Lake Titicaca

We stayed overnight in Puno where we all went for a big dinner, steak and red wine, wonderful, before setting off for Lake Titicaca. We were up early in the morning where we had cycle style tuk tuks to take us to the harbour. It turned into a race as we all told our drivers that there would be a bonus in it for him if we got there first.

At the harbour there were a number of food shops where we bought food for the local people that we were going to stay with on one of the many the islands. We boarded our boat, which was pretty conventional with seating on the deck and a roof we could sit on once we had left the port and the harbour authorities could no longer see us. Lake Titicaca is situated between peru and Bolivia, and is at an altitude of over 3800m, the word lake does not really do it justice as it is a massive expanse of water that covers a surface area of more than 8000km and at its deepest points reaches more than 280m in depth. We sailed out for an hour or so, i was sat on the roof with several others looking at the beautiful turquoise water that stretched out in all directions with no sign of land. The sun beat down on us, but due to the altitude it was still cold, we looked at the sun gleaming of the water which looked lovely and warm, but we knew better. We sailed past several of the lakes famous man made floating read or Uros islands, which are made from the tortora reed, a reed like papyrus that grows in dense brakes in the marshy shallows

We docked at a large island, we were greeted by our guide and took a walk up its steep winding walkways along the coast, taking in the spectacular views of the rugged coast line against the lake. As we walked along the guide would stop and pick up various plants and explain there medical uses, one was for altitude sickness, Koke was suffering with this and took some and it worked, so much for medical science. However there was no plant to ease the problem of the thin air a altitude as we all took deep breaths along what was really just a pleasant stroll.


The residents of this island run their own tourism operations in the hope that visits of outsiders will not destroy their delicate culture. Although this is to be commended you can see the constant clash of genuine life style verses tourist entertainment. As we walked along the pathways you could see the islanders going about there every day lives, wearing there every day cloths, while later in the main square there we many islanders in more formal and flamboyant attire.


The main square was like something out of a spaghetti western, with an arched entrance with a cross over the top, the square itself was part cobbled and part bear earth, all of which was sandy. There was a museum on one side and shop where travellers can buy well made woollen and alpaca goods as well as colourful garments whose patterns and designs bear hidden messages about the wearer's social standing or marital status. The messages depend on the bobbles contained on the hats the the man wore and the shawls worn my the women. He hats the men where are similar to the bobble hats we have a home but bigger so as that the hat falls down with the bobble ending up at neck length. If the bobble is on the left he is married, right he is single, straight back he is kind of seeing someone but is open for offers. The square was full of incredibly cute young girls who ran around in black shawls like jawas and coyly posed for photographs before holding out there hand for a cash payment. I refused to pay for these but did buy a patterned cotton bracelet.

We stopped for lunch, where we learnt some more about the islanders society, they have a chief, but he is not elected, instead it is passed around the community from time to time. They are also supposed to work so you may well find that he is serving your food at a cafe, you can spot the chief by the special hat worn. We headed back to the boat past some outlaying farm houses and down steps which we boarded by the agricultural crops that we cut into the hill side like giant steps.


We got back on the boat and sailed for another hour or so to our next island where we would spend the night staying with the villagers at there houses. We were greeted at the harbour by our ‘mamas’, in traditional dress, who would look after us for the night. We were spit into groups of two or three where we were led by hour hosts to their homes. I was with Marcus, our mama led the way and showed us to the room we would be staying in, it was freezing and dark as the island has no electricity supply, although there are some generators. Our mamas then gave us hats to wear, at first i thought this was so they could sell them to us later, but i realised it was so they could recognise us, as all of us whities look the same to them. We had been challenged to a game of football by the local kids, who ranged from about 12 to 17. Two things made it more difficult, first there skill level, it was like playing south Americans (!?!) and not used to the thin air, we would barley run for 20 seconds without gasping for breath they ran around without a care in the world. It the strangest sensation, usually if you our out of breath due to running this comes with being hot and sweaty, being out of breath with neither of these feels somehow wrong. Deciding that my touch had probably not improved over since the last time i played football in 1995 i decided to go in goal. We won, just.
We were then went for a cup of hot chocolate before being identified by our hats by our mamas who took back to their houses for dinner. The living area was one room maybe 4m x 6m with bare concrete walls which had been painted and a floor that was bare. At one end there was a table where we sat, at the other a stone area that had been cut out and used as a stove, around were ramshackle tables and shelves with various brick a brack. The food was cooked by our mamas mother, we has a soup followed by a vegetable stew with potatoes, it was light refreshing and beautifully cooked. However it was a little awkward, our mama spoke little English, the mother none. Even our little Spanish was of little help as the language spoken on the islands is Quechua. We were given a sheet with some handy words, but even the word for thank you was about 12 letters long.

Later that night we got dressed up in traditional dress, with bright ponchos and hats for the boys and dresses, colourfully embroidery and shawls and went to a traditional ball in the local community hall where the band played all night and we danced around like fools with each over and the locals.

We left the next day and headed for the floating read islands that we had passed the on the way in the previous day. The islands have been inhabited for centuries buy the Uro Indians who make not only there islands but their homes and boats, that resemble the crescent-shaped papyrus craft pictured on ancient Egyptian monuments, out of bundles of dried reeds lashed together. The bottoms of the reed islands decay in the water and are replaced from the top with new layers, making a spongy surface that is a bit difficult to walk on. Even the walls of the schools on the bigger islands are made of totora. The soft roots of the reed are eaten, making it a pretty handy thing to have around. Legend has it the Uro Indians had black blood that helped them survive the frigid nights on the water and safeguarded them from drowning.

The women on the island we all dress in there Sunday best with bright luminous colours and welcomed us onto the island to show us their way of life that has not changed since the 14th century, although they had solar panels.

The last full-blooded Uro was a woman who died in 1959. Other Uros had left the group of islands in earlier years owing to a drought that worsened their poverty - and intermarried with Aymará and Quechua-speaking Indians. But the Indians who now inhabit this island - a mix of Uro, Aymara and Inca descendants - follow the Uro ways.
The Uros' poverty has prompted more and more of them to move to Puno. That same poverty has caused those who remain to take a hard-sell approach to tourists and, besides pressing visitors to buy their handicrafts, they frequently demand "tips" for having their photographs taken.

However, there is continued criticism that tourism has not only opened the Uros Islands to the stares of insensitive tourists but has destroyed much of the culture as the Indians modified their handicrafts to appeal to outsiders or abandoned traditional practices to dedicate more time to the influx of outsiders.

With in this lies the dilemma, tourism brings with it money and the money provided leads to the people who live there putting on a show to demonstrate their traditional life, which is a false representation of itself so the traditional way of life is damaged to please the tourists. However without the money received from tourism the culture would have died out completely as it provides money for the communities to buy the supplies that makes it possible for them to remain in the place of their forefathers and hang on to the last bastions of their traditions.

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