Lake Placid
We left Cusco early in the morning, gathering our baggage and our hangovers and headed towards the lakesdie town of Puno, not being any old lake side town, of course, but a town on the side of Lake Titicaca, the highest lake in the world. Puno is not quite so gringo friendly as Cusco, not due to lack of tourists, but thanks to the treatment they often get from muggers. Hence our cunning plan of running around in groups and spending more time at the hotel than in the pub.
After on night in the hotel, we woke to find the outside of the building swarming with local taxis. Not cars, but tricicles, with two wheels at the front, with two seats perched upon them for passengers, and the final wheel at the back, with the drivers seat on top. This was our transport down to the harbour. Two per taxi and the race was on, ducking and weaving through oncoming traffic, railway tracks and narrowly avoiding the other passengers we were ferried at unneccesary haste to our destination where we leapt out and hugged the ground which had been rushing beneath our feet.
Lake Titicaca is a vast stretch of water spilling over the border between Peru and Bolivia, the water is blue green to the distance, lined with mountains on what looks like all sides, the port town of Puno really being its only real eyesore, but on our way to the islands, that was mercifully behind us. The name Titicaca roughly translates as grey stone jaguar, but our guide aimiably told us that "Titi" refered to the Peruvian part of the lake, while "Caca" was the Bolivian side. He then charitably suggested that a Bolivian guide might say the oposite.
Our boat (run by a captain named "Doritos") first took us to the Uros islands, a comminity of handmade reed islands, floating amidst the long reeds stretching a good five metres above the surface and ten below. The islands we saw, were not the original ones, which were destroyed years ago by tsunami weather conditions, nor are they they genuine attempts by the ancestors of the Uros people to retain their original island dwelling life (those are elsewhere on the lake and innaccesible to visitors), instead we got to see the theme park version. A community which looks as near as dammit to the original Uros, but generally function soley for the tourists.
Still, as theme park versions go, this was pretty spectactular, the green reeds, with the sun-yellowed reed huts and structures contained within, contrasting with the deep blue of the water and paler hues of the bright, sunny sky. Real picture postcard stuff. Walking on the islands was a little odd, the reeds not only being soft beneath your feet, but also the fact that the islands moved slightly as you walked. On board, most of the buildings were market stalls selling tat to the tourists who were ferried in each day, but we were bundled onto reed boats and taken on a breif tour, which included a trout farm, a few other islands and a few cute kids singing Frerre Jaques.

After the Uros islands we had a three hour or so trip to our destination for the evening, the island of Amantani, just into the larger part of the lake. Here we were paired off with locals, who were to put us up for the night. Gary and I were put in the care of a nervously cheerful woman named Benita (not Betina, as we initially thought). Our Tucan guide warned us to make sure that we knew what our host looked like as she would be picking us up from various locations later on. As all the hosts lined up in their brightly coloured traditional skirts, we could spot Benita easily, she was the only one in an orange skirt. No problem. Until she changed it as soon as she got home, of course. Comunication was through a mixture of pigeon Spanish and even more stilted Chechuin (not sure how to spell that, gives some indication of how good I was at speaking it), the local dialect in various parts of the lake and it's banks. Benita's house was a number of room sized buildings grouped around patches of farmland. She shared with what we think was her sister (comminications dificulties made it tricky to find out eactly who was who and how they were related), plus a father, a mother and at least two kids (only one of who we actually saw - a sort of cute three year old with the unsettling habit of weilding a pick axe). Our room was one of the out buildings, pretty basic, but not unpleasant. Three others were also staying at the house, and their room featured a four foot high door, so I think we did well only having to duck breifly. The effect was like something out of Alice in Wonderland.
After a pleasant lunch (vegetable soup followed by omelette and rice), we met up with the rest of the group at the local football pitch, were a game was organised between the locals (who were used to the altitude) and our group (who were not). I did my usual job of spectating rather than playing and the method seemed to work. Our team won. "That's the second time!" our guide told us with what looked like shock on his face, "This month." he added.
There followed a brief hike up one of the island's mountains, this one named after father earth, the other being named after mother earth. Walking around the temple three times apparently offered three wishes, the trick being not to accidentally wish that the tiny kid following on this vigil with his panpipes would shut up.

After another very nice meal (more soup, this time followed by rice and potatoes - the later should be popular here, Peru has something like four thousand varieties) and some more muña tea (minty stuff, great for altitude sickness), our host provided us with local dress and whisked us (or led us, sorry, trying to be dramatic) off to a local fiesta. Gary and I got off lightly in comparison to the girls staying upstairs. They had to don three extra skirts, an embroidered shirt, a colourful corset/belt thingy and a shawl. We just got ponchos and funny hats.
The fiesta itself was naturally a big lets-humiliate-the-gringos-in-the-nicest-possible-way occasion. We were led into a large empty building lit by candles and a storm lantern and enlivened by a band in the corner. The soup song, mercifully, was not in their repetoir. The bar was an elderly woman sat in the corner with a box of beers, and everyone was dressed up, acompanied by their hosts and feeling slightly foolish.
The music kicked off in earnest and it was apparently rude to refuse your host a dance. This was a shame as the dances were exhausting, no three minute pop songs here, but fifteen minutes of so of being wheeled around by the host, who looked somewhat bored until you screwed up (in which case, Benita grinned wildly, this was obviously what she was being paid for). Another dance proved to be a fairly dangerous conga derivation, in which everyone held hands in vast loop and were dragged around the room by four foot tall women with maniacal gleams in their eyes. This, and the sight of a six foot five Dutchman dancing with one of the smaller women proved to be a highlight.

The evening ended fairly early. Staying out late was curtailed by the fact that Benita was standing, arms crossed, waiting for us in the doorway. We hastilly downed our beers and follwed her home, now pitch black save for the occasional candle flickering in a window. The bed's were quite comfortable, and covered in aproximately three metres of thick blankets. Benita beamed at us, sweating in our ponchos (or, rugs with holes in the middle) and asked us if we wanted more blankets for the evening. It was cold outside, but we politely declined.

The following morning, the view of the lake from Benita's house was glorious. Deep, beautiful blue, with a set of ominous looking storm clouds creeping in over the horizon.
Breakfast consisted of pancakes and bread with more of that handy muña tea to wash them down with. Benita then briskly led us down to the harbour for an early departure, along the route meeting up with others from our group being similary harried. The hosts rushed to gossip to each other (each knitting as they walked), while the rest of us compared notes.
Much poor photography, stilted farewells and giggling later and we were back on the boat, this time heading through choppy waters to Taquile island, which seems more interesting to read about than actually visit.
The place works with its own homemade socialist structure. The women spin wool, the men knit it. The results are sold in the local shops at fixed prices in each shop. There are resturants on the island which all have the same menus and the same prices and open in strict rotation. Meanwhile married couples have the same status as each other and can only contribute to local discussions of they're of agreement. It's all a little odd, but other than the fact that the island is very attractive, there's not actually a lot to do there. Certainly you can check out the local knitware, but it costs a fortune on the island and is better bought from Puno.
Still, the local customs are quite interesting. Men are proved by the tightness of the knitting. Single men wear a particular type of hat and are asked by young women to pour water into them, the longer it stays inside, the more chance they have of upgrading their headware to that of a married man. Other courtship rituals include the throwing of stones. Men lob pebbles at women, if they pick them up, they're interested, if they ignore them they're not and if they step on them, then the poor bloke might as well give up for good.

A walk down five hundred odd steps, took us back to our boat, and another three hour boat trip took us back to Puno for another very comfortable night in our hotel.
- posted by Vince @ 3:05 PM