Some views are so stunning you would expect to pay hundreds of pounds to take them in while sipping on a beer outside your bedroom.
However, our hostel on the Isla Del Sol cost us a fiver a night.
And what a view it was.
To our right, the village of Yumani perched on the hillside; to the left, a headland revealed classic Inca agricultural terracing.
On the horizon, the snow-capped peaks of the Bolivian Andes provided the backdrop to the 8,000 sq km Lake Titicaca.
Meanwhile, along a path below us, island folk dressed in traditional Aymara clothing led provision-laden donkeys back and forth.
Titicaca is one of those places you hear about as a boy and forever snigger at its name. But I certainly never expected to visit.
At 3,800m above sea level, it´s the highest navigable lake in the world and looks for all the world like the sea as the sun glistens on its surface.
Taking a dip was irresistible and together with a cool Swedish bloke called Ale (pronounced Ally) we charged down the hillside, towels in one hand, bag of beer in the other.
In a matter of seconds, we realised the lake would have been better named Frozentittiecaca, as the icy water left us gasping for breath.
The One With The Common Sense decided enough was enough and concentrated on making like a local by hand washing some laundry in the shallows.
Ale and I persisted a while but after about five minutes were glad to retreat to the "beach" and toast our endeavours with a beer.
We spent a magical two days on the island, which had little electricity or running water (I counted only one street light).
While there were plenty of tourists, most came solely for the day and - when not enjoying the excellent Titicaca trout - we were able to feel as though we were watching our private sunsets/sunrises.
It wasn´t all lazing around, mind. We walked the length of the island and back to see some Inca ruins during a day of which the highlight was enjoying a cup of tea at the island´s highest point.
How civilised.
It was a world away from our experience on the Peruvian side of the lake.
We knew when we booked the two-day tour that it was going to involve things put on specially for tourists.
But when the people of the Uros floating islands began singing "Row, row, row your boat", it was all I could do to stop my fixed grin turning to a cringe.
When the boat motored between the reeds to the communities, we were greeted by women in bright orange and pink skirts waving from the banks.
But in spite of the "show" it was still fascinating to see how the islands were constructed.
More than 800 years ago, the Uros people - fleeing rivals - ended up at Titicaca where they constructed islands by tying reedbeds together. On top of this metre-deep root system, they piled another 2m of cut reeds, and the whole structures float on the lake´s surface.
They also used the same material to build their small homes and boats, used for fishing and shooting the local coots for food.
Nowadays they have solar panels to power their TVs and radios and supplement their income by encouraging tourists to buy handicrafts and take rides on the reed boats.
The last time I sat at the edge of a hall, hoping no-one would notice me, I was at a primary school disco.
And the "fiesta" on the island of Amantani wasn´t too far removed from that experience.
I wasn´t alone in my awkwardness. As the traditional band started playing, the tourists taking part in homestays on the island were all hovering around the edges, staring at their feet.
The women had been given traditional skirts and blouses and really looked the part.
The blokes, on the other hand, had been handed grey ponchos and - to a man - looked utterly ridiculous.
It´s fair to say the One With The Common Sense was not exactly in a party mood and had eschewed the women´s costume in favour of a poncho, meaning we looked like some sort of scruffy same-sex couple. (Of which variety, only the photos will tell).
To be fair, the band were pretty good and it was nice to hear live traditional music.
But the dancing plumbed depths not visited since Guns ´n´ Roses came on at that primary school disco (the only music the lads would dance to back then).
Each host grabbed the hands of their guests and led them, grins fixed, onto the dance floor where a large ring was formed and the crowd pranced about in a ring while holding hands.
It was a bit like New York, New York coming on at a wedding, only this lasted about an hour.
I did eventually enjoy it and busted some serious moves with Basilia, our host, later on but it was completely knackering and I was glad when it was all over.
The homestay had been an attempt to see something more of the "real" life on the lake.
Our previous homestays had been pretty successful. They are always a little bit awkward but are a nice way to experience local life while helping their economy.
However, this time around it proved a little more difficult.
Sitting on a wooden stool in the host´s dark and tiny kitchen, its surfaces lined with sacks, was brilliant.
We ate soup, followed by fried cheese and potatoes, cooked on top of a clay oven.
But I´m not sure that Basilia really had her heart in the experience.
It seemed like she´d had a rough life, her husband having abandoned her with two young children.
And I suspect she opened her home - as most of the islanders do - out of sheer necessity.
It felt as though she resented us tourists which, while totally understandable, was unlike most of the other hosts.
Mind you, it probably didn´t help when I got her name wrong and called her Agustina in front of the whole group.
We finished our trip at another island, Taquille, for more lecturing on "how the locals live".
Again it was interesting. The blokes all knit and can´t marry anyone until their prospective father-in-law is happy with their handiwork. (I´m glad I didn´t have to pass that test).
Meanwhile, the women weave lambs´ wool around thick bands of their own hair to make belts to support their husbands´ backs when carrying heavy loads.
Maybe I should mention that to the One With The Common Sense...
No comments:
Post a Comment