Finding the Southern Cross: Day Hiking on Bolivia's Island of the Sun

Finding the Southern Cross:
Day Hiking on Bolivia's Island on the Sun

Austral autumn: April in the Southern Hemisphere. I'm sitting on the deck of my small guesthouse on Bolivia´s Isla del Sol--the Island of the Sun--wrapped in layers of wool and down, waiting for sunrise over the country´s Cordillera Real--its great Royal Range. Their snowcapped, 20,000 foot peaks dominate vistas from all points on the island. It´s been necessary to remind myself that I´m in the Southern Hemisphere, in the fall, and Lake Titicaca is actually 12,500 feet above sea level. The lake lies between massive ranges in the vast basin that comprises most of the altiplano of the northern Andes.

I’ve been on the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca for over a week, day hiking on the lake's largest island. For the Inca, the lake and its islands were deeply spiritual. According to their mythology, both the sun and moon were born on this island. This was the sacred center of their world.

It´s been easy to slip into a circadian rhythm--wake at first light, follow the   sun´s diurnal path, then slip off to sleep when the sky has become a pallet of black and silver.

I start my day sitting on the deck of my simple guest house and watch the eastern horizon shade from black to grey to soft orange. The day is cloudless, the emerging sunlight white and dry, the sky a rich, deep altiplano blue that appears only at very high altitudes. The island comes to life.

There are no roads on this island--only ancient and extensive networks of paths built generations before. Two paths intersect below the balcony of my guesthouse. One heads northwest, to the other side of the island; the other climbs 200 steps to the island´s ridge, or drops 300 steps to water´s edge.

By 7:30 a.m. traffic is heavy: adolescents are hiking west to the island´s only high school and younger children are walking uphill to the small elementary school. Women carry hefty loads of handicrafts—colorful handmade woolen vests, scarves and ponchos made from alpaca wool, brightly designed place mats, and intricate silver jewelry with Incan designs—down to the lake where they´ll sell their goods to incoming visitors, most of whom just come for the day from the mainland. Men herd goats, sheep, llamas and donkeys in every direction. Within an hour the early morning flurry of activity settles down.

A sense of magic exhilarates me as I watch this morning´s ritual. I´ve not budged off the balcony since dawn and although this has been my routine for the past week, I still sit in wonder at what I see--an almost surreal feeling that I´m watching a film, set on a Greek island decades ago. Indeed, there is a deep sense of the Aegean here. The island exudes a strong Mediterranean feel. The sky is a cold, rich, brilliant blue and the lake reflects it back. But, a quick glance at the Cordillera confirms that I´m elsewhere--on the altiplano, in South America—the ¨Tibet of the Southern Hemisphere.¨

It's hard to budge off the deck, but I've been perched there for almost two hours; it´s time to eat and determine the course of today´s hike. All meals on the island are simple and breakfast is no more than fresh eggs, homemade bread and coca tea, drunk at every meal to assist in acclimatization. During breakfast I plan the day. Earlier meanderings have taken me to the island´s two highest peaks--well above 13,000 feet--and down to its shoreline. Today, I will satisfy my wandering by attempting a relatively straight forward path across the island from Yumani, my home base in the southeast corner of the island, to centermost Challa, then on to Cha´llampa, in its northwest corner--a distance of about six miles. From past experiences, though, the island´s beautiful walking routes have had their own way of luring me off trail. I

don´t imagine today will be any different. I´m told it´s a three hour walk, but I know it will take much longer. Today´s trek, like all the others, will not be so much a destination, as a journey.

It´s easy to pack: walking shorts, sturdy boots, a long sleeved shirt, a hat and plenty of sunscreen. At 15º latitude south the sun is powerful.

By 9:00 a.m. the sun has climbed high in the autumn sky and the island has settled into a routine—young people are in school, adults are where they are supposed to be. Animals have been herded to pasture, farm or market, and I´m on my way. I soon leave behind the mud and adobe structures of Yumani. Dropping away from me and rising well above me are the ancient pampas, or garden terraces. Today they are harvest-ready and richly abundant.

I stop often--not so much to rest, but to absorb what surrounds me, to listen to the silence, to observe this marvelous space and to listen to the low, distant sounds of waves lapping the shore and peoples' voices hundreds of meters away. The trail I´m on is mid-point between the lake and the highest peak. To my east, snuggled in a great, white blanket of clouds, is the Cordillera. I marvel at the spectacular view of Illampu at 20,897 feet. The day is very still and the sun is mid-autumn warm. I bank my back against a rock, watch and quietly listen.

Donkeys graze above me. I hear their brays and the quiet clucks of chickens. Two people tend their garden, digging potatoes by hand. The quiet conversation between two gardeners soothes me. A woman strolls by on the stone and dirt trail with her flock of sheep. Voices: a child crying, two girls talking in the distance.

The only other sounds are gentle breeze, the bleat of lambs, a steady buzz of bee and insect. This is a deeply sensual start of day. It’s mid morning, and I have a long way to go, so I move on—this time above the track on which I started.

I leave the trail, cut through paths that adjoin garden plots, and explore the landscape. I´m high above the sapphire blue lake--incongruous, really, against the parched Bolivian high plateau. I round a bend and encounter a herd of unattended sheep. By now the sun is hot. The only sounds are wind and chirp of bird. An almost unbroken silence surrounds me. By now I´m far off trail, which is perfectly fine by me. It´s almost impossible to get lost on this island.

Once again the landscape beckons me to sit. Far below, on another track, I observe an old woman, her back stooped, carrying a large bundle of firewood. Other gardeners are within sight, their fields quilted in muted shades of greens and browns, harvests of wheat, quinoa, corn, beans and carrots.

I don't know how long I sit, but the sun tells me it´s past noon. The heavy scent of sweet smelling koa bush and an Andean variety of wild thyme waft in the midday sun. Insects hum. The presence of ¨now¨ is overwhelming. I want this moment to last forever, because it's unlike anything I've ever experienced while hiking. The high, snow-capped mountains, arid landscape contrasted against the brilliant blue of the lake and the almost-perfect silence center me in the moment.

But this reverie can't last forever. I realize I´m far off trail and that I still have a long way to go, so I gather my things, and walk downhill, following one of the many garden paths, through scratchy scrub brushes, past multiple gardens, some barren, others filled with autumn harvest, past stands of high grasses then past fields of ripened wheat. Finally, after passing patches of heady smelling lavender, I reach the main cross-island trail.

I´ve come mid-point on my journey. I´m high above Challa. The village rises from the lake to form a wide, green, V-shaped valley. March is the beginning of the dry season and by now fields and hillsides have begun to lose the luxuriant green of summer. Groves of eucalyptus and cyprus dot the landscape. Homes fan out in all directions. The track I’m on is half way between the lake and the island’s highest peak. I hear the voice of a small group gardeners. Crops are tended at all points of the island and because it’s harvest time, many people labor in their fields.

I orient myself to voices, and the delicious smell of baking, and walk towards them. Two people dig potatoes. Another roasts a batch in a small fire built into the hard soil. Their donkey grazes in a pampas above them. I greet them and ask how far I am from Cha’llampa. “Three hours,” one of them tells me. It has taken me four hours to walk these first few miles.

But it´s past mid day—time for lunch. Even though I have no appetite—one of the physiological curiosities of life at high altitudes--I pull out crackers and cheese I´ve carried from the mainland and offer them to my companions. They, in turn, offer me small, hot roasted potatoes.

Small, hot roasted potatoes! This is where potatoes originated, and their taste is more intense, more delicious than ones we know in North America. We share this stunning meal, made more stunning by the people with whom I share it.

The trail beckons. I have to get to the other end of the island in less than three hours, and even though I want to stop and take a nap in the warm April sun, I push forward. No more wandering off track for me. It's time to stop this magical zigzag. It's well after mid-day and I decide to stay on track and resist the urge to be lured off—no easy task.

The scenic trail winds through rolling, scrub-covered hamlets, around bays and through sunbaked groves of eucalyptus. All this hiking is done under the white luminescent light of the high Bolivian plateau.

How could time have passed so quickly? It's the end of the school day and children walk home. Teenagers ignore me, but not the younger ones. The girls are dressed in pinafore-like dresses and wear broad-brimmed straw hats with a ribbon running down its back.

“Candy?” they ask me?

“Pencils? Pens?”

“Photo. Photo.”

I take their photos, give them the coins they ask for. These children are beautiful, innocent, isolated in a safe cocoon from the wider world. They are part of the magic. Free, as they are, from outside influences, they live a traditional island life that keeps them isolated from the chaos that pervades life off the island. Out of necessity, many of them will find themselves leaving. There is no hurry here to grow up.

By late afternoon I’ve hiked the entire length of the island’s ridge. I feel as if I’ve been walking in a dreamscape--an Andean version of a glorious European fairy tale. All around are thatched-roofed adobe houses, their gardens fat with corn and beans, larkspur and gladiola. Zinnias and asters provide a dazzle of color. I feel a sense of triumph as I finally reach the dusty, lakeside town of Cha´llampa. It’s taken eight hours to meander from Yumani to here, but at this hour hiking back is not an option. I haggle with a pescador, settle on a price, step aboard his fishing boat and ride the cold, wavy waters back to where I started.

Back in Yumani, at shore’s edge, I begin the slow 300 step walk back up to my guesthouse—no easy task after a long day’s trek. I shower and soon I'm sitting on the terrace looking out at Lake Titicaca, at the last boats ferrying people from one side of the island to the other. It’s early evening, and the Cordillera Real is tinged in pink alpenglow. Day begins to close. On the track next to my hotel women shoo small packs of llama and alpaca up the hill. A team of goats follows seconds later. The aroma of someone's dinner entices me to begin the long, steady climb to the island’s ridge, high above my hotel where I’ll find a smattering of restaurants.

I’m not completely acclimatized to being at 12,500+ feet above sea level and my ascent, up steps the Incas built centuries ago and whose descendants still use, slows, at times, to a step-by-step crawl. I still get light-headed climbing and breathing is labored. When I ascend, everything seems to be done in slow motion.

The isleños are settling in for the night. Three women sit in a sheltered courtyard and separate grain. A girl and her grandmother herd their sheep into a safe enclosure. A flock of chickens cackle into the soft autumnal evening. I am suddenly startled by a herd of goats racing down the path; a drove of ten donkeys follow. All around me I smell good things to eat.

At last I reach the 12,800 foot ridge and sit on the balcony of one of several restaurants. None can be distinguished from each other. All have the same menu, the same terrace, the same fabulous view. A full panoramic vista unfolds. Daylight diminishes. A small armada of fishing boats plies the night waters for trout and kingfish. The sun sets quickly over the western end of the island. Time stands still for a brief moment; day lingers to twilight, then to darkness and cold. The sky overhead has changed from blue to saffron to inky plum.

Dinner choices are few and plainly served—fresh lake trout or an omelet, a light vegetable soup with quinoa and coca tea. Once finished, I put on my jacket, slip on gloves and hat and step into the clear, cold antipodal night. With no ambient light, the sky is alive with color, texture and design. Venus and a rising sliver of moon hang in the east. The Milky Way is a great, white river.

Before I pull out my flashlight to guide me down the Incan steps, I search the sky, find the Southern Cross, locate its two pointers, and draw an imaginary line to its axis. I turn 180 degrees, face true north and whisper into the deep and silvered night, “Home.”

Back in my guest house, I slip between cold sheets, beneath a pile of alpaca blankets, give profound and humble thanks to my Creator God, and drift off to sleep.