Saturday was our last day in Peru.  We were staying in a nice hotel near the center of Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca.  (This was particularly luxurious for Zoe, Caroline and me.  Throughout the trip we’ve been staying in a triple room, which was fine, but on this night our group had an extra room so I got my own.  The triple that Zoe and Caroline were sharing was two separate rooms, so they had their own space as well.)  In the morning we had a little extra time, so we wandered into town to look around the square and the church — and, for certain members of the party, to stock up on the Peruvian Inca Kola, which tastes like carbonated bubble gum.  The shops here are tiny — about the size of an average walk-in closet — so we had to go to several to find this many bottles.  (Zoe’s, at least, survived the trip home in her suitcase.)

Unfortunately, this was the first day that dawned gray, drizzly, and cold — not ideal for a boating trip on Lake Titicaca.  Van had one more surprise for us when it was time to get to the docks.  He summoned a whole group of bicycle taxis, and offered an excellent tip to the one that could win the race.  We jumped into the taxis in pairs, got covered with an inadequate sheet of plastic for rain cover, and set off as fast as our taxistas’ legs could pedal.  These guys were motivated.  At one point, Van’s taxi tried so hard to pass us that it crashed into an oncoming car.  It was crazy and exhiliarating weaving through bicycle, foot, and vehicular traffic in the rain, careening wildly in the direction of the docks.  Christine was so happy to have won that she gave her driver a tip probably worth a month’s wages.

 

Once we boarded our boat and got underway, the rain tapered off and then stopped.  Some of us headed up to the roof of the boat to check out the views of the vast lake (which we could only see a small part of).  Our destination was the famous floating reed islands, inhabited by the Uros people, an indiginous group that

speak the Aymara language.  Scholars think that the original islands were constructed in pre-Inca times, and have been inhabited by the Uros ever since.  As lower layers of reeds rot, the islanders just add more reeds to the top.  The modern-day Uros live much as their ancestors did, except that they have solar panels and tourists.  They live in huts woven from reeds, travel in elaborate boats made of reeds, burn reeds for fuel, and even eat the reeds.

 

We visited an island inhabited by 22 people, all extended family.  Walking on the island felt like walking on a waterlogged sponge.  The islanders showed us how the islands are built — a time-consuming and labor-intensive process.  (Apparently, when an island gets overcrowded, the inhabitants get together and build a new one.)  A new layer of reeds has to be added every 15 days.  The islands have to be anchored, they told us, or else you go to sleep and wake up in Bolivia.  When someone asked what happens if a family isn’t getting along with the others, the elder of the island picked up a large saw and mimed cutting off a piece of the island and setting the troublemakers adrift.

We got to try on some traditional clothing, and go for a short ride in the largest of the reed boats.  (“Boat fits 30 Americans, or 50 Japanese,” the village elder told us in Spanish.)  We also were shown some of the woven and embroidered tapestries that the women here make, and it was made very clear we were expected to buy one.  Unfortunately, it being our last day, we were running a little short of soles, so Helen and I had to split the cost of one.  We’ll see who ends up with custody.

By this point the sun had come out and the temperature risen, so the more intrepid members of our group prepared for a jump into the freezing waters.  Ann once again proved herself the best of us, as the only adult to jump in and the first one overall to take the plunge.  The kids all went in together and came up laughing and gasping with cold.

After the boat trip back, we had time for one last big meal before hopping on the bus for the last time to drive to the airport.  You may recall what I said yesterday about Juliaca, the city where the airport is located.  None of us were that thrilled about having to go back there — but the reality was worse than we could have imagined.  What with the traffic situation and random road closure, our bus driver didn’t know how to get to the airport and apparently decided to wing it.  We ended up on a small, incredibly potholed back road that was clearly leading nowhere.  Undeterred, he tried to correct his mistake by making a series of seemingly random turns onto ever more desolate roads with even worse conditions.  By this time it was dark, and we were truly in the middle of nowhere.  I

was waiting for a gang of people with guns to emerge from a nearby hovel and hijack the bus.  My friend Tiffany was praying that we didn’t get a flat tire.  Eventually, after what seemed like an hour, the bus driver saw someone driving around in one of these three-wheeled vehicles they have here and asked for directions.  That kind soul offered to lead us to the airport, and thankfully managed to do so in time for our flight.  We all — even Van — shuddered to think what we would have done if we’d missed it and been trapped for the night in Juliaca.

 

 

 

 

After that, all that remained was a long day and night of travel — from Juliaca to Lima, Lima to New York, and New York to Boston — exhausting, but fortunately uneventful.  (This time I decided what the hell and went for the full dinner and glass of red wine that Latam Airlines was serving at 2am (3am Boston time).)The C&J bus brought us back to Portsmouth in time for Sunday dinner, tired but full of happy memories.

 

 

 

 

Friday morning it was time to say farewell to Cusco and hop back on the bus for an eight-hour drive to Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca to the south.  Luckily, Van had planned a few stops for us to break up the drive.

The first one was actually the only supermarket we’d seen in on our trip.  We procured sandwich supplies for a lunch on the bus, since we’ve found that meals for 17 people in a restaurant tend to take hours.  The next stop was also food-related.  In a small village square, the bus pulled over and Van told us we had 15 minutes to get some bread from someone he knew.  We crossed the square, ducked down a small alley, and ended up in a courtyard in the midst of what appeared to be the homes of a group of people.  It turned out the person Van knew wasn’t there anymore, but there was another man working at a huge wood-fired oven (like the kind you see at Flatbread), just about to pull out some fresh bread.  We bought a ton of it for pennies a loaf, and it was delicious.

Our next stop, the Incan ruins at Raqchi, was a real treat.  Van was acquainted with a 17-year-old girl whose mother is the local village shaman, and who is heir to the title herself.  He arranged for her to give us a special tour.  Rather than talk about names and dates, she told us about the religious significance of the place, and walked us through the rituals that the Inca pilgrims needed to follow to purify themselves before entering the sacred temple.

She brought out several artifacts of her own  to share with us, including a 2000-year-old poncho that she passed around and even let Andrew wear!

Next to the ruins of the temple, she formed us into a circle and got what appeared to be a rock out of her blanket.  She handed it to Van and told him to eat it.  He expressed some skepticism, but eventually took a nibble.  She explained that it was made by burning a mint plant, then forming the ashes into a rock-like substance.  You were meant to nibble a piece of rock, then chew a couple of coca leaves at the same time.

We all eventually got our chance to eat the rock, and it actually wasn’t too bad.  (Kind of tasted like Necco wafers, in fact.)  However, adding the coca leaves caused some kind of strange reaction that made it taste really terrible.  All of us were in the circle, grimacing and clearly contemplating how rude it would be to spit out the sacred Incan food next to the sacred Incan temple.  (When the second rock, made out of eucalyptus, was brought out, I elected to pass.)

 

Our guide had wonderful stories, too — about playing hide and seek in the ruins as a child and seeing spirits, and about how she had become the “chosen one” (to be the next shaman).  It involved almost getting struck by lightning on one occasion, and getting surrounded by a group of foxes on another.  The people here have a much stronger connection with their ancestors and with ancient traditions than anyone I know in our country.

Our final stop was a desolate parking lot on the side of the road.  At 14,222 feet, we were above tree line and at the highest point accessible by road in Peru, and the second highest in all of the Americas.  There was a small group of artisans selling their wares, and a bathroom of sorts.  For one sole (about 30 cents) we gained admission.  There is no running water up here, so after each person used the bathroom the man attending it would go in with a bucket of water to flush.  (Bathroom amenities are pretty scarce here in general — frequently there’s no toilet seat and/or toilet paper, and as in Central America you have to throw your toilet paper in the trash can — but this was a new one.)

Van had a blood oxygen sensor, and we all tested out our levels.  Most of us were in the low to mid eighties, with normal being 95+.  It certainly explained why we felt out of breath.  (The next morning, at our hotel at a bit under 13,000 feet, I was up to 91.)

Some of the kids were very interested in an alpaca out back, but were told that it was a spitter.  Zoe’s “friends” strongly encouraged her to approach it, but each time she got close it would look menacing and she’d retreat.  However, Ann showed up, marched right over to the alpaca, and began nuzzling it.  After that, the beast had been tamed and everyone was able to pet it with no spitting involved.

The excitement was not over, though.  After dark, we were cruising along through the rather depressing city of Juliaca, on the main four-lane highway through the town.  Suddenly we started coming across other vehicles driving towards us, coming the wrong way down the street.  Now this in and of itself is not as surprising as you might think, since traffic rules here seem to be either non-existent or ignored.  What WAS surprising was when we got a bit further up and found that the road ended in a large pile of rubble, with no warning.

What followed was an epic journey that few tourists have probably ever made.  We had to back up, then turn around on the highway.  After that we started driving down what appeared to be a field of dirt next to a set of railroad tracks, tremendously rutted and potholed.  Many other people were doing the same, so we were surrounded by cars, trucks, bikes, and the occasional livestock, all traveling along in various directions with no particular order.  Once we got back to what passed as a road, the situation wasn’t much better.  The streets were lined with grim-looking buildings and piles of trash.  We all agreed that it seemed like some kind of post-apolcalyptic hellscape, or possibly the set of the Walking Dead.  (Our driver said the city is controlled by the mafia, and there’s so much corruption that everything is falling apart.)  We all breathed a sigh of relief when we eventually got back to a real road again.  Unfortunately, we have to return to the Juliaca airport for our flight back to Lima.  We’re just hoping they manage to maintain the runway.