Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun

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On to Yampupata

After one last early breakfast at our favorite place on the shore, Anna and I buy some water and head down the road that leads out of Copacabana and toward Yampupata.

At first, the road cuts away from the shore of the lake. It takes us through large fields that are being sown with various crops. We see three or four men working in each of these fields with shovels and hoes. A few more pass us on bicycles going to or coming from Copacabana with burlap sacks of supplies hanging from the handlebars. They wish us buenos dias.

Two-story wooden houses stand in front of some of the fields at the roadside. Goats invariably loiter outside the houses - barnyard sentries watching us stroll by as they munch on mouthfuls of grass. Less vigilant, a dog stretches out just in front of a porch and soaks up the morning sun. In front of another, a large sow lies while her newborn piglets wiggle beneath her to feed.

Beyond the fields and about two miles ahead, we are approaching a large group of hills covered in trees.

Anna takes two apples from her pack and hands me one. The first bite is always the most satisfying - the sound of a snapping oak tree branch.

Once the road reaches the hills, it winds its way up around the edge and to the left back toward the lake. We follow the gentle rise and fall of the road with a view of the water just below.

Ahead of us, we hear a diesel engine churning its way up the hill. A few seconds later, a micro pops into view at the crest of the hill and beeps in warning as it coasts past - kicking up dust in its wake.

"I guess there really was a micro back and forth," says Anna.
"Mystery solved," I reply.

After an hour or so of walking along the shoreline, the road cuts right again and leads us into a wooded area full of tall, slender trees.

After another hour, we exit the woods and climb one last hill. At the top, we sit at the side of the road to take a drink of water and rest. Below us and about three miles ahead, we can see the outer edge of Yampupata as it curves around the northern tip of the peninsula.

"Almost there," says Anna. "What time is it?"
"Not quite noon," I say, looking at my watch.

We sit for a few minutes more and descend the hill.

At the bottom, we rejoin the lake. We pass by a few houses on our right and a small, wooden dock on our left. The dock has a few simple boats tethered to it that bob up and down in the gentle waves.

As we pass one of the houses, the door flies open and a short man in his early sixties scurries down the steps and toward us. With his left hand held over his head, he clutches at three or four scraps of paper. With the right hand, he holds on to the gray hat on top of his head to keep it from falling off.

"Hola jovenes! Hola!" he cries as he comes near.

He brings his hand down from the hat to shake our hands furiously. Flustered, he raises both hands to the hat to make several adjustments as he opens his mouth a few times in false starts to say what he has to say. The pages in his left hand crumple slightly as he fidgets with the hat which was in no obvious danger of making an escape to begin with.

After a moment of gathering his thoughts in this manner, he introduces himself and proceeds to show us the pages in his hand - one of which has been taken from a magazine and contains photographs of the lake. In his hurried excitement, I'm not quite sure what he is babbling about.

"Look here," he says as he switches to the last page. "A travel writer mentioned me here in his article. I took him to the island in my own boat!"

He wags a finger at one of the boats tied to the dock, and I begin to understand. I had already guessed that he wanted to take us to the island, and now I see that he is showing us his credentials.

He holds the page - torn from a travel guide - up for me to inspect his name circled in ink. "It's in English!" he says with immense pride.
"Ah yeah, there you are," I smile and tap the circled name with a fingertip.
The man grins and steps back, "Where are you from?"
"I'm from the U.S. and she's from Poland," I reply.
"Ah Poland! Very far from home! And where are you going?"
"We were just walking to Yampupata
to catch a boat to the island."
"Well let me take you," he says and points to his boat once again. "Look, it's a very sturdy boat and they will charge you so much more in Yampupata. They are pirates!"
"Well how much do you charge?"
"Just 70 Bolivianos."

This is a little less than $5 USD each. I relay to Anna who has also guessed the man's intentions.

"Well, we've already done most of the walk. And there's nothing else to see or do in Yampupata. Ok with me."
"Yeah, would be nice to just get to the island and start walking there."
"And find some lunch."
"Definitely."

I turn back to the man and tell him we'll go with him. He beams and leads us over to some chairs and asks us to wait a moment. He runs back into the house.

A few minutes later, he bounds back out and gestures for us to come with him to the boat. He is followed closely by his plump wife who is complaining and nagging him about all sorts of things. He turns briefly to wave his hands in dismissive negation.

"Later, later! I'll be back later!"

We walk out onto the rickety dock and step carefully into the small boat. After wrestling with the rope tied to the dock, the old man climbs in and starts the outboard motor. He then backs the boat out and does an about face.

The raspy gurgle of the idling motor leaps to a high-pitch whine and we fly across the bluer than blue water of Titicaca - its surface glimmering with the chorus of a thousand reflections of the overhead Sun.

The Island of the Sun

The man brings the boat to a stop at the deserted southern tip of the island. We climb out and onto a group of large, white rocks.

"Just stick to the right, and you'll run into a town. There are a few places there to have lunch," the man says.

We thank him, and he heads toward home.

The pile of rocks on which we stand lay at the base of a hill that rises sharply out of the water. We scramble over the rocks and up the hill to where some archaic stone steps have been made for easier climbing. It is hard to say if these steps are ancient, or relatively new.

Near the top, we turn and look back at the lake. With the man and his boat out of earshot, the lake and this side of the island is silent. The only sound is that of the tall grass that covers the hill as it sways in the gentle breeze. Not far from us is another tiny island. It is entirely covered in trees.

From here, a path leads away from the steps and off around the east side of the island. We take it.

La Isla del Sol is a very hilly and tall island. For agriculture to be effective, the Incas carved terraces into the sides of the terrain in order to have flat surfaces for growing crops. The path we are on soon makes itself at home along one of these terraces, and we follow it - not quite at the top, but at least a dozen levels above the edge of the water.

Agriculture remains at the heart of the island as a community. A few thousand people live here, and most rely on small crops and livestock. Tourism is a bonus income. There are no roads or motorized vehicles here - only worn footpaths that circle and crisscross the island.

We walk for about an hour and finally reach a small town. We stop for lunch.

Our goal is to get to a town called Cha'llapampa on the northern end of the island where we will stay the night and see some Incan ruins tomorrow. The woman running the restaurant tells us it would be quicker to first take one of the crossing paths into the heart of the island before heading north. We walk deeper into the town to find the path.

We find it and turn left away from the lake. For about three hours, we walk across hills and valleys. They are dotted with rustic farmhouses and crops. This is how most people on the island live - still relying on the land to provide their livelihood.

The reliance on agriculture ties in perfectly with the legend that gives the island its name. The aforementioned Viracocha - as the creator of the world - was the most revered of gods in Inca culture. But it was his son, Inti, that received most attention in the daily lives of the Incas. Inti was the sun god. La Isla del Sol was believed to be his birthplace - seen emerging from a group of rocks on the island early one morning (or rather, the first morning).

Inti had a wife - Pachamama. This is often translated as "Mother Earth", but the Quechua word "Pacha" has a more encompassing meaning than just "Earth". "Mother Universe" or "Mother Space-time" may be more accurate translations. Pachamama is a goddess of fertility and harvest. She and her husband were highly respected and together received more offerings from the people than any other god.

This was particularly true amongst the farming population - so dependent on the Sun and the Earth for their survival.

In these simple houses, a drink made from fermented corn - called chicha - is drunk. Before drinking, a small amount is poured out of the cup and onto the floor as an offering to Pachamama. Celebrations and rituals are still held in her honor. Many people in the Andes are simultaneously Christian and Pachamamist.

Late in the afternoon, we walk down out of the hills and into a tiny town lining a beach on the lake. According to my compass, we should be more or less on the northern side of the island. But looking out over the water, I can see that we are on one side of a narrow, but long bay with large hills on the other side.

"You think this could be Cha'llapampa?" I ask Anna. "Or is it over there on the other side?"
"Could be," she replies. "Let's ask."

We walk down the beach a bit to where two girls are sitting on a sturdy wooden fence in front of a shop.

"Buenas, is this Cha'llapampa?" I ask the older girl.
She shakes her head and points across the bay. "Nope, it's over there."

I look down the beach to the end of the bay and over to Anna in despair.

"That will take another two and a half hours!"
"It will be dark in an hour or so," she responds, looking at the sun hanging low in the sky.

Guessing our predicament, the girl sitting on the fence points to a boat tied to a small pier extending into the water.

"We can take you across in our boat for 20 Bolivianos."

We agree and follow them down to the pier. We step into the wooden canoe - much broader and longer than the boat we were in earlier today. Anna and I sit on one of the bench seats at the end, and the two girls step in and take the middle bench.

I look around. There is no outboard motor on this boat. I look back to the two girls who are now adjusting their grips on two enormous oars - one each.

They begin to row us across the bay.

The older girl is maybe eighteen or nineteen. The younger is no more than twelve. As I have mentioned, kids pitching in to help their family is just the reality in Bolivia. But there is no way I am going to sit here while a twelve-year old girl rows me across Lake Titicaca.

I last about five minutes before I start nagging the girls to let me take a turn. Out of breath, the little girl readily hands the oar to me and I take a seat next to who I presume to be her older sister. The older girl and I pull the oars to our chest over and over.. When this wears us out, we stand up, turn around, and push the oars in order to propel the large boat across the water.

After about twenty minutes, we arrive at the large pier of Cha'llapampa.

The town consists of a small grid of concrete houses set on a small cape surrounded by a bay on each side. The bay opposite the one with the pier is lined with the curve of a beautiful sand beach.

We walk through town, along the beach, and up a path that leads into the hills. Along the way, we meet several people coming in the opposite direction with small herds of sheep, pigs, and the occasional donkey. We eventually come to a fork in the path and ask two older men for directions to the ruins. They point to the left and tell us its just over the next hill.

Satisfied that we know where to go tomorrow, we turn around and head back to Cha'llapampa. When we reach the outskirts, a girl of about ten years of age catches up to us from behind leading her two toddler sisters by the hands.

"Hi, do you have a place to stay tonight?" she asks.
"No," I answer. "We were just about to go look for one."
"We have rooms at our place for 15 Bolivianos if you'd like to stay."
I look at Anna. "1.50 euro good for you?"
"Yep."
I look back at the girl. "Sounds good. Where is it?"
"Right here, two doors down."

She leads us to a lot with a white house next to the road. Behind it stands a concrete building with a wooden staircase that leads up to the second story. Both levels have four or five doors each that presumably lead into small rooms.

The girl pushes the gate of the short picket fence open and we walk into the yard. She asks us to wait and drags her sisters into the open door of the house where we can smell dinner on the stove. A moment later, the girl's mother comes out drying her hands on a dish towel and shows us to our room upstairs.

We drop our stuff and pick our respective beds of the three in the room. Anna wanders off to find the bathroom. I walk back out onto the wooden landing and lean on the railing to look out over the town. A tall, skinny guy comes out of the next room to do the same. Below, a man in jeans and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up walks through the gate where he is met by the three little girls. He walks over to the center of the yard and looks up with a smile.

"Hello friends!" he says in good English. "Where are you from?"
"The United States," the tall guy and I reply simultaneously.
"Very good. Welcome to the island!"

No standard hostel protocol. No recording of names or passport numbers. No advance payment or security deposit. Not here.

The Ruins

In the morning, we walk a few doors down to where we had dinner last night. The owners of the third-floor apartment run a small restaurant on their terrace. We eat breakfast and enjoy the view of the lake.

Afterward, we make our way to the beach and up into the hills. When we reach the fork in the path, we turn right - away from the ruins - and climb up to one of the higher terraces and walk out to the end of a small peninsula. This view of the lake and the island is beautiful. Except for the occasional bleating of a few grazing lambs led by an old woman, it is utterly silent. We take some pictures, and head back down to the path.

From there, it is less than an hour walk over the next hill toward the ruins. Thick sedimentary stripes of what appear to be limestone run down into the valley, and up over the next hill. In contrast to the rest of the reddish brown soil, these white bands almost look to be painted on.

Over the hill, we descend down into a flat valley. At the far end, we see a configuration of stones and a man sitting nearby. He gets up to greet us and tells us we'll need to buy tickets to enter the ruins. Ten Bolivianos each. Anna and I flip through our dwindling supply of cash. We only have 100 Boliviano notes.

"Hmm," the man frowns. "You don't have smaller bills? I don't have change for that."
"No, sorry," I reply. "This is all we have."
"Ok, well someone will have change in town," he says.
"Yeah but that's nearly two hours round-trip. We have to catch the ferry back to Copacabana in the early afternoon. We won't have time."
"Hmm," he repeats. "Hang on. There are a few tourists in the ruins. I'll go see if they have change."

He jogs off around the corner of some rocks toward the ruins.

This is a chronic problem in South America - especially Bolivia. No one ever has change for large bills. It isn't necessarily their fault. Being the poorest country on the continent, shop keepers and business owners can't afford the flexibility of cash liquidity. It just doesn't work that way. But travelers are equally inconvenienced. If we withdrawal small amounts of cash from ATM's over and over, we'll be murdered by the international conversion fees. So we have to take large amounts out every week or so - which means withdrawing large bills and hoping you'll find a place to break them.

The man comes back shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, but no one has change. Are you sure you have nothing smaller?"
"No, we really don't."

Anna sits down on a rock.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says to me.

She has the right idea. Despite the problematic cash flow, there is usually a solution. This entails being stubborn. It is a staring contest. The fact is that, in most cases, either the tourist or the local is lying about having smaller bills. The locals lie because they don't want to be stuck with large bills that will be a pain to get rid of later. The tourists lie because they want to break a large bill whenever they can so that they can avoid these situations for another few days.

But in this case, we aren't lying. The 100 note is all we have. So we'll have to see if this guy will blink.

I sit down on another rock and look up at the man. "Ok so what do we do? We walked all the way up here from the southern end of the island. We can't just leave without seeing something."
"I know, but I can't break 100."

I break off communications by looking off to the horizon and sighing in frustration. Anna and I begin muttering to each other with discontented gestures of our hands. This is bravado.

Convinced that we aren't leaving, the man walks over to his satchel and rummages around for several seconds. He eventually pulls out a wad of bills and carefully counts through them. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. Ah! Eighty. What a lucky surprise.

Blink.

We exchange bills and he hands us paper tickets.

He points around the rocky corner and tells us the ruins are just there. Then he indicates the small circle of rocks on the other side of the path. He explains that it was a ceremonial altar for making sacrifices.

We thank him and walk over to the circle. In the center is a large, flat slab of stone supported by four smaller rocks beneath it. Encircling the altar is a ring of small, square stones. Perhaps it is just my imagination, but the top of the large slab appears to be just slightly stained red. Busy altar?

We walk around the corner and up the path to the ruins of the Inca settlement. It is perched at the edge of a drop with an incredible view of the lake.

The town is a maze of well-preserved walls and doorways formed by stacks of rectangular stones. I knock my fist against a few of them to test their sturdiness. They aren't going anywhere anytime soon.

We wander around the ruins for a half hour and head back to the altar. From there, we take another path up to the top of a large hill that overlooks the ruins. This is the highest we've been on the island. The path levels off and we continue for another half hour. This is the eastern side of the island and even more devoid of civilization than the west.

We stop high above a small inlet to rest before heading back to catch the ferry. Down near the edge of the water, a boy sits and plays a pan flute. It is the only sound to be heard.

We head back and down the hill. There are several more tourists entering the ruins now. I am glad we came as early as we did. Avoiding the hustle and bustle of people and cameras always adds to the experience.

Back in Cha'llapampa, we board the large ferry. It is a long, boring, and fairly uncomfortable trip back to Copacabana. Once we get there, we stop at a travel agency to ask about buses into Perú. As luck would have it, there is a micro leaving in less than an hour that will take us to Puno on the Peruvian side of the lake. From there, we can catch a night bus to Arequipa in the south of the country.

We race back to the hostel to grab our large packs with just enough time to buy some fruit and bread to take on the trip.

Back at the agency, we squeeze into the micro with some other travelers.

At the border, we get stamped out of Bolivia. The micro will head back to Copacabana and we will catch another bus on the Peruvian side. We pull our packs down from the roof and walk up the street.

The Bolivian sun hovers low on the horizon in a supernova sky of red and orange as we walk across the border into Perú.

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Photos

Island Steps
The steps we climbed at the southern tip of the island

Inti
Inti as depicted on the Argentine flag