Three Nights in Puno

I reached the ugly border town and crossed into Peru exactly ninety days after arriving in Bolivia. As I did so I became a backpacker again, skimming over the surface, choosing only the most worthwhile pursuits, knowing almost nothing about the place I was in. The nightly processions through the streets, the graffiti on the walls, the names of the streets and restaurants and plazas all meant next to nothing to me.

Peru is full of thieves, I had been warned by many Bolivians. I don’t know that this is true; I wasn’t robbed, but I did find my cash disappearing much faster across the border. Peru a country far more accustomed to tourist hordes, and to finding ways both legitimate and illegitimate to make tourists part with their cash.

I spent three nights in Peru, in the town of Puno on the shores of Lake Titicaca. It was a time of oscillation between loneliness and boredom within the town, and wonder and contentment out by the lake.

I had written about Puno, and more specifically about a town further along the fringe of the lake, Chucuito, in Lord of Miracles (which I swear will be on every book shelf one of these days), and so felt I should go pay my respects. A bus crammed full of people and one llama took me out of the grit of Puno and into the beautiful crystalline light of lakeside Peru. The great expanse of the lake lay pale and blue beyond the floodplains, which were being reclaimed by agriculture, stranded boats lying crooked among the crops and flocks.

Chucuito has been put on the tourist radar by the Templo de la Fertilidad, an Inca ruin perched on a hill overlooking the lake. Within the perfectly fitted stone walls of the tiny temple are arranged row upon on row of stone phalluses, which Inca maidens would visit, pouring out offerings of coca and booze, and squatting over the monolithic cocks in hope of conceiving an emperor or a warrior or a boy or a girl or whatever. That, as best I can tell, is the official line, explained to me by two kids who had learned the history word for word and recited it in singsong voices.

There is something suspicious about the temple, thought. It is in part the lack of any government or university investment or official anthropo-archaeological interest in the site; it is in part that the stone phalluses look exactly like the carved stones used by the Incas to fix the thatched roofs to their buildings, it is also in part that the temple and its phalluses lie across the road from a colonial church, which was erected (ha ha ha) during the age of the Inquisition, at a time when the church took great delight in smashing and burning anything or anyone deemed offensive or heretical. Rows of pagan penises would surely qualify for destruction for multiple reasons.

Even if the temple isn’t authentic, even if the phalluses were added later to draw curious tourists, the temple remains a fascinating place to visit. It is a testament to the added value that the word ‘inca’ adds to any tourist site. Other cultures – Tiahuanaco, Moche, Chavin, Mapuche – excite next to no interest in the tourist world, but Inca trails, Inca temples, Inca ruins are all goldmines. It is hardly surprising that Chucuito should want in on the lucrative business. And given how funny the temple is, and how pretty the town is, why shouldn’t they make use of the heritage of the region to make a few dollars?

On my other full day in Peru I headed out onto the lake on a tour of the islands. The day started lugubrious and overcast, and I soon found myself excessively unhappy to be stuck on a tour boat.

Our first stop was the floating islands of the Uros people. It is said that hundreds of years ago these peaceful people took to man-made islands of reeds to escape the predations of their warlike neighbours. The lives of the people have been woven into the lives of the great beds of reeds that grow thick in Peruvian Titicaca. The reeds are eaten, they are made into islands and houses and boats. The many-layers of reeds that float upon the lake are constantly replenished to keep the islands high and dry. It is a funny, funny feeling, walking on these folded beds of reeds.

Naturally, these floating islands are a major curiosity for tourists. The locals have long moved on to wooden boats, some with motors, and away from the many tourist islands larger houses are made of wood and metal, though they still float upon the lake. The traditional life of the Uros is preserved today only in parody, for the sake of luring tourists and their dollars to the handicraft stalls and boat rides of the islanders. Spending a few hours visiting various islands, eating with the locals, spending time with them might be fun, but as it is every tourist boat (and they are legion) visits one islands, receives a brief explanation of how the reeds float, and then is given thirty minutes to take photos and buy souvenirs. It is not particularly fun or interesting.

Beyond the reed beds and the floating islands sits another island, out in the greater, deeper expanse of the lake. Isla Taquile receives far few visitors, and is far less well know than the floating islands, but it is infinitely more enchanting. Here, too, the people make a living out of the tourists that rumble through, some times staying the night, sometimes just for lunch. The difference is that here life has not been bent entirely to work the tourist industry. The people still keep sheep and make most of their clothing from homespun wool. They farm and they work, and the rest of the time they congregate in the plaza looking out onto the lake, the men in their floppy red caps and puffy shorts looking either like clowns or a religious order.

It took some time to reach Taquile, and in that time the sky clear and Titicaca began to shine. On the island we were free to wander, and poke our noses in wherever we pleased. I made my way up the ridge that runs down the island, offering massive vistas of the lake, and the mountains that surround it. It was a perfectly tranquil spot, looking down on the fields and houses covering the slopes, the tall eucalyptus trees, and the stone paths that meandered in every direction. From up there, seeing the lake properly for the first time, I was struck by what a strange thing it was; too calm and pale to be a sea, but having its own ports and shipping roots and islands and bottomless depths full of myths about Atlantean cities. The insularity of this island completely different to the insularity of say, Australia; we are isolated and surrounded by sea, but Isla Taquile is isolated and surrounded by other countries. There is certainly no sense of distrust or discomfort shown by them towards the mainlanders that daily come coursing across the water to explore their homes. Rather, the sense that they give is of a simple, content life, a hybrid of ancient farming and contemporary tourism. They are managing the strange disparity very well.

I had one free hour on the island but it more than made up for the rest of the day, herded along, on and off the boat, my head nodding asleep against the window.

And then back to Puno, and the following day another border crossing back to Bolivia, and I as I received my entry stamp I couldn’t suppress a big, silly grin from spreading across my face. I was very happy to be back.