Keep your Titi away from my Caca

I meant to go to Titicaca by myself. That was the plan. But sometimes, you're just so vulnerable when you arrive in a new city before sunrise after a night or no sleep on a night bus. He told me he just wanted to give me information. Then he sold me a tour. Then a bus ticket. Then a night at the hostel he owns. I was powerless to resist.

Then again, the tour was fun, the hostel was nice (with a notable exception...), and the bus, well, 2 outta 3 aint bad.

The night bus arrived at 5am, and the tour bus arrived at 8am, giving me no nap time. Bording the bus, I noticed I was easily the youngest by 10 or 15 years. Ages ranged from 'young married couple' to 'Australian Grizzly Adams'. Meeting up with other vanloads at the boat brought the average age down, but I still easily held the title.

And yet, it was the grizzled old sea captain-looking man that I ultimately connected to the most. He had years and depth of experience that I could only begin to envy. He enjoyed sharing his quiet wisdom, and taking in my youthful bursts of what kids my age like to think is wisdom. Just the same, he quickly grew on me as a surrogate grandfather figure, and I came to really enjoy his pensive company. Australia may have been what we had in common, but Oz had nothing to do with his wizardly charm.

But that appreciation came later. First, the boat paid a visit to the floating reed islands of Uros. Originally a way for a small cultural group to isolate their gene pool, it was now a mixed-race tourist hell. I'll admit, islands made entirely of stacked rotting weeds is cool, if not moist and dank, but the sole occupation of the inhabitants was to sell woven shit and trinkets to the tourists. Perhaps some wares were homemade, but the scarfs stamped with the island's official logo screamed 'Made In China'.

The spiritual whoring didnt stop there. One woman charged tourists to take a photo holding her dark-skinned babies like some Brangelina wannabes. It's so ingrained in the culture that a little girl, still too young to talk, tried to sell me half-dead baitfish out of a bowl she began dismembering with her hands. As we left, they sang us off with a variety of Spanish and English minstrel songs, clapping and swaying, looking like the exploited clowns they were.

26 kilometers and 3 hours later, we arrived on the first big island, Amantani. We were to stay in the homes and hospitality of local families. 8 women met us at the dock, and began choosing who they wanted, like picking teams for middle school dodgeball. Like then, I was picked vitually last. I huddled next to the young(ish) Australian couple, hoping I could atleast stay in the company of people who spoke my language. Naturally, I was ripped with them and joined with a Spanish couple who spoke little English, and put in the house of a Quechuan family who spoke little Spanish.

At least we'd get the cultural experience of sharing meals with the local family? Nope. We got food in our rooms, and I was alone in mine. Just me and the child-murdering clown from the book I spent much of my time reading. The food was atleast cultural, all grown on the island. The dull vegetable soup, the small dry potatos, and the thick slice of hard tasteless cheese, possibly llama, that squeaked when you chew. Yep, pride of the island.

The house itself, up a particularly cruel cruel at this altitude, included such comfort features as a brick-soft bed, lightbulb (but no electricity to power it), a mudbrick flushless outhouse, and short doorways you inevitably crack your head on. Pillow optional.

The hike up to the ruins on top of the mountain was cold, with winds whipping us like renegade slaves. Sometimes it rained. Other times, just to shake things up, sleet crashed down. The ruins were short, though expansive, and very crude compared to the Incan forms I'd so recently been drinking in. The famed temple Pachatata was just a small square, abused by the elements, that we couldnt even enter.

Does this experience sound crap? Hardly. The rough sea. The dipping sun. The whipping wind. The ghastly ruins. I felt alive up there, more so than I had even on the Inca Trail. Lake Titicaca can work its magic even on a tried cynic like me.

Hell, I even enjoyed the nightcap Indiginous Costume Party for Gringos, complete with women leading in dances clearly stolen from Bar Mitzvahs. Even that was fun, in an "Oh what the fuck" kinda way.