Hopping from Lima toward Lake Atitlán (part 4, Lake Atitlán)

It was early Sunday morning, 5:15 a.m. to be precise, when I checked out of the Bon Repos, which definitely did not live up to its name on that last night. Partygoers had been noisily making their way back to their respective quarters in the surrounding hotels until the wee hours, and taxis or whatever other traffic in the narrow street below had been honking and setting off car alarms, making real sleep almost impossible. I was glad when it was time to get up to catch the PeruHop shuttle to the big bus.

By 6:00 a.m., we were on our way to Puno, the penultimate stop of the bus before its terminus in Cuzco. (From Puno, one can continue onward into Bolivia with a sister bus, the BoliviaHop, which runs all the way to La Paz with a few stops in between.) Thankfully, the bus was only half full so that those of us who wanted to spread out and have a window seat could take two adjacent seats. Nice!

We stopped once during our almost seven-hour-long trip to stretch our legs for 10 minutes and take some panoramic photos of Laguna Lagunillas, a large lake nestled between high peaks. The whole drive was extremely scenic, mostly devoid of any settlements of more than a dozen or so people. I saw my share of alpacas, llamas, and vicuñas grazing on the slopes and in the sheer endless valleys. In the morning light, the colors of the mountainscape were intense in their various shades of ochres, reddish tones, and occasional greens when there happened to be some presence of water in the form of a small rivulet or some shallow pond. I dozed on and off, and every time I looked out I was mesmerized by the vastness of this part of the world.

Around noon we stopped in Juliaca where those of us continuing to Puno on Lake Titicaca changed into a shuttle van for the final 45-minute drive. Several days earlier I had communicated our drop-off point in Puno to the owner of the lodge where I was going to spend the final three nights of my stay in Peru. Quite frankly, I wasn't really quite sure how all this was going to work, but he had sent me a few WhatsApp messages with words like tranquilo and all okey, assuring me that things would somehow be all right. When I had booked my room in the Titicaca Flamenco Lodge (via Airbnb) I had noticed that it was located somewhat away from the town of Puno; Google Maps actually showed it to be in the water, in the lake! I understood that it was located on something called a "floating island," whatever that might be, but none of this made much sense to me. With no better option, I took the advice and didn't worry.

Upon my arrival at the drop-off spot at Lucky Your House, undoubtedly named by a Chinese immigrant, I sent off a WhatsApp letting the lodge's proprietor know that we were a little ahead of schedule. Okey. Fifteen minutes later, a local taxi pulled up and a smiling man emerged, shaking my hand and introducing himself as César, my host at the Titicaca Flamenco Lodge. A short, 10-minute ride later we pulled onto a dirt road that quickly dead-ended at a run-down canal where numerous small boats were pulled ashore while others appeared permanently disabled. César paid the driver and told me to follow him, over rocks, reeds, and tufts of grass to his small lancha. He took my luggage and hoisted it aboard, gave me a hand getting on the skiff, and told me to sit down—in the wooden Adirondack-like chair that, with its clean, white pillow, looked like a nobleman's throne. 

The narrow canal was too shallow to use the outboard motor, and César employed a long, wooden pole to move us into deeper water. There was a bustle of other lanchas all along the banks, with people loading and unloading their craft. I started to get it: This was the gateway to and from Puno from and to the Uros floating islands. Fairly soon the water was deep enough to use the engine, and we slowly cruised along the canal, which was lined with reeds. Oncoming skippers nodded or waved. We came to a type of checkpoint where I had to pay a $2 entry fee. And then the canal opened up into a larger body of water that was lined by dozens and dozens of reed huts, A-frames, and other oddly shaped buildings. I had arrived in the town of Uros.

Over the course of the next few days I learned about the history of Uros and its eponymously named people. The Uros were one of several ancient civilizations in this region of Peru and had been happily living on the shores of Lake Titicaca for as far back as 3,700 years, as some studies claim. Then, 500 years ago, the expanding Inca empire pushed south from its epicenter of Cuzco, threatening the survival of the Uros. And then something that seems to be taken from a sci-fi movie took place: Instead of being subjugated by the Incas the Uros decided to move, and they did so by building small, floating islands from the lake's totora reeds and simply drifted away! The planet faces destruction by an incoming asteroid, so let's build an armada of space ships and move everybody to Mars!

Well, the Inca are long gone, but the Uros still populate their islands, permanently living in-and-on the lake. About 3,000 individuals live on about 80 to 120 islands, each island being the home for up to four families, obviously depending on the size of the island as well as that of the individual families. César lives with his wife and son on a fairly small island on the "outskirts" of Uros township, and like everybody else, they are 100% Uros, speaking the native Aymara as well as Spanish. 

Less than 10 minutes later we arrived at César's small island, and I was welcomed by his wife, Mariela, and their two-year-old, Gaél. Titicaca Flamenco Lodge is a one-room house (with a bathroom) that has a wooden porch as well as an outside sunbed lounger with sun-sails and colorfully embroidered pillows. The house was built by César himself, with the help of other Uros. Since the entire island is constantly moving with the wave motion, the house has been built on a large wooden frame that also allows it to be moved, if needed—with the help of 60 to 70 people! César expects this to be necessary in a few years when the reeds below the house need to be replenished. The small island also has two small reed buildings where the family lives, cooks, and sleeps. A Rotoplas water cistern on a scaffold holds water that is heated by a solar water heater; a small photovoltaic panel charges a battery to provide lighting in the house. Additionally, a gasoline generator can be used to recharge the main battery (I never asked about its capacity) that also provides electricity to recharge cell phones as well as guests' electronic gadgets such as a laptop or tablet. 

The view from the one-room lodge is spectacular: a 180-degree view of the lake in front of the island will take your breath away the first time you enter. During the day it is delightfully bright with all the sunlight flooding in; at night one can see the stars from the huge king-plus-size main bed. (There is also a smaller bed that a family with one or two smaller children could use.) The decor is traditional with embroidered pillows everywhere as well as other small touches that obviously must have been Mariela's idea. The bathroom is divided into an area with a sink (bottled drinking water is provided to brush your teeth with a floor-to-ceiling glass window looking onto islands 250 meters away) and a second area with a glass-enclosed shower (the water was always hot!) and a simple-but-effective dry toilet that was cleaned out every day and never smelled.

The entry door as well as one side of the shower enclosure are testimony to the house's being built on a frame of wooden logs that have been lashed together: What used to be all level and straight is already showing that this is a living entity that moves. One has to really lift and pull the door handle to close the front door, and the shower opens automatically and stays so. One can hear waves lapping, and if one is really still one can feel the slight movement of the island. 

The area between the house and the two reed huts consists of layers of reeds, about five to six feet thick (or deep), that have been placed on chunks of reed roots that have been tied together and that are the floating "pontoons" of the islands. These cubical chunks are about the size of a large dorm refrigerator, and they are cut from living totora reeds with large saws; wooden pegs are driven into the roots, and then the different chunks are lashed together. Fresh reeds with roots still attached are "planted" into these chunks and develop their own root system. The life-span of the floating part of the islands is about 30 to 40 years, so constant renewal is needed to keep it all afloat. The total thickness of the islands (chunks plus the crisscrossing layers of dried reeds on top) is about three meters or around nine feet. When you walk across an island, it feels as if you were walking on a baffled waterbed, the way one sinks in a few inches with every step.

I learned about the various steps in building and maintaining islands during a four-hour excursion on my second day when César took me through the reed fields and its canals and then out to the open lake. He obviously was proud of teaching me about his culture and heritage, and he made sure to answer every question that I had. Before opening Titicaca Flamenco Lodge about six months ago he had put his studies in the tourism industry to good use by guiding tours and doing manual labor, but he saw an opportunity to do better for his family. He took up a bank loan, built the lodge, and is now thinking about expanding the operations to a second building. His English is about as good as my Spanish, and so we were able to communicate well.

On our excursion I saw how the Uros fish and hunt for birds (with antique flintlock guns!). He showed me the reeds up close, and he taught me how to peel certain parts of the root that taste deliciously sweet and are sometimes called "lake bananas." He'd kill the outboard and pole us through reeds, to show me bird nests and areas where reeds had been harvested. All the while I sat in my throne and was awed by the simplicity of a system that relies on all the parts working together. Global climate change is a real threat as Lake Titicaca's water levels have been continually dropping over the past 20 years, and the future of the islands is not a sure thing since the areas of the reeds are already in very shallow coastal areas that quite likely are going to go dry in the not-so-distant future.

In case you didn't know, Titicaca is the highest navigable lake in the world, being located right at 3,812 meters by last measure, or about 12,500 feet. It measures about 120 miles (190 km) long, and at its widest spot it measures 50 miles (or 80 km). It might as well be the ocean as the opposite banks are well below the horizon. The area where Uros is located is in what one could consider a small bay of a huge lake, looking at an overall map. Two countries border and share Titicaca: Peru (claiming about 56% of its surface), and Bolivia. A nice little bit of trivia here: Since Bolivia is landlocked, the government established in the 1960s an actual navy on Lake Titicaca.

Tourism has changed the way of life in Uros, obviously, but since no outsiders are allowed to live here and people generally just stay for one night and are extremely limited in their movements to the islands via their hosts' shuttles, much control is exerted over the guests. César sees tourism as something good as it helps his people to attain a more secure way of life. He spoke ruefully about the years when COVID shut off the tourism pipeline, and even since then, every time there is a major political demonstration or riot against the government anywhere in the country, tourists stay away from Peru and and thus Titicaca. If anything, he said, young people are less likely to leave the islands for good to seek a "better" future for themselves outside of this tightly knit cosmos as they see the value of tradition—a surprising yet encouraging trend. The community is guided by elected representatives and counselors, and it appears that tourism is (still) well-managed and controlled. Only time will tell, and if the water keeps dropping the way it is, all this may be a moot point anyhow.

Daytime temperatures during my stay in Uros were in the mid-70s, but a pesky wind from the north (apparently a daily occurrence) that starts up a few hours after sunrise cools things down on the water. My room warmed up quickly in the mornings, but it cooled off just as fast once the sun started to go down. Sunset was just a little after 5:00 p.m., and it got chilly quickly. In the mornings, Mariela prepared a big breakfast of fruit, yoghurt, bread, jam, avocado, cheese, and egg, plus coffee and a baked sweet. For dinner, I had a choice of lake trout or chicken; as matter of fact, there are two restaurants on the islands and they have the exact same choices. Mariela went through some sort of culinary school (escuela de cocinera), and the dinners were to kill for (in addition to being huge and lovingly presented!). Either Mariela or César would bring the food to my room, in two or three trips on a tray, and then they would linger and watch me eat, frequently asking whether I liked it and being obviously pleased that I did.

Both of them were so soft-spoken, so gentle, so interested in my well-being and happiness. This was not a show they put on—it was as sincere as their coddling Gaél, their toddler son. The little munchkin was just so unbelievably cute in his thick jacket and knit hat, and from the first moment he liked me and came running across the reeds when I arrived and clung to my legs and kept hugging me. On my last night, when César and I shared a bottle of (semi-dry) Peruvian sweet wine (still about as sweet as a port!), he asked me whether I would become Gaél's padrino (godfather). I believe it was a sincere question as we had bonded very quickly during my short stay. I explained to him how honored I felt by his request but that I didn't think I could be a true padrino because I would not be able to be there for his son if needed, plus the fact that I am pretty old. He gravely nodded and said he understood.

On my first night on the island, Mariela had brought me a cup and two bowls with coca leaves and muña, the mint-like herb that's supposedly almost as strong as coca in ameliorating altitude sickness; let's not forget, the lake is located at 12,500 feet. While I was still enjoying a third cup she re-appeared with two small, bread-loaf sized bundles. She smiled at me and told me they were chicas, which usually translates into, well, young and attractive females. She tucked them under the literally three blankets and the top duvet at the foot of my bed and it became clear to me that those were chicas calientes, definitely hot chicks! What an endearing word for two hot water bottles! And man, did I ever love my chicas every night I went to bed with them! They stayed warm until the morning, and with the temperature dropping down into the low single digits (centigrade) they definitely came in handy.

On my second full day on the island, César had arranged for me to go on an excursion to the island of Taquile, about 1:20 hours away from Uros. The approximately 2,000 Taquileños speak Quechua, not Aymara like the Uros, and are a fascinating indigenous people who have been able to preserve their culture and art. Their textile skills have been recognized by the UNESCO, and our excellent tour guide gave us an introduction to what some of their garments mean. For example, bachelors wear caps that are mainly white, but once they get married they switch to a red hat. BTW, Taquileños don't just jump into marriage: They generally live together for a year or two to test out whether they fit together. If not, no harm done, and they find somebody else. (However, if the woman gets pregnant they have to marry.) The men are the ones who knit the caps, and they need to show the bride's father that they are worth becoming the new son-in-law by knitting a (red) cap to certain exacting standards, and the new dad is the one who judges and needs to be satisfied. One of the locals told us that he had to try three times to please his future father-in-law, and the third cap took him nine months to knit and that his fingers really hurt for months. The litmus test: The inverted cap needs to hold a big cup of water without leaking any of it.

Married men will wear a belt woven by their wives that incorporates not only wool but also the hair of the wife, who will cut her hair very short to make this belt. As if one elaborate belt weren't enough, there's a second belt that pictures an annual calendar that marks certain events. Elders and village leaders (elected annually) will wear a hat on top of their caps and will have other garments that immediately signal their stature. Women, of course, have their own special dresses. Seeing the women hunched over at the waist to weave looked awfully painful, yet that's what they do. It seems that the Taquileños know something we don't as they live extremely long lives, often reaching into their 90s and older. Communal ties are very important, and values are ingrained to a point that nobody is poor or rich because everyone shares. Crime is unknown and there is no equivalent to a police force. The various groups on the island will rotate crops and share their harvest with the others in the years when their land lies fallow. Yes, that's communism in its most original form—community.

When I got back from the Taquile excursion, César asked me to take photos of him and his family in front of their lodge as well as in the traditional reed boat that he had built over a two-week time span. All around the lake there are reed-based boats, animals, "Welcome" arches, and the like that show off the Uros' ability to work with totora. The bows of the boats (some are built as catarafts that are used for  tourist tours, and I'm not sure whether that's an original design) often end in a cougar's head. To facilitate building the boats, the craftsmen will often incorporate empty plastic bottles as fillers so that less reed needs to be harvested and dried. Talk about adjusting to the times.

Anyhow, the light of the setting sun was just perfect and I took a plethora of pics that I later sorted through, uploaded to my Dropbox account, and shared with César via WhatsApp. Didn't I just say something about adjusting to the times? The cool thing is that despite all these modern gadgets and innovations the traditions of the people on the lake are as real as they were 500 years ago. There are several churches in Uros, and they all incorporate traditional beliefs fused with Catholicism, Seventh Day Adventisim, and Mormonism. For César that is a normal thing. 

In addition to some floating churches there's also a medical center as well as a primary and a secondary school. Even though I saw a garbage boat, I was told that there is nothing like a yellow Bluebird "school boat" that picks up pupils from their respective islands; it's the parents' responsibility to get their offspring to school.

My three days on the islands came to an end much too quickly. It is difficult to describe the tranquility and serenity of this magic place. Everybody has a secret place or maybe even two that have some special meaning. In just those few hours I developed a deep sense of happiness and content that I can't quite explain. I am sure that César's demeanor, his sometimes basic but honest questions ("Do you like it here?"), and his sweet chuckle when he or I said something funny went a long way in making me feel not only at ease but at home. He and Mariela reached out in an innocent, open way that was incredibly refreshing. We talked about his ambitions in building his business and how hard the life on the islands is with all the constant rebuilding and renewing, but that was just something matter-of-fact and not a complaint or invitation for pity. All three of us had the feeling that we had made new friends, and we joked about his traveling to Texas one of these days, both of us knowing fully well about the low odds of that happening. Again that soft chuckle and that sweet smile....

When I left the island on Wednesday morning, Mariela gave me a big hug and a small, homemade regalo that will be added to my travel mementos. For the last time I sat down on my throne and was ferried back to the mainland, crossing the still-mirror-like water as the wind had not yet kicked up. César had arranged for my airport transfer to Juliaca, and he had suggested that the driver, a friend of his, take me to the pre-Inca necropolis of Sillustani, which lies just a few miles off the highway. César and I bid farewell with a long abrazo, and then Elmer and I were off.

I really didn't feel much like sightseeing but later was glad that we had made the detour. Sillustani contains approximately 90 tower-like structures from various epochs from the pre-Inca period in this site, set high above Lago Umayo, used to bury and honor who appear to have been members of the nobility. The interesting thing is that these tombs, so-called chullpas, were housed in large towers of which at least some were built from huge stone blocks that were expertly fitted. Smaller towers don't show this level of workmanship as they look more like rock piles while others are plastered on the outside, possibly to hide the lower workmanship. "Pre-Inca" means that some of these structures date back to a period between 500–950 AD. Some of the chullpas contain mummies, but most of the graves had fallen prey to grave robbers well before archeologists turned their attention to this site. When I visited, there were only a few sightseers, mostly consisting of two or three gaggles of pupils with their teachers, and this short detour presented a nice way to end my trip to Peru.

An hour later, Elmer dropped me off at Juliaca's small airport. It's 528 miles from JUL to LIM, and because of heavy cloud cover there wasn't much to see. My US-bound flight had been scheduled for a 11:45 p.m. departure, but thanks to a late-incoming flight from Miami (something that had happened the night before as well) the departure was initially pushed back to 1:10 a.m. This was extended several times until we finally boarded around 2:30 a.m., only to be told of another delay because of issues with the water supply in the restrooms. Most of us nodded off until the lights suddenly came back on and we were told to disembark because the plane was inoperable. Somehow I managed to snag a seat on the 6:30 a.m. departure for Miami, albeit downgraded from First Class to a middle seat in Economy. We arrived in Miami around 2:00 p.m., and I was back in First to DFW. My final flight had been confirmed for an 8:30 p.m. departure, but once again maintenance issues meant that our flight to Lubbock didn't leave until about 10:30 p.m. My Uber driver dropped me off at the house a few minutes before 1:00 a.m. Ouch.

Despite all the airline woes on both the outbound as well as the inbound, this was a beyond-expectations 15-day trip for me, with more new experiences than I could have hoped for. Peru has so much to offer, and I think I will try to come back in the next few years to travel to Peru's northern areas. My choice to use PeruHop was spot-on, and after having talked to dozens of fellow travelers I am glad that I didn't try to spend four months trying to see "all" of South America. More than once did I hear my fellow travelers about travel fatigue, and I had to think of my own trips that lasted for much more than a week or two and how exhausting and finally routine finally they finally became. Time to get settled back in at home and get ready for the next trip ...

Jürgen