a diagnostic guinea pig…

High up in the Altiplano Lake Titicaca seems a little lost, an impossible Aegean blue blown long and wide by stream of the chill winds.

The Inca believed that life sprung forth first from an island on this lake and it seems like a place for beginnings, endings, the navel of the world.

In the shallow waters near the edge of the lake people found safety and independence by building islands of reeds, floating freedoms. Around sixty of these islands still dot the reeds, providing novelty for tourists and homes for the three hundred or so families the still hold onto home here.

A casual chat on a bus changed my plans on my way back up north into Peru and in no time at all I found myself loaded onto a swaying boat, clutching my backpack like ballast as we slipped through the reeds into the deeper silences of the lake.

Most tourists visit the islands for an hour or two as part of a day trip. That sounded a bit too Peruvian disney culture canned for my taste, but I’d heard about a family who would host overnight and provide an introduction into their unique way of life.

The smiles they met me with were certainly something special and with the island’s fibers, soft and springy underfoot, it was impossible not to have a spring in my step. The warmth of the welcome was almost as substantial as the seven blankets I found holding the full weight of the cold off of my bed!

I had a lesson on how the islands are constructed, with more reeds being regularly piled up on top to replace those layers rotting underneath the water.

Afterwards, I went out on a reed boat made in the modern style (reinforced with recycled plastic bottles) for a crash course on fishing and harvesting the most succulent reeds.

As the dusk thickened and fell, the family sat around, talked about their lives, sung songs and asked to hear the melodies that had traveled far from home. I stumbled my way through the welsh national anthem, glad that no one knew my language well enough to hear how badly I bumbled the words. I felt sheepish and more than a little foolish but the moment was too full of heart for me to even think of not taking part.

We were double-distant, talking in Spanish rather than their native language Aymara or something else I could string a solid sentence in. I felt I had to half feel the words rather than only listen, reaching for sense through shadows.

Their smiles felt familiar but their lives were strangers to me, foreigners I wanted to make the effort to know.

They spoke of their fear of hospitals, that they are places to  get sicker rather than better. Mindful of the growing fear of drug resistant bacteria in hospitals at home I felt I could hardly disagree.

Their people believe in guinea pig medicine, which involves holding the animal over the body for an spell before a skilled practicioner ‘reads’ the guinea pig like an x ray to diagnose disease. Sometimes operations are carried out using the guinea pig as a proxy and often the patient will recover. Of course, things don’t tend to end so well for the guinea pig…

They told me how a number of families had co-operated to put together the ‘hotel’, the extra reed huts for guests, and that incomes were shared to avoid jealousy. They showed me the solar panels that the income had paid for, the boat with a motor, the gas stove.

My host Christina welled up with tears and explained that although she had never heard of the lonely planet guidebook before, she understood that a short mention in it had helped build a business that meant her children stayed when they reached adulthood. They were no longer all pulled away to the north and the cities like so many others before.

My short stay on the islands was one of the few times when I really felt that my pleasure, my indulgence, my journey could be a powerful force of positive change for someone other than me.

As I watched the tourist boats trawl in, late in the morning, I felt I’d been privileged to see something that was not so performed, not so false, but evolving, involving.

I returned to the shore, to Puno, to the swirl of micro taxi fumes and taxi honks, to the bustle of city life. I got on another bus, moved to another town but that place I will never forget.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in travel and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to a diagnostic guinea pig…

  1. As many times I’ve seen, read and heard of Lake Titicaca, this story only enhances its mystery and wonder, that somehow life does spring up from it, that it is an Eden lifted far and away so we can be reminded of its essence… Thank you for sharing this beautiful story, and photos.

  2. Very beautiful photos and thanks for sharing your experiences, one which I may never be able to embark upon.

  3. cuhome says:

    Beautifully written with wonderful pictures to illustrate and give life to this post!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s