WEDNESDAY

It was a very early start for a very long and eventful day: 6:00am. I had a difficult night with constant diarrhoea which disrupted my sleep. I swallowed some Imodium tablets which acted like a cork; a temporary measure, but one which would allow me to enjoy my trip. Indeed, I surprised myself with the ease with which I slid back into life on the road. perhaps my enforced six days in La Paz were a necessary breath stop.

The Crillon bus was big and empty. It would drive us to Copacabana where I would stay for two days. The rest of the passengers (all four of them) would continue back to Puno meeting a Peruvian bus coming the other way. Two of the passengers were American, and I started talking to them from moment dot. It is odd that most of the people reading this on the Internet will be Americans, but on the road they are much more rare, outnumbered by the Germans, the French, the British or even the Swiss. There is an absolute dearth of people from the States in the age range 21-45. You meet mostly students or retired folk; Richard (a postman from Fresno) and his mate Paul (a software games programmer from Oregon) were an exception. They provided me with a partial answer. Americans work hard on their careers when they are young until late middle age and they are not helped by an abominably low holiday entitlement. Whereas for Germans, say, the culture of Wanderlust is well engrained in their blood with six-weeks holiday the norm in most jobs.

Richard and Paul were making the most of ten days holiday in Peru and Bolivia; going to as many places as they could in that time. They observed uncannily that the five of us were being taken care of by four staff: the driver, the carry-boy, the English tour guide Irena from Ukraine (who had married a guy from La Paz five years ago - now there's a good gene pool mix) and another, Spanish-speaking tour guide. All this and the bus was holding 44. "There is a big party of Germans (there is always a big party of Germans) coming from Puno whom we are picking up in Copacabana", explained Irena. "So relax and enjoy the trip".

We drove north through the altiplano passing the magnificent Huayana Potosi on our right through an increasingly verdant landscape. As we were drawing nearer to the lake, I saw my first tree since Sucre and the first signs of large-scale horticulture: haba beans, alfalfa, quinoa and barley. No underestimating the importance of Lake Titicaca on the Andean population. It has just under 1% salinity; this allows it to stay unfrozen all year round and keep a constant temperature of 10-12C. The effect on the weather of such a large body of water is immense. No wonder Tiwanaku prospered around its coast and the Inca legends have their first ancestors - their Adam and Eve - emerging from its waters.

Lake Titicaca is one of the place names with most resonance in our universal culture: up there with Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego, the Sahara, the Himalayas, Siberia or Jerusalem. Seeing Titicaca for the first time has the same effect of bumping into a famous movie star, like Marlon Brando, say. Everyone's imagination has been touched and moulded by him; everyone thinks they know him personally and everyone is stunned when proof of his existence is finally provided through a face-to-face encounter. I was thrilled to bits.

The lake is divided between Peru and Bolivia (the latter joke that they have the Titi and Peruvians have the Caca) and it means 'wildcat rock' after its shape. Indeed, if you look at it from above, it resembles a kind of local wildcat stretching its paws. This is a pattern throughout the area : the Incas and other civilisations (most notably the Nazca with their lines) seemed to be concerned, if not know, how natural or man-made features looked from above. There is no evidence they practised hang-gliding, but with all the hallucinogens they took, I don't think they needed much mechanical help for liftoff.

We got off at Huatajata where a five-star hotel (and a Very Hearty Breakfast) awaited us with a huge porcelain bowl of high quality coca leaves for tea (by now I was an expert). I stashed half the bowl in my pocket for further mastication. Around the hotel Crillon tours had built an eco-village where llamas were ready to be photographed next to women in full regalia, ponchos were being weaved and boats were being constructed from totoro reeds for the sake of tourists. I should remind you that Thør Heyerdahl built his Kon-Tiki boats here in order to try and justify his thesis that Easter Island was colonised by the Tiwanaku culture. Yes, there are some retaining walls on the island that look like Andean culture walls and one ancient 'moai' which looks like the monoliths in Tiwanaku, but modern DNA testing has proved without a doubt that the indigenous population and all skeletons found on the island are of Polynesian origin. And while I'm at it, let me plug my previous trip to Easter Island(with pictures!) which you can read about in

http://www.scroll.demon.co.uk/easter.htm.

Anyway, where was I ? Oh, the Crillon eco-village for people who dare not venture in the countryside and want the countryside brought to them. Nuff said.

Still, the trip on the catamaran was magical and not-quite but sort-of worth the extortionate price of the tour. Titicaca, not unlike Lake Tahoe, is at a high altitude (yes, yes, the highest navigable lake in the world at 3800m) and causes low clouds with strange formations to overhang. The crystal clear atmosphere turns the sky cyan and the waters of lake deep blue; it is however, beyond the straits of Tiguina where the full magnitude of the enormity of the lake becomes evident. At the straits a single man on a raft with a paddle carried whole buses across the straits from San Pedro to San Pablo and vice versa; there was also the outpost of the Bolivian Third Navy ("NO PICTURES" our captain said with comic seriousness). Beyond the straits, the horizon diffuses and the landscape looks blurred in blue like a Seurat painting. Villas dot the coastline, a kind of Malibu Andino.

We first approached the Isla de la Luna where the Inca virgins kept the fire of the Sun going - and weaved the vestments of the great Inca. In the 1940s a military regime and Bolivia has had its fair share) turned the main temple into an open prison and destroyed it to use the stones for building houses for the guards. As it happens there was a football match between the guards and the prisoners. The guards won and got so pissed celebrating, the prisoners nicked their boats and escaped to Peru. No prisoners - no reason for a prison left; but the temple (one of the most complete from Inca times) was lost to the world forever.

The Isla del Sol is inhabited by Aymara Indians who have certainly caught on that tourists like to take pictures. They pose in their clothes and their llamas and demand $1 for a picture. They have even wisened up to the zoom lens and they know that you are not taking a picture of the landscape if you are pointing your long lens in their general direction. Children demand sweets; as a result, teeth cavities have started appearing amongst the children living closest to the small harbour servicing the tourist boats. The commercial savvy of the Indians on the Isla del Sol was a shock to the system - and an indication of things to come in Peru.

Richard and I climbed to the top of the of the mountain, to the Fountain of the Eternal Youth. Irena collected some water and afterwards she sprinkled it on us while we were chanting the Inca magic words. Well, it didn't work. Back to mud masks I'm afraid.

Given the propensity of Inca temples in Lake Titicaca and the mystery of the lost Inca gold, it's an even greater mystery why no archaeological dives in a grand scale have ever been actioned. Yes, Cousteau in 1968-1973 organised an expedition after rumours of an underground city were spread, but he only found walls that would have served as breakwaters when the level dropped. In 1977, an illegal underwater investigation by a Japanese team was caught red-handed. Stone boxes with ritual Inca offerings were found in their possession, but the Japanese never told the authorities where they located them. They, too, however, spoke of an underground city with rows of columns and walls. In 1988 another, legal Japanese team started investigations by the small island of Koa where a ridge and an underground cave were known to exist - and bingo! more stone boxes and more figurines were found. And that, ten years ago was the most successful underwater expedition in the lake - we have only just started. (I have taken these facts from Peter Mc Farren's book 'An insider's guide to Bolivia') This is one of the interesting points about South and Central America. Investigation is still going on. Finds in Tiwanaku in the mid 80s, Titicaca in the late 80s and Chinchorro in Arica in the early 90s plus the research on Easter Island have turned archaeology exciting. To give you an idea: the first place I went to in Latin America was Mexico in 1987, as I was interested (and still am) in the Maya culture above all others. I saw what there was to see, but now I have to go back. The excavations at Copan and elsewhere have unearthed much which did not exist ten years ago. But I digress.

Copacabana has a wonderful location in the middle of a small bay between two high hills. It has a military camp (it is only 10km from the border) where photography is forbidden in theory: as the camp stands by the mooring, it is featured in the pictures of every tourist who has been there. But the big attraction of the town is the Cathedral of Our Lady Of Copacabana, a miraculous statue of whom is visited in an annual pilgrimage. It is not surprising that a place which has been holy since pre-Inca times and super-holy later, has ended as the centre of the Catholic faith in Bolivia. This syncretism of Aymara/Quechua animism and Catholic beliefs is best seen in Copacabana and I will return to it over and over again.

I stayed at the 3-star Hotel Plaza Azul ($25/night) but don't get too excited: there was water only during 7:10am, 12-2pm and 7-10pm. And this next to the highest navigable body of water. Still, it prepared me for Cuzco.

After a quick tour of the cathedral, Richard, Paul and I had lunch in the restaurant (or rather I ate little, feeling nauseous again) and said our good-byes exchanging email addresses. I met Ruben, the Peruvian guide who would be picking me up in two days' time for the journey to Puno. He was all too ready to offer me tours and tickets everywhere in Peru. "In two days' time", I said. "Now leave me alone".

Coz I felt bad. I was tired; I fell asleep for two hours and when I woke up I had an enormous pain in my belly. It was 6pm. I tried to find the only pharmacy in town, but it was closed when I arrived. My ache turned to colic. I saw signs to a hospital and started on the way up the northern hill past grazing pigs and stray dogs. After about one mile, I found it. It was open, thank the Goddess, and by then I was doubling in agony. So I entered the realm of the Bolivian NHS by stepping in the Copacabana Enfermeria amongst the Aymara who were as inscrutable in illness as they were in health. A nurse approached me wide-eyed and informed me that the doctor would see me soon but I would have to pay.

"That's fine", I said. "I don't expect to be treated free".

The doctor was a young woman - Maria - who, as a newly qualified doctor had to spend a specific amount of time in rural areas. She was ever so sweet. She diagnosed gastro-enteritis and gave me pills: an antibiotic (rodumoxazol) and an antispasmodic (propantiline).

"How much do you weigh ?", she asked.

"13.5 stones", I said in British units which we transferred to kilograms using pocket calculators, slide rules and log tables. "But why do you want to know".

"Oh", she replied. "I was thinking of giving you an injection for the pain now".

WHAT ? On auto pilot, I declined thinking dirty needles, AIDS, hepatitis et al. It was only later that I thought that well, this is the place where coca grows wild; I wonder what kind of narcotic she had in mind. Perhaps I was too quick there.

And my bill ? Translated and converted to dollars, it looks like this:

THURSDAY

Last night was tough. The antispasmodics worked immediately, but my throat was completely dry. I couldn't swallow and in order to eat something, I had to chew, drink some water and gulp down the food lubricated by the water. I woke up during the night many times, sometimes cold (there was no heating), sometimes sweating (I had a fever) but always consuming as much bottled water as I could drink. It worked. In the morning I was fine, though weak. And I never fell ill again.

The whole raisôn d'étre of Copacabana and the major breadwinner of the town is the church. In front of the large white courtyard, a Franciscan priest was blessing a minibus. It was decorated with red and yellow plastic flowers and ribbons, a bottle of champagne (yes!) was wasted showering its bonnet and front window, and a very happy driver and family posed with the priest for a commemorative photo. I told you driving in Bolivia was dangerous - and as you can see, they are themselves fully aware of that .

The interior of the church is nothing special - bog-standard Latin American baroque - except for the statue of the Virgin of the Copacabana placed in the front right corner of the sanctuary. Replica of course, as the real statue with its supernatural powers is far too precious to be shown at large outside festive days. The Museum - for which as usual, you have to make up a group - was a revelation, however. I recommend it highly as it is much more interesting than its more famous relative in Sucre cathedral. There is a huge variety of pilgrims' offerings: they range from Chinese vases to German crystal goblets; the image of the Virgin on a tortoise shell from the Beni district; gold and silver chalices inlaid with semiprecious stones; paintings from the Potosí - and due to the proximity - Cuzco schools of painting, all religious bar one, "The sacrifice of the llama" by an anonymous monk; a highly realistic white alabaster statue of Christ on the Cross; my first glimpse of portraits of Santa Rosa de Lima, who inspires cult worship second only to the Madonna amongst Peruvians; an astonishing array of golden braided robes for the miraculous statue of the Virgin who has her dress changed every month - she never re-uses any, and a sign informs the faithful that any dress received NOW will not be used until 2016; and finally, the best example of the syncretic Aymara/Quechua faith I witnessed: a painting of the Holy Trinity with the Holy Spirit represented by a condor. I suppose, they have never seen a white dove.

There is a small, but perfectly formed, Inca site just outside the town, by the cemetery: Intinkala. This was a ceremonial site, with carved huge stones for seats, a platform facing east to observe the sunrise, and a possible sacrificial altar with a groove resembling a serpent for the drainage of the blood. It resembles the larger 'Inca throne' within the vast complex of Saqsaywaman in Cuzco, though I did not know it then.

I tested my fitness by deciding to climb the steep 300-ft rock on the south of the city, called Calvario. I didn't regret it. The day was warm, sunny and clear and the views from above of lake Titicaca superb. The colours were deceptively Mediterranean; after the aridity of Uyuni, Potosí and La Paz, Lake Titicaca and its environs were an oasis for the eyes. The climatic importance of the area makes it clear why it became the centre of worship for the Andean civilisations, which, be in no doubt, still continues. Christianity or not, the Indians are still well-steeped in old traditions. How do I know ? Because amongst the Christian crosses on the top, there were carefully laid plots with Pachamama offerings as I had come to recognise them from the La Paz witches' market. Facing the lake, on a balcony there were about fifty of them carefully laid out, towards, you guessed it, the Sun.

The Franciscans clearly gave in to the inevitable Cerro-worship of the Indians and transformed the hill a hundred years ago to a 'Calvary' where the cross is ritually carried every Easter time. Presumably the Indians understood about sacrifice on the top of a hill, as the South American cultures regularly practised it - both animal and human. Only the best-looking children were chosen for appeasing the mountain gods of the Aymara or the Sun of the Incas. That, I suppose would explain why so many of the current-day locals look like the back of a bus: it was a Darwinian selection over centuries - survival of the ugliest, so what do you expect ?

From the top I could see where the Copacabana Bay stopped and I decided to hike there, something which took up the rest of the day. I walked past potato and bean fields, past pigs grazing by the lake and past the tourist boats which leave twice a day for the Islands of the Sun and the Moon - packed. After about an hour I surprised a young couple who had decided to take a swim into the lake and were emerging from the waters goose-pimpled and naked like the first Inca and his wife. I smiled and they smiled back; if it was me I would be more embarrassed by being caught stupid (I mean who wants to swim in the bloody freezing lake) than nude. A bit further down, a woman was collecting dead wood with her children. We smiled at each other: "Que te vaya bien", she said to me.

I approached a fisherman and his wife. They were picking up the fish of the lake - as small as whitebait - which had been left out to dry and were competing with many hungry gulls. Could I take a picture ? No, not even for money. I stood there and watched them make two large fish-bales out of the catch. I wondered how they had left the fish out without the gulls picking them off one by one beforehand. These were the real native fish of the lake. Kingfish (pejerrey) and trout (trucha del lago) had been introduced later. The trout is extremely tasty. At least as big as a salmon, I ate it later that evening grilled 'con ajillo' with copious amounts of garlic , so much garlic in fact that I probably did not need any more bactericides afterwards. Nothing inside me could survive the smell.

And so I was on my last night in Bolivia. I spent 22 days in the country and I never thought they would be so full of adventure and heartache when I was boarding the plane to Santa Cruz. There is no question that the country is a gem for people who are interested in off-the-beaten track tourism. Give it another ten years and we will have a Club Med on lake Titicaca and a Sheraton on the Salar of Uyuni. Or am I too pessimistic ?

Well, I think I am. The Indians in Bolivia - be they Quechua, Aymara, Beni or Chipaya, Chiriguano or Chiquitano, Tacana or Tsimane (I'd better stop before I mention all 45 linguistic groups in Bolivia- I can) - have shown a remarkable stealth and ability to survive against the odds: the inhospitable climate, the foreign domination and the imported religious and political dogmas. Remember, it is not just the Catholic Church which failed to conquer the hearts and the minds of the quiet, stoical campesinos: Che Guevara was ambushed and killed in Vallegrande near Santa Cruz. His message did not travel well amongst the peasants.

I have not loved Bolivia; but I have grown to respect it. Which, on an afterthought, is what its proud inhabitants would settle for: no more and no less.

PERU

FRIDAY

Today I was entering my 42nd country. If anything, Peru's reputation comes second only to Colombia's as a place of strife, kidnapping, theft and general anti-gringo mayhem. Plus there was a war with Ecuador brewing up north. The thought certainly crossed my mind: if I had been robbed in relatively gentle Bolivia, what fate awaited me in the hands of the clued-up and fearless Peruvian robbers? Well, you'll have to wait and see, but there is one thing I am letting on early on, which is the biggest surprise of my travels there - to me anyway. There was not a single day in Peru - and I spent twelve days there only around Cuzco and the south - when I was not stunned out of existence by something I saw. And we are talking stunned as in 'making incoherent noises while trying to describe the immensity of the spectacle'. Half of the writing in my diary on the days in Peru is in CAPITALS! with lots OF EXCLAMATION MARKS!!!!

I will spare you the enthusiasm, but it's hard to tone it down when I introduce you to Eric and Beatrice. We were going to share the minibus to Puno together. Eric and Beatrice were in their 50s; Swiss from Zurich, working in Bogotá touring Peru and Bolivia on a twelve day holiday. Eric was the director of the Latin American operations of a Swiss financial institution which enabled Latin American business to see and obtain credit in the wider world. (How ? By teaching them how to make a business plan and a case and guaranteeing 50% of the loan). Eric and Beatrice were both bon-viveurs in the way only money and age can teach you how. In the normal course of things we would meet and part and that would be it - quite a few noughts separated our bank accounts. But they ended up amongst the closest friends I made on my trip. There were two things that I found irresistible in their company: Eric's mean sense of humour which equalled mine, game set and match; and their pragmatic approach and approachability which suited their spontaneity; what you saw is what you got.

Eric and Beatrice kind of 'adopted' me (Beatrice said, I reminded her of her son) when they heard about the tale of robbery in Oruro and were to be a characteristic and important part of my stay in Cuzco. They had lived all over Latin America and spoke Spanish much better than me; their English was also perfect as happens with the Swiss.

Like in the movies, our relationship started on the wrong foot. Ruben came with the minibus to meet us at lunchtime. They were half an hour late. When they arrived, we got in and started on the unpaved, stony road to the border. Then Eric found out he had left his jumper behind. So we had to turn back and pick it up. Amazingly, it was still where he'd left it. I made some sharp comments about being careful, given my experience in Oruro. To my surprise, Eric did not offer the usual words of condolence; he jumped straight into a joke: "Haha. You've now got a new diary. Haha. How about prefacing with a comment in Spanish : Señor ladron, if you steal this diary, how about returning it to my address below with all the money you will make from the sale of my equipment ?"

I laughed and shook off my victim mentality once and for all.

It's only 10km to the border crossing but at 10 kilometres per hour it is, ermm, one hour on a very difficult road. We passed a old Mercedes saloon carrying something like ten Indian families which had a broken axle. Obviously, it was in need of a new blessing. We couldn't do much so we carried on - to the border at Yunguyo, where I got rid of my Bolivian money. It was an easy crossing, although I have heard reports that normal buses take ages and the officers are much more aggressive towards normal backpackers. But I had paid a large amount of money to avoid exactly that, and I did. Once we got through, bliss! the road was smooth and paved. Peru could not have welcomed us better.

The landscape hardly changes; still green fields and Indian adobe houses around the lake. "Why don't they build any windows", inquired Eric, ever-inquisitive. Indeed, there was hardly an opening in the buildings; just four walls and a door. Ruben shrugged his shoulders. "It's to keep out the cold". "But it must stink inside", Eric commented naively. "They stink anyway", Ruben replied.

We reached Juli and drove around the town, but decided not to stop so that we could reach Puno. Eric and Beatrice were going to the Uros islands on a private tour with Ruben. I could join them for $25. Bit steep, but it was certainly convenient. I did not have to spend more days in Puno. Although Richard and Paul had arrived from Cuzco by plane, the service had now been suspended and the only way was the train or the bus. Ruben could arrange the train tickets. He also gave me an address of a nice and cheap hotel in Puno. What the hell, I have to start trusting people. I trusted Ruben and I was better off for it.

When we arrive in Puno , we left our luggage in his agencia (Inka tours) and drove straight to the harbour where we got into a small motor boat to visit the Uros Islands. They provided the first truly magical moment so far.

The Uros islands are man-made. They are constructed out of the local totora reed; the Indians make huts out of them (although the thatched roofs now have plastic shielding underneath), they make boats out of them, they make fires out of them. Walking on the islands is like stepping on a waterbed. Yes, accidents do happen. people fall into the lake and sometimes never emerge - not necessarily tourists but drunken locals. There is an exceptionally good article by Miranda France, replicated in:

http://andrys.com/mfrance.html

which describes the life of the Uros Indians in great detail. There are many items of interest in this article: how women and men work in equal partnership; how sexual relations begin before marriage with no hang-ups; and how marriage itself is less preferable to cohabitation. Everything is done by the Indians themselves. A newly cohabiting couple, for instance, makes its own house and, extends the island a bit for its own ground. As the culture of the Uros Indians has been the most enduring and unchanging over time, it certainly is an excellent indicator of how life must have looked like and, most excitingly, must have been lived like, in the pre-Colombian era.

We first stopped on the island of Santa Maria where about a dozen families live. We were surrounded by little kids with sun-burnt faces trying to sell us their own simple kiddie drawings: "Un Sol, señor, comprame, comprame" (I bought a couple - I couldn't resist). The embroidered tapestries of the islands are also unique and the best I saw in the altiplano. They use bright imagery to describe their own mythology and cosmology as has been passed to them orally down the ages - fascinating. The reeds were receding dangerously under my feet. I walked up a shaky platform to observe the surroundings. Other islands dotted colourfully the horizon. I looked down on the chickens, ducks and pigs who were kept by the Indians for food. On top of the huts, duck carcasses were drying on the sun. On the edge of the island there was a small 'escuela flotante'. I climbed down, approached it and went in. Bare, but for a map of Peru and a table.

Has tourism changed the islands ? Well, yes, but in the sense that the introduction of money changed the culture: before the Spanish, and the advent of coinage, the Inca society considered wealth as synonymous with the amassing of textiles. Tourism has made the Indians aware that there is a world out there which is richer than them. Ignorance is bliss and many an Anabaptist cult, like the Amish or Mennonites, structures a whole lifestyle around it, but what is discovered can not be unlearned. The Indians now know that the tourists have better clothes, better shoes, are taller and better fed, have sweets and gadgets that snap the image of them and produce it on a piece of paper. How can life be the same after you realize the extent of your own poverty ? And, believe me, the eyes of the Indians show that they are aware of their predicament. Them and us: we were all on the same planet but we did not live in the same age. As we were taking off to another island, Soranipati, Eric was interrogating Ruben: "And do they have state pensions ?" Of course they didn't. Their only contact with the state was the registration of births and deaths. They didn't really bother with marriages.

The haunting looks of the children on Soranipati are still with me, as are the images: A woman feathering a dead duck. Girls skipping (or as the Americans say, jumping) rope in the only part of the island with solid earth. A dirty kid who was following me around asking for 'un Sol' with a naiveté which was ultimately graceful. A baby being fed gruel by his mother who posed for a picture for me - for no money - just the promise that I'll send a copy back. It seems apt that the best pictures I have from the whole trip are from those islands - it is amazing that they were taken by the cheap Canon compact I bought as a replacement in La Paz.

We returned to Puno very touched and very humble to a bit of a hassle. Our train tickets, promised by Ruben weren't there and we had to go personally to the station to pick them up with our passports. Well and truly pissed off, Eric gave Ruben a - probably standard low down - of how to run his business. We got our tickets having showed our passports and we shook our heads. Latin American absurdity had hit again: None of our tickets were issued on our names. My ticket was issued on the name of Patrick Hervé (no, I never found out who he was). The train was leaving at 8:00am but the ticket was made out for 7:30am. Tralala, and I am a doughnut.

The hotel Las Islas in the market area made up for all the insanity. It cost $20 with the best power shower this side of the Iguaçú falls. And they give you free maté de coca.

I had a quick wander around Puno at night where I had pizza in a place where they cooked in a wood oven. To remove any doubt, they were splintering wooden planks with their feet noisily, in front of us. Trouble is, the furnace only had space for two pizzas, and I was the last one in. I waited for my turn for about an hour - never mind. I was in a land with good beer again: I had many Cusqueña beers (yes, I was still taking antibiotics, so what ?) and got so pissed I had a very embarrassing slip of the tongue talking to the local couple next to me: "It's so sad to leave the shores of Lake Tequila", I uttered and sighed. They thought I was an obvious alcoholic and never spoke to me again.

SATURDAY

Surprisingly Ruben was on time at 7:15am to pick me up and the Swiss who were living in a hotel built on ancient Tiwanaku foundations by Lake Teq^H^H^H Titicaca. I was quite wired. Another 10-hr journey and remember what happened last time ? Eric and Beatrice calmed me down. "We'll look after you", they said.

Ruben said that a guide would be waiting for the Swiss at the station to pick us up and deliver us to the hotels at no charge. Good. Cuzco station is notoriously dangerous at night. We boarded the train (which left punctually at 8:00am) sitting in Inca class which was gringos only. Except Manuel.

Manuel was occupying the fourth seat in a four-sitter with the Swiss and myself. He was a chemical engineer from Lima who was going to Cuzco and Machu Picchu on his first holiday for five years: "I have lived in Peru for 60 years (he was nearing retirement but was surprisingly youthful) and I am ashamed never to have been to our prime tourist attractions", he let out. He fitted with us perfectly. Hard to believe that we can be so far apart in age and background and can share the same sense of humour. We all hit it off from his first joke:

Exam for a Peruvian railway engineer: the examiner asks the candidate:

"You see on the same track two trains heading towards each other. What will you do ?"

"I will change the rails by moving the points."

"The lever is gone. What will you do ?"

"I'll turn the red stop sign on so that they brake".

"It's not working. What will you do ?"

"I will call my cousin Pedro".

The examiners look perplexed.

"You will call your cousin Pedro ?"

"Yes"

"What will you tell your cousin Pedro ?"

"I will tell him: Pedro, run over here to see a huge crash!"

.....................................................

The Italian-made train was great fun. Riding the train ('riding' being the operative word here) was a cross between being on a ship on a very gusty Patagonian storm and trying to tame a small bull in a Mexican rodeo. Drinking our maté de coca was an exercise in futility. Might as well spill it directly on our lap. The waiters however, were wonderful, having perfected the art of walking, dancing and balancing trays all at the same time. They walked like John Cleese in the Monty Python Ministry of Silly Walks sketch, but that was the only way to serve hot beverages to people and not scald them in the process.

Like naughty schoolchildren, the four of us spotted two precariously-edged suitcases on the racks above: one above a German woman (half the train was occupied by the obligatory German party) and another by our neighbours in the next table, two Italian girls and a guy. Which suitcase would fall first ? It was the one on the Italian girl! Her backpack fell on her head and, in a great act of slapstick, all her clothes, cosmetics, knickers - you name it - were all over the corridor.

A long stop in Juliaca. We lost our locomotive. Oh, we are locked in. Why ? "To keep the locals out of the Inca class", said the waitress. Oh. And what were we waiting for ? "The train from Arequipa. It is always late". After one and a half hours we found the train and the locomotive and were off again. The armed guard jumped off in the city limits. Why was he leaving us now? The waitress looked at me as if she had to deal with a the village idiot. "Because there are no bandits beyond Juliaca", she replied.

Oh, I'll keep that in mind.

Lunch was $7: a pisco sour (Peruvian - *spit*), and fish, chicken or steak and a sweet. Chocolates, beer and maté extra. Eric had an altimeter and we watched it rise, until we passed the highest point after Santa Clara (4310m). After that, the scenery is breathtaking. Coming from the barren Bolivian altiplano, it was a shock to see so much plush vegetation continuing beyond Titicaca. Snowy peaks, rolling hilly countryside, adobe houses without windows ("Quick, Eric, there's a house with one small skylight") and stupid dogs who race the train, probably thinking that it was due to their bravery the big iron beast moved on.

We got talking politics. Manuel was scathing about Peruvian politicians ("I have never voted for the winning side", he said. "Why - have you always been a candidate ? hahaha", retorted Eric) and Eric was scathing about Colombian politicians. However, he was raving about the country.

"Surely Bogotá is the most dangerous city in the world", I commented.

"Well, we've lived there for a year - previously we lived in Rio - and during this time, they burgled us, alright ! They burgled our empty chalet in Zurich!, hahaha".

"Colombia is beautiful", said Beatrice. "The people are so nice. But the election is coming around April and we might leave before then. We'll see".

Then I heard a tale of official corruption which is unrepeatable. It was only matched by Manuel's tales of corruption in Peru. But make no mistake. Manuel was a big patriot.

"Peruvian pisco is better than Chilean pisco", he said when I grimaced at the pisco sour. This is not a comment that sits well with me, so I challenged him. And he surprised me.

"Did you know that Peru took Chile to the courts in the USA to claim the origin of the word Pisco - we have the town to prove it - and that we won ? " No. "Yes, we did. The Chileans can not sell any drink to the US which is called Pisco. They have to call it something else. "

Whatever the Chileans may call their pisco, their Quality control works. Their pisco is consistently better than Peru's. And I will hear no more about it. But I made a mental note to bring up this point when I arrive in Chile [which I did - for this you'll have to read the chapter on La Serena - oooh a long way away].

So what was happening in the wide world? I asked Eric and Manuel. The turmoil in the Asian markets had finished, but Iraq was back in the news. Well, if there is to be a third world war, Peru is a pretty safe place to be for sure, I thought, relaxed. But Eric said something that surprised me: "Oh, and Tony Blair is involved in a scandal involving tobacco advertising". What ? Our squeaky clean Prime Minister ? "Oh, yes, apparently Formula One Boss whatshisname was a big contributor to Labour party funds and now they have made an exception to tobacco advertising for him". That didn't sound too bad. "Oh, but it's the way they did it", Eric went on and described to me what transpired. So no honeymoon for Tony any more ? No honeymoon. Blimey, you go away for a couple of months and realities change.

The trip took twelve hours, but I had a great time. I laughed a lot which is good preparation for what was in store for me.

The Cuzco station was ill-lit, cramped and chaotic, but less dangerous than Oruro: Taxis were not allowed in and police were everywhere. There was a chicken wire fence with locals piled up against it touting transport at the top of their voices; like being in the American Embassy in Saigon circa 1975. We said good-bye to Manuel - but not to each other. We were met by Edith, the tour guide who tried to sell me an ultra expensive package for tomorrow. "No, that's them you want", I said, pointing at Eric and Beatrice. She left me to the guide for the cheapskates, Walter. All of us went to a mini bus for our hotels. Since Ruben had found me that wonderful hotel in Puno, I was happy to take in his suggestion for a hotel in Cuzco. I stayed in the Hotel Conquistador just of the main square for $25 (I was told it had heating and running water, both at a premium in the city). Eric and Beatrice stayed in a $120/night hotel on Avenida del Sol. "So what's occurring tomorrow ?", I enquired as I left them.

"Tomorrow is Sunday", they said, "There is a market in Pisac. Go there".

Walter was happy to oblige. There was a tour with places for Pisac and the Urubamba valley for $25 including lunch. All day. Great, I would take it.

I had a quick walk around Cuzco centre. Those who have been fortunate enough to be there can imagine what I felt. As I was speechless then, I shall be speechless now and leave the articulation of my feelings for the next chapter.

But if you are going to only one place in South America, make it Cuzco.