Copacabana and its Sacredness

At the beginning of time, the land was dark, and full of stone and precipices. Viracocha, the creator of civilisation, decided to bring light to the world, and called the sun, followed by the moon and the stars, up out of the waters of the great dark lake. Then he summoned a race of giants out of the cold rocks, but they were ignorant and rebellious, so he swept them away, swelling the lake and flooding the land. When the waters receded he made a smaller race of men out of clay and pebbles. Once the best of these had gone forth and founded a civilisation in the high mountains, he began to wander the land as a tramp, leaning on his staff and instructing the people. Then Viracocha, the bearded old man, the white god of the Andes walked west across the ocean, leaving his creations to their destinies.

Before the first gringos arrived in South America – those bearded, shining beings that seemed momentarily like Viracocha returned, until they opened fire and set about dismantling the civilisations that the creator god had crafted – Titicaca was a tourist destination, a pilgrimage site at the heart of the Inca empire. Isla del Sol, the island of the sun is where the sun and man first rose, and ever since then people have been visiting it to pay their respected.

Once the Spanish did arrive, bringing Catholicism with them, a town on the shores of the lake, Copacabana, became an equally important pilgrimage site. Here resides the Virgen de Candelaria, one of the most important icons in the latino canon, with a long history of bestowing miracles.

Arriving in Copacabana I could see why such importance was invested in the place. The town, surrounded by hills and pastures, was far smaller and far prettier than I expected, the streets empty save for the faint murmur of a bustle around the cathedral. A beach – one of the few in Bolivia – spanned from hill to hill in a long, colourful crescent of trout restaurants, boats and fussball tables. The sky and lake mirrored the blue warmth of one another.

Though the streets of Copacabana are heavy with handicraft stall and pizza restaurants, the town doesn’t need gringos. A steady flow of pilgrims flow through town to have babies and vehicles blessed at the cathedral. Hippies from all over South America come to camp on the beaches of Isla del Sol, and to sell jewellery and jugglery on the streets of Copacabana.

Fortuitously, I arrived on a weekend, which meant that the street outside the cathedral was full of stalls selling religious trinkets, and of cars, trucks and vans decorated with ribbons and flowers, there to be blessed by the priest and his holy water, and by families pouring out libations of beer and wine. In her sanctuary – probably the most beautiful church I’ve seen in South America – the Virgen was on display, her holy curtain pulled back to reveal the little icon, surrounded by gold and icon and saints a martyrs.

On the hill above the town – itself a pilgrimage site – people bought model cars or shops or houses or children or whatever it was they wanted most. They cracked beers and poured them over their offerings. They lit candles in grottos, niches and caves, the whole hill stained with black wherever offerings had been made to the syncretic god of the town.

On the morning of my trip to Isla del Sol the sun was strangely absent, and rain was prickling the surface of the lake. As the clouds gradually cleared the enormous mountains off behind the lake became visible, as did the other islands, peninsulas, beaches and bays of the lake. This undoubtedly is the best of lake Titicaca. From high up on the spine of Isla del Sol the entire lake is visible – an immense thing but never quite so large that the horizon swallows the distant mountains. The perfect size to be both amazing and beautiful. Far away I could see the Peruvian side of the lake, and the islands and hills I had already visited.

The island self is a strange mix of pre-Colombian ruins and herds of sheep and eucalyptus groves and barren slopes of brightly coloured, layered stone. At time it looks like Australia, at other times like the Mediterranean, and at other the chill fjordlands of Chile or New Zealand.

The particular sites of the island were not particularly interesting before the weird beauty of the island itself – the ruins of an Inca temple, another labyrinthine ruin inhabited by nervous sheep, a ceremonial stone table, a sacred stone, the rock Titicaca which gives its sacred name to the whole lake – but the path of carefully laid stone twisted between these sites, while on all side the magnificent lake was changing colours and textures and tones.

In a long day I walked the length of the island, spied its many barren peaks and tiny villages and hidden beaches, and at every turn it was easy to see why this should be the sit of creation myths, the birthplace of civilisation and the sun.

In the evening back in Copacabana a spectacular sunset rose out of the lake, the colours changing and blooming as I watched. These sunsets no doubt having settled over the lake for centuries, seen variously by pilgrims from all corners of the old and new worlds, and affecting all of them, causing them all to pause and consider what a beautiful land they had come upon.

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.