Lake Titicaca

We were collected from our hostel in la Paz by our "Bolivia hop" coach, to take us to Copacabana. Unfortunately, large vehicles cannot fit down the road our hostel is on, so the day began with an early morning speedy hike up the steeply sloped streets of La Paz. My backpack had been fairly full when we left the UK, and since then I have bought a lot of wool in various forms. I also at this point, regret my habit of collecting rocks from places I go. But we scramble on board and head lake-wards!

Arriving at Copacabana, on the shores of lake Titicaca, is exactly like arriving at a small seaside holiday town. It has the same disconnected, brightly painted, sun bleached atmosphere of somewhere that survives almost entirely of visitors. And the Lake itself is so believably the sea in it's colour and expanse that you have to concentrate very hard to remember that not only are you pretty far in land, but also at 3800 meters above sea level. Putting the shore-side cafes (with their competingly loud music and awful speaker systems) to your back and looking out at the Lake, it is a beautiful place.

We also accidentally end up in a proper hotel rather than a hostel, due to some confusing advice from the Bolivia hop bus guide who directed us there. But we ended up with a room with a small balcony and corner windows overlooking the sunset over the world's highest navigable lake. Needless to say it felt a little like we had forgotten we were supposed to be backpacking.

(The free roaming, freely mating alpacas outside were also a highlight)

After we had dropped our things we headed back to the shore, as part of the Bolivia hop bus had included a half day on the Isla del Sol. We enjoyed our 1 1/2 hour boat ride out there and the uphill scramble over Incan terracing enabled us to peer into temple ruins and experience excellent views of the lake (it really is enormous). At one point an adorable child walks towards us with an alpaca in tow. I lift my camera to photograph him and he, unprompted, poses for me by hugging the animal. He then demands 3 Sol off me for the photo. Cheeky little git. 

There really isn't much on the Isla del sol, other than glorious views, a few villas, a couple of donkeys and a restaurant packed harbour and the short time we have there before our boat picks us up is just enough to hike from one end to the other and take a few photos. It is a beautiful place for its location and one gets the impression it's the kind of place you visit just to BE, rather than rush to see everything. If we had had more time on our schedule then perhaps we might have stayed a night. But we had places to go, so we hopped back on the boat and I enjoyed a ride back over the flat lake on the sun-drenched roof with mountain air in my face. Smashing.

The next day we spent exploring Copacabana town and trying to eek out our remaining Boliviano before we crossed the border into Peru that evening. Unfortunately for Copacabana, the only highlight was a small, pretty little park square with benches and well tended plants and trees, where we sat a while. The next stop was the Stations of the Cross - a walk up one of the two twin hills which back the town against the lake. It consists of a winding path of steps passing large stone crosses on the way, up to a viewpoint. It could have been a beautiful walk, even if the altitude made it hard work, and sitting up on the viewpoint once we got there could have been rewarding and exhilarating and beautiful. Perhaps it was still all of these things. But the memory we will take away from that place is one of filth. The extent of the human garbage and litter up there made us both quite angry.

That evening we traveled on to Puno, our first stop in Peru. We only got to see one street here, but it was very pleasant - full of attractive shops, nice cafes and another town square not dissimilar to others we have seen in other mountain towns. We were back to dodgy hostels again with one which smelt like a nursing home with itchy sheets and intermittently freezing and scalding water in the shower. But Puno also gave us some of the best spaghetti I have ever eaten, even if they have no idea what a chocolate brownie is supposed to look, feel or taste like.

The next morning was the start of our second mini adventure booked through Bolivia hop - a visit to the Uros floating islands and a homestay with a family on a totally indigenous island. 

The floating islands are a bizarre place. Climbing off our boat onto them our feet met an inch or so of bouncy dried reeds and the gentle rise and fall of buoyancy. Each island is only about 50 meters square and is home to its own community of about 10 people. The Islands themselves are made by cutting building blocks of one meter square from existing natural reed beds, which have a highly buoyant natural base of about 3-4 foot deep. They lash these together with stakes and rope, then lay multiple layers of reed stalks over the top. Each island has a few huts for its inhabitants and a leader - which must be a married person, male or female. This is all explained to us as we sit on the reeds under the aggressive sun and the local women sit next to us and embroider, or lift their brightly coloured shirts to breast feed their chubby, red cheeked toddlers. It is difficult to take in the reality of living somewhere like this your entire life, because they are so focused on us being there - they make almost all of their livings from tourism. The moment our talk is finished they man their stalls of handmade knick-knacks. I made an error and bought a straw boat. For the equivalent of 7 pounds. Weeks later and George still hasn't let me forget that one. And then the women all stand in a line and sing a different traditional song from each of the countries we visitors represent. As we leave they call "hasta la vista, baby!" And it's all quite uncomfortable. I don't know how they decided they needed to do that, or who told them we tourists would appreciate it, but all it did for me was make me feel like I was visiting a seaside attraction and meant it was really very hard to see these Islands as real places where people live out their whole lives. I wanted to know what their lives are like and what they do on a day to day basis when tourists are not visiting and I honestly have no idea. We had a pleasant trip on a reed boat and got chatting to a guy who is also a teacher, from Aylesbury, who has abandoned his job to go travelling.

Our next stop was our homestay on Amantani Island, where we were met by a traditionally dressed member of our host family. In our case, Guilliamo, dressed in black waistcoat and trousers, white shirt and wide brimmed black hat. He has a slight limp caused by one leg being longer than the other and a large smile. We follow him through the little cobbled streets, the rising hill of the islands to one side and the great expanse of the lake to the other. The island is inhabited in that unobtrusive manner of which indigenous people who are still tied to the land are capable. I am reminded of a 1940s farming town in the Peak District. Simple little family homes are tucked into the hillside, low dry stone walls and chicken and unshorn sheep graze in neat cottage gardens. The air is clean with the smell of the eucalyptus trees and the faces of the locals are tanned and red cheeked with outdoor health.

We are shown to our room, which is very pleasant indeed, with two heavily blanketed beds with carved wooden headrests. We follow Guilliamo down the open air steps from our room, to the kitchen, where his wife Janet is sitting on the floor by the open fire stove, cooking lunch. Our terrible Spanish, coupled with a useful translation app on my phone just about allows us to offer to help prepare lunch. I am given some of the most knobbly, eye covered little potatoes I have ever seen (also already going slightly soft) and a blunt knife. And proceed to butcher these potatoes into submission. George gets some carrots and struggles equally (even though carrots are obviously so much easier) and we share amused glances with our hosts. Part of me suspects they do this on purpose - the tourist wants to help, give them the veg you don't care about and a blunt knife so they don't cut themselves. But nevertheless it's a very pleasant experience sitting in surprisingly comfortable silence in their cosy kitchen. 

Lunch, however, was a different matter. Everywhere in Peru and Bolivia they are obsessed with quinoa soup. Now, I know quinoa is a 'super food' and I don't dislike it - it's lovely in a salad. But served to you two to three times a day in a flavorless watery soup and you start to hate it. And poor George doesn't like soup at the best of times. We struggle through and are presented with a bowl of root vegetables. Mealy, un-seasoned and dry turnips and potatoes. I try and mix the remainder of my soup with it, but then it's just unseasoned, dry root vegetables in hot water with bits. Thank goodness I am saved by the world's greatest trousers, into the pockets of which go two potatoes. And, thank goodness, the meal is also served with a generous slab of sheep's cheese. We are not ungrateful you understand. Just hungry.

After dinner was finally over, we had half an hour to spare before meeting the group again. So I brought out my knitting and passed a few minutes sharing smiles and nods of recognition from Janet and their female neighbour. Weaving and knitting is the only past time and means of bringing in money for these women, and they are excellent at it. I knit a fair bit and consider myself fairly good. But the speed and technique these women possess is incredible and the items they make look so much like they have been made by a machine in a factory that it actually does them a disservice and means tourists alike to me are less likely to buy their wares. And for some reason, despite their ability, they all seem to make the same things, as if one person has sold a hat to a tourist, and the rest of the island thinks 'aha! Tourists like that hat. I too will make that exact hat!'. But it must work because they're surviving off it.

We then wandered with our host to the island's village square and reconvened with the group. There was then an awkward period of time where our guide sat in front of us with our guest families lined up and smiling behind him and questioned us about the quality of the lunch and the number of blankets on our bed, the positive answer being met with a round of applause for that family. He then reminded us that if we had any complaints we must tell him then and not just say all was OK then complain to our travel agents later. It's not that we had anything to complain about, but it felt a rather unfair thing to do with the families standing and smiling at us. It also re-affirmed something about our guide, which had started to become apparent from the beginning of the day. The whole two days we were with him, he kept preempting our dissatisfaction and then becoming very defensive about it, without anyone having said anything. "You might want to say to me that this place we are going is very touristy, but I will tell you that hundreds more people go to Machu Picchu every day". Unfortunately it also seemed to replace him actually telling us a lot of basic information about the places we visited.

When he finally let us go, the idea was that we would all climb to the highest ridge of the island and along to one of two temples - Pacha Mamma or Pacha Tata. We chose Pacha Mamma and started our hike up the winding, neatly cobbled path, past low stone houses and dry stone walls. Unfortunately our guide and kept us so long that we had to hike hard and fast if we had any hope of arriving in time to see the sunset from the high point. It must be pointed out here that although George is known, at least by me, for taking his time and lagging behind at sea level, he does much better than me at altitude and was soon springing ahead of me with comparative ease. Some might have said he showed off. Others that he took the piss. Not me though, I was too busy trying to breathe. We did, however, reach the top just in time to see the sun set over the lake and it was well worth it. We wandered away from the group a little and found a dip sheltered from the wind to watch the sky change colour. Bit by bit we heard the others leave. Ha ha we thought, they obviously don't realise that watching a sunset doesn't just mean waiting until the sun has gone! The best colours come afterwards! We were right. However, when we got up to leave, we suddenly realised quite how dark it had already become, and how quickly the remaining light was fading. And with it, the heat of the sun, leaving only chill mountain air. Before we had walked ten minutes it was pitch black. Luckily the path was good and we had brought our head torches with us. Though mine has less strength than a firefly in a jar strapped to my forehead. We made steady, if slightly nervous progress but were continually surprised at how long the walk was once you are in the dark and we had to keep assuring ourselves that there was only one path so we couldn't have taken a wrong turn. As we passed through one archway, our feeble light suddenly picked out a shape moving down the path towards us. Strange, misshapen and bigger than human, it lumbered over the cobbles and had us grabbing for each other in fright, before the image resolved into that of two locals walking either side of their donkey, up the hill with absolutely no lights leading their way. 

After what felt like much further than it should have been, we made it back to the square, where Guilliamo was standing waiting, the sole host left, looking both relieved to see us and slightly annoyed in a good humoured way. After a bit of a ticking off from our guide, we followed Guilliamo back to the house, feeling both pleased we had done what we wanted, a little guilty for making him wait and very wary of the dinner we knew awaited us.

Quinoa soup. Why. Halfway through, George looks at me pleadingly and I take pity on him and swap my empty bowl with his full one. But my God it's a struggle. Thank goodness, the main dish is omelette. Excellent news for me, less good for George. I end the meal stuffed to the brim and George ends it hungry.

After dinner we have been told there is a fiesta, and Guilliamo asks us if we would like to go. Despite feeling pretty exhausted from our hike, we don't want to miss out, so Janet brings the required outfits up to our room - the traditional clothing of this island. For me, an embroidered white blouse, bright pink skirt, highly decorative waist belt and black embroidered head shawl. It was very warm, as I had left my fleece and the world's greatest trousers on underneath. For George, a woolen hat and a poncho.

 Decked out, we headed to the party, which was in a fairly sizeable village hall. Walking through the door we were greeted by the sight of 30 or so other tourists dressed in matching garments and looking equally bemused, all sitting around the edges of the room on plastic chairs. We followed suit. And then the band arrived, with various traditional instruments and many ponchos. They started up slowly with a few bars to give us the tune, and then suddenly the beat drops and it's no recognisable tempo I have ever heard before. Guilliamo encourages us to get up and dance with him. So we do - standing in a circle, holding hands we do our best to match his steps, which seem to be a few skips to the left, then a few to the right. It is energetic and silly and really really warm under our costumes. Then one guy decides the time has come, and bit by bit the little circles around the hall break open and join together in a long twisting, galloping snake. We grip each other's hands as we are pulled along behind the chain, sometimes slow, sometimes speeding round a corner of the maze like a formula one driver, sometimes changing direction all together. By the end we are laughing and panting. This sets the tone for the rest of the evening, with only a couple of traditional songs sat out by me and George and one odd moment where the band started playing Hey Jude. A ridiculous, unforgettable evening. Walking back to the house it is pitch black apart from Guilliamo's torch and we get an excellent view of the Southern Hemisphere stars. They really are so much more exciting than those in the north. Needless to say we both slept well that night.

After a much welcomed breakfast of pancakes, we bid farewell to our host family and their chubby five year old baby and headed back to the boat and on to Taquile Island, which has as a beautiful walk across it's high ridge, with brightly coloured flowers and terraced pastures either side of the path, giving the route a quaint, shire-like feel to it. The walk is peaceful and and empty other than the occasional local woman selling woven bracelets and at one point a very obnoxious sheep which scared the wits out of my by bleating very loudly as I walked under his pastured terrace.

 Interestingly we are informed that the woman here weave and the men knit. There is a large museum and shop in the main square dedicated to "men's handicrafts" and though the place is fairly unimpressive, I can't help to wonder why it is that the women don't get a museum for their weaving or knitting. Embroidery has been mostly overlooked as a medium in contemporary art in Europe and America for centuries, as it has been brushed aside as a women's past time. Could be totally unrelated of course, but it bears considering.

We are given a talk and demonstration of hat knitting and traditions for this island over lunch (freshly caught rainbow trout). Apparently the men all wear differently coloured and shaped hats depending on whether they are single, courting or married. Only married people are allowed a vote on community decisions and on their wedding day, the woman gives her new husband a wide waist belt woven from her own hair. The main difference in the hats seems to be that the more committed into a relationship you are, the longer the flopping tail of your hat. So the married men end up looking like the nursery rhyme old man in the trailing sleeping cap. I get a little mesmerised by the man demonstrating the knitting - he has the wool pulled tight around the back of his neck and down into his pocket and the speed of his needles is impressive. 

We continue our walk, this time down a fair amount of steps and in to the harbour, where our boat waits in the deep blue waters of the lake. It's off back to Puno we head, in time for one more bowl of excellent spaghetti before heading on to Arequipa and then Cusco and Machu Picchu.

Lake Titicaca is huge and confusing and beautiful and the people inhabiting the islands may differ in their traditions and clothing, but what remained a common theme on all the islands was the people's welcoming, rosy cheeked and good humoured nature. And all the quinoa soup of course.