod plugged in, I'm snapping away like crazy whilst pretending to pay attention. The day is topped off by seeing a bunch of flamingos in a mountain lake - Galapagos promised these and totally failed to deliver so I'm pretty happy with my day and upon return to the hostel I totally overdo the celebrations.

The next morning, with a head like cotton wool and a hint of last night's stagger, I head for the bus station and bid farewell to Arequipa. Next stop is Puno on the western bank of the vast Lake Titicaca which stretches east into Bolivia. I'm doing it Cruz Del Sur style again. No breakfast, seat back, legs up - this one's a rough ride and I try to sleep off my excesses. I'm staying at Puno's branch of The Point - it's not winning any prizes for the cosiest hostel and the town itself doesn't fare much better. Perhaps harsh, but for travellers Puno is a one trick pony. Every morning dozens gather by the docks and head out onto the lake on the slowest boats known to mankind.

Our first destination is the floating reed islands which are impressive and truly freaky. Nothing can prepare you for your first step onto these mattresses on water. The people who live here literally survive off the reeds which cover large areas of western fringe of the lake. The occupants have perfected the art of tethering the reed beds to produce little floating villages on which they build reed houses to live in. They move between the islands on boats built entirely from reeds. I'm not kidding, they even eat the stuff - but I suspect they're just showing off to us because the reed hut in the corner sold me a Snickers bar and I reckon they've got a stash in their back pockets for when we leave. "Well done son, we fooled them stupid gringos again!"

The next bit I could have done without. It takes us nearly three painfully slow hours to get to Taquile Island. The ridiculously long journey time totally detracted from what should have been a decent bit of cultural tourism. Yes, the views of the lake are sweet and, yes, it's fascinating that the main occupation of the native men here is knitting (?) but I was done for and just wanted to leave as quickly as possible. If you manage to find a half-day trip which does just the floating reed islands I suggest you do that, sack off Taquile and get an early bus out of Puno.

It's time to leave Peru on the most picturesque, if slightly uncomfortable, bus journey so far. We hug the southern banks of the lake all the way to Copacabana just across the border in Bolivia. Along the way I see constant reminders of what makes rural Peru tick. Forgotten women, children and (occasionally) men scraping a living in vast crop fields surrounded by churches and dilapidated buildings festooned with political propaganda for this weeks great saviour. They're clearly just surviving but they seem happy and proud enough. Are they? What exactly do they expect to achieve this year that they patently failed to for the last fifty? I don't really know for sure. I'd love to speak to them and find out. Putting my philanthropic hat on for a sec, why the hell don't we move away from the mostly pointless French and German bias in UK schools and teach Spanish (or Chinese) instead? I'm sure more good would come of it. Am I alone in thinking this? The language barrier forces my head into the sand once again. Must try harder.

The border crossing at Bolivia is little short of embarrassing for American travellers. Bolivia appears to discriminate against them, operating what's known as a reciprocation fee to enter. A pair of US backpackers on the bus leave themselves a bit short of cash and are turned away. The bus can't wait for them so we leave the poor sods to trudge back through no man's land, fully laden, to the nearest ATM as we continue to Copacabana and our onward buses.

My connecting bus is bound for La Paz. It's packed full, pretty ropey and smells like the exhaust has somehow been fed back into the cabin. A few miles down the road we're turfed out again. We're crossing the lake at it's narrowest part and have to pay for the privilege. Looking at a map I'm not exactly sure why this is necessary. Presumably the road to La Paz is better on the northern banks but I can't help wondering if this is just another case of the bus drivers abusing their position to subsidise the income of their friends and family which seems to happen all the time. The passengers take a small motorboat as our bus bobs along precariously on a flatbed barge. The final stretch to La Paz is utterly gorgeous and well worth the inconvenience of the lake crossing. The polished surface of the lake inverts the terrain as it stretches off into a hazy horizon. We weave between the mountains as the sun starts to set, one minute the lake is on our left bathed in light, then in the shadows on our right, then swiftly back to the left again - you don't get to see this variety of terrain and colours often.

Some time later we enter the El Alto neighbourhood of La Paz. It's an absolute hell-hole. I'm hoping things improve further in and I'm rewarded quickly enough. The main part of town is in a huge crater-like shape surrounded on all sides by huge mountains. The road spirals around and down into the sprawl. The relentless descent reminds me of one of those funnel-shaped charity coin boxes and our bus has just been rolled in from the top. It's the first town I've seen with buildings over four floors high since Miami and I feel strangely at home. As we come to a halt the thunder and rain start. On board the bus I met a couple from Ireland who don't have anything booked in La Paz but have heard good things about The Wild Rover, where I'm staying, so we run through the rain to a waiting cab and head straight over to the hostel. As we arrive the rain is worse than ever and the driver stupidly decides to leap out to help us with our bags without taking payment inside which results in a mini stand-off between the passengers gathered under the canopy of the hostel and the driver sitting behind the wheel waiting for his fare. One of us is gonna get pissed on. I try to look busy until one of the others gives in a gets a soaking. I think I still owe them too, hehe!

Next stop, altitude with two-wheeled attitude ... The Death Road.

Choon of the day: Arctic Monkeys - Only Ones Who Know