| We meandered
our way through hillside farmlands and small villages as the ancient, stone
walkway led us along the eastern shore of Isla del Sol.
It took about
three hours to reach the town of Challapanpa at the northern end of the
island. Along the way we passed through several small villages, but most
of the time the path traversed open farmlands. There were very few people,
no gringos, and those people we did pass were most often herding animals
between villages. The path was well worn and we commented more than
once of the culture who had used this stone walkway for centuries to travel
the island.
The town
of Challanpapa sits in a dramatic location on a narrow strip of land that
snakes out from the northern end of Isla del Sol where a vast expanse of
crystal waters stretches all the way to the horizon, morphing into green
hills that rise until they become colossal mountains. Normally a sleepy
village with bays and beaches on both sides, we found Challanpapa in the
middle of a religious festival celebrating the “ascension of Christ” and
doing it in style. With a 40-piece band from Puno and costumes of such
elaborate style they are better captured in photos than words, the natives
of this lakeside community and surrounding areas took the word “fiesta”
to new heights during this week of religious celebration.
The men
walked around the town in yellow or white costumes made up of silky pants
decorated with scorpions. Then on their shoulders they wore a bulky
headdress that surrounded their head and upper torso. It was stiff
and oversized causing the men to appear several times larger. Adorned with
festive beads and patterns, the headdress bore the head of a dragon and
in some cases continued down the man’s back to form a tail.
The costumes
were especially large and awkward, yet the men danced for hours as if uninhibited
by the ungainly attire.
The women also
celebrated in identical dress. They wore loose-fitting shawls over attractive
dresses and danced with shakers and rattlers. In unison they would clap
their instruments upon their hands, spin, and together dance in harmony
with the music that filled the town. These performances were carried out
only by the adults while the children stood watching as their parents participated
in a tradition handed down for ages.
We had only
one night to spend in Challanpapa. The people of the town had been reveling
for four days and they still had two to go. We had only glimpsed a day
in the life of this isolated culture, but we had tasted the sweet splendor
of a civilization barely untouched by an encroaching world. When we had
inquired about the festivities, we were told it was a commemoration of
the “ascension of Christ.” Though nothing about their drinking and
dancing seemed religious to us, we couldn’t argue with the beauty and simplicity
of their spiritual celebration.
The following
day we were scheduled to depart at 7am, putting our boat into Copacabana
by noon and allowing us the rest of the afternoon to arrange our transportation
back to Cusco. We knew we would be cutting it close and reservations
for the Inca Trail were in such short supply that a late arrival would
mean a forfeited trip. Along with over $200, we would be missing
the trip of a lifetime. How could we come all the way to Peru and not visit
Machu Pichu?
But as we sat
upon the dock in Challanpapa and waited for a boat that obviously wasn’t
coming, we began to worry. It’s these moments that truly challenge one
when traveling. We thought we had planned everything perfectly, but it
seemed our broken Spanish had let to miscommunication and our mistake could
spell disaster. Greg and I would wait until nearly 1:30pm before
our transport arrived. Then as the boat slipped further away from Isla
del Sol, we realized the vessel was heading in the wrong direction.
Before returning
to Copacabana, our transport must stop at Isle de la Luna, the Island of
the Moon, a passenger informed me. The boat was moving so slowly that a
kayak could have reached the small island in less time and before long
all the passengers, except for Greg and I, were sound asleep. Our anxiety
fueled a lingering despair as with each minute that passed our chances
of returning to Cusco in time were dwindling. To add to the frustration,
Isla de la Luna was a small, bare island with very little to offer.
We docked at a tiny, unappealing village where a staircase led to Inca
ruins called Temple of Virgins. We didn’t care much to climb the stairs
or see the ruins, but with thirty minutes to wait, we indulged our curiosity.
So we carried our tired bodies up the lumbering stairs, only to be met
by an entrance fee of five Bolivianos. Forget it, we thought, we’ll just
use the restroom. Wait! Another entrance fee!?!
Needless to
say, we were relieved when the boat pulled away from Isla de la Luna. It
had been a wasted stop that was further complicating an already difficult
situation. Daylight was dwindling and we knew we must cross the Bolivia/Peru
border before nightfall. If only this boat could go faster, I thought to
myself. And that’s when I realized we were returning to Isla del Sol.
Anger is a
worthless emotion when traveling. It is the seed of disruption and ultimately
destruction. But as our boat returned to Isla del Sol at its sluggish
pace, I felt the emotion surging within me. My life-long dreams of looking
down upon the ancient ruins of Machu Pichu were now in the hands of a Bolivian
boat driver to whom schedules were of no consequence. He returned to
the Island of the Sun, picked up more passengers, and began the slow journey
back to Copacabana. At that point, everyone was asleep; except for me.
Our taxi
arrived at the border just after sunset. Thirty minutes late, the guard
informed us. We would have to walk some distance in the dark, he said,
and it was just too dangerous. Devastated, we returned to Copacabana and
spent the night before returning to the border early in the morning. This
time we were thirty minutes early. We waited patiently for the
Bolivian border crossing to open, had our passports stamped immediately,
and re-entered Peru. Once again, we were thirty minutes early and would
have to wait for stamps.
With time fighting
against us, Greg and I hired a taxi for the 2-hour ride to Ilave. We
would have paid any amount to reach Puno, but it didn’t take long to discover
why Ilave was our only option. We saw the rocks long before we saw the
blockade. Hundreds of rocks, many of great size, covered the highway as
it neared town. Our taxi weaved between the piles and carried us
through throngs of people who walked under a scorching Peruvian sun. When
the rocks finally blocked our path, we exited the taxi with handfuls of
belonging and began the trek through Ilave. The distance was unbeknownst
to us, but our options were fully evident. Along with the rest of the people,
we would have to walk.
This was
the first time we glimpsed the ramifications of a strike in Peru. In the
weeks to follow, we would have more encounters with such social difficulties,
but at that time the scene that lay before us was simply appalling.
Hundreds of taxis, cars and buses had been halted on the main highway outside
Ilave by thousands of pounds of boulders littered upon the road. Pedestrians
carried handfuls of possessions across a bridge rendered impassable by
vehicles. In the river stood the remnants of an 18-wheeler attempting
to bypass the blockade, but now overrun by surging waters. Yet, nothing
was more astonishing than the looks we received as we shouldered our packs
through the strike. The Peruvians looked upon us as if we were more bizarre
and out-of-place than a transportation thoroughfare rendered useless by
loads of boulders.
We were relieved
to find buses waiting after we crossed Ilave. If we had reached the
buses thirty minutes later, we would have had to wait seven hours to catch
an all-night bus to Cusco. And even if that bus had stayed on schedule,
our arrival in Cusco would not have occurred until 5am, only 2 hours before
we would begin the Inca Trail. Luckily, the bus we caught brought us
to Cusco that night.
There’s never
enough time, I thought to myself as I sat packing for the Inca Trail
in my Cusco hostel. I had come to South America to see Chile and Peru,
but already my travels had taken me to Buenos Aires and now to Bolivia.
These were trips I never expected to make, but somehow my journey had awarded
me these destinations. Such is the magic of travel. To feel the pull, the
desire, and the lust of the unknown; to find yourself, if only for one
day, drawn to a far-away country with no expectations; to be pulled in
effortlessly, drawn to hidden surprises around blind corners; to be completely
out of your comfort zone, yet totally relaxed; and to face adversity and
succeed in the face of obstacles; this is the magic of traveling and the
reasons why I am forever drawn into the unknown.
The following
articles are Kyle's previous articles for the magazine:
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