Lake Titicaca

“Kid, the next time I say, 'let's go someplace like Bolivia,' let's GO someplace like Bolivia.”

-Butch Cassidy (Paul Newman)

I was scheduled to go back to Cusco from Aguas Calientes via a long journey through the night by train and then by bus. The transfer from train to bus should have been an easy one. It was included in the guided package I had purchased a week prior. My directions were simple; I had been told that someone would be waiting for me with a sign that read “Scott-Boston” at the bus terminal in Ollantaytambo and that I should follow that person to his bus where he would take me the remaining distance to Cusco. Well that never happened. Someone had dropped the ball and it had landed on my foot. It was late, and it was dark, and confusion was heavy in the air. There was a lot of pushing, some shoving, and a good amount of yelling which couldn't be understood in any language. I waited. Some of the crowd dispersed. I waited some more. More of the crowd dispersed. I waited again. I was the last one there. Moves needed to be made, fast. I scrambled to locate a bus that looked as though it could accommodate me. I found one, opened the door, said “Cusco”, and two hours and 3 dollars later I was back to where I needed to be. The next morning I made sure to get my 3 dollars back from the guide service. They seemed rather unamused by my story, and so while they were getting the money from the back I stuck my gum underneath their desk.

During the day that followed I explored the city some more. Going to the different shops and restaurants and sitting outside the Plaza de Armas watching people pass by seemed to pass the time nicely. I observed quickly, though, that I could not stay long in Cusco without having to buy a painting from a local art salesman named Eric. A week prior to my current stay in Cusco I had “promised” him that when I returned to Cusco I would buy some of his art. I told him that I did not want to rip it during the coming days of travel and would be more than happy to purchase some when I returned. Of course this was said with the hope that I would never see him again in a city of 350,000 people plus tourists; but of course he found me:

“Scott!”

“Oh, ummm..Eric!”

“Machu Picchu is good?”

“It was, it was good; great even.”

“Good, Good, Good. You buy painting now?”

“Oh, yeah, here's the thing; I'm still traveling some more after this and don't want to rip it. You know with the buses treating the bags the way they do; you know, like I told you last time.”

“But you said...”

“I know, I know, but I meant I would buy some during my last stay in Cusco, which will be next week after I visit Puno and Copacabana.”

“Oh, Oh, I see.”

“Yeah, so next week. They are looking really good though Eric. I especially like the one of the two cows playing in the field.”

“These are dogs.”

“Ok Eric, I'll see you next week, adios.”

Thus I was gone again, and in a hurry this time. That night I boarded a bus to Puno; a town situated on the western shores of Lake Titicaca and known for being the launching point to the famed Uros Islands, or the “floating islands” as they have come to be known. When approaching by boat, you first pass through a series of marshes that are home to the ugliest ducks in the Americas. If you survive the sight of them, then you come upon your first floating island made of straw. It is true, they are made of straw; straw and mud that is, and they “float” on the lake as much as a lily pad floats on the pond. On top of the mud base and the layered straw floor lie thatched houses made of the same straw used for the floor. They are held together tightly by twine and seem capable of withstanding multitudes of you huffs and puffs. And there is not one of these islands, but many. I would estimate over a hundred of them, all placidly floating next to one another with no purpose but to bother the fish. Each island is no bigger than a basketball court, and contains one family only. This is important, because if one family gets tired of a neighbor family then they merely pull up their anchors and float their way to a new neighbor. How I envy them! Of course, if they lose themselves in the course of the maneuver and float too far to the west, they end up in Bolivia, and in prison for crossing an international border without documentation. Perhaps it's best for them to make peace with their neighbors after all. Bolivian prisons are cold this time of year.

I watched as the Uros family used figurines made of straw to demonstrate how the islands were constructed; it was all fascinating I must say, and I was most taken by the part where they needed to replace the straw every week or their island would disintegrate into the water. After the demonstration we were taken into their homes. The island had three homes; one for each branch of the family. The usual greetings and show and tell inside the homes led to the predictable soliciting of arts and crafts outside the homes. It is always my least favorite part of any day abroad in a less than fortunate country, but to misunderstand the process as begging would be a terrible mistake. In fact, even though I had no mind to buy anything, there were outstanding pieces of work on display. Some could be sold in the United States for hundreds of dollars I'm sure, while here they were being sold for five. No matter, when you don't want something, you won't pay hundreds of dollars for it and you won't pay five dollars for it. So it goes.

Another night in Puno would have been harmless, but useless too, so I bought a bus ticket for Copacbana, Bolivia, where I should spend the remainder of my time in South America unabashed and in total relaxation. Copacabana is also on the shores of Lake Titicaca and I heard through my many channels of travel that it was cheap and had the best grilled trout on the continent. Those made it sound like paradise. Also, I suppose, it would nice to see where the Incas claimed to be born out of the lake; their whole empire beginning at ground zero at an island off the same shores where these alleged grilled trout were to be sold. I went to the bus station.