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Lake Titicaca

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52 reviews of Lake Titicaca

Lake Titicaca

The magic of Lake Titicaca is not only to be found in nature but also in its people. Getting to know the ancient culture that surrounds this place is captivating. From the veneration of the mamacha Candelaria, the worship of Pachamama, the traditional dances of the area and many more historical and cultural events, make this an unforgettable experience.

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The Islands of Titicaca

It is New Year’s Eve in Puno, Peru and I lie awake in bed. I hear the revelry outside – excited and happy voices mix with songs and instruments and eventually the loud bang of fireworks. The plaza fills. I turn on my side. I once celebrated New Years with the vigor and vitality of a Christmas Eve’s child. Now the exhilaration has evaporated into a dull apathy. The night carries heavy expectations and inevitably breeds light disappointments. Another year blends into the next – nothing more or nothing less. Tonight, however, I have a more pragmatic reason for an early night: I rise early in the morning for an excursion to the islands of Lake Titicaca.


At 3820 metres, and spanning two countries, Lake Titicaca stands as one of the highest lakes in the world. The high altitude distills crisper, clearer and cleaner air; the sun blasts more forcefully at this height, however. I say as much to our guide, a young man from Puno, he concurs.

El sol es muy fuerte.

Y la agua es mas azul.

We board the boat and depart for the islands. Puno’s decrepit buildings slowly recede. The water does appear a deeper and stronger blue. Commanding and Compelling. The sunlight sparkles across the water; the light descends in angles attacking the calm water in waves. I shield my eyes as tiny clouds slowly drip-in from the mainland. Against the light blue sky, they appear particularly weightless, vulnerable – as if they might fall at any moment. They change forms effortlessly, beautifully molding and re-arranging themselves. Poetry exists in their movements, sublime and eloquent. No anvil, brush or pen needed: movement has its own style, the sky a canvass.

The light plays tricks on our eyes, we think. In the distance, a community floats. Preposterous. But as we glide closer, we see golden houses, canoes the color of the sun as it sets and people dressed in fabulously colored clothing. These are the Uros people and their reed islands. Fleeing from the Incas’ military aggression hundreds of years ago, the Uros people took to the lake and fashioned actual islands from the strong and spongy Totora reed found along the lake’s shallow shores. In their mobile homes, they sought refuge in the lake’s many crevices and corners.

Stacked layers of reed secure the island’s foundation. At the bottom, the reeds measure four to eight feet. As the reeds disintegrate over time, the Uros must constantly add newer ones to the surface. Mud holds them together. Each island has a collection of reed houses and some have solar panels. The largest island has a radio station playing music a few hours a day. Today, the Uros people survive primarily on fishing and tourism.

A reed canoe gently approaches our motorboat. The canoe’s prow resembles a dragon or some mythical creature. We board and are ferried to the closest island. The ground shakes and rumbles – it takes a moment to secure your footing. Braided-hair women emerge from each hut waving for us to enter, below them lies a blanket full of beautiful art and crafts, their dresses flow as red as blood. Our cameras are out and we take pictures. The guide tells us they expect compensation for their photos. They give us a piece of traditional clothing to wear. I feel uncomfortable smiling for a photo in clothing not my own, that has historical and cultural significance of which I am ignorant. My vest is quilted yellow; a bowler hat is placed on my head. A picture is taken. What am I meant to do with it?

I want to convince myself that tourism helps. It provides income, jobs etc. But as more photos are taken and more tourists arrive, the islands transform into a zoo-like setting. Their culture has become commercialized, dependent on the tourist’s bemused and bespectacled gaze. We are fascinated because of their difference, because of their alien-ness. We are the norm, the standard, the measuring stick. They are the other. It has little to do with learning about their culture – we will have forgotten in a week. It is sadly about us. About our experience. About our trip. About our encounter with the strange and unfamiliar. Tourism rarely create solidarity between host and guest just as it usually does not facilitate meaningful socio-economic change. It only preserves the status quo or perhaps makes it slightly more tolerable. Leaving the islands, I envision alternatives. How can tourism benefit those whom we visit? How can we make tourism less commercial and more reciprocal?

We re-board our motorboats and head deeper into Titicaca. Our next stop is Isla Taquile where we will spend the night with a local family. Quechua and Aymara speakers, the inhabitants of Taquile are descendants from an assortment of pre-Hispanic Andean cultures and civilizations - Inca, Pukara and Colla - and have lived in relative isolation on the island until the 1950s. The local industry centers around textiles: men and women craft magnificent scarves, hats and dresses using pre-Hispanic pedal looms. One of the more famous pieces is the calendar waistband which depicts the annual cycles (related primarily to agricultural) of the Taquile people. The island has a school solely dedicated to the teaching of textiles aiding in the practice’s continuation and preservation. No electricity flows here.

The island rises above us and our boat slows next to the dock. Taquile is mountainous and getting anywhere is arduous. Piles of stone line the dirt paths as we ascend. We pass sheep and farmers toiling on their terraced plots. Popularized by the Incas but used by many pre-Incan Andean cultures, the terrace works farming miracles within undulating terrain. The terrace is a ridge of earth constructed across and into the slope of a mountain with a channel for run-off water. In areas with plentiful rain, the terrace is built on a grade allowing water to escape slowly through the outlet. In drier areas, the terrace is flat so water may more easily accumulate. Terraces remain an ingenious solution for farming on less than ideal topography.

We visit the schools and meet our hosts for the evening. We then tour the rest of the island. Many of the inhabitants gather in the plaza; it explodes with color.

A long stone pathway curves its way up to Taquile’s highest point. It is not steep but at this altitude the effort is greet. As we climb, we turn and see Titicaca huge and holy extend below us. What a massive spectacle. We see other landmasses and try to guess what they might be. Another island? Bolivia? It does feel as if you’re standing in the centre of the universe. The plotted terraces each have a different shade of green – a great emerald checkerboard. Massive lines of stone separate each plot. The island holds so much wealth, so much to digest. So much that I will never fully understand. Unlike Uros’ islands, Taquile feels like a community, strong and resilient. School children play football off in the distance. Tourism represents both a challenge and an opportunity. But I do not believe they will succumb to its darker side: the commercialization, the voyeurism, the exploitation. Here, they will resist and they will adapt.

We have a splendid meal with our host families and we learn a few Quechua words. And as night falls, I cannot believe that this has my first day of the New Years. A day of knowledge, of reflection and of appreciation. A year in a day. My own personal New Year’s Eve.
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