Lake Titicaca
The long Carnival weekend gives us the rare opportunity to pack our suitcases, strap the boys into their child seats, fill up the Pilot, and leave La Paz. Our destination: Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable body of water in the world, and a jewel of a tourist destination that Bolivia shares with neighboring Peru. We head north early in the morning.
We drive a good two hours until we leave the highway. From there it’s a curvy and winding road snaking through the hills. This means I need to slow down. I remember the boys getting sick several times on our last trip to Chile, so I will have to be sensible and drive the Pilot the way I would a limo. The rain hasn’t stopped since early in the morning. It looks like a wet weekend.
At Tiquina, we must take a ferry to cross a thin strip of lake no more than a kilometer wide, if that. The ferries themselves are equipped with 55 hp engines that will power these ancient looking wooden slabs plus their heavy cargo across the strait. There are two cars per ferry, each vessel manned by a group of two. I pay the thirty-five Bolivianos fare to a teenage kid steering the ferry. Liebi and the boys must take a separate passenger ship owing to weight concerns. I spot a ferry carrying a huge tour bus. The ferries themselves look like they’ve been used centuries ago to haul livestock. I am on my own and take the time to admire the sparkling lake wrapped around the bases of lush green mountains. The ferry ride takes at least a half hour.
On the other side, Liebi and the boys hop back in and we head toward Copacabana, a resort town resting on the main body of Lake Titicaca and a beehive of activity when compared with the village of Tiquina. The road on this peninsula is similar to what we witnessed on the mainland, except that the peninsula is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.
We drive through rolling green hills with lake views that remind me of our trip to Ireland only three years ago. The main difference, of course, is that these rolling hills are two and a half miles high. We spot shepherds leading their flocks up a mountain. Everywhere there are little waterfalls cascading into the green grass, their water as fresh as if tapped from a source. The rain still has not stopped, but this only adds to the charm of the place. I picture families sitting in those mud huts dotting the countryside, no doubt enjoying the fire and probably a good cup of coca tea.
I continue to drive slowly. It’s a good decision, as I hear the boys horsing around with each other. We approach Copacabana, the idyllic small town by the lake. We park our car at a nearby hotel, since we won’t need it anymore. From here on out, it will be boats and shoes.
We board a little boat and are seated in front to avoid the gas fumes coming from the back. The front of the boat is adorned with a hand painted map of the islands of Titicaca as well as a woolen chain of little bells and cholita dolls, handcrafted, of course. Bash cares little for its artistry and manages to yank the chain off the wall.
From Copacabana, we take the boat for one and a half hours to our ultimate destination, the Isla Del Sol, the Island of the Sun, where the Inca Sun God was born, as legend has it. The rain continues to pound the lake, the sky is an ominous grey, and yet I can’t imagine this place to be any sweeter under the sun. The Isla Del Sol coming up will prove to have its own set of challenges once we disembark.
We drive a good two hours until we leave the highway. From there it’s a curvy and winding road snaking through the hills. This means I need to slow down. I remember the boys getting sick several times on our last trip to Chile, so I will have to be sensible and drive the Pilot the way I would a limo. The rain hasn’t stopped since early in the morning. It looks like a wet weekend.
At Tiquina, we must take a ferry to cross a thin strip of lake no more than a kilometer wide, if that. The ferries themselves are equipped with 55 hp engines that will power these ancient looking wooden slabs plus their heavy cargo across the strait. There are two cars per ferry, each vessel manned by a group of two. I pay the thirty-five Bolivianos fare to a teenage kid steering the ferry. Liebi and the boys must take a separate passenger ship owing to weight concerns. I spot a ferry carrying a huge tour bus. The ferries themselves look like they’ve been used centuries ago to haul livestock. I am on my own and take the time to admire the sparkling lake wrapped around the bases of lush green mountains. The ferry ride takes at least a half hour.
On the other side, Liebi and the boys hop back in and we head toward Copacabana, a resort town resting on the main body of Lake Titicaca and a beehive of activity when compared with the village of Tiquina. The road on this peninsula is similar to what we witnessed on the mainland, except that the peninsula is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.
We drive through rolling green hills with lake views that remind me of our trip to Ireland only three years ago. The main difference, of course, is that these rolling hills are two and a half miles high. We spot shepherds leading their flocks up a mountain. Everywhere there are little waterfalls cascading into the green grass, their water as fresh as if tapped from a source. The rain still has not stopped, but this only adds to the charm of the place. I picture families sitting in those mud huts dotting the countryside, no doubt enjoying the fire and probably a good cup of coca tea.
I continue to drive slowly. It’s a good decision, as I hear the boys horsing around with each other. We approach Copacabana, the idyllic small town by the lake. We park our car at a nearby hotel, since we won’t need it anymore. From here on out, it will be boats and shoes.
We board a little boat and are seated in front to avoid the gas fumes coming from the back. The front of the boat is adorned with a hand painted map of the islands of Titicaca as well as a woolen chain of little bells and cholita dolls, handcrafted, of course. Bash cares little for its artistry and manages to yank the chain off the wall.
From Copacabana, we take the boat for one and a half hours to our ultimate destination, the Isla Del Sol, the Island of the Sun, where the Inca Sun God was born, as legend has it. The rain continues to pound the lake, the sky is an ominous grey, and yet I can’t imagine this place to be any sweeter under the sun. The Isla Del Sol coming up will prove to have its own set of challenges once we disembark.
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