Insulated inside room 206, upstairs in Hotel El Promedio Anodino Casa, I didn’t really hear much noise during the night. But by the time I came down for El desayuno I realised that the wrecking gang had been at it all night demolishing the building across the road. This day, I had the relative luxury of not having to make my transfer until around 9 o’clock, so I loitered over breakfast. 
I was back down at pick up time, but had several minutes to kill as the driver hadn’t arrived by 9. I joined the lineup of Hotel staff milling around the front door who were absolutely entranced by the spectacle of the demolition job which was tearing up the street under the guise of levelling the doomed building. Fortunately the glass front door was closed, saving everyone in the foyer from being overcome by a myriad of dust diseases. Dust abounded all over the street, which was semi-obstructed for traffic before the work started and now was totally impassable as rubble had piled up and been strewn across the street. The young hotel workers were revelling in the “Whelan the Wrecker” show on display, which was undoubtedly more fun than trying to placate surly guests or cleaning up after messy ones.
Hotel street before it was totally consumed in rubble & dustBy this time my Puno driver had turned up, suddenly materialising from out of the cloud of dusty particles. After staring at the swirling man-made dust bowl at the front of the hotel I asked the girls at reception if there was a back way out of the building. They think I’m making a joke and laugh slightly nervously whilst shaking their heads. I follow the driver outside where his characteristically languid movements desert him and he hares off at great speed through the veil of dust to the taxi parked around the corner. After a momentary hesitation I too run, trying to cover my face so as not inhale any of the dust fibres floating uncontrolled in the air.
We drive out of Puno, I grab my last glimpse of Lago Titikaka and we wind our way up the hills north towards Juliaca. The same recurring features on the sides of the road that I had seen during the last 100km of the journey to Puno reappear. At random intervals, there is the presence of stray dogs on the side of the highway, kilometres from anything or anyone else, as if they had been mysteriously dropped there by some secret canine transit service. The driver tells me that people do occasionally stop and dump scraps of food for the highway for them, that’s why they hang around in the middle of nowhere with the semblance of an expectant look on their faces. 
The other discernible motif on Route 3S is the regular scattering of tiny tombstone-shaped markers on the highway. I assume that these were memorial markers rather than being actual burial places for the dead, but I don’t really know for certain. If they are, I suppose the closest, analogous thing in Australia is the cross and flower markers on roads where fatalities have occurred. The sign on the highway says Bienvenidos a Juliaca, Capital de la Integracion Andina, Ciudad de los Vientos. Juliaca, city of the wind? Wind, well that would help to explain all of the dust and dirt that flies around all over the main street! We pass the local technological university, the driver draws my attention to it. I remark how new and impressively modern it looks. He quickly tells me it is a state university only, whereas Puno (where he comes from) is a national university. He is indulging in a bit of rival city points-scoring, it seems to me. 
I get the sense that my driver is not impressed by Puno’s wealthier and bigger northern neighbour. The reality is that Juliaca is wealthier, albeit as a result mainly of its ill-gotten gain. The city functions as a conduit for contraband, stolen petrol, etc smuggled into Peru via Bolivia. We drive into the airport precinct, my curiosity is aroused by a street name I chance to spot, Paseo New Zealandia, I wondered what the connection was? 
Inca Manco Capác Aeropuerto reflects the recently acquired affluence of Juliaca. It is a snazzy new modern airport. The sleek control tower caught my eye, it looks like it was built by IKEA with its colourful plastic appearance. All around the airport you can see new Chinese-financed building projects underway, with signs such as the one advertising “LiuGong – Gigante de Asia”. Whilst inside the terminal I notice that the interior is not so grand as the exterior, amenities are fairly spartan really. I sit & watch the passing traffic. An adolescent comes into the departure lounge heading back to Lima. He is carrying the latest LCD Slimline television which he purchased in Juliaca at a, I’m sure, special price. People come to this mafia-controlled city from the capital & all other parts of Peru for the bargain deals. The ciudad’s market in all types of stolen goods make it a super-attractive destination for financially-strapped Peruvians to do their significant purchases in.
The Inka Instrumental TrioAs I went through the electronic barrier a three-piece Peruvian native band in front of me were putting their musical equipment through the x-ray belt, doing the body checks and passing through with all the other passengers. I assumed that they were travelling on to Lima, but once inside, they immediately set up their drums, flutes and other instruments and started playing in the lounge. They did their busking routine including … yet again (groan!) that old Peruvian classic, “El Condor Pasa” (I make a mental note never to listen to Simon and Garfunkle again!) The plane arrives, the Indian buskers pass the hat round as passengers depart, and then they pack their set up and leave the airport. Performances at the Manco Capác Airport I gather are this band’s regular gig!
Once on board, a conspicuous feature of Flight LA2096 was an absolute dearth of space in the overhead lockers. All available space was crammed full of wrapped parcels, bulky items in brand-named bags. This was another sign of Juliaca’s role as the centre for cheap domestic goods, where ordinary Peruvians flock to this sales Mecca for ofertas that they feel are too good to refuse.
A pretty smooth, short flight and I was back at Jorge Chávez. By-passing the money-exchangers who had wanted to shortchange me the first time round, I found my transfer straight away. In the vehicle the driver had his wife and tiny child along for the ride. They were a pleasant couple and I shared some of my special Cusco dark chocolate with them. Although Miraflores looked quite close to the Airport on the map, it still seemed like a long trip in the car (traffic full-on as last time). As we get close to Miraflores, the calibre of houses and neighbourhoods went decidedly upmarket.
I was collected at the Casa Andina at 7am by yet another braces-wearing Peruvian guide to drive to the (inland) port. The port was quite close by, but as usual we had to go via umpteen other hotels to pick up the other passengers. When we eventually got to the Titicaca dock we were swarmed upon by a small battalion of lakeside Indian women trying to entice us to buy a bargain-priced hat or two from a broad assortment they were either carrying or wearing.
