“Can you imagine living an entire life where you alone are responsible for crafting the veery ground you walk upon?” – Old Sean
Travel Complaints
I miss the era of through-travel, where a person could simply cross boundaries and boarders into new lands without inhabitation.
I mean, the modern era of travel is never truly free, with hardline boarders and a fair amount of paperwork necessary to transfer from culture to culture and country to country. However, three years ago, it was minimal effort for me to traverse land boarders cheaply in the hopes of seeing a new land.
That is a bygone era now, and I’m not sure it’s coming back, even after COVID has run it’s course. Boarder control is just too much of a hot-button topic for governments for them to relinquish that type of control. Passing freely from country to country across land might just be a memory for me to gum on when I’m old and toothless.
High Lake Trip
My original plan was to make it to Puno, on the edge of Lake Titicaca. From there, I would brazenly cross the enormous, navigable body of water and reach Bolivia, where I would wander south into a truly unique landlocked country of South America.
However, the boarders to Bolivia are closed by land. Flights cost a fair bundle and I ended up deciding to make Puno a trip to and from Cusco, sleeping on the bus overnight.
Against my better judgement, I booked a tour to avoid the headache of planning logistics. The most famous feature of Puno and Lake Titicaca are the large islands made from compressed and woven reeds, which cause the islands to “float” on the lake’s service, being lightly anchored to areas where the reeds grow dense.
On Friday night, I stored the majority of my goods in a hostel and quickly bundled myself and a thin bag of necessities onto a bus and began snoozing for the long, overnight ride to Puno. As always, the bus seats were passably comfortable and I was cheered by the early morning arrival.
Puno Impressions
However, things quickly started to deteriorate. I had purchased my tickets through Peru Hop, a Peruvian country bus service that specializes in allowing passangers to freely hop on and off vehicles around the country.
Unfortunetly, there aren’t enough people during COVID for the bus service to operate fully, so they’ve pawned off some of the work to different tour groups. This particular group, going by Bolivia Hop, sent myself and two people joining on the trip deep into the city of Puno, near the central plaza to a shoddy hostel that offered rediculously pricey breakfast at a three year old’s culinary skills.
I ended up going for a morning walk with one of my compatriots and we eventually found a bread shop and loaded up. In such high altitude, it’s important to consume carbs to prevent altitude sickness. During my wanders, I saw that Puno is a pretty typical South American town, with heaps of brick buildings and grungy sidewalks with the occasional flair of color in a nicely oriented plaza.
Puno wasn’t particularly pretty, but there was a tall condor statue overlooking a hill and the quiet golden light of morning placed everything in a softer hue. When my tiny group made it back to the hostel, we were bundled into another vehicle and sent to the docks.
Tragic Tour
This is where the tour revealed itself as a dedicatedly lackluster event. The guide was pushy and clearly in a hurry, but still managed to make sure everyone had a chance to spend money on the various shops and knick-knacks around to dock. It would prove to be a theme for the trip, with a constant parade of consumerism being shoved down my throat.
I bypassed this and spent my time gazing out over the water. Numerous ferries, broad, flat boats of white with blue trimmings clunked against one another in the water, seperated by old tires lashed to their sides. The water itself was a thick soup of gross green, where algae had reigned so supreme that paddleboats left literal tracks in the water they passed through.
Soon we were loaded onto the boat and seated carefully in cushioned, thin chairs. Our guide, perfectly fluent in both Spanish and English, started to speak. And speak. And speak.
And speak.
I felt my eyes flutter and finally succumbed, putting headphones in my ears to defeat the drone.
The poor man repeated the same “go for a swim” joke twice. The water misted by, gradually growing clearer as the green plant life preferred to stick to shore. The guide droned on, and I lost all awareness.
Numbers filtered through, regarding Lake Titicaca’s size, depth, salinity, and type of water. History was skimmed in an utterly unintelligible fashion. Words came out in a gradually deepening monotone. There was a five minute segment on yearly rainfall. It was, beyond a doubt, the most boring monologue I’ve ever heard. If this is the sort of filibuster people in Congress are threatened with, I’m surprised there’s even an America still standing.
First Floating Island
Finally, our boat banked and we were rushing along a canal with thick, dense reeds of waving green sprouting from beneath the water’s surface. The sun had started to blaze overhead, and tiny water birds were swamped by the waves of our vessel, quickly popping back up after the surf had passed.
Within moments, the floating islands (Uros) of Lake Titicaca bobbed into view.
The floating islands are actually patches of reeds, dried and pressed upon the island’s base. There are layers and layers of these reeds, always being eaten and dissolved in the water at their base, forcing the locals to continue building upon the topmost layer. If a visitor reaches down and scrabbles their hand slightly, they reach a moist layer of reeds fusing together in moisture. A dank and earthy smell arises from the base, stinking strongly, so there’s a fair bit of incentive to keep the topmost layer dry and functional. The entire island chain, constantly being rebuilt, is probably a prime ongoing example of the Ship of Theseus.
Sales Pitch
When my group unloaded from the boat to our first island, we were seated in a semi-circle around some people who were apparently going to put on a show.
But sadly, it wasn’t a show. It was a sales pitch. The women up front passed around dolls and miniture reed-boats and told us how amazing the products were. We were also given a sort of edible white reed which tasted like nothing (or perhaps exceptionally crisp lettuce) and they sang a few songs, eventually culminating in “Row, Row, Row your Boat.”
Afterwards, the group was allowed to walk around the tiny island. I spotted a small, white dog that I kept company for the majority of the time. There were also some odd, black herons with angry yellow eyes that bobbed their heads threateningly whenever I got near. Supposedly, the citizens of the floating islands would breed and eat these fattened herons like chicken. However, I found it doubtful that this occurred here.
My segment of five people were led into a house by one of the locals and show the place where she “lived and slept.” It was a tiny room with flies buzzing about and a slightly elevated surface with a blanket and cushion for a mattress. A portion of the building was made from interlocking, dried reeds while the rest was fitted with sheet metal.
Sadly, this wasn’t an actual living space or culture spot. There was no trash, no food or food storage, no clothes in drawers or out drying on clotheslines, especially not the flamboyantly traditional outfits the “guides” were currently wearing. One of the members of my group asked about it pointedly in English, and when I translated, the woman quickly ushered us outside to see some of here wares laying out on the ground.
I explored the tiny island thrice over and got a little annoyed at the end of it, since my official tour guide kept bustling over, trying to get me over to the paltry marketplace.
Pay the Ferryman
Finally, there was an announcement that it was time to go. A crew brought along a twin-headed boat to the shoreline. These vessels are supremely cool, showing snarling animal faces on twin prows while paddling along. They’re usually tightly bound reeds which are painted a bight yellow.
I was visually impressed with the boat, but as it drew close, my guide said that it would cost ten soles to ride, and I felt annoyed once more. So far, I hadn’t had a single moment where people weren’t trying to pilfer more money from me. My annoyance mounted when a storm of crew members jumped off the boat and started somewhat forcefully ushering other tourists onto the craft.
I got stubborn and dug my heels into the springy reeds beneath my feet, shaking off people who kept gripping my bicep in an attempt to steer me onto the vehicle, and a few minutes later, I got downright snappy. I wasn’t alone. A French man and Swiss girl were battering away hands until the crew got the message. We loaded up on our original ferry, which would chug over to the next island while the rest of the group slowly and expensively paddled away. Our guide wasn’t terribly happy with us at this point, but my opinion of the guide and his tour had rapidly diminished to zilch.
My stubborn companions and I ended up going to the upper deck of our ferry and started lounging. There wasn’t much else to do, but we swapped stories and snoozed lightly for half an hour before the boat chugged to the next island.
At this point, I threw up my hands. There was a small bar, but terribly overpriced. There was a grand flat space, but solely loaded with more trinkets for sale. Our guide encouraged us off the boat, informing us that this was one of several island stops. But when I looked at the map he provided while craning my neck to see the next few islands, all I could see were more shops.
The floating islands are beautiful, but gods below are they a pushy bunch.
To some extent, I understand. Tourism is how these groups secure their lifestyle. But I’d already paid for the trip here, my food and the tour. I’m simply not interested in endlessly bleeding money.
Paddle Away
Instead of joining the group, I finally found something I was willing to purchase. A man practically hidden on the corner of the island was letting people rent kayaks for about twelve dollars.
I forked over some soles, checked with our guide regarding the time we would arrive at the final island in the floating chain, and lobbed myself into the thin boat. A couple of others flung themselves into separate boats alongside me.
The guide was pissed, but I wasn’t planning on subjecting myself to another two hours of cheap marketing tactics.
Paddling around the islands proved a much more fantastic experience. For anyone attending Lake Titicaca, I highly recommend just renting a paddle boat and handling the rest alone. The water was calm and easy to slice through. There are some restaurants that all sell the same food, but it’s fairly good.
Reeds sometimes brush the bottom of boats, but along the sides, they make a pleasant chattering sound. Slightly away from the floating town, there exists low, dark and crumbling earth where giant black pigs snuffle about, tiny frogs hop and dozens of shy, long legged water-birds stalk.
I learned the floating island village itself is called Uros, constructed by the Uru people. In the bright sun, the dried reeds that construct the islands seem to pulse a slight gold and white. An older man told me that the islands once were truly floating constructs, lodged in the center of the lake, but a vicious storm in 1986 caused the populace to rebuild much closer to shore.
It is fair to say the islands are a distinct marvel, but they’re sort of like the acrobatic horse archers of modern Mongolia, or the faux reconstructed temples of Bagan. Honest homages and recreations to a culture and state of humanity now vanished from Earth. Fun to patter around, but never having the same impact and potency when they were actual, vital methods for human existance.
A Return to Tourism
We returned the kayak and took a water taxi to meet our small group, which was loading onto another ferry to go to the faraway island of Isla del Sol. My tiny group stayed atop the boat, rather than going below where the majority of the crowd lounged. Reeds whipped by, our boat sloshing them with white currents, causing them to bend and wave wildly. The sun blazed above and upon reaching open water, we spotted huge cliffs with circling birds in the distant shoreline.
However, as we grew close, our guide clambered up and demanded we go below, to avoid being seen and getting in trouble with the “water police” of which I saw none.
Once we were seated, the man began to drone again, and I gave up any pretense of listening.
The Sun Island
We eventually coasted into Isla del Sol and were asked to stand on the dock while the guide got everyone situated. The island is a great heap of brown stone, with low, cobbled rock walls penning in farms, goats and sheep. The wooden stakes along the walls are laden with dry, wooden thorn spikes to discourage the more ambitious sheep.
This was technically my first (and so far only) time in Bolivia. The island lounges on the Bolivia side of the lake along with it’s neighbor, Isla de la Luna. I heard from another tourist that there was a way into Bolivia via land by using commercial shipping routes, but I didn’t fancy an illegal boarder hopping attempt at this point.
Our guide set an extremely slow pace, allowing the people in the group unaccustomed to altitude to adjust to the potentially thinner air. We were ushered into a nice restaurant for a meal, but naturally another sales pitch was imminent. The guide talked about the different hats of Peru and their meanings while our tour group sat hungry. He started passing around different articles of clothing while everyone at my table stared at empty plates with vanishing interest.
When food finally did arrive, it was splendid. Coco leaf tea, fried bread, a heap of fresh, baked fish, piles of salsa rice and a fair number of steamed veggies filled my plate. The guide, somehow, kept talking in the midst of everyone turning to their food, telling the eating hoard that after the meal, we would be attending yet another market.
Beyond a Dollar
I manfully ignored this, munched away and continued eating as the guide tried to rush people to the market, where more stuff was on sale and there was an extremely off-key performance of flutes and people walking in circle.
When I was finally forced out of my seat by a very irate guide, I bypassed the market entirely and started walking to the next area. Instead of returning the boat below, our ferry would traverse the island and pick us up on the far side, near a rather stunning beach.
I made a beeline for the beach and finally arrived to dig my toes into the cold sand, watching the cliffs get braced by tosses of water and seagulls pick their way across shallow sandbars. The lake looks so much like an ocean, it’s was a bit of a dissonance to see the shoreline filled with farms, the freshwater splashing life into the nearby, hardy crops. It was another gorgeous zone on the lake, and I was quick to reflect that the only parts of the tour I had enjoyed were the moments I had escaped it.
A Return to Cusco
An hour or two later, I clambered back aboard the return ferry, taking my usual seat atop the vessel, where, God Willing, I could avoid listening to our guide continue his chatter. I snoozed slightly as our vessel sliced back across the lake, eventually depositing us at our original hostel. I found a few other travelers here and we joined a French group on a sleepy but fun dinner of pure meat and bratwurst in downtown Puno.
Afterwards, I trudged back to the hostel and rested for a while, before we were picked up and taken to the bus station, where the tour group coordinator had us stand around for an hour waiting to board.
The bus, it turned out, was a less-than-stellar model. Three hours into our trip back to Cusco, I was awoken by an uncomfortable heat blaring up my leg. A heating rod was scalding my flesh as I slept and successfully boiled a hole thorugh my plastic water bottle, spilling uncomfortably toasty liquid across the ground. I complained to the new bus tour guide in vicious undertones, but he was unable to fix anything or offer me a new seat, so I ended up wedging myself into the stairwell to snooze.
Practically speaking, I don’t like tours. I don’t like tours because they try to force useless junk down tourist throats, they quietly encourage greater spending, they corral people and tell them where to go and what to do, they involve hoards of people that detract from the experience and they pander with inauthentic displays of culture whenever they can. And they charge a bundle for it.
This tour was all of this to the extreme. I know I dislike tours, and if I had found another efficient method to and around Puno, I would have locked onto that. As things stand, I’m reaffirming my most beloved tradition in my mind once again.
Wander far, wander well, find edges and lulls and trust in a flexible mind and stalwart plans and good fellow travelers. Trust that the unusual path will provide the greatest reward. Trust that those actions in defiance towards the easy and passive will enrich a person with wisdom beyond the fringe of easy imagination.
No more tours, eh?
Until I practice what I preach,
Best regards and excellent trails,
Old Sean
Written November 18th 2021
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Ten years ago, I abandoned my military surplus store backpack for a Farpoint 40 Osprey Travel Pack. I’ve never replaced my bag since. Two years ago, I bought two more Osprey Backpacks for my younger siblings on their first tour outside the country. I have nothing but praise for Osprey Products.
