LAKE TITICACA
Nov 27th, 94
© By Ric Polansky
As you read these few notes, look up to the pale blue sky, I am just above you, some 2 and one-half miles to be exact, crossing the sacred lake of the Incas: Lake Titicaca, the highest lake in the world, at some 3,812 meters.
Papa (Hemmingway) once had a list of 40 places that he wanted to visit in his life, he achieved that goal by the age of 50 and for me this place with such a strange sounding name fits Papa’s discription of what should be the distinctly novel. With such a peculiar name you’d think that it meant something, but it doesn’t; and if it does, there isn’t a single historians or anthropolagist or guide in the area that can say so assuredly. The pilot of the boat says that it means: Roca de plomo (rocks of lead) but there is no minning of that nautre in the area. The quide says it’s Quechua for “Puma de Grease” (gray colored Puma) which makes sense to me, as much of this culture was influenced by the Nazcan’s who seem to call things for what they appeared to be from their god’s perspective. Therefore, if you get drunk on enough aguadiente and draw as badly as I do, the shape of the lake could possibly look like a Puma (being drunk is essential).
The lake is 165 kms long by 65 kms. wide and abounds in wildlife, including a variety of ducks and pink and gray Flamencos. It also contains an excellent eating trout that can only be caught by net as they are so wiley.
For the modern day visitor to the hallowed lake a call on one of the sacred island is a must. Our launch is filled with other single minded adventurers: four Israeli students, two French, and English- Canadian couple, an American girl with two small and delightful children married to a Venezuelan, two well educated Peruvians, two Italians, Mr Moi, an an assortment of Indians that belong to one or another of the differnt islands that we’ll be stopping at. I know all of this because I’ve checked the logbook, but the others know nothing of my being a secret agent on this voyage.
The water is a lovely hue of blue. As we all arrived early for the boat no one is talking or even moving about. We all just sit and stare out across the lake. Silent and lost in our own secret contemplations. It’s a mystical experience shared by all of us, without a word being mutually communicated. It is getting hot, we are so high up that the thermometer on my watch reads 44 degrees and it’s not nine AM yet. We are but travler’s upon the lake of life, progressing we know not where. As I continue to stare into the lake I discover that the color of the sky above is now the same shade as the lake, if I couldn’t see the distant shore, I’d probably think that I was in heaven. Hold it, the Israeli girls are stripping off and climbing to the roof, maybe I am at least nearer.
The first island that we stop at is that of Uros, one of the floating islands. These are composed of torta reeds growing so closely together that you can actually walk upon them, but if you’re my size, you do ever so gingerly. These Uros people have reputedly lived here since time immemorial, according to the famous Incan writer, Garcilaso de la Vega (whose great grandfather accepted the surrender of the Mojacarian’s Rey Alabez to the Catholic Kings; you can still see his name on the fountain plaque, 1488).
Urosians are tiny and robust. They live by fishing and needle work for the tourists. I myself just had to buy an irresistible tapestry that I will show you upon my return. But in Uros the people still live in the same mud huts as their ancestors. Like al true people of authentic origin, that have strived diligently to maintain their true identity, they have not evolved as individuals whatsoever. I view this race of souls as humans imprisoned in their own self created economic zoo, there to be witnessed for our pleasure and amusement. Yes, I’m also bringing home the photos.
The boat pushed on silently and religiously crossing the lake in the direction of the Bolivian border to the Island of Taquili, which likewise no one knew the meaning of, but as our pilot and helmsman wore a unique type of beret, similar to a Santa Clause hat, they could only have been from that island. On first observation the island impressed me as you could observe from far out to sea the extensive hand cultivated terraces the literally streaked the island. Rigorous labor that could only have been performed by slaves or induced by religious fervor. In either case many centuries would have had to pass to reach the current stage of development. The port itself was only as big as most beach bars so I wasn’t sure why we were even stopping until everyone else ripped out brochures from their rucksacks, nudged themselves gleefully and vigorously leaped over the sides and started climbing, climbing, climbing up. My mouth was agape. I quickly turned to Alfredo, our guide, and asked him what was happening? Had they all been drinking the sea water or something? What devil possessed them?
“Senor Planqui, of course you too have come to climb the sacred mountain and make a wish” he said. I stepped back and looked at Alfredo, then again at the mountain. It didn’t take me long to calculate two factors: first of all we were already at 13,000 feet (with headaches, shortness of breath and constant dizziness a way of life) and secondly: to climb that mountain meant going up at least another 1000 feet. I turned to Alfredo and said “nope,” but he was gone. I swiveled my head about and I heard, “Senor Enrique, I am just here, see it is not far up.” So it wasn’t, and I went. But when I got there he was gone. In the near distance I could see his head bobbing up and down just on the next level up, so I followed. When I got there that damn Indian was no where to be found, but I could hear him taunting me, “Enrique, not very far now, very near, see me.” And as I could, I continued up those Incan steps to the next level. But that damn guide had disappeared again. It was too hot even to sweat, and the locals were passing me by as they diligently prod likewise upwards carrying massive loads tied in time honored cloth.
I was panting heavily but I could still hear that voice. “Enrique, I am here, come and see the view, we are almost there.” So I went again, and he wasn’t there. What’s new. I suspected that all Taquilians were like leprechauns and in actuality he was just hiding behind a nearby bush. I stepped off the intricate stone path and fell into the thicket. There, I startled an old woman weaving. She was nestled down well into the shade contented with life, chanting to a pig whose head was resting on her lap like any family dog. In her left hand she was pulling strains of dark wool and then rolling them between her fingers into thread and then twisting the thread unto a spindle. An age old process from pre-Biblical times unchanged. I was inhaling and exhaling heavily and could barely complete the formalities of at least saying a breathless “Buenos dias,” but before I could do so, the pig bolted upright, drove his nose into my leg, gave it a good long snort, turned hindquarter and charged up into the hills. In the distance I could here that same damn Indian taunting me yet once again, but I had already decided to take a few photos of the old woman. I tried to catch my breath and make relevant conversation with her. She wanted to talk too, and did so at the most rapid of rates in what I gathered was perfect Amayan. She reached out to grab me, or at least that’s what I thought she’d done, so I quickly decided to take my chances and find that damn Indian again.
I reluctantly returned to the trail and started stepping up a few more of the uniquely layered levels of the pathway when I saw Alfredo’s head dancing up again, calling me: “Senor, you are so close that I can smell you, you’ve almost made it.” If anything I had decided to get a hold of him and wring his neck just like one would do to a chicken’s the crows before dawn. I was a man possessed, but when I drove my body up yet another flight of steps he had gone yet again. By this time my heart was pounding so loudly in my mouth that my teeth were rattling, and I couldn’t lift my head from my heaving chest, but still I continued charging forward. Against all good sense and shame I plodded up yet another cascade of uniquely carved stone lentils. Then miraculous the path leveled out and I was there. I was at the top. No one was there to greet me, and even the Indian had disappeared again, but I had done it. I gazed about me, looking for other stalwarts like Edmund Hillary and Tensing, but neither were there to enroll me in their great “because it was there club.”
Alfredo the Indian didn’t die, he should have; It was the first and only thing I’d ever wished for on this trip. I can only presume that he had a lot of previous practice at his particular game and also invoked a greater prayer to live. After all, it was his mountain, under a pale blue sky, situated far in the middle of lake Titicaca, in Southern Peru, somewhere on this planet.
Once I catch my breath, I’ll write again.
Your friend, Ric Polansky
