The night was cold, a slight
dampness hung in the air, and it was in these conditions that I and one other
traveller were climbing aboard a night bus. The destination Puno, the objective
Lake Titicaca. The bus was dark and cramped but comfortable; it did not take
long for me to fall asleep.
Awaking with the jolts and noises of
the stopping of the bus groggily rising from my less than comfortable sleep I
made my way into the early morning twilight. The sun was not yet up, mixed with
the higher altitude it was a very cold morning. Entering the station we quickly
met a friendly looking Puno chap and booked our tour for the day. The small
amount of s/.40 (around £10) was paid for a tour of the floating islands of Lake
Titicaca, and another proper island called Isla Taquile. It was only four am,
and the tour did not start until seven. So we waited, drank terrible cold
coffee, ate a small breakfast that did nought but make us hungrier and watched
the sun rise over the lake. A site which made the terrible meal worth the pain,
as it rose the light danced and played on the surface of the water, calm in the
early morning serenity. As the sun gave life to the dull water, with it came
the life in the town. Fishermen leaving to find the days haul were watched from
our bus terminal balcony, and the distant bleat of the taxi drivers horns was
hear echoing through the empty streets behind us. The theatre of the start of
the day over, and life simply going on we left the café and headed to meet our
tour leader.
We left the terminal via taxi
heading for the port. At the port we found the boats, dozens of them, all tied
together blocking each other, the boats seemed to be penned in like animals,
almost as if when left alone they would come alive and try to escape to
somewhere on the lake. Boarding our vessel
along with others with the same tour group the skipper set us off, barging any
other boat in his way thoroughly out of his way. The ride was little over half
an hour, along the way we saw Puno from the Lake. It spread out along the
shoreline narrow and thin, a streak of grey against the deep blue of the water
and farmland green of the hills surrounding it. In truth the city seemed
intrusive on the landscape, a mistake that grew out of hand due to tourism.
We soon reached the main attraction
of the lake, the floating islands. Hidden amongst tall reeds that grow in the
shallows around the islands, our first indication of life were the magic pigs. A
glance out the wind made me think I was hallucinating from tiredness or the
terrible food, but others were seeing them too which made me more worried. Before being told we were in shallower water
I was convinced the Peruvians had created or bred pigs that could walk on
water, I was a little relieved upon hearing the truth. We entered what could
only be called the main road, or causeway. On either side were islands made of
reed and held together by rope, some were large holding up to a dozen or so
houses others like the one we landed on were tiny holding only three or four
homes. Upon our approach a line of women all dressed in brightly coloured
clothes were waiting for us, a welcome party for the tourists the islanders
depended upon.
We landed (sort of) at the island
and disembarked on to the reed floor. We walked around the small space for a
few minutes before being summoned to a circle of rolled up reed logs. There we
were told about the history of islands, how they were originally built by the
Uru’s to escape the more violent tribes in pre-colonial Peru. Now they were
kept going to preserve the Uru people (an endangered people) and the way of
life they created for themselves. The lecture continued going into detail about
how the islands are anchored by large blocks made of rock covered in more reed,
and how the reeds are harvested and dried, then bound and laid to form the
floor we were walking on. It was at this point I noticed the dampness around my
feet; every step caused water to seep through the damp reeds. We were told of
how every two weeks around another 2 feet of reeds have to be added to stop the
islands and homes being destroyed. That was really the life on the lake and the
islands, a constant battle to preserve their way of life against the modern
world and the water; I couldn’t decide which would be more merciless if things
went wrong.
We moved from the first island after
viewing some homemade tapestries and trinkets. Hitching a ride on a local boat,
made of the same reed as the islands, we moved slowly across the main causeway
to another much larger island. This island held small shops, a bar and the
church, along with numerous houses, people, children and oddly a cat. We looked
around for a while, waiting for our boat to come pick us up. It was much the
same as the previous island. Houses raised above the floor level by a few feet
to protect them from the invading damp, small watch towers, relics of a
previous age, rose off of most of the islands, no doubt to keep watch on each
other as much as for the enemy. After moseying around a bit more, looking down
in all the nooks and crannies we eventually left.
From here we left the floating
islands behind, moving slowly through the reed fields deeper in to the oceanic
lake. The ride took hours, and we arrived at the next island. The very solid
Isla Taquile. We landed at a small dock, nothing more than an extension of the
islands edge. We followed a path leading up the steep cliffs and soon hit
farmland lying outside a small hilltop town. We made our way to the town. A
walk up a steep path through the farms, no shade, berating sun and an uneven
path made the walk difficult but in comparison to the previous adventures pains
they walk was pleasant and held little difficulty.
We reached the town’s main plaza, a
small dust laden square surrounded by buildings stuck somewhere between
colonial architecture and modern monstrosities, it looked like two jigsaws
mixed together in some places. Despite the strange appearance of the place its
beauty lay in not what was there, but in what was not, in this case it was what
you could see that was not there. One side of the square was nothing more than
a low wall. Beyond it farms and paths, then the great unending lake and its
surrounding hills, slopes and mountains. The panorama before was silence
inducing in its beauty and vastness. The water seemed to go on forever and the
hills around it seemed nothing more than future victims to its seemingly
insatiable hunger to be greater. Even though it looked poised to grow further
we were told that the lake is actually getting smaller, and that one day it
will dry and become salt flats like those in Bolivia or America.
We ate a small lunch in a restaurant
situated on the open roof of a building just off the square. Fresh fish from
the lake adorned our plates and we ate with a ravenous fury found in the likes
of wolves or other wild beasts, it was delicious. After eating we had a quick
talk about the island and its inhabitants, Kechua’s we learnt, we heard of
their customs, the importance of the cocoa leaf and how a man or woman wears
their hat. Strange customs rang out in our minds and soon we were worried how
we appeared, many of us en-hatted, and all of us confused.
We left the restaurant and set out
on the small walk to the next boat pick up. The walk was short and initially
led us to the edge of town. From here the road became a winding snake cutting
its way across the island top. Walking through I felt like I was in another
world, one akin to the writings of Tolkien or Pratchett, it was mystical, the
fields around full of life and people tending to it. Strange that so much life
should appear and carry on in such a small out of the way place, it has something
to say about just how tenacious it can be. Always persevering and generally
succeeding, even the driest deserts have life hidden away, and now it would
seem so would the tiniest island nestled on the world’s highest great lake. It
really can make you wonder about what has yet to be found on this strange
little earth of ours.
Leaving the mystical land we hit the
summit of the island and from here watched a rain storm travel across the lake;
we could see the shifting mist below the clouds signifying that the fall was
more a bombardment. We stood and watched the storm cross from the Bolivia side
of the lake to Puno, laughing as we all saw our own futures. From the summit we
walked down steep disorganised steps, looking down on the small port hidden
away on this side of the island. We made our way down, some moving precariously
and others moving with the agility of cats. We re-boarded out boats at the foot
of the hill, and then began the long journey back to Puno, and the even longer
trip back to Cusco.
We soon reached Puno, ate a small
terrible and explored the small town, small streets were lit up by neon signs
and lit up signs, it looked more like Singapore or Bangkok than a small lake
side town in Peru. Despite its look the town was mostly uninteresting, solely
based around the Lake, tourist came for the water, not the land. We soon got on
our return bus and left for home. The long day over, I fell soundly asleep.
Next time
- The Final post – Leaving Peru, my
final thoughts and returning home.
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