Our Day-Out in San Pedro Prision

There are two ways to visit San Pedro prision in La Paz. First is to email and inmate called Jose, who wifes you back within an hour from his cell and arranges to have a friend to meet your at the local Burger King. Or you can just rock up to the gate and find Sebastian a dodgy but thoroughly charming (and ex-con) Dutch man.

We - running on no sleep - chose the second and cheaper option, arriving around lunctime and feeling rather sketchy. And no surprisingly. We were about to ´visit´ La Paz´s notorious prision made famous by Rusty Young in his book Marching Powder, in which he documents gangs, murder, cocaine cartels and the drowning of rapists in the swimming pool amoung other things.

It all seems quite inane whe you think about it, but ts a once ina lifetime, something not to tell the grandkids thing to do. Totally currupt and unethical, but the only place in the world you can do it. And the most interestign thing about it? It is runa nd manaed completely by the prisoners. Once inside, there are no guards on patrol and no locked doors. Once inside, you are completely at the mercy (or rather in the hospitality of) some of the most dangerous convict Bolivia has to offer. AND THEY RUN THE PLACE!

We got in no problem, paying 4000 Bs (about 40 quid). 50 goes straight to the government guard on the gate who lets you in, stmping your arm and turning a blind eye. Another 50 goes to your guide. The rest is given to the prision leaders who are democratically elected, and who decide how to spend it. On the GYM, or the Kindergarden...

Yes, thats one thing I haven´t mentioned. The reason we are allowed in is because to all intents and purposes, San Pedro prision is an open prision. Not for the inmates of course, but for their families, who usually live in the prision with them, and can come and go as they please.

We knew this before going, but its still the first thing that hits you. There are children everywhere. Running throught the piss-stenched corridors, playing pool in the plaza, or the little ones clinging on to the legs of their Mums as she washed their clothes in the communal laudry area, or buying sweets at the shop. Thats the other thing. In San Pedro, nothing is free. Not even your cell. Everything (except one meal a day) must be bought. You pay rent, so you must work. Everyone has a job of some sort.

Our guide was lucky. He was only 26, and in (according to him) for being caught with just a gram of cocaine, but too roke to pay off the judge (hummmmmm). With family in the US his English was near-perfect, so was able to strike a deal with the jefes to start taking tourists round. He had only been in 2 months, but had worked hard to learn the history or the place and had be taugh everything he knew from some of the heaviest guys in there. Like our three ´body-guards´ for example. All serving 30 years for at least one count of murder. Maxumum sentence-

So you can image how surreal it was walking through the doors, into what feels like a fully functioning community. Its hard to describe. And with cameras banned for obvious reasons, it really does have to be seen to be believed. And the shock didnt really wear off. If anything it came in waves, as you almost forgot where you were, as you strolls freely though the 8 communities, past groups of men drinking beers and watching the world-cup highlights on Plazma screens in leafy courtyards, buying bracelets from hippy traffickers or poking your head into cells housing 8 people, but of similar condition to a million other un-incarcerated families´ homes you ahd seen over the last 9 months.

Thats as until you catch sight of a particularly shady character, or are shown La Picina, - the notorious swimming pool where rapists are still drowned, after being publically revenge raped. The authorities dont send them to San Pedro anymore, but if one slips through the net they dont last long. The inmates take action to protect the women and children who live there, and the body is delievered to the front door in a bag.

I havent read the book, but apparently it is alot safer now than it was then. Aparently it is largely down to the tourist trade. I guess it would be bad news if I came out in a body bag. No for the French guy we met as we were leaving, sunnign himself ona rooftop. He has been caught with a Kilo ready to be shifted and was looking at 25 years. He couldnt afford to rent a cell, and not being local he was low-down on the prision pecking order when it came to dishing our favours. He was gaunt, had no socks or shoe-laces in his battered old boots, and had only been in just 5 months, still awaiting trial.

San Pedro has a motto. "Everything is possible. Just dont get caught" Im pretty sure no one knows this more than that guys right now. Ive been gone from La Paz over a month now, he wont have gone far.

Going LOKI in La Paz

There are no two ways about it. La Paz in awesome, and pretty impossible to leave. The view coming over the mountain ridge, the enormous Che statue, the balaclava clad shoe shinners rampaging around the busy streets. And thats before you check into LOKI "Hotel California". They must put something in the water, or maybe its the altitude, but they dont lie when they say that you can party 24/7 in Bolivias capital, especailly when you throw the totally illegal Route 36 into the mix (Mum, do not google this place unless you have a G&T in hand...ok sod it. here is the link, though I dont remember there being any boardgames...)

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/aug/19/bolivia-cocaine-bar-route-36

After a week of pure wrecklessness, and with no voice left to speak of, I had done (almost) none of the things on my La Paz to-do list, had one enormous bar-tab and was in need of a re-group.

Back at the beautiful Lake Titicaca, this time on the Bolivian side of Copacabana, I spent a blissful few days strolling in the sunshine, chilling out in the open-air cafes and watching the sunset from my pent-house overlooking the clear blue water. Back on form I crossed the lake again to visit Isla Del Sol (where the Incas believe the sun first rose), where i spent two glorious days of hiking, eating Salmon trout and camping under the stars on the Island´s white sand beaches. Bliss.

Before too long I was boarding a bus back to the mothership, this time with my to-do list formly in hand:

1: Shop until i drop at the witches market
2: Ride the death road - and survive!
3. Visit the imfamous San Pedro prision.

I started with the best intentions, shopping up a storm and ogling the dried baby llama foetuses (!) and other weird and wonderful things int he cobbled side streets of La Paz´s market, and signed myself straight up ride the worlds most dangerous road the next day.

Getting up at 6.30am, while most people were only just starting to roll in from the Route was hard enough, and that was before they turfed us out of our jeep and onto the motorway, straddling our thoroughly safety-checked bikes in the freezing cold at nearly 4000m above sea-level.

Im not going to lie, I didnt brake any records for the 60km desent to just 1100m. But then I still alive to tell the tale, unlike hundreds of others, many of which were stupid tourists on mountain bikes, the latest casualty of which died only 3 months ago, the place where they plummet to their death marked only by a crude crosse above the fatal precipise where they fell. Check it out:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yungas_Road

Safely back at LOKI "why make the beds that big if they are only meant for one person" La Paz, we celebrated our continued existence on earth in the manner in which you would expect. Numerous games of killer pool, plenty of dressing up, debouchery and the world-cup final later, there was just number 3 on the list to complete, and then I HAD to get out of here!

Lounging on Lake Titicaca

Only a couple of hours apart, Lake Titicaca and La Paz couldnt be more different. The first is trnquil and traditional. the second is anything but.

Fromt eh lakeside town on Puno on the Peruvian side, we boarded our boat to the "floating" Uros islands, Amantani and then Taquile, three different and distinct cultures, suspended in time, pretty much unchanged since a certain Peter and Ann Hallam were here some 40 years ago!

The Uros are a fiercly independent (and therefore quite clearly rather inbred) community which live of floating platforms made completely out of reeds, which grow naturally on the lake. Pretty much everything is made of this woven material, even the the houses and their boats!

Though touristy, it was quite a sight to behold, especially when I thought about the fact that I was probably playing with the children of people Mum and dad had all those years ago.

On Amantani we were hosted for an overnight stay by Jovita, who at 16, already had 9 month old Dyana to look after, but was clearly excited by the prospect of 3 young(ish) western girls for company. With daddy gone, she was in charge of looking after us, cooking us Quinoa soup and taking us to the local "disco" with Amantani´s finest, dressed in - yes you´ve guessed it - the traditional get-up.

Waving goodbye as we sailed across the enormous Titicaca towards the beautiful mediterranian island of Taquile, the promise I had made to Jovita to somehow get the photos I had taken of her back across the lake (without the help of a postal system) lingered in my head. I thought about how simply determined her life was, no more school, just motherhood and a constant stream of visitors, bringing her nothing but stories of the outside world and much needed cash. I´d last about a week before you would find me hanging form a near-by tree (in light of the facts that there are no lamp-posts).

Mission to Mount Machu Pichu

Its possible to the take train to see one of the 7 wonders of the world. I however, with my two totally unhinged friends from PSF and formally Ohio, Monica and Maria, were taking on a 4 day trek, more hardcore (but cheaper) than the actual Inca trail instead...

Day 1 started with a 4am wake-up call (avec hangover after staying in the bar until middnight spending all my hiking dosh on Redwine and giggles with Monica). Grumpy and tired, our 3 hour bus ride was followed by the instant realisation taht the 15 soles (about 5 dollars) was not goign to last me the trip, when basic rip-off comedor breakfast came in at 20.

"Borrowed" bread and Jam later, we were off on a pretty flat but scenic 7 hour hike to our basecamp at the foot of snowy Mount Salkantey. Set in the bend of a babbling river, with wild horses grazing around us it was certainly beautiful, but it was bloody cold too. Dressed in all our clothes, including ski jacket, alpaca socks and gloves, we squeezed into our tent and spent the night huddled together for wamth, shivering our whats-its off on the ice-cold floor, our apparently not so artic quality afterall sleeping bags barely taking the edge off.

Day 2 began with a cup of hot Coca tea in our tent, which warmed us enough to force ourselves reluctantly out into the Baltic conditions and up the icy peak looming over us from some 4600m above sea-level. The start was brutal, requiring numerous stops to take clothes on, catch breath, put clothes back on, find bush for private moment etc etc. Its a wonder we ever made it. The final switch-backs were a matter of sheer determination, forcing ourselves up the snowy path, totally winded by the altitude, as our guide practically ran up vertically, ignoring the path altogether, coca leaves jammed in hus cheeks with barely a sweat on. Bastard!

The stop at the top was limited to a quick woop and a photo-call before we decended to less hostile conditions, soon finding ourselves in dense green humid forest where we set up our jungle basecamp in a locals garden. Stocked up on beers and munching on pre-dinner popcorn we huddled together as the rain pounded the tin roof of our tiny dining room, noone wanting to think to hard about our sorry little tents getting drenched outside.

A half day really (thank god!) day 3 involved plenty of squelching through muddy jungle to an afternoon and rest and relaxation, greatly aided by our discovery of a generally stope that agreed to take my emergency 10 dollars in exchange for 2 cartons of our old favourite. cheap red wine! With full tummys, fuzzy heads and warm from the campfire, we were soon to bed and slept like babies.

Despite the combination of hangovers and best efforts of our guide to discourage us, day 4 started with the determination that we would not be getting the bus with the rest of the group. Nope! we would be hiking the whole day, with our backpacks, in the burning sun that as already blazing down on our banging heads.

It turns out our guide really did wish we werent quite so ressilliant,a s he lasted about 20 minutes before inventing a "shit I forgot something back at the campsite, you keep going and ill catch you up" story and buggering off to get the bus wth the rest of the lightweights, leaving us to fend for oursleves.

5 hours later, dehydrated, legs trembling, but in high spirits, Jose "caught us up" and broke the news that we still had a long way to go. Our bodies protesting in earnist, we trudged on along the railway tracks (no money for the train obviosuly towards Aguas Calientes at the base of Mach Pichu, arriving in the pitch-black (apparently we "should have started earlier") and wanting to commit murder. Food, shower and bed. Tomorrow was going to be brutal!

Day 5 was what this was all about. It was time for Machu Pichu baby! That didnt make the 3.30 start any easier I can assure you. It was going to be a long day. Wrapped up in far too many clothes we were soon sweating like pigs as we started to climb the 1600-somthing Inca steps in the dark to the summit. Drenched from head to toe, head-spinning and the colour of beetroot we made it to the entrance gate, where we were met by a couple of hundred cheating tourists all cheerfully getting off the cheating shuttle bus. Bastards!

Once in, perched high above the ruins watching the sunrise out of the mist, slowly revealing the incredible sight below, it was all totally worth it. We had made it. And it was stunning. Laid out before us the anciemt walls and terraces filled with bright green grass, Mount Huanapichu towering above, made the most amazing sight you just could stop staring. Incredible.

After teh initial excitement had worn off, we all promptly passed out on one of the agricultural slopes in the early morning sun for a well deserved nap. Waking up groggy, stiff and dying for a wee, the local Peruvian tourists found us very funny indeed. Who cares, we were at Machu Pichu!

Anyone would have thought we had had enough excitement for one day. But no. Instead we decided to climb another few thousand steps up Huanapichu to admire the ruins from so high above that it made the visitors below look like match-stick men. This last bit finished me off, and how I got all the way back down I have no idea. I was too tired to really remember.

Shattered and skint we arrived back to Cusco at 2am after falling asleep on the train, no doubt with rather large grins on our faces. One of the seven wonders of the world. Tick! And sod getting the bus!

Colca Canyon and Turning 28

After the 5 days of dawn til dusk hiking and musty tents, the comforts of Cusco, with crazy new friends, cute guys and great nightlife, it was a week before I got my act together and left for Arequipa, this time to catch up with another PSF buddy and celebrate getting ever closer to 30. Great!

In true form, my "big day" was spent groaning in bed with a hangover from hell, which served only to exassabate my inevitable homesickness. Still, thanks to good friends and French gypsies, I was soon back on my feet celebrating with good food, not so good wine and plenty of table dancing before crashing out otra vez. I would have swapped it for a BBQ on Brighton beach with friends and family in a second, but turning 28 culd certainly have been worse.

The next day,a nd still half cut, Jihan and I staggered after a determined Sidoney to catch our bus to Colca Canyon. At over 3000m deep, it dwarfs the far more famous Grand Canyon by some distance. And we were climbing down it!

A combination of waking up late from basecamp and Jihan being glued to the football we didnt get goign at sparrow fart as planned. This coupled with lack of maps, motivation and sense of direction soon left us lost, and then finally desending down into the steep dusty crator in the burning - heat of the day - sun.

We arrived at the lush green Oasis burnt to a crisp, and alraedy discussing how the hell we were going to get abck up before dark. Thankfully Jihan took charge,m haggling with a locala dn hiring three donkeys for the journey back. Happy as pigs in shit, we threw ourselves into the natural swimming pools and even caught the England match on a wonkey old radio, while getting ever more merry from dehydration and a carton of Chile´s finest.

Our trip back up the windy path on "horseback" was up there with some of the funniest hours of my life. Drunk as skunks, Sid wailing that her donkey´s legs were bowing and was about to keel over, Jihan bellowing constantly in broken spanish that hers was about to fall of the edge, I laughed so much I nearly did. We certainly didnt do it the conventional way, but we got back to the top in 3 safe pieces, all very relieved to be alive, and celebrated with another carton of Chilian for the road. naturally.

Pisco Sin Fronteras - Dust, Digging and a little bit of Drinking

Landing back in the dirt poor desert of Pisco after the serenity of Huaraz was enough to make me head stright back to the hills and buy myself a pair of walking poles. The fact that it was a complete shithole, was of course the reason I was there. 2 years after an earthquake destroyed the already destitute town, all the NGOs and buggered off to patch-up some other god-forsaken place, leaving just one totally independent (and as I soon find out totally mental) organisation to try to help put the place back together.

PSF, is hands down the most out there, grassroots, anarchic, chaotic and awesome project I have ever seen, lewt alone be lucky enough to be part of. Anywhere between 50 and 100 people living, eating and working together, paying just 5 dollars a day for food and board, working tirelessly to help the people of Pisco put their lives back together. They have no NGO status, no outside funding. They just do it themselves. In the two weeks I was there I met some of the most amazing and downright crazy people ever, amd made friends for life.

Its hard to describe what its like to be one of 30 people working in the middle of the desert, no electricity, water, sanitation, just dust and a load of rubbish. Two cement mixers going full blast, 10 wheel barrows, 20 shovellers alogging it out in the heat of the day, in what feels like the middle of nowhere. Until that it, you realise that the piles of blankets, the couple of pots and pans, and the tables and chairs scattered around the place are in fact what is left of these peoples homes.

Once the floors have dried (which in 90 degree heat does not take long at all), they can start to rebuild their houses round solid foundations often for the first time ever. I cannot put into words how good it makes you feel to see that happening. Or how humbling it is when they somehow manage to feed all 30 of you huge plates of pasta (and ceviche!), in tin bowls borrowed from friends and family, cooked on calorgas.

When not laying floors, or digging trenches, there were day centers for kids to go to, only to find they didnt even have any paper of pens. Or they had tennis rachets, but no money to buy any balls. Heartbreaking, though a quick trip to the market and about 20 quid means that they do now have enough stuff to keep them busy for a while at least.

As you can imagine, by the end of the week, we were ready to let our hair down. And that we would. Off to the oasis in the desert now foundly and forever known as "Wakichina", we would book out the whole hotel: pool, bar, a BBQ in the Discoteca. We´d go sandboarding and generally go beserk. Goodtimes. But not a patch on having the life squeezed out of you by the lady whose house you just helped put back together.

I´ll say no more. www.piscosinfronteras.net

Hiking in Huaraz Highñamds

After 3 days of traveling through the arid dusrty desert of Northern Peru, it was quite a suprise waking up with a freezing cold right cheek stuck to a frosted bus windown. Peering out into the misty dawn, the sun was just poking its head out from behind the snow capped ridges of the Cordillas Blancas. Thick fog clung to the dark moody landscape, as we wound our way through the frozen moores, past icy rivers and tiny little houses scattered along the roadside.

Huaraz itself, often missed by most gingo trailers, was absolutely beautiful. From the roof terrace of our hostel, you could bask in the warm sun in the day, and snuggle by the open fire at night, taking in the views of the snowy peaks that surrounded you on all sides. It is of course these snowy peaks that are the reason people go in the first place, though the temptation to just curl up with a good book and a nice glass of wine is very hard to resist.

I managed to tear myself away for two harkcore hikes. Both involed brutally early starts, peaks of over 4600m and getting very cold and wet indeed. All in all they both nearly killed me. The first due to the section of "ropes of ladders" which should apprently "only be tackled by experienced climbers", which is dragged our sorry selves over to reach the most pictureque picnic spots I have ever had the pelasre of nibbling a tuna sandwich at. No bigger than your average swimming pool, the lake starting deep blue purple in the middle, changing through all the colours of the rainbow, to green, yellow, orange, and ending at the shoreline with fringes of bright red and pink. Totally worth it. I wasnt going for a dip though, thats for sure! We left that to the crazy Russians.

Just in case I didnt love Huaraz eough by then, we arrived back to one of the craziest moist hectic carnivals I have ever seen. It had been going on for days, marching bands, pounding the streets from dawn until dusk, but this was different. The whole town was in full fiesta. Hundrededs of competing dance troops, dressed to impress. Huge feathered head-dresses, sequined sashes, tassled tunics, beaded skirts, faces covered in mirrored covered masks, and enough lace and glitter to make Lily Savage blush. All accompanied by 20 piece bands all battling each other, sweat dripping from their faces.

All over town, families were enjoying the show, which meant the filthy children running wild, letting off fireworks left right and center, old men were getting smashed on Pisco, and the women were dressed in their best wears, big trilby hats, bright skirts, clashing tights and little witchy buckle-up shoes, chowing down on spit roasted hog and god knows what else. What a night. And what a way to remember Huaraz.