Eating my chullo...

Chullo is the name for the style of woolly hat made from alpaca wool worn in the Andes.  The reason I have to eat mine is that my opinion of organised tourist excursions has changed.  They're not all bad.  So you could appreciate the task before me I asked my friend Henry, from Germany, to model his latest chullo.  He's a chullo addict.

The tour in question was a two day excursion from Puno taking in the famous floating Uros Islands, Amantaní and Taquile, two other islands in the Peruvian part of Lake Titicaca.  I joined a group of 13, mainly Europeans, an Argentinian couple,  a Colombian and her Peruvian boyfriend.  At first the trip was what I expected it would be - DisneyUros.  There are about 90 islands made of reeds floating in the lake.  The ones that are visited by tourists are clearly tailored for that purpose.  Each has it's own tacky sign, well-rehearsed demonstration, shops (you can even use a credit card in one of them) and choir of women who end their little routine with ¡Hasta la vista, baby!  The information about life on the Uros was interesting; the fact reeds are used as fuel, food, rope, buildings and the very ground beneath your feet is impressive.  I can't blame them for cashing in on the influx of tourists - life on a sponge ain't easy.

The half hour trip to Los Uros  was nothing compared to the 3 hours it took to get to Amantaní.  The gentle waves and fresh breeze of the lake lulled us into a dreamy state enhanced by vast blue sky and enormous white cumulus clouds on the horizon.  When we finally arrived we were divided into groups and sent off with our host families.  By a stroke of luck I was placed with the two Argentinians which meant Spanish was the only option for me.  

The owner (and builder) of the house was Sebastian, a man of 80 years who trotted around this high-altitude landscape like a 20 year old.  An expert healer using local herbs, he is a living testament to island life.  He shares his house with his wife, son, daughter-in-law, incredibly cute granddaughter and great nephew.  The best rooms, however, were reserved for the tourists.  After a lunch of soup and the ever present potatoes, we joined a host of other tourists to hike the 40 minutes or so to the highest point on the island where there exists a temple dedicated to Pachatata, the male equivalent of Pachamama whose temple is located on the other side of Amantaní.

After circumambulating the temple three times we settled down to watch the sunset whilst children tried to sell us friendship bracelets.  The hawkers here were far from annoying, the women sat patiently with only a 'Buenas tardes' and kids were a delight with a sharp sense of humour.  The sun put on a display I've only seen in a few locations on this planet.  The moon rose at the same time which signalled our departure as the temperature dropped rapidly.

Once home we had a dinner consisting of soup followed by vegetables and rice.  Simple and wholesome.  This was washed down with a cup of tea made using munyi, a herb that grows everywhere on the island and is delicious; like a sweeter, more fragrant chamomile.  After dinner it was time to get dressed in the local garb and head off to the community hall for music and dancing.  The islanders must put on the same performance almost every night but they were gracious hosts and treated us with generosity, enthusiasm and humour.  We danced into the night, a fantastic mix of tourists and locals.  Each getting something out of the relationship but both sides treated with interest and respect by the other.

Later we walked home together in the light of an almost full moon.  The vast expanse of the lake glassy below us.  Not a light could be seen on the far shores and not a sound could be heard.  It struck me that I'd only experienced such sublime beauty on earth in one other place, the Outer Hebrides of Scotland.  Me amo la vida de las islas.

In the morning the light from the sun rising over this most sacred of lakes streamed in through my window at 5am.  I took the chance to climb to the temple dedicated to Pachamama before returning to a breakfast of pancakes.  At 8am we hopped on the boat once more, saying goodbye to this pearl of an island, and headed to Taquile - an hour across the water in the beautiful early morning sunshine.  Once there we crossed the island on foot, eating trucha frita on the way, to meet our boat on the other side.  This time I'll let the picture do the talking.

Wrong key, right door...

It was always an aim to visit La Puerta de Hayu Marka (the Gate of the Gods).  This secluded sacred spot is not on your average tourist trail.  There didn't seem to be that much about it online and the information that was there was often contradictory.  One website seemed to give some clues so I started out on the 140km round trip with my fingers crossed.

All four parts of the journey were by combis and in total cost about £2.50.  The first bus I needed was to what I thought was Llave (key in Spanish) and I spent a good 90 minutes roaming Puno asking people how to get to the key.  After some time I found a bus going to Ilave, with an 'I', hopped on and had an amazing trip along Titicaca's shore.  From there I travelled on to Santiago, a place deemed so insignificant by Google it's not on their maps.

It is said that during the time of the conquests, an Incan priest called Aramu Muru, fled to this area of astonishing rock formations.  He carried with him a golden disc known as ´the key of the gods of the seven rays'.  Whilst in the mountains he came upon a doorway carved in the rock guarded by shamans.  Within this doorway is a circular hole into which he placed the disc.  This caused a portal to another dimension to open and in he went, never to be seen again.  Whilst I would like to have travelled through 'the gateway to the land of the gods', sadly I didn't have the required disc.

Murphy's Law - I went there independently to be alone in this special place.  However, just before I arrived a group of 30 spiritual tourists disembarked.  I almost signed up for one of these trips and, as I watched them all hugging whilst being hurried along by the organiser, I'm glad I didn't.  I'm pretty sure I share many of their sentiments but it all seemed a little staged.

Once they'd left I made my despacho to Pachamama and headed home, meeting some great Peruanos on the way.  And, yes, I'm certain Mother Nature cherishes my offering of bubble gum and a chocolate biscuit.

El Lago Titicaca...

 

Well, here I am at the sacred Lake Titicaca in the main Peruvian tourist own of Puno.  At 3,811m Titicaca is known to be the highest navigable inland lake in the world.  27 rivers feed its 893 cubic km of saline water.  It measures 190km by 80km when the level is high and is 281m deep at its deepest point. It is a very sacred place for the four peoples that have lived on its shores.  It is thought that Viracocha, the creator god, rose from the waters to create the sun, moon, stars and humans.  A mysterious submerged temple has recently been discovered below the surface.

At its best, Titicaca is stunning to the senses in every way.  Its vast expanse sparkles in the sunlight and the air here is like that of the coast.  Much wildlife uses the lake as a home.

However, close to Puno are some shocking sights that would suggest Titicaca is far from sacred.  Some of the most polluted water I've ever seen is allowed to enter the lake untreated.  As with many less economically developed countries, rubbish is a problem but to see this at the main tourist spot was surprising to say the least.  Saying that, the townsfolk realise the problem and do seem to be working to improve conditions.  The lake is vast and wil have a considerable capacity to deal with pollution before there are irreversible impacts.  Birds still feed close to where these images were taken and, surprisingly, people are growing crops metres away.

Puno itself is nothing to write home about. so I'll keep it brief  Another colonial cathedral and the odd museum.  There is the Kuntur Wasi, a giant metal condor above the city from which great views can be had.

Nearby is Sillustani, a beautiful peninsula on an inland laguna known as Umayu, was once used by pre-Inca civilisations as a place to for the dead.  The wealthiest nobles would be dressed in their best attire before being placed in foetal position on the ground surrounded by their fineries.  Once in position in this beautiful landscape (which reminded me of the reservoirs in the Dales and Peaks) they were covered in stones and enclosed in stones cut with great precision.  Ceremonies were held in sacred circles dedicated to the sun and moon which are aligned to the solstices.  Not a bad way to go!

UyUyUiiii...

Saw this taped to a lamp post today...

I love you because you inspire me to be better each day ;)

And that goes for anyone who's reading this.  Entries may be less frequent now I'm moving around more.  If you want to be notified when there's some new drivel on this blog, submit your email address in the box to the right.  Also, comments are welcome, especially if you let me know who you are.

Te quiero porque me inspiras a ser mejor cada dia ;)

Musing on the road...

The road from Cuzco to Puno is long, eight hours on the road and 388km in total.  I decided to take the same bus as the locals and avoid the easy option of the tourist bus.  This has its disadvantages: slower, no air-con, a more sinuous journey, less comfortable, more crowded and several stops to repair various parts of the vehicle en route.  The advantages are: cheaper, more chance to meet the indigenous people and you fly past the plastic tourist restaurant and crafts market like a fly avoiding a pitcher plant.

During the journey a young lad of about 13 years got on with his guitar.  After a while he addressed the crowd and told us he was going to sing in return for a little cash.  To be honest, his singing was awful but he had all the passengers in the palm of his hand.  Laughing all the way to the bank.  This reminded me me of a conversation I'd had with a couple of lads selling paintings the night before.

When they heard I was from Ingleterra one of them stated I must be rich with a mild bitterness in his tone.  The vast gap in wealth always makes me feel guilty, not that there aren't very wealthy people in Peru, there are.  However, as a whole this country is poorer than the one I happen to have been born in; evidenced in the fact gringo tourists are common in Peru but it is a far rarer occurrence to encounter a Peruvian tourist in the UK.

At the risk of this becoming a diatribe it strikes me that no matter how hard some people work - like the young singer - the odds are stacked against them in our global financial system.  Some people work hard and become wealthy, I've no issue there.  However, some are born poor, work hard and remain poor all their lives whilst others increase their wealth simply by investing the wealth they already possess without necessarily working for it.  I'm not a communist, I like the idea of rewarding hard work as the capitalist model should encourage.  However, it is our overly-complex financial system that allows people to cream off financial rewards without any effort on their part.  

When the young vendor asked if I was rich I answered that poverty is relative., that in my country I wasn't considered rich but in Peru I might be.  He agreed.  However, the extraordinary advance in communications means pretty much anyone can now compare themselves to anyone else on the planet. Poverty is relative globally.  All I'd like to see is a fair game for all.  One in which effort, talent, skill and knowledge are rewarded equally.  One in which trade is fair, where the resources of a country are not exported to rich nations before the needs of those people are met.  Let's get a little equality round here.

Forgive my preaching to the converted and obvious hipocrisy!