Puno and Lake Titicaca

We arrived to the airport nearest Puno (Juliaca) early in the morning with our suitcases trailing us whilst looking for a taxi ride to our new destination for the next few days. A burly guy approached us purposefully to offer his services, and so we rolled into his cab looking forward to hitting a comfortable bed as soon as possible, as between the ridiculously early start and the new high altitude of 3680m I particularly was on my hands and knees with tiredness. The first thing of note about our journey was his method of driving. Erratic turned into impatient turned into downright reckless. This man was on some sort of mission other than getting us safely to our hotel. Juliaca is a pretty grim place, a sandy chaotic town that serves as a centre of commerce to the local area. The traffic was completely mental and this driver was definitely at home in amongst it. The second thing of note was the number of crosses and shrines along a straight, otherwise innocuous single laned road, I nervously approximated about every 100 metres whilst praying that we would arrive in one piece. Anyway, needless to say we did get to our new hotel alive and despite having the feeling we'd just been stung good and proper on the price of the fare we or should I say 'I' virtually passed out from exhaustion. Our hotel, as well as being a rest for the weary was located right on the lake, which meant we had a fantastic view from our bedroom window.

After a couple of hours rest I did feel much better, but it is a funny thing this altitude business. I can't say I've really suffered much, but there was the persistent headache that took a day to fade, a slight bleeding nose (gross, sorry) and the tiredness that knocks you for six. Leo slept too, but as far as I could tell seemed to suffer no ill effects at all.


Puno is the main Peruvian town on the famous mystical lake Titicaca. Our hotel was right on the lakeside and we had fantastic views of the water from our room. We spent a day meandering (we do a lot of meandering it seems) in Puno and realised the town wasn't up to much and was really a gateway to the lake and Bolivia, which shares the lake with the border running right down the middle.


There are a few local delicacies to be had here. I normally don't feel compelled to try the local cuisine if it's not what you might find in your average local restaurant but I did manage to try some Alpaca meat (not bad) whilst downright rejecting the popular cuy (guinea pig) on the basis of the rat on a skewer like pictures posted within the restaurant

The main event of our time here was the tour we took to visit the ancient peoples of the lake; the Uros, a community living on floating islands following the customs of their ancestors going back a thousand years, and the islanders of Taquile, who live a happy existence on dry land about 35 kilometers east of Puno.

The Uros live a strange existence on floating islands of reeds. For one thing there community is really close to the mainland, so the first thing that struck me was, why don't they just come to shore? Makes for a much easier lifestyle I think. The answer must be a commitment to their traditions and ancestral heritage, but in fact the population is dwindling as they discover the benefits of the modern age and seek a better lifestyle on dry land. The reasons their ancestors had for taking to the lake (escape from slavery to the Incas) no longer hold but the Uros now maintain their community and support themselves by fishing, by the reeds of the water and by the constant flux of tourism that comes to visit, I presume on a daily basis. Despite the obvious 'tourist trap' nature of the visit, I did feel for the people of the Uros, this harsh existence is a reality for them, as their life expectancy is 60 years of age (as opposed to the other dry land islanders who expect to live to a ripe old age of 80). Their 'president' took time to explain the nature of their existence, he seemed a gentle, peaceful man full of chirpy anectodes. For example; they have to anchor their islands to the lake base- if not, they may find they have drifted into Bolivian territory and unfortunately he doesn't have a passport to enter! And if on their island, there is a man who is a bit lazy and doesn't want to do his fair share of the work, they say 'no problem!' and proceed to chop his portion of the island off the communal one and wish him luck!

The sun beat down on us and our visit to the Uros was quite pleasant, but I can't imagine what life must be like in the cold, wind and rain. No wonder they don't live very long.
We were taken across to the other group of floaters via their impressive boat made out of reeds, while the villagers (for want of a better word) sang and danced to us in questionable English-"hasta la vista baby" it appears is now a universal phrase, thanks be to Arnie- we sailed off waving back. On the boat there was a mother and child accompanying us for the ride, and as a fellow mother I got chatting to her. I asked where she had her baby, and I couldn't believe it when she said 'here, in the Uros'. And I decided against having a home birth in Hampstead...


After we'd said our goodbyes and bought a few souvenirs it was time to sail to the next island, Taquile. I'd half expected it to be another floater, but this time we were to disembark on dry land. Despite being only 35 km from our starting point in Puno, it took us HOURS to get there, and I'm no sailor but I could tell by the chug chug nature of our boat we were in no danger of breaking any speed limits. Now, as I've mentioned earlier, traveling with baby means we usually come equipped with more baggage than most, but I have to say that as well as Leo being a star traveler we're usually very efficient in not delaying tour groups etc with our extra demands. That not withstanding we do appreciate a little allowance for, for example, getting prepared for a trek across the island. Not our lovely tour guide. He'd already almost left us behind once in the Uros and now he'd marched off with the rest of the group leaving us adjusting Leo into our baby carrier and hoping that there was only one route to the restaurant we were supposed to visit. His main concern was that we knew the name of our boat so we didn't accidentally end up on one going back to Bolivia (I imagine this has been the fate of some unlucky folk) but apart from that it seemed he didn't give two sh*ts where we ended up. Chances of a tip fading fast it seemed.
Fortunately the hike up the hill (an absolute killer with this altitude!) was straight forward and we managed to rejoin the group as they sat for the meal.


The island is, again pretty primitive, and we waited with baited breath for the set meal they were to present to us. But what was served was a delicious banquet of quinoa soup and grilled trout to our great surprise. Quinoa is actually a Peruvian speciality and this superfood plus a vegetarian diet is what the Taquil-eans attribute to their long life, alongside a penchant for parties and festivities. They proceeded to show us a courtship dance which was lovely, apparently the boys and girls are categorised into single and married according to the type of hat they wear, think of it as the predecessor to our traffic light parties (red-no way Jose, amber-maybe if I've had enough to drink, green-bring it on baby!). Least there's no pointless chit chat and money wasted on drinks to show for it all..
We got chatting to a lovely Russian couple and their friend (hi Anton and Katja) who have a baby girl staying back home with Grandma. We gleefully exchanged many a baby tale over the course the meal and the rest of the day. Across the table from us was a barmy New Zealand lady who (and I know this parallel to Australians may be upsetting to Kiwis but I am a Brit afterall..) reminded me of Kath from Kath and Kim. She was inquiring about something to do with the food and Katya politely responded to her questions. Now I'm sure they won't mind me saying but despite having an obvious Russian accent our new friends spoke perfect English, which begged an subsequent astonished response from them when the Kath's response was " Oh sorry darl I don't speak Spanish.." Mucho giggles thus ensued.
With Anton and Katya looking after us while the rest of the group sprinted off we walked to the main square to take in the beautiful vistas of the lake and to browse the artesanies of the locals. After a while of hanging around we realised our tour guide quel surprise had buggered off and left us high and dry. Luckily a local boy came to our rescue and took us over the island and down to the dock to re-embark our boat for the journey home.


The sail back took and age, and to distract Leo went to sit on the top of the boat for a while and got chatting to some Irish and Canadian travellers. The Irish began to regale us with stories of people they had known who'd been kidnapped, including recently an Irish couple in Bolivia (after a ransom were released safe and well) and a friend of theirs in London. I was very pleased we were avoiding Bolivia as there is significant political unrest there at the moment but really, who manages to get kidnapped in London?


Anyway, after (finally) arriving back in Puno we sauntered back to our hotel to pack up for our journey to Cuzco. I wish I could tell you that our Puno adventure ended there but unfortunately we were to encounter a stroke of bad luck (I suppose you could say, our first glitch). We'd heard stories of people travelling to Puno-Cuzco having trouble getting to and fro due to some local farmer strike action but we hoped that the problem would be resolved by the time we were to take our train through beautiful scenic country to Cuzco. We got our hotel to enquire and it turned out the train was not running but the buses were taking an alternate route and were getting through. After an early start to the bus station we arrived to the ticket desk to be told 'no hay servicio', which Ari mistook to mean there weren't any toilets on board ('no hay servicios'), optimistically replied 'Oh that's alright', and I had reluctantly had to disappoint him by telling him that it actually meant 'no bus service-at all'. And there was no news as to when there might be, perhaps tomorrow, after the weekend etc. Suddenly panic ensued that we would be stuck in Puno, we'd been there far too many days already and losing days in Cuzco and God forbid, Machu Picchu did not bear thinking about. We were desperate to find a way out, but once we realised there was no alternative route and it was not worth being stuck in a closer but worse place, we conceded defeat and returned to our hotel in the hope they could put us up while we regrouped and came up with a plan.
The one and only plan we had was this. A tad dull but so ridiculous it has to be said. 7 hour bus journey back to Arequipa, overnight stay. 6am flight to Lima, connecting flight to Cuzco, one day late and £500 poorer. It pains me to think about it, but it's the only thing we could do. So after 24 hours of arduous travel, a slightly larger carbon footprint but on track for the rest of the trip, we arrived in Cuzco. Incidentally at the time of writing (about a week later) the strike continues and the roads remain closed.