Andrew and I made a happy pair, him with his upset stomach, me with my sinus infection/ strep throat/ black death, as we barreled along in the bus to Puno. We had long decided that we were going to see Lake Hoohoopoo...I mean, Titicaca, and, with the festival in Cusco finally over, it was time to get going.
Why Lake Titicaca? In all honesty, I'm pretty sure it was solely the fact that it has a funny name. Is that a valid reason to visit somewhere? Do other people do that? Do y'all do that? (If so, I might recommend the Spanish town of Peñiscola, just north of Barcelona.)
At any rate, armed with our initial impetus to see such a place, we attempted to disguise our shameful reasoning by learning what we could about the lake so that we could b.s. our way through explaining our motivations to our fellow, more cultured, travelers. What we came up with, courtesy of the guidebook, is that the lake is the highest navigable lake on earth, there are man-made floating reed islands, and that it is the birthplace of civilization according to the Incas.
Armed with that abundance of knowledge, we set up a proper tour with a tour agency in Cusco. Unfortunately, to be able to "do" Titicaca, one must have four days available; we only had three. As two of the days were travel days though, we were able to work things out by taking an overnight bus and then launching into the tour immediately. Andrew and I were sold on all of this by the tour operator's assurance, counter to the holy guidebook, that the bus would be comfortable. "Two levels...big, bed seats."
If we have time when we get back to Cusco, before we have to catch our flight to Lima, I'm going to kick that guy flush. There were two levels to the bus; tis true, but the big bed seats were nothing more than economy airline seats with bizarre wedge headrests and nonexistent leg room. Perhaps the tour operator thought the fact they reclined made them bed seats? When I lowered mine it put me at that perfect angle where I felt that I was neither lying down in a position where I could sleep, nor was I sitting in a proper sitting position to sleep either. When the grimy, 20 y.o. German sitting in front of me lowered his, he crushed my knees and thus wedged my lower body into one position for the duration. My comfort, or discomfort rather, was nothing compared to Andrew's, however, as, since he sat on the aisle, he was knocked in the head by the marching horde of Peruvian women with massive bags of laundry strapped to their backs.
We'd gotten on our way at about 9:30pm. The bus, packed to the gills, was without air conditioning and was so hot that all the windows were covered with condensation. In an effort to save us from the stifling heat, I slid the window next to me open. We fell asleep, miraculously.
When we woke up at 3:30am, the bus having stopped for a moment to give the bag ladies a chance to smack Andrew senseless, I couldn't move my head from the crick in my neck, my throat was on fire, and it was freezing in the bus. I didn't want to move; I merely wanted to experience such an exquisite ordeal. Andrew took the opportunity to use the facilities downstairs. When he came up, he informed me that the bathroom door lock didn't work and there was no light. As that seemed like my sort of adventure, I made a run for it.
I pulled on the door, but it WAS locked. I stood there, in the entranceway to the bus, shivering because the bus door was open and watched tricycle taxis in whatever little town pick up the bag ladies. The bus started rolling, with the hydraulic door next to me still open, and whoever was in the bathroom still hadn't come out. I knocked on the door and heard a muffled whimper. I continued to hold on for dear life for a minute or so before the driver remembered to press the button and close the door.
About that time, a hottie in the lower compartment, which had its own door, made her way over to stand in line with me. The only problem was that, while the bus driver didn't remember to shut the main door for so long, he had remembered to lock the lower compartment, by hand, when he'd walked by during the stop in the little town. I attempted to play the part of the white knight but to no avail. No matter which way I turned the lock, I couldn't get the door open. Finally, in a fit of frustration masked as bravado for the looker, I put a shoulder into the door and it opened.
We stood there in the hallway as I explained that the bathroom was occupied. As she had no confidence in me after my flailing at the door, she asked if I were sure. I knocked, yet, again, but there was no response.
As the annoyed woman standing next to me was very attractive and I had no idea what the woman I might offend looked like, I played the odds and gave the bathroom door a considerable yank. It flew open to reveal no one inside. Sheepishly, I entered.
As Andrew had said, there were no lights. The bus was playing pothole slalom and I felt as though what I were about to attempt was as difficultly similar as mid- air refueling. There was no way the hottie wouldn't know it was me who destroyed the bathroom. Coward that I am, I buckled back up, stepped out, and informed her she would probably appreciate going before my impending debacle. Though taken aback, she accepted my offer nonetheless.
Fortunately for all readers, I need not go on in my usual manner, but, rather, I shall blithely say that I took care of business with an agility and determination that I scarcely thought possible.
After that, Andrew and I only had an hour on the bus, though the hour did feature a screaming child, before we were deposited in Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca. As we had three hours to wait until the tour guide picked us up, we attempted to find somewhere in the terminal to sleep. The deliciously biting cold that comes from being at 3800m (12500ft), the peddlers hassling us, and the blaring Lifetime movie (starring Keri Russell, no doubt titled something to the effect of "Not Without My Child, The INSERT NAME HERE Story") conspired to keep us cranky, miserable and without sleep.
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