Lake Titicaca: The Sun Island
When we reach the Isla Del Sol, there is nobody from our cabins to meet us (a weak telephone signal doesn’t help either). The captain of the boat points up the hill where our huts are – predictably, at the very top. From the docks where we are standing, we can tell it will be at least a one hour hike and all uphill, no less. There is no common path we can use, either, so it appears we will have to blaze our own trail to get there.
There is no sign of a road, a sidewalk or anything paved, so we strap our backpacks, hold on to the kids, and march off, hoping for the best. On the bright side, the rain has finally subsided, which means we will not have to negotiate slippery slopes on our way up, in addition to hauling a ton of luggage and the kids. The downside is, we will probably lose a couple of gallons of sweat by the time we make it up there.
We inch our way up, step by step, avoiding the wet grass whenever we can and using boulders and rocks to assist us in our ascent. Axl finally tires about a third way up, which means that I will have to schlep him as well. It doesn’t get any easier. We finally make it, and Axl rallies to drag himself up this mountain for a good part. Brave trooper, I’d say.
When we check in at the lobby, I have pina (pineapple) tea and admire the splendid view of the lake. Our little cabin is primitive, but has a room to accommodate all four of us. Looking out the window is dreamlike – there is lake and green mountains everywhere. In the distance, the shore of Peru beckons. The rain starts up again, yet it is so fitting to this place that I can’t really complain about the weather. After our murderous hike we all rest. There will be time to check out the village later.
When we hike through the village with the boys in tow, it becomes obvious that this society is agriculture based. We find a farm with numerous animals crammed together. There are llamas, pigs, and sheep, all sharing just a few square meters of living space. It hardly looks humane, although the vast green spaces of the mountain indicate that that is where they graze once they are taken outside. When I take a photo of the llamas, a girl no older than six tries to shake me down, asking me to pay for the picture I just made. I apologize, stating I have no money on me, which is actually the truth. Aside from that, I wouldn’t have paid her. Just as easily she could have asked me for money to take a snapshot of the sky.
We wade through ankle deep mud, trying to facilitate our path with stones whenever we can. We hike up to the highest point of the village, the football field. From here, there is a gorgeous sight of the lake. Of course, the boys up here know this like I know my own shoes and simply play football. Here, being the next Messi or Ronaldo has priority over some stinking picture perfect landscape that they know by heart.
The kids not playing football have large water guns with them, and this is where I realize that we, the dumb foreigners, have walked into an ambush. During carnival, everybody is fair game, which goes DOUBLE for white clueless foreigners. We inch ourselves closer to the exit, I kick the ball a few times, the boys charm the water gunmen just enough for them to hold their fire, or their water. We come out unscathed.
For dinner, we have the finest and freshest trout ever served. A few families I hadn’t seen before join us in the dining room. The owners – all local – have warmed the place the old fashioned way, with firewood. I appreciate that, knowing it will be brass monkey cold that night. The rain is pounding the place again, and we hear it hammer the straw thatched roof at night.
When we leave the next morning, we arrange for donkeys to at least carry our bags to the boat. We will have to hike for a good hour to the docks, although this should be easier, as the locals have pointed out a hard trail we can use. The rain has been pouring for twenty straight hours, meaning the hike will be done in the rain, with complaining kids, no doubt. I carry Axl most of the way, hanging onto him for dear life as I navigate the slippery path leading down to the docks. It seems to take forever, and we are thoroughly drenched by the time we get there. The boys’ clothes need to be changed.
Later we learn there is no donkey that took our bags but an old sixty year old cholita who managed to carry all of our bags by herself. Not only that, but she arrives only minutes after Liebi reaches the dock, an incredible athletic feat by anybody’s standard, even more so by a sixty year old cholita. Later in Copacabana, we visit the Basilica, which is unique, unlike any church I have ever seen, but then again, most of them are here.
When all is said and done, there is one word to describe Lake Titicaca with: magical.
There is no sign of a road, a sidewalk or anything paved, so we strap our backpacks, hold on to the kids, and march off, hoping for the best. On the bright side, the rain has finally subsided, which means we will not have to negotiate slippery slopes on our way up, in addition to hauling a ton of luggage and the kids. The downside is, we will probably lose a couple of gallons of sweat by the time we make it up there.
We inch our way up, step by step, avoiding the wet grass whenever we can and using boulders and rocks to assist us in our ascent. Axl finally tires about a third way up, which means that I will have to schlep him as well. It doesn’t get any easier. We finally make it, and Axl rallies to drag himself up this mountain for a good part. Brave trooper, I’d say.
When we check in at the lobby, I have pina (pineapple) tea and admire the splendid view of the lake. Our little cabin is primitive, but has a room to accommodate all four of us. Looking out the window is dreamlike – there is lake and green mountains everywhere. In the distance, the shore of Peru beckons. The rain starts up again, yet it is so fitting to this place that I can’t really complain about the weather. After our murderous hike we all rest. There will be time to check out the village later.
When we hike through the village with the boys in tow, it becomes obvious that this society is agriculture based. We find a farm with numerous animals crammed together. There are llamas, pigs, and sheep, all sharing just a few square meters of living space. It hardly looks humane, although the vast green spaces of the mountain indicate that that is where they graze once they are taken outside. When I take a photo of the llamas, a girl no older than six tries to shake me down, asking me to pay for the picture I just made. I apologize, stating I have no money on me, which is actually the truth. Aside from that, I wouldn’t have paid her. Just as easily she could have asked me for money to take a snapshot of the sky.
We wade through ankle deep mud, trying to facilitate our path with stones whenever we can. We hike up to the highest point of the village, the football field. From here, there is a gorgeous sight of the lake. Of course, the boys up here know this like I know my own shoes and simply play football. Here, being the next Messi or Ronaldo has priority over some stinking picture perfect landscape that they know by heart.
The kids not playing football have large water guns with them, and this is where I realize that we, the dumb foreigners, have walked into an ambush. During carnival, everybody is fair game, which goes DOUBLE for white clueless foreigners. We inch ourselves closer to the exit, I kick the ball a few times, the boys charm the water gunmen just enough for them to hold their fire, or their water. We come out unscathed.
For dinner, we have the finest and freshest trout ever served. A few families I hadn’t seen before join us in the dining room. The owners – all local – have warmed the place the old fashioned way, with firewood. I appreciate that, knowing it will be brass monkey cold that night. The rain is pounding the place again, and we hear it hammer the straw thatched roof at night.
When we leave the next morning, we arrange for donkeys to at least carry our bags to the boat. We will have to hike for a good hour to the docks, although this should be easier, as the locals have pointed out a hard trail we can use. The rain has been pouring for twenty straight hours, meaning the hike will be done in the rain, with complaining kids, no doubt. I carry Axl most of the way, hanging onto him for dear life as I navigate the slippery path leading down to the docks. It seems to take forever, and we are thoroughly drenched by the time we get there. The boys’ clothes need to be changed.
Later we learn there is no donkey that took our bags but an old sixty year old cholita who managed to carry all of our bags by herself. Not only that, but she arrives only minutes after Liebi reaches the dock, an incredible athletic feat by anybody’s standard, even more so by a sixty year old cholita. Later in Copacabana, we visit the Basilica, which is unique, unlike any church I have ever seen, but then again, most of them are here.
When all is said and done, there is one word to describe Lake Titicaca with: magical.
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