Trifter

It all started one dusky morning in Puno. A delightful country-town, where uneven cobbled streets led to flower-filled squares and the shoe-shine men waited, offering their services and betraying silent curiosity with a smile.

My travelling buddy and I were keen to explore the great lake of Titicaca, and so strolled down to the harbour-side in search of a fisherman willing to accept our fare. It seemed we were not alone. Stretching down the narrow pier seethed a pulsating entity of white sunburnt baldies and bulging flappy women. Kids screamed and parents disciplined whilst enthusiastic locals waved their arms and directed the hoard uselessly. The swarming, tacky touch of skin on skin enveloped me.

Just as my teeth-clenched wading brought me to a relieving edge, a voice sounded out above the rest.

“I will take you, Miss, I will take you, where you go?”

I turned, dripping and dizzy, to see a toothless grin proudly presenting an embarrassed-looking dingy.

“Yes, every tour and you pay much more cheap with me, Captain Mario. And this my boat, my fine, fine boat.”

There was no toilet, no cushioned seating and no leaflets, it did have a motor and it did float. Finally, something real. I was thrilled, and grateful to be followed by only five other intrepid explorers.

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*Leaving the Puno harbour*

Mario introduced his identically grinning father, and once aboard their fine vessel, we pulled out of the harbour, past the sardine-packed tour boats and towards the open waves. With the sea in my face I felt free and released, embarking on my own private escapade – Mario had even invited us to stay with his family on his home island of Amantani…not the sort of thing you’d find in the guide book.

To shelter from the wind I sat in the little cabin opposite two local women. Sharing a nod and a smile I stole a deep glance into their dark, wizened eyes and sensed a flash of defeated contentment.  They were round and stout looking, as is the way with Peruvian country-folk, all tucked up in their eternally layered skirts and blankets. Their long black hair was tightly plaited back under the wide-brimmed straw hats, and tiny wisps of tell-tale grey contrasted against the colourful fabrics, like a forbidden weariness oozing out. We were taking them to their homes on the Uros islands, along with a selection of bulging sacks filled with essential supplies from the mainland, or the remains of their efforts at the craft markets maybe. I wondered how many times they must have made this little journey, from Puno to the Uros islands, and doubted that they’d ever had to go further. They looked tired and old, and trapped in a sphere of routine and necessity.

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*A school day on the Uros Islands*

Soon the empty blue ahead became speckled with bright yellow. Stretched out before us as far as we could see, were countless little landmasses made from bright yellow straw, and floating precariously on the water. We began to slow and the two local women rose, gathering their skirts. To my joy, we were able to follow.

I leapt out of the boat and my body weight plunged, and I bounced a few times before feeling steady. Each step was taken with caution and I looked about in amazement at the mass of locals bounding barefoot, invincible. I quickly caught up with one of the women from our boat as she sat down behind a large rectangular blanket on the reeds. Upon this she began to lay intricately woven dolls and cushion covers, and so revealing the contents of her sack. Her name was Suyay and in my pitiful Spanish, and with gestures and sounds, I began asking her about the islands.

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*Talking to Suyay*

The Uros people had once lived on the mainland, until the threats of the Inca tribes had forced them to flee into the water. In a desperate quest for survival, the Uros people had utilised the lake’s water reeds to build floating islands, which needed constant replenishing as the plants died from below. Such creativity filled my mind with wonderment. The reeds consumed their whole livelihood – they used them to build houses, baskets, carrycots and delicate crafts and models. Suyay’s son, Amaru, showed me a boat that he had made along with the other men from the island. It looked like a miniature pirate ship and I was astounded that straw could be so strong.

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*Amaru’s ship of reeds*

I couldn’t leave without buying something from Suyay’s blanket, so I chose two tiny models of Amaru’s boat complete with two tiny people to sail them, hard at work like everyone around me. As we waved goodbye I saw a tour group arriving. They gathered round their guide for an explanation of this amazing place and in doing so, ignored the local people right before their eyes. They might never again be in contact with such unusual and interesting people, and yet the barrier between them could not have been more obvious.

Once back on the waves our troubles began.

We were chatting to the three Americans when the first few splutters escaped. The engine had given up…but Captain Mario expertly solved the problem in no time. The second episode took a little longer to correct and it was interesting to watch Mario disassemble the engine, bring up disembodied parts from under the deck and perform intricate operations to magical effect.

Interest soon dissolved. Repeated engine failure and the gradually ineffective rescue procedures, in addition to the heated crescendos of triple-speed Spanish between Mario and his father, flicked my panic switch. The engine was dismantled. Individual parts were immersed in tubs of water and Mario dribbled petrol whilst trying to create a spark. Thoughts of explosive danger were plaguing my brain and it took all my effort to keep frantic outbursts at bay. Despite the momentary relieving jokes that were being nervously exchanged, the over-riding feeling was one of doom, and this only worsened when Mario began signalling to passing boats with a fragment of mirror to no effect. Watching their surf as they sped by, I would have gladly swapped places with the tacky tourists, or even taken a ride in Amaru’s ship of reeds.

Without motion, the lake became turbulent and we bounced violently. We were saved at one point, when the Spanish couple produced a mobile phone, but this set Mario into a frenzy. When we finally calmed him down with a chorus of mas despachio, it appeared that alerting the coastguard would cost Mario their petrol, and a hefty fine. So, with a determined and rather menacing look, he wrenched up a few planks from the top deck and thrust them into our arms – we were to paddle the 5 kilometres to shore, and night was not far behind.

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*My buddy’s turn to paddle*

It was time to get stuck in. Mario’s father wrestled with the back rudder, and barely managed to keep us in the same direction, while the rest of us took turns in hanging over the side with a splintering plank of wood. Achieving leverage on the violent waves, which alternated between gushing into our faces and dancing just out of reach, was impossible.

Morale on board was absorbed by hopelessness. The entire trip from Puno to Armantani was scheduled to take four hours. So far we had taken nine and we hadn’t even left the Puno inlet. Shore remained a distant shadow, but as I began mental preparations for a night afloat Mario’s father exclaimed excitedly. He had touched rock with his oar through the water. I stole a glance from my dedicated paddling and made out houses and even animals grazing on the faint hills ahead. Now all we had to do was punt ourselves along and gradually lodge the useless vessel on the saviour-shore.

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*Fleeing the doomed vessle*

I could not get off that boat fast enough. I didn’t care where we were, I was staying. Mario wanted us to continue to Armantani, but nothing in the world could have made me step back on that cursed wreck. After a hurried farewell, my buddy and I teamed up with the three Americans, picked a direction at random and began to walk along the dusty, winding track.

The landscape was barren and sparse, with raw, angry looking hills to our left, exposed to the wind racing across the ominous lake to our right. Soon, amongst the startled donkeys, a few earthen buildings pitted our view and gradually we trooped past wire farm fences, which failed to keep the few scrawny chickens at bay. Peeping out from behind some outbuildings, two mucky faces giggled at us and bravely crept forwards to get a better stare.

Light was fading fast, but as we rounded a steep slope a glow of welcoming light rose from a cluster of cosy cottages. We advanced timidly to begin knocking. Our shy reservations couldn’t have been more wrong – our first efforts were greeted with two insanely smiley people who took one glance and ushered us into their home, as if we had been the long lost family they were waiting for.

Juan and his wife Juana asked nothing of us, openly let us into their home, and shared a part of their honest lives with five eternally thankful strangers. My buddy and I were shown to a barn-like shack standing opposite the main house across the courtyard. Inside the thick, mud walls stood a sturdy bed stuffed with straw and covered with a beautiful handmade patchwork quilt. Juan and Juana were busy preparing dinner – there was just time. We ran down to the lakeside and caught the dying sun retreating behind the water’s edge. The last rays stretched across the dark, looming sky, infecting every cloud with a thick red poison. The blackness chased all colour away and shadow soon poured over every standing thing, marking its territory with sharp defiance. Witnessing such an unearthly transformation left me feeling chilled and numb. With Nature’s immeasurable power reinforced before us, we marched solidly back up the hill, an unacknowledged air of appreciation flowing between us.

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*Night time artistry*

The mouth-watering smell of piping hot food guided us home, and we fell hastily into the dining room to find a table covered with the dishes of our hungry dreams. All sitting down together, Juan eagerly explained the ingredients of each and every plate, while Juana grinned next to him, blushing at our grateful exclamations and obvious delight. Apart from the old oaken table in the centre of the room, my attention was drawn to a scattering of unusual woollen hats pinned purposefully about the walls. I asked Juan who had made the hats and he swelled with pride, explaining that it was traditional for the men to knit their own hats and pass on the skill to their sons. It was a task for the men alone and they carried it out with dedicated honour.

When I asked about their children Juan and Juana spoke fondly of three grown-up boys who had left home long ago in search of success and fortune. I pictured modern men caught up in the whirlwind of progression, with responsibilities of their own that may not include the once essential priorities of their parents. As I imagined the future of this family and their farm, I couldn’t help wondering who would be here to take care of this rosy couple in their twilight years. I longed that just part of their irreplaceable goodness would be remembered and reflected in their children’s eyes, and that somehow, a part of their lifestyle could be preserved and continued, not left to busy minds and soon to be forgotten.

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*Juan peeps through the window*

After passing the soundest night’s sleep possible, I awoke feeling recharged and positive – the unsettling events of the previous day had merged into my forgotten dreams. My buddy and I joined our barn-bed comrades in a hearty breakfast before rushing down to the lakeside to see what had become of our missing hosts. We rounded the sloping bend of the hill to see Juan coming into shore, his little rowing boat hardly visible under high piles of reeds, and Juana leading two donkeys towards him. It seemed the reeds had invaluable uses for all those living by the lake, and Juan had collected these to repair a hole in the stable roof. We tied the reeds in bundles and Juana balanced them, one by one, on top of the wobbly animals. I expected her to make two trips, but Juana placed unquestionable faith in the bowing pins of the donkeys, one of which looked set to topple when he started to climb back up the rocky path. Nevertheless, the patient creatures plodded safely home and I followed behind them, a pleasant feeling emerging from my usefulness in this small task.

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*Juana looks on*

Saying goodbye was much harder to accomplish, and I envied the three American’s extra day to explore. We gave Juan and Juana the parting gifts of a pineapple and a big bag of oranges and Juana modestly changed into her most cherished traditional dress for a last photograph. It felt like being forced to leave a home we had known forever, and for that moment nothing could be distinguished between us. Juan found us a local bus to take us back to Puno and I swallowed my determined tears, waving until all were out of sight.

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*Time to say goodbye*

The ride back to reality produced yet another adventure. We boarded a delapidated minibus heading back to Puno, and were lucky to be one of the first to embark, winning two of a possible fifteen seats. The number of seats did not, however, limit the number of passengers, and I looked on in fascinated amazement as man after woman after child scrambled onto this vortex-like vehicle. Everybody held their breath and leaned in as the last person managed to slide the door behind them, sealing us all in. Once we had filled every air pocket with body, our driver thought it an excellent idea to race home, competing with a similarly run-down, over-stuffed minibus. As we swerved and screeched across the single lane track, my attention was grabbed by the dead sheep lolling about on the roof of our opponent. Its tongue caught clumsily between its clamped jaws and its rag-doll legs becoming entangled amongst the rest of the luggage, witnessing such raw, dinner delicacies in this compromising state reinforced my growing vegetarianism.

At last the door groaned open and the people-blob oozed onto the dusty street. After untangling ourselves, and retrieving our luggage from the pile of rusty watering cans, bulging bin bags and splintered broomsticks, we turned to face the bustle. It felt strange to be back in this micro-metropolis. Cars tumbled along next to rickety horse-drawn carts, children dashed in and out waving sticks or clutching puppies, and a thin stream of people found their way, eyes buried in thoughts or in those of their companion. A glowing red sign called out to my buddy and I, so we hauled our bags to the nearby café and sat in contemplative silence.

The imprint of progression, even here in small-town Puno, stood out in stark contrast to that of the untouchable innocence far across the lake. I gazed at the people around me with new insight. Perhaps they were torn between urban ambitions and rural obligations…perhaps they had parents like Juan and Juana, living away in the country, waiting for a visit or a letter. I sighed a smile, I was spellbound. Inspired by these easy-going, gentle people and concerned for their preservation, I only hoped they could remain just so. We finished our drinks; it was time to discover the bus station. As we snaked along the busy pavement I closed my eyes momentarily and there, in the darkness of my eyelids, were their beaming smiles. I knew I would never see their faces again, but those smiles would be there to keep me company in trying times. I had the wisdom and kindness of Juan and Juana, and their country-folk, etched onto my being forevermore – a quiet reminder of more uncomplicated times.