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