Isla de Sol

I boarded the packed tourist bus in La Paz. As soon as I got on it I knew this was going to be a journey of endurance. The only seat left was next to a fat Japanese looking guy, who was taking up far more than his fair share. I squeezed in next to him. The bus was hot, it trundled along really slowly, and meanwhile the Japanese man kept exclaiming to himself and then puffing up his piggy cheeks with air and blowing it out rapidly. He had really bad breath.  There was a girl in the seat in front with some kind of chest infection whose hacking and gurgling cough was making me concerned about getting off the bus without catching some tropical disease. Then there were the two American girls behind my, having the most mundane conversation, loudly, each word it seemed followed with the word like.

“We like had like a really great time, like it was awesome”. You get the gist.

Thankfully, although I had only packed an overnight pack for my excursion I had brought my iPod and head phones. I plugged myself in, shut my eyes and turned the volume up.

The odd time I opened them, I was rewarded with stunning views of the snow-capped mountains and an almost fiord like coast line with deep blue water.

At some point we arrived at the edge of the Tiquina straight. We had to get off the bus, board a small boat which took us over to the other side and then wait for the bus that came across on a large floating plank of wood called Titanic.

We continued our journey to the small town of Copacabana, right on the edge of Lake Titicaca. It wasn’t very pretty. There were lots of tourist shops and agencies selling bus tickets and boat tickets. I walked down to the beach, where there were rows of large plastic swan shaped pedalloes bobbing up and down in the water, and brought myself a boat ticket for the Northern harbour of Isla de sol.

The whole place was full of hippies of all races and ages. All dressed in the obligatory brightly coloured, tie dye outfits. There were lots of feathers and flowers and an alarming amount of musical instruments. Once on the boat, I was surrounded. Some had started singing, badly. Others were passing round a toy microphone, taking turns to say something not very profound about the state of the world and the "system". Others were discussing ceremonies and the sunrise and the importance of such a significant moment in time. Trying to appear interested I asked about the ceremonies and the “significant” time.

“Don’t you realise tomorrow is the 11/11?” they said,

“Remembrance day” I thought, “surely not”,

“It’s the 11/11/11, so at 11:11 a very special portal in time is opening which will allow the wisdom of the children of the light to shine through”

“Oh”, I said

“Oh no!” I thought, what have I got myself into.

The boat docked at a tiny wooden pier on a beach in front of a small village. There were donkeys and piglets roaming the beach as well as one or two tents and some spiritual types playing their instruments. It was slightly surreal. The coast line was steep, rocky and planted with eucalyptus trees. It reminded me of a Greek island. The deep blue waters of Lake Titicaca were like an ocean around us. It’s so huge it’s easy to forget you are in a lake.

Julie had recommended a place to stay. It was a little outside the village up a steep slope. It wasn’t in the guide book. I kind of hoped this would save me from being surrounded by the hippies.

 No chance.  They followed me!

My room was a really pretty adobe hut with a straw roof. It was very basic but had the most stunning views of the lake and the mountains beyond. It cost one pound fifty a night.  Luckily once all the hippies had gone off to start their ceremonies I met up with a Canadian guy, Greg,  whom I had met briefly in Banos and a group of 9 French people.  We had a really nice evening and after a little bit too much bad red wine I fell asleep to the sound of the waves lapping at the lake shore below.

Even though the lake is still at 4000m I had a really good night’s sleep, and didn’t feel too worse for wear considering the wine. The island has no traffic other than boats and it was such a pleasure to wake up to the sound of the waves and the odd donkey eyoring in the distance.  I had decided to hike the North section of the island that day and I was planning to walk from north to south the day after. After trying and failing to get some bread from the local shop to make myself a packed lunch. I ended up setting off with a packet of savoury crackers and a couple of bananas. There are various paths around and down the spine of the Island, I had a basic map, and the paths were easy to follow. It’s easy enough to navigate when you have water on either side.

It took me about 45 minutes to get to the end of the Island, where there are some ancient ruins. A temple,  an altar to the sun and the remains of a settlement. I could hear the drumming and chanting before I got to them, then as I came over the brow of the hill, the most bazaar spectacle of literally hundreds of people mostly dressed in white, some sitting, some standing or dancing. Some gesticulating wildly, many chanting or drumming around this stone altar. I checked my watch. It was 11.00. Eleven minutes to go.  Much as I was fascinated by what I was seeing, I decided to carry on right to the tip of the Island. There was a really lovely beach and once I found my way down to it, I could no longer hear the drumming, I was completely on my own and the sun was shining. It was a lovely place to be for an hour or so.

Later I walked back past the Hippies who were still in a frenzy, and I hiked down the centre of the island, over all the highest points to about half way and the village of Challa. From there I made a loop back to Challapampa. I met up with Greg and then the French group returned from their walk. The French were seemingly on a mission to get very drunk again, so Greg and I decided to go into the village for an early meal as we were both still feeling a little jaded from the night before.

Food and water is pretty limited on the island, and the north side is much more remote than the south. Usually there was only one “restaurant” open, selling packet soup and a few variations of trout, rice and chips. It was hard to even get a cup water for tea. The huts at the hostel were built in and around the houses of the local people. There was a straw sided kitchen area with a clay hearth, but you had to build a fire first.

The next day I woke early. My plan was to hike to the south of the Island and stay one night there and return to La Paz the next day. I had been told it would take 3 hours to walk. It took me just over 2. I was in time to get the boat back to Copacabana and for some reason I didn’t want to stay on the Island any longer. I had a niggling concern about getting all the boats and buses back to La Paz without any trouble as I had my next mountain adventure booked for Monday.  I was also looking forward to a cup of tea, a shower and some fresh fruit and vegetables.

So I headed back to La Paz, the bus having to stop along the side of the road for an hour and a half, because there was an international cycling race going on. An English girl on the bus was getting very irritated and swearing a lot as we were so late. What’s the point, I thought. This is what its like.