Fleeing

Carnival seems to be following us, or we it. We've just left Copacabana (not the Barry Manilow one) a small town on the Bolivian edge of Lake Titicaca (no sniggering Alan). It's normally a fairly sleepy town, most notable as a base to explore nearby Isla del Sol, the centre of Inca creation mythology - but this weekend was Carnival. The main square was full of local groups in costumes that'd put a Pearly Queen to shame, dancing to marching brass bands and huge latin sound systems, while the surrounding streets were terrorised by gangs of marauding children spraying everyone with water, foam, flour and confetti. I haplessly got caught between gangs and as the only Gringo within striking range got properly 'owned' before a local lady took pity and dragged me behind the shutters of her shopfront for safety.
After the excitement of the day we had more to come as we had to flee our hotel in the middle of the night when a freak hail and thunderstorm leaked through the ceiling and flooded our room. The young guy left in charge for the night was no help at all, bar offering us a mop and bucket, and even threatened us with the Police for non-payment as we dashed out into the rain looking for another hotel.
We had planned on visiting the Isla del Sol, but between the floods and dwindling cash in a town with no open bank, we figured it was an omen to move on. 
So here we are now, just across the border in Peru. I'm finally realising a childhood ambition to visit the homeland of Paddington Bear, though I never envisioned I might be fleeing here as an international fugitive with a price of £15 on my head!