I'm still putting the side-stand of my moto down on the worn slippery planks that make the "floor" of the raft when the captain pushes off and starts the outboard. I was being careful as a wheel of the camioneta I'm sharing the raft with had already fallen through a gap and we'd all had to help to get it out.
The captain set the rudder and started the endless task of bailing out the flooded hull visible between the planked floor. I would have helped him if the vessel wasn't twisting, rocking and contorting so much under the feeble power of the tiny waves that my moto was constantly on the verge of tipping off it's stand one way or the other.
I imagined what of my riding gear I would still be able to swim in, and mentally put in order what was most important to remove first. Then I made a mental note when I judged we passed the half-way point and the destination shore was the closer one.
I wasn't nervous or scared, but if you have been on a sinking boat in a remote destination in a developing country you might think practically too.
The old, toothless lady with a cheekful of coca, selling biscuits was the first person I'd met in Bolivia who I entirely couldn't understand. But luckily her biscuits were cheap, and the direction she pointed for town true. The roadsides were free of rubbish and children cycling on the road waved excitedly.
This was a far cry from the city of La Paz I'd left that morning. The owner of the "parqueo" I'd left my moto in had feigned a seizure when I wouldn't pay more than we agreed originally. I would feel callous riding off after catching his "spasming" body, laying him on the ground and putting a cup of water next to him, but as he peeked through one eyelid as I kicked over the motor I just sighed.
The landscape was wild and rugged, reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands, and the road was winding and dramatic.
The man with six gold teeth and a donkey who I'd asked directions from on the other side of Lago Titicaca was right - the view on the road winding down the cliff into Copacabana with islands stretching into the lakes distance was, indeed, bonita.
The captain set the rudder and started the endless task of bailing out the flooded hull visible between the planked floor. I would have helped him if the vessel wasn't twisting, rocking and contorting so much under the feeble power of the tiny waves that my moto was constantly on the verge of tipping off it's stand one way or the other.
I imagined what of my riding gear I would still be able to swim in, and mentally put in order what was most important to remove first. Then I made a mental note when I judged we passed the half-way point and the destination shore was the closer one.
I wasn't nervous or scared, but if you have been on a sinking boat in a remote destination in a developing country you might think practically too.
The old, toothless lady with a cheekful of coca, selling biscuits was the first person I'd met in Bolivia who I entirely couldn't understand. But luckily her biscuits were cheap, and the direction she pointed for town true. The roadsides were free of rubbish and children cycling on the road waved excitedly.
This was a far cry from the city of La Paz I'd left that morning. The owner of the "parqueo" I'd left my moto in had feigned a seizure when I wouldn't pay more than we agreed originally. I would feel callous riding off after catching his "spasming" body, laying him on the ground and putting a cup of water next to him, but as he peeked through one eyelid as I kicked over the motor I just sighed.
The landscape was wild and rugged, reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands, and the road was winding and dramatic.
The man with six gold teeth and a donkey who I'd asked directions from on the other side of Lago Titicaca was right - the view on the road winding down the cliff into Copacabana with islands stretching into the lakes distance was, indeed, bonita.
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