Puno, Peru and the floating reed islands of the Uros Indians

After a good sleep-in, am treated to a full Bolivian breakfast of bread, tea, tomatoes, cereal, eggs, ham, orange juice, and yogurt.  I am not use to eating breakfast, but the portions are very small so it all works.  Tour the Copacabana Catholic Church, home of the Black Madonna.  Apparently, near as I can understand it, as the Spaniards were assimilating with the Inca, one of their overlords was attempting to depart.  But it rained heavily, interfering with the trip.  So a painting of a native Mother Mary was presented as an offering for fair weather.  The skies cleared.  Both sides were duly impressed with this blessing.  Later, a Spanish sculptor turned the painting into a three-dimensional statue.  And the legend of the Black Madonna began, with the original resting quite accessibly near the altar in the church.  Also visited the public market.  Fascinating, for the smells, the quality and variety of goods, the mix of new and old technologies to prepare the foods, the lack of sanitation (not quite as critical, I am told, in this high and dry climate) and the vendors themselves -- often with their kids in tow, and the kids often selling or preparing alongside their parents.  In concentric circles around a central hub containing grains were alternately colorful displays of corn and maize of all types, legumes and squashes, vegetables such as tomatoes, then a meat ring (including llama, which is delicious, and very good for those suffering from high cholesterol), and finally fruits of every description. Many of these edibles were smaller than normal, but concentrated in flavor, due to the altitude.  A little clothing shopping followed nearby.

Carmen set me off on the bus to Puno, about a four hour ride, and took another bus herself back to La Paz.  I wil miss her.  She was wonderful company, and saved me many excruciating language challenges -- necessary for somebody like me who is curious about everything, and always asks more than my fair share of questions.  Much of my trip is taken up of course with the needlessly complicated stop at the border with Peru.  We create a long queue on the Bolivian side and I am asked for documents that were not brought to my attention to retain.  So in rough English, the stamping officer just has me create mine anew.  When presented to him, he doesn´t even look.  Just slams the stamp down and sends me onward. I could have written "Your Mother Is A Troll" and they would not have noticed.  You have to walk across the border, then wait in line once again -- and fill everything out in triplicate, AGAIN -- on the Peru side.  Bus goes across separately, sans passengers.  Road in is a combo of dirt, potholes, roadside hovels, buses playing "chicken" with each other, occasional asphalt, similar types of architecture to what has been described previously, and once again numerous pathetic looking animals roped into semi-grassy enclosures. Several of these animals (sheep, llamas, alpacas, goats, and cows) have broken free and terrorize the bus driver with a "will they or won´t they cross the road?¨" guessing game.   And this is the MAIN highway between these two countries ...

At Puno, a city of 190 thousand, I am met by Raul.  Another gift from Julio.  Raul has a sign bearing my name, and immediately whisks me out of the throng clogging the bus station and into a waiting taxi.  From there, a couple miles to the port.  Then out of the harbor by slow boat, to the Floating Islands of the Urus Indians.  The trip out takes perhaps half an hour, but since we are in a reed marsh much of the way, it is hard to tell the distance.  Distance is an important factor, for the original reason these Indians took up residence out on the lake was to avoid the Conquistadores -- the Spaniards.  Out of sight, and inaccessible on a practical level, and thus out of mind.  You might call their habitation ¨"The Venice of The Andes."  Their "floating lily pads" consist of reeds cut from the lakeshore, harvested daily, and replaced by top-stacking every 15 days.  As the reeds rot on the bottom, new ones replace them on top.  Walking on the surface, is somewhat like walking on a waterbed.  At times, your feet get wet.  But for the most part, it is solid.  The villages consists of up to 40 islands with a total population nearing 2000.  No more than six families may occupy a pad.  Each pad has a slightly Polynesian air to it, with huts, a central seating area (but sans firepit), an observation tower, and some areas of course for marketing to tourists.  The huts are very basic: small, with a reed platform bed, some clothing hooks, a dim lamp powered by solar energy, and a small collection of personal articles.  A few apparently have radio, small televisions, and even internet. Three yellow roofed schoohouses occupy several of the islands.  We meet ¨"Willie," the Presidente of the Islands" (not however, King of the tribe).  He is a relatively young man, who introduces us to his wife Maria -- who promptly tries to sell us "original" tapestries.  And other trinkets.  We walk around on short bridges connecting several of the islands.  Prices are much higher on the main pad where Willie holds court.  They drop considerably as one steps further away.  Also, as the hour draws nigh for our departure.  Bargains galore are to be found then.  It is a fascinating culture, not completely understood, but one that has stood the test of time and held its own in a most unusual environment for nearly half a millenium.  It is only slightly tarnished, and I get a certain amusement from, rounding the corner between islands, only to find a sign advertising a website for the Urus Islands, and offering international phone service.  Sure enough, thirty feet away, there is a phone (probably connected by underwater cable to Puno).  Followed by the proverbial tourist bar, sixty feet away.  Some things never change ...

Raul faithfully picks me up at the boat landing.  Traffic is crazy this evening, given that there is a huge Fiesta or Pageant going on in town.  Brightly dressed dancers and musicans in Carnivale type outfits clog the streets and sidewalks.  We fight with taxi cholos -- small enclosed cabs powered by motorcycles or bicycle power -- for position on the roads.  There are no lines on the road surface designating anything resembling a lane.  Only converging streams of traffic.  And yet, there are no accidents.  These drivers seem to have the lay of the road, to within a llama whisker of the vehicle next to them, no matter what direction they are being challenged from.  Only rain, eventually disperses the Fiesta participants.  I am back at the hotel (which is actually Raul´s home) earlier than I am accustomed to.  And very isolated.  Nowhere to go.  No streets to roam.  No pub to investigate.   No company to query about their travels.  Just an early wake-up call for a long, long us trip back to La Paz tomorrow.

Next:  El Camino Del Muerte, "The Road of Death."