VOYAGE ON LAKE TIHIHEEHEEHEE...
A short boat-ride out into the lake from Copacabana sits the pristine Isla del Sol. Inca lore tells that this is the birthplace of the sun, the origin of all being or life on earth, or something 
to that effect. A brief visit to the island makes it abundantly clear why one would ascribe such significance to this place. Sheer rock walls jutting out from clear, flat water, brilliant and uninterrupted sunlight, high perches on cliffs hundreds of feet above the shore, and jagged snowcapped peaks occasionally visible miles across the water.We took a morning boat from the beach at Copacabana and arrived on the northern shore of Isla del Sol. After picking up our bag lunches (dear Bolivian women, yes, offering a fried egg and
french fries inside a hamburger is an excellent idea), we followed our old-dude guide up the winding coastal path to the sacred temple sites on the northern tip of the island. A lot of the ruins are pre-Inka: some temple remnants, some sacrificial altars, the works.
From there we set off the hike the length of the island, along the high spine of the ridges above the water. Even though we´d been at something close to this altitude for weeks on and off, we still found it quite challenging to propel ourselves up any sort of hill. We suffered a bit, but fortunately we came prepared (see detail of hamburger, above). 
All in all, the scenery was as breathtaking, as was trying to hike at 12,000 feet. Instead of passing a peaceful night on la Isla, we hopped onto a very slow boat back to Copacabana, to seek our fortunes across the sea...
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Day 33 - Sat 9.25.10
THE WE-FINALLY-GOT-A-MOTORCYCLE DIARIES
Today we left Puno bright and early to make the 7:30am bus bound for Copacabana, Bolivia. Much excitement and anxiety surrounded the idea of this border crossing, mainly because Victoria decided, late the previous evening, to adopt a life a crime by avoiding the ridiculous ¨visa¨ payment imposed by the Bolivian government on American tourists (and ONLY American tourists, mind you) in the amount of $135. Given that one can purchase a medium-sized pack of Bolivian llamas for this amount, she thought it best to try her hand at international fraud rather than cough up her hard-earned dollars.
The plan was such: ever-prepared, Victoria brought along her 10 year-old Argentine DNI (national document of identity) which conveniently never got stamped with an expiration date. Is this document valid for international travel? Nope. Is she a resident of Buenos Aires, as it claims? Nope. Does she look even remotely like the teenager she once was, who is featured
in the DNI photo? This is up to personal interpretation. Did the Bolivian authorities give it a second thought after seeing the word Argentina on the leather cover and having a short conversation about fútbol? Absolutely not. Conclusion: Victoria crossed the border with an illegal document and Joseph, who used a valid American Passport and payed dutifully, was held up for half an hour filling out forms and answering unnecessary questions. I love South America.
We arrived in Copacabana about 20 minutes later. If the names of this town evokes the image tranquil beaches, cheap mojitos and gorgeous sunsets, you would be right in your assumption. Though not the fabled Copacabana of the Lola, the showgirl, or her tantalizing Cha-Cha moves, it is quite a place. Oh, and did I forget to mention that Copacabana is found of the banks of Lake Titic... Titicac... I can´t bring myself to say it.
Lunch was followed by a very important moment
in Joseph and Victoria´s trip. With great flare, they boldly added a metallic blue motorcycle to their list of modes of transportation. Or, rather, Joseph boldly added it, as Victoria clung to him for dear life. Any technical difficulties aside (repeatedly stalling out, swallowing a unidentified flying insect, the dirt road suddenly ending, general inability to operate a motorcycle...) it was really an incredible way to view the coast of Lake 
Titicac... nope. The terrain is so mountainous and the lake is so vast that it really feels like you are looking out onto the ocean. That, and we got some major street cred.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Day 32 - Fri 9.24.10
BROLL DOWN YOUR WINDOW, BRO, WE´RE BROASTING IN HERE
So the higher-class buses on this continent are shiny two story affairs, with nice reclining seats and fancy TVs. Many of them also have these sweet-looking front seats on the 2nd floor, directly above the driver, where this glass bubble offers a full front-window view. In what we thought to be a stroke of genius, we had arranged to get said front seats for the 6 hour journey from Arequipa to Puno. The bus ride passes through an immense nature reserve where it is common
to see large herds of the rare vicuña (a deerlike camelid, cousin to the llama and alpaca), so we were looking forward to the ride.
Now, if you´ve ever been to Peru, or a desert, or if you´ve been reading our blog, you may have inferred that it gets rather warm during the daytime in this area. Namely from the total absence of clouds. Our exposed glass bubble quickly became more of a mobile greenhouse, and, since offering the ability to open bus windows seems not to have hit Peru yet, we sweltered in the intense stuffiness for the better part of the day.
6 groggy and naseu-vomitous hours later, we arrived at Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca. Yes. Titicaca. Pause for laughter. Here begins the 4 day portion of the trip when Joseph´s brainwave activity consists almost entirely of running the lyrics to the Animaniac´s song ¨Lake Titicaca.¨ (It´s from their geography album - an excellent addition to any record collection, if you aren´t already familiar with it.) ¨It´s between Bolivia and Peru, waters so tranquil and blue, etc.... ¨
Not too much is shaking in Puno, and on the advice of several travelers who have preceeded us, we opt to explore the lake from the Bolivian side. Same lake, much more favorable exchange rate.
We would be remiss were we not to explain today´s title in some detail. So nearly every city block in Peru has a rotissere chicken restaurant -- truly beautiful and sweet-smelling places. For some reason that continues to elude us, these places are all called Broasters. Pollo broaster. Chicken broaster. Broasteria. Broast, not roast. How the extra B got added... we´re not sure. So, in honor of our culinary foray into the world of broasted chicken (it was a delicious foray), we offer you today´s caption.
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