What's a Stone?

We disembarked from the ferry and were ushered ashore by Nestor. Following the accents of my British compatriots, I wandered up a stone pathway, wide eyed at yet another beautiful island. More mud brick houses lined the hillside, flanked by terraced gardens, it's visitors being hummingbirds. I found this strange for the climate. The walkway led to the main square of Taquile island. It was really a miniature plaza, cobblestone streets worn to sand. To add to the ambience, a white washed colonial era church stood nearby, with its very own grass covered, ancient and decaying fifteen foot bell tower.

Nestor taught us these people still follow the old Incan Mantra-
1. Do not lie
2. Do not steal
3. Do not be lazy

This islands did not always bear the name Taquile. In pre-colombian times, it was called Inteca, or sun flower in Quechua. A Colonial Spanish govenor's ego changed that quite quickly, however.

The people of Taquile are far different from those of Amantani. Numbering around two thousand people, this community lives for each other. No one is rich, poor or varied in dress. Houses are all similar and jobs are rotated on a communal basis. All of the income earned by the community is distributed equally, regardedless of role. Furthermore, ninety percent of the population remains on the island for the entirety of their lives. This place is a successfull, inclusice socialistic community. But it sure takes all of the fun out of tipping when it goes straight to the pot, eh?

Even the restaurants are egalitarian. Each one takes turns serving tourists he local trout, the fish is scarce for the local people. Trucha de la plancha, this delicious fish straight out of the lake was served en masse. While never caring for it as a child, I have been cultivating a great love for fish since arriving here in January. This meal only added to my growing taste.

After an 11AM lunch we hiked through the village, making note of the agrarian presence on Taquile. Growing maize, quinoa, papas and okra, the community sustains it's principal agrticultural needs. This craggy patch of nine square kilometers takes care of them. I saw few cows, sheep and chickens. The land demands of raising livestock equates them to a nearly vegetarian existence, much like Amantani.

One of the most notable points of interest is the artesanal center. Commended by UNESCO, the men and women (apart from farming) support themselves through their craft-weaving. I saw beautiful hats, scarves shirts and the like for sale. These products are exported throughout Peru, because of their fame.

The trip back to Puno lasted three hours. While Lenay slept belowdeck, I spent my time warming up under the autumn sun, chatting with two Austrians and an English couple.

Key conversation points-
1. Gordon Brown and Basra
2. A fifteen stone lesbian rock star
3. What's a stone?
4. How many pounds are in a stone? (14 lbs.)
5. Wayne Rooney (an ongoing fascination)
6. The drug addled Amy Winehouse's success in Britain
7. The Austrian's alpine castle, now a white elephant hostel
8. Tony Bourdain, and his hack 'n' slash writing wit

Three hours of cross cultural nonsense...

Starry Night

At 8 Am on Sunday morning we shoved off from Amantani Island. Our new friends waved us goodbye as the ferry lumbered out into the morning calm of Lake Titicaca. Lenay and I sat on the top deck, the morning wind at our backs, inspiring us for the new day. I listened to the sound of Andean waves smashing against the hull while reflecting on the past day's events.

Amantani has little as far as technological luxuries go. It is necassary to sail to three hourse Puno to purchase everything. They had public lighting. The posts still lie ready to be ignited. Unfortunately, the community cannot afford to pay the utility bill. Thus, the village goes dark at six thirty every night.

Walking home from the dance last night, I was proverbially blinded. Not from the unlit streetlights, but from the night sky. The southern cross and other constellations of this hemisphere lit the path to our farmhouse. I stood beneath an illuminated sky, each constellation new and brilliant and foreign to me. For the first time in memory I glimpsed the Milky Way, that splotchy, pale pathway that marks our place in the universe. I stumbled home, eyes and mind upward rather than the terrestrial in front of me.

This particular starry night made aware to me the merits of living so far removed from the rest of mankind. I then wondered, would the rest of civilization give up technology, even for just one night, to live the life free of crime, pollution and corruption that these people do? Agustin, the tenant govenor and my host for the evening, finds politics repugnant. What is important to him is caring for the community. I suppose this proverbial apple was already eaten by the rest of us, but it was truly inspiring to see a community relatively free from the yoke of technology.

We steam towards Taquile with changed hearts, pondering on this truly unique experience. This second rugged, heavily terraced island however looks equally promising.

The Traditional Way

I wake up as the ferry I'm aboard plys it's way through Lake Titicaca to Amantani island. Home to over two thousand people, Amantani is where I would be spending the majority of the tour. Upon disembarking and filing uphill to a clearing among the rock fenced gardens covering the island, the group was introduced to the twelve families that would be hosting us this night. Ester, a sixteen year old native to the island led me to the house of her family. She, like the rest of the women in her community don the traditional pink embroidered skirt, white blouse and black shawl.

Following her for ten minutes, I was shown my lodging. The farmhouse, three adjacent buildings made from dried bricks and metal roofs, I felt as if time had taken me backwards. Though lacking electricity or plumbing, the provincial and quaint transformed into simple beauty. Beauty in simplicity of life. Though cliché, I was shocked, because my life has been soft with all it's technological amemnities. At one o' clock I was led down to the kitchen, a simple, dirt floor affair where I was fed a lunch of homegrown potatoes, rice, tomatoes and fried cheese. Land limitations restrict the community to a nearly vegetarian diet, holidays being the exception.

What characterized the island most strongly were the rocks. It seemed that every garden was seperated by a fence of stones that had been removed from the land. Nearly every parcel of land was closed off by a stone fence, pathways included. To access our house, Ester dismantled and reconstructed these walls as I followed.

After lunch I was led up to the soccer pavilion, where our tour guide Nestor explained the history of the island and its struggle with contemporary sopciety. Like the Amish of North America, every new generation is tempted by the call of mainstream society, to abandon their traditional lifestyle. Money is to be made in Puno, Arequipa, in Lima. But the rampant poverty in Peru (40 percent) presents a dangerous risk to the youth of Amantani. I was told that after spending years away from the island, the prodigal would return with possessions (such as glasses), accustoment to utilities, and an essentially different lifestyle. It is often impossible for these people to reintigrate to the community, for its lack of technological luxuries. Thus, the community faces the risk of seeing its way of life disappearing.

After the lecture, Nestor led us up a hill, to the highest point of the island. Not only was there an incredible view of the sunset, but generations ago the people built a temple to the Pachamama. She is the South American goddess representing mother earth. Very important to the indigenous communities before and after the Spanish conquest, the harvest goddess has endured not only culturally on Amantani. Once a year the doors of the temple are opened so the people may make offerings and thanks for the year. Our group circled the temple three times, and placed a small stone within its walls to make our own wish.

With the sun having abandoned us for the duration, I hiked down the hill to meet Ester, wishing I had worn a coat. She led me back home, and after supper at seven thirty, prepared me for the welcoming reception. Before leaving the house I put on a woolen poncho and cap, very simple dress for males. Lenay's however, included the skirt, belt, blouse and shawl before being ready.

At the meeting hall of the community the local girls led us in dance, serenaded by guitars pipes and drums. It was a simple two step, though five minutes into each song it evolved into a massive circle dash, where I was whiplashed around by Ester and her friends for hours. The dance lasted for hours, and eventually I had to deny Ester's advances (to dance) because of exhaustion.

This was new.

Uros and the Floating Isles

At six Am saturday morning I open my eyes to a half frozen, fog covered window, and behind it, Puno. The capital of it's department and main commercial area for the people of the lake, it sports a population of over one hundred thousand people. I woke up shivering, noting a considerable drop in temperature between Puno and even Cusco, where I wear at least two to three layers, daily. Only bringing a light jacket with me, I realized this would be a long, cold weekend.

Immediately I felt a kinship to this city. Sporting a cool, coastal temperature, situated on a hill, and being the principal commercial city to the largest lake in South America gives Lake Titicaca to that of Lake Superior. To me this feeling was undeniable and with the definite ambient resemblence thoughts of home surgest to the front of my mind. As happy as I was in January to recieve a five month respite from that all too familiar artic wind, I sometime miss it. Luckily I had a reasonable substitue for the weekend. It was COLD.

The question of finding a suitable travel agency was immediately solve a long ten seconds after I stepped off that deathtrap wqe had been riding for the last eight hours. Not one but three agency reps approached us with mountains of brochures, advertising several options available to us. After following Lenay Alexia and I to the cafeteria to have breakfast, I relented and shuffled through the literature. Lenay's overriding wish for the weekend was to spend the night on one of the islands with a local family. A sort of community tourism as you will. We decided on a one night, two day, and three island tour. Putting my trust in these strangers, I handed over seventy soles and stepped onto a tour bus waiting outside of the terminal.

After thirty minutes of collecting tourists, our driver had collected a motley crew of Welsh, Scotch, English, French, Italian, Israeli, and of course gringo tourists. Dropping us off at the marina, I vacantly (try to sleep on that bus) followed the string of companions to our boat, a twenty five foot ferry boat typical of its kind in Puno. At 8 AM or so we shoved off, old noisy engine shuttering to life, pushing us to our first destination and chugging copious amounts of exhaust out of it's corroded tailpipe.

My first feeling of the Uros people was amazement. These people, for hundreds of years have living on artificial islands, made from the totora reed. Numbering in the forties, these islands are the last vestige of an ancient pre-incan tradition. Driven to the water by invaders ages ago, the Uros constructed mobile islands to preserve their people. The base of these islands are cut and lashed peat bricks, their inhabitants need to place a new layer of dried totora reeds weekly to mantain flotation. The islands felt surprisingly stable. The only blatant anachronism on these islands were the eighty or so solar panels that former President Fujimori donated some twelve years ago. Everybody needs their tv though.

The manner in which these people survive is not through agriculture or fishing. No people aside from the Uros use the totara reed so extensively (boats, land, homes, food). There are some trout, ipsi, catfish and and carachi, though it's the size of my palm. Later in the weekend I also so the occasional group of cattle grazzing on the various islands adjacent to the community. It is tourism sustains this community, and this became evident when the merchandise was unveiled upon our artificial landfall. Rugs, moblies, toys, and ceramics were all available for barter. I was even convinced to buy a model totara boat. 'I'm sorry maam but I have no change.' Upon my hearing my limp excuse she sent a runner to another island to fetch her some. It is a nice little toy though.

Until 10 AM I was crawling among the houses, investigating this entirely alien way of life, astonished at a community's ability to adapt to it's surroundings. I was introduced to families, selling their wares, climbed reed watchtowers, and even rode a totara boat to an adjacent island. Fifteen feet long and constructed entirely from this plant, it supported the weight of the entire group as a local paddled to the other side of the community.

Eager to keep schedule, Nestor, our tour guide herded us back on the ferry and we left the Uros, to sustain their islands and their community. Such a sight, I truly hope that these islands remain. It is uncomparable among the various lifestyles I have witnessed during this trip. the next island is Amantani, 15 square kilometers and one of the largest on Lake Titicaca. I would like to recount the voyage there, but completely wiped out, I spent those three hours below deck drooling on my seat, allowing the dull drone of the engine lull me to sleep.

Sophmoric Wordplay

Lake itty bitty Titicaca. Our final excursion in Peru. Sitting at over 4000 meters, it is the highest navigable lake in the world. On the ballot for the new seven natural wonders of the world, this destination was not something I was about to pass up. but then, that was never the question. What Lenay and I had been debating over the last week was how to get there. Between taking a travel agency and journeying it on my own, I felt like such a high profile destination would be a cakewalk in procuring an agency. I just wanted to cut out the middle man in Cusco. I'm cheap, really.

As it turned out, my Swiss roomate Alexia was making a detour through Puno on her way to work at Arequipa. relying on the old maxim of safety in numbers, Lenay eventually came around to risking it on our own. After all, I'm approached by twenty travel agencies in Cusco every day. There's bound to be one or two in Puno. So after Alexia's tearful goodbye to Pati and our family, we took a three sol cab ride to terminal terrestre, and left Cusco on the San Martin Line, bound for Puno.

The ride to Puno was unique for two reasons. First, this was the first time I got to enjoy the lower level of those double decker monstrosities. Eating bananas and bread while reclining in a bed like coach seat, we were all entertained with a pirate copy of Rambo 4, liberating villages somewhere far off in east Asia. After ninety minutes or so of explosions, severed limbs and fascist killing, our bus rolled to a stop at one of the regular highway checkpoints. Accustomed to these stops, no one gave it any mind. An hour later or so I could see three Peruvian cops haranguing the bus driver through my fogged up window. Lenay asked me what I thought the problem could be. Dryly responding,' oh he probably hasn't been driving with his lights on or something.' I didn't give it much thought after that. Another passenger boarded the bus ten minutes later however, and nervously informed the rest of us that the driver had indeed been driving with only one functional (of four) headlights. Well that was an ironic kick in the teeth. It goes with out saying that the next three hours were spent anxious, watching the coach's flashers flicker on with every oncoming car. I do not recommend putting your life in the hands of a Peruvian bus driver, who drives through the Andes soley by memory. For some reason it just does not seem like the best idea.