Lake Titicaca and Isla del Sol

Five days on Lake Titicaca. Magnificent. Lake Titicaca is an enormous lake, up at 13,000 feet in elevation. It straddles the Bolivia-Peru border, and it is over 1,000 feet deep. The name Titicaca, source of innumerable corporal jokes, actually comes from the Aymara culture. That is the pre-Inca culture, dating back approximately to 3000 CE (common era) It supposedly means “Sacred Rock,” because La Isla del Sol was considered the birthplace of all.

The Aymara culture is still strong on the island. The language is spoken at home and at times studied in school. The indigenous people are the majority of the 5,000 inhabitants of the island.

It’s an hour and a half boat ride to the island from the town of Copacabana, Bolivia. The island is pretty small. It’s about ten kilometers long, three kilometers wide. It rises steeply (to say the least) out of the water, and its ridge is 1000 feet above the lake. There are no roads on the island. There are no vehicles on the island. Neither are there (obviously) any stop signs or traffic signals. Neither are there any banks or credit cards, no internet, no telephones (except for personal cell phones) no police. Electricity arrived about ten years ago. The matter of cell phones is interesting, because often you see an ancient indigenous woman, for example, walking down the trail with her sheep like they have done for a thousand years, talking on her cell phone.

Anywhere you want to go, you walk. Up and down. We hiked all over the island. There are trails everywhere. There are also terraced, cultivated fields everywhere.

People have been living here in much the same way for many centuries. Centuries. These stone walls and terraces were not built with tractors. They were constructed over lifetimes.

The town of Yumani is the main town on the island. It is on the ridge, 1000 feet up from the water. Everything comes in by boat, then is transported by donkey or humans up the trails.

Monica and I made the trip up from the water three times, A thousand feet up. We were huffing and puffing and resting, while the local people (many of them ancient looking) just said Buenas tardes and kept going. The first time we went up was when we first landed, with full packs. There are kids who hang around the dock, waiting for people just like us. One of them, a boy about eleven years old, named Wilmer, latched onto us, and insisted on carrying Monica’s pack. Our pride wouldn’t allow him to do so, and we kept rebuffing and huffing. Finally, Wilmer couldn’t stand it anymore, and he just grabbed the pack and put it on, and led us up the hill. Our own sherpa, and sure worth it! Wilmer kept up a running commentary on the history of the island, his school, his grandmother, and he pointed out some herbs (named muña) that help with the altitude, and he told us we could rest whenever we wanted. He also offered to carry my pack at the same time, but that was going too far.

There is one main road (actually a stone trail) that goes north and south, along the ridge, and connects both sides of the island. One day, we walked from Yumani to the north end, about eight kilometers. However, nobody refers to distance in this way. They measure distance in time. For example, people told us, “The north end is three hours,” or, “”The temple of the sun is forty five minutes,” or, “Yumani is fifteen minutes.” Distance is always measured this way.

The walk along the north-south trail is a “thing” that the turistas do, and we met people from France, Switzerland, Austria, and Germany along the way. At the north end, we got on a boat for the return back to the south end. The boat took forty five minutes.

Another day, we hiked up to one of the peaks of the island. The Aymaras have always appreciated the interconnections of land and water, earth and sky. They use the cross as a symbol of communication and protection. The constellation Southern Cross is clear in the sky every night. Monica and I have loved watching this constellation, one of the most recognizable sights on the planet. This symbol reflects the stars and invokes connections, much like crossing a river, or speaking to a person from another country, makes a connection.

We ate dinner three nights in a row in a restaurant called Las Velas. (The candles) To get there, you walk through a grove of eucalyptus trees, and then you emerge on a cliffside. It’s a small place with no electricity, with a great sunset view. Pablo is the owner and the chef. We talked a lot with him about the Aymara culture and the state of Bolivia.

Bolivia’s officially recognized name is actually Estado Plurinacional de Bolivia. (Multinational State of Bolivia) This was just started a few years ago, when Evo Morales was elected president. He is indigenous, and his government has worked hard to include the indigenous people in the decision making of the country. Evo is extremely popular here. He has been in office for five years now, quite an accomplishment in a country that has changed governments 172 times in 190 years. The flag of the indigenous people flies in front of the parliament building. The flag was banned for political reasons before Evo took office. The flag also flies outside of Pablo’s restaurant.

Even at 13,500 feet, there’s no need to be deprived of organic pizza.

Moni and Las Velas

Lake Titicaca is a powerful place, clean and high.

We will always remember it.

La Paz

They say that La Paz, Bolivia is the highest capital in the world. It is also possibly the most quintessential South American city on the continent. It is in the heart of South America, and it has everything that you could hope for if you are searching for the “real” South America. It has bustling and chaotic street scenes, crowded with food and clothing stalls, and with the vendors calling out their wares. The traffic is loud and unpredictable. It is colorful. And the people are gentle.

La Paz is a city of up and down. Very steep streets, with old Dodge or Chevy or Blue Bird buses defying laws of gravity and transmission physics. Wheelbarrows are everywhere. People use them to carry things up and down the hills, or to set up mobile stands to sell fruit or whatever they have. I don’t know if it’s easier to push them up the hills or to slow them down when they’re going downward.

The cholitas are the women who wear the beautiful traditional skirts called cholas. It is just their everyday clothing, although it looks like they’re all dressed up for a special occasion. They often carry extremely heavy bundles on their back, using a weaving to wrap it up. Sometimes they’re shoveling dirt, or cooking potatoes, always at their own pace and very gracefully.

The markets and the stalls sell everything, from beautiful 100% alpaca ponchos and sweaters to llama fetuses. These are used for an offering to Pachamama–sacred mother earth. The fetuses are often buried at the entrance of a new home or business in order to bring prosperity..

We stayed in La Paz for only three days, but we loved the pulse and spirit of the city. We met María and Agustín at their little business. María sells fabric, sweaters, and indigenous flags. Agustín is a musician who produces pipes and flutes, and who plays the charango. The charango is a traditional Bolivian stringed instrument, smaller than a ukulele, but with ten strings.

Later that evening, we went to hear a concert by Ernesto Chauvo, reputedly the best charango player in the world. The concert was tremendous, and one of the highlights of our La Paz stay. There were a few other musicians there also, each playing various instruments. The concert was held in a room at the Conservatory of Traditional Music, and there were only about 25 people in the audience.

La Paz has it all–vibrancy, tradition, gentle people, a thriving arts scene. We could have stayed longer, but we heard Lake Titicaca calling. We soon were on our way.

 

Bolivia at last!

The bus from Tilcara reached Villazón on the Bolivian border around noon. We had heard many stories about problems crossing the border, but we had our visas from the Bolivian consulate in Jujuy and were as prepared as we could be. The countries are divided by a small river and there is no public transport across the bridge. We were let off in a large parking lot on the Argentine side and climbed up into the crowds on the bridge. We saw no signs and no apparent order or lines. People were just milling about and street venders selling juice or snacks. There was a check point for private cars crossing and we walked to the side of that. We passed a window on the side of the building where a few people seemed to be filling out forms, but no one was visible inside and no one stopped us. A few more steps and we were in the streets of Villazón, immediately a different world of people and color. No cars in the street and the sidewalk lined with stalls selling artesania, souvenirs, hardware, housewares, carnaval masks and confetti.

We paused and turned around and went back to the window. Sure enough, inside but below street level, was a desk with two customs officials. They stamped our passports after we filled out the forms declaring we were not bringing over $10,000 in any currency into Bolivia, and we were done. I´m still not sure if they were Bolivian or Argentine agents. Half a block onwards was a tiny storefront with an open door and the Bolivian state seal over it. We stopped in and a kindly man in uniform looked at one of our passports and said there was nothing more we needed to do and directed us to the bus terminal.

Villazón was gearing up for Carnaval. Crews were erecting bleachers along three sides of the main square, the streets already closed to traffic. Brass bands rounded the square from time to time.

Boys – little to big – ran around the square in groups with plastic toy weapons that squirted water. The targets were the girls, some of whom ran squealing with delight while others hovered close to parents and were generally off limits. There was collateral soaking we discovered to our distaste. We were also to discover that water fights were a national custom during Carnaval. Potosí held more of the same, with the additional weapons of water balloons and cans of spray foam. We were seriously foamed in a drive-by shooting on the narrow streets of Potosí. Many citizens wore thin plastic raincoats for protection – even band members were not immune.

We took an overnight bus from Villazón to Potosí. Our experience at the Villazón bus terminal is a chapter in itself. All good!, and we arrived in Potosí in the chill of dawn. Potosí is 4060 meters (13,400 feet) above sea level, one of the highest cities in the world.

Potosí was born in 1545 when silver was discovered in the mountain and quickly grew into the largest city in all the Americas and the wealthiest city in the world. Today the mines produce just a trickle of silver and the city is but a shadow of its past glory. Nevertheless, the remains of its colonial splendor justify its selection as a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Figure of Saint Francis (San Francisco) above cathedral door

Street outside municipal market

We spent just a few days in Potosí, adjusting to the altitude and dodging water balloons. Thanks to Mike´s investigation, we learned that the tingling in our hands and shortness of breath were side effects of the prescription we were taking to prevent altitude sickness! Stopping the med relieved much of the symptoms, but we still walk slowly. All our time in the Bolivian altoplano has meant climbing up, up, up, and down, down down – in city streets and terraced hillsides.

La Quebrada de Humahuaca—Tilcara

We had been hearing about “La Quebrada de Humahuaca” since Mendoza, when we started heading into Northern Argentina. Quebrada means broken, and the Quebrada is actually a long and very dramatic canyon that runs north and south for about sixty miles in Jujuy Province. Jujuy is the far north of Argentina, bordering with Bolivia. From the border down to the very south is more that 3000 miles.

The road follows the river at the bottom of the canyon, and the mountains rise up on each side. There are three main villages that are nestled in the Quebrada, north of Jujuy city. Purmamarca is the first. It´s a teensy little village that is at the base of La montaña de siete colores. Layers, strata, of different colored rock shine in the morning and evening light. Tour buses come just so people can gaze at the colors. The next two villages, Tilcara and Humahuaca, are also at the base of impressive mountains.

We stayed in Tilcara for three daysin a beautiful spacious hostel.

Our room is to the right, and yes, that is a hammock.

I took advantage of the grounds to juggle in the late afternoon light.

Tilcara is about 7500 feet in elevation, and the mountains are everywhere. They are what makes the quebrada a quebrada.

Most of the buildings in town are made of mud and bricks. The people make the bricks from the earth, and they can build a house pretty quickly. They are durable and beautiful.

We arrived in Tilkara at the beginning of Carnaval. Unbeknownst to us, the entire quebrada has a tradition of being a Carnaval hot spot for people from all over Argentina. As few as ten years ago, it still was a sleepy town, but within these past few years, Tilcara and the other towns have become a destination at this time of year. We arrived on Wednesday, and on Thursday, the town filled up with Porteños and people from all over the country. The restaurants were full, and this being Argentina, the asados were full steam ahead.

Llamas are beautiful, with big eyes, but they are also delicious.

We left Tilkara, bound for Bolivia. A new country, a new culture. We bid farewell to Argentina, the immense country. Here´s Monica at the bus station, waiting for the bus that will take us northward.

 

 

Cachi

We took a little vacation from our trip to visit the little village of Cachi, Argentina, way up in the mountains , southwest of Salta. The road from Salta to Cachi goes through El Parque Nacional de los Cardones. Cardones are cacti that grow everywhere on the hills. They are very similar to saguaros, and they are protected by law. The road climbs and climbs, and goes over a 12,000 foot pass before descending to Cachi.

The road is not paved high up there, and it is really narrow. Once, when there was another vehicle (a pickup truck) coming the other way, our driver had to back up around the curves until there was a wide spot in the road. Mon didn’t like that part too much.

Cachi is a quiet little town, about 6800 feet above sea level. It’s old, with beautiful stonework and adobe. The town plaza is especially lovely, with stone arches for entrances, and stone walls for definition.

The whole town seems to be right out of Zorro—–especially the church and the buildings nearby. At sunset, three girls galloped by on horseback, and I thought we were in a time warp.

There is a sign when you pull into town that tells you that Cachi is 2280 meters above sea level, and then it invites the visitor to discover the poetry hidden in its old houses and streets, where time is asleep, then it implores you to please try not to wake it up.

We tried not to.

After three days in Cachi, we got on a bus back to Salta, back over the 12,000 foot pass. The bus was crowded because the day before there was a rockslide and the road was closed. The driver played really loud and bad music, but my thought was, “Hey, anything he wants.”

From Salta, we continued north. We are headed toward Bolivia, but first we stopped in Jujuy (pronounced hoo-hoooo-eee) and the small village of Tilkara, just in time for Carnaval.

Salta la Linda

Salta is the beginning of the north of Argentina. The further north you go, the warmer it gets. The Inca culture comes down from Bolivia and mixes with the mainstream Argentine culture. There are more indigenous people here, shorter and darker. Coca leaves are sold in stores. The coca leaves come from the mountains of Bolivia, and they help with the altitude and with energy.

 

There is different regional food here, mainly hearty country-style stews like locro. Salta is a province as well as a city, and both are famous for their empanadas.

I love to sit in the parks and plazas. The public spaces are always lively. Salta’s Plaza Principal is beautiful, and busy all day. It’s lovely to have a beautiful plaza as the center of your town.

Salta also has Parque San Martín. The park has a little lake (more like a big pond) where peoplerent little paddle boats.

The park especially comes alive late in the day as the sun gets low and loses some of its power. As the evening comes on, the park is full of people, full of families, everybody enjoying the coolness. Now people rent little bicycle carts to cruise around in and have fun.

Salta is known as Salta la Linda. Salta the Beautiful. The colonial architecture has been well preserved. However much of its beauty lies in the surrounding hills and mountains. We stayed in the city for two weeks. We both took some Spanish classes, Mike for one week, and Monica for two. Each of us had our own one-on-one class, two hours a day, and we both appreciated the opportunity to speak with somebody who would correct us. Taking classes is also a great way to learn about the area and its history.

The school arranged for us to stay at the home of a woman named Cristina. We had our own little apartment behind her house, and we used her kitchen and living room when we wanted. We immediately became friends with Cristina, and she took us to meet her parents, then the four of us became friends. We got together with them a few more times before we left. Amelia, Cristina’s mom, is 86, and Toto, her dad, is 90. He is still very strong, and keeps up with the maintenance of the house that he built. They have caretakers who help them, but Toto is ready for anything.

The first time we met him, he had just finished laying a concrete pad at the base of some stairs, and he insisted on having us sign our names along with his on his work. Years from now, when we are long forgotten, it will be a mystery who “Mike and Monica” were, and why they helped Toto.

We went to a park with them the next day, and spent a nice afternoon. The following week, we got together with them and some other relatives for dinner. We really liked talking to them, and they liked talking to us.

Cristina and us

Moni Amelia Cristina

The next day, Monica and I returned to the same park, called San Lorenzo, to hike up the river, through the forest. The river comes down from the snow-capped peaks, and if you walked long enough, you could cross into Chile.

The best part of our time in Salta was living with and sharing time with Cristina. She’s a busy modern woman with a lot of things going on in her life. We had lots of opportunities to talk with her about life and its challenges and rewards. We shared cooking, and we felt very at home with her. The good part about traveling is meeting people, and the sad part is saying goodbye.

And here we are on our final morning, sad to leave and ready for what’s next.