The day I set out for Lake Titicaca, schools were canceled in Cochabamba because of strikes and roadblocks. A couple days before, public transportation prices almost doubled, and many people were unhappy about it--people who needed public transportation, and those workers in transportation who did not see a corresponding pay raise. I worried that I would not be able to get to the airport in time for my flight to La Paz, so I left three hours early, and got there about two hours and 40 minutes before my flight. Success!
Since Cid did not have any school, he was around the house while I was packing, which I think drove his seven-year-old brain a little crazy. At one point he pulled out a suitcase and started packing his own stuff, which included one spear, one hat made out of raccoon fur, one fishing pole, one roll of tape, his backcountry survival handbook, and nothing else. He then told his parents he was going to Lake Titicaca, and there was nothing they could do about it. I think it was a good thing I left early, or else Cid would have had an additional two hours to be angry and frustrated that he was too little to go count frogs in Lake Titicaca, and possibly to start acting out some of the more ridiculous things he read in his survival book: "Did you know you can drink your own pee, as long as it is fresh?" I would not want to witness that one.
I was heading to La Paz to meet Arturo, a Bolivian conservationist specializing in frogs. Ximena, who I live with, was intending to go to Lake Titicaca with Arturo, but sent me as her replacement. In La Paz, we met up with Eleanor, a Belgian Masters student doing her internship on Bolivia amphibians. Unfortunately, somehow Eleanor got a ticket for La Paz, Mexico, rather than La Paz, Bolivia, but managed to meet us for the 7am bus ride to Copacabana, on Lake Titicaca. While I had talked to Arturo briefly about this trip, I still had very little idea about where we were going, or what we were going to do when we got there, but I was happy to go along for the ride.
Our destination turned out to be Sicuani, a small village of 28 people situated on the traditional pilgrimage route from Copacabana to the Isla del Sol--the holy center of the Incan empire. This village surrounded a small inlet of the lake, which irrigated fields of potatoes, corn, occa, and abba, as well as provided grazeland for many sheep, and a few cows, donkeys and llamas. Various adobe brick houses perched on the hills surrounding the fields. It was very beautiful.
Fields to the left, houses to the right, and the Isla del Sol in the distance.
Above the houses, remnants of old Incan terracing are still visible, but are hardly used.
Here we stayed at Inca Thaki, the house of Don Hilario and Doña Ustakia, and the youngest of their six children, Gustavo. They had a couple of rooms for tourists, though they had only straw mattresses and no showers. The only bathroom was an outhouse, and water came from a tap in the yard. There in Sicuani, we met Marina, a Bulgarian Masters student who is writing her thesis about the density of frogs in the lake. She is about halfway through her stay in Bolivia of about two months, and we were there mainly to help her with her research.
Marina speaks no Spanish, and Hilario, Ustakia, and Gustavo spoke to her anyway with uniformly good cheer. When we arrived, Marina was finishing her lunch at one of the two tables in the yard of the house: these tables are constructed of a slab of flat rock perched on several tree stumps. Surrounding the tables are a couple other tree stumps serving as chairs. The yard is bordered by our rooms on one side, and Hilario and Ustakia's house on the other. Several apple trees grow grow in the yard, and the ground hosts some of what I like to think of as "naturalized" trash--soda bottle lids and other pieces of plastic that looked worn enough to belong there. Ustakia was untangling her fishing nets, and Gustavo and Hilario sat at the other table, enjoying the company and the sunshine.
Eleanor in the yard of Inca Thaki, with our rooms behind her.
Eleanor with Doña Ustakia and their dog, Capusa, with Don Hilario (left) and Don Fausta, his brother.
After lunch, we pulled on our wetsuits and headed out on Hilario's motorboat. Somehow I ended up with the electric blue and hot pink suit, whereas everyone else had a nice shade of gray or black. Not sure it made any difference to the frogs, however. We helped Marina record any frog sightings, before Arturo and I jumped into the 54 degree water. Very cold! I really wanted to go in, not to look at frogs, but because I really had to pee. No luck however, my body and all of my muscles immediately went numb.
Marina in her appropriately-colored snorkeling regalia.
Into the water!
I enjoyed snorkeling in the lake! Nothing stopped me from being cold however, especially when I had to swim slowly and observantly. That first day, I stayed in perhaps longer than I should have--trying to pee--and turned blue and shook for at least an hour after I got out.
Our days in the village fell into a rhythm. We woke up every morning to rain and cloudy skies, and had a slow breakfast of plain bread and tea in the common room of Inca Thaki. In the morning, if the weather was too bad, we wouldn't do research and instead I would go on a hike in the area. For lunch, we had either a bowl of potato and pasta soup, or a bowl of rice and fried potatoes and a fried egg. Starches are very popular there in Sicuani. Marina is vegetarian, so we didn't have meat, but the family raises guinea pigs for meat. Their kitchen is a low room about 10 feet by 8, with a fire at one end, a propane stove, and guinea pigs. They had a den in one corner, with a bench as a roof and walls of pots lined up next to each other. Mostly, they hid in this corner, and chirped in the way of guinea pigs, and eventually were made into soup. At one point, I went back to the kitchen and served myself some more soup, and found that though Marina thought our soup was vegetarian, there in the pot was an entire guinea pig. I returned and said nothing.
Most afternoons, the weather would clear up, and we would take the boat out to different areas of the lake. Eleanor, Gustavo, and I would help Marina by taking water samples and recording her frog sightings with a GPS.
Gustavo learning how to use the GPS.
In the evening, we hosted an English class for interested villagers. When Arturo proposed the frog conservation project, Sicuani agreed to host it in exchange for English lessons, since the town sees some tourists passing through. We agreed, though these classes were mayhem.
Part of the problem was that the kids invariably arrived forty minutes early. Don Hilario had a somewhat goofy temperament, and hosted an evening run for Marina, Eleanor, and me. Every day at around 6:30, he asked us, "Vamos a corrar?!" and start to run in place with an encouraging toothless smile. The kids would stream after us, shouting and racing. Volleyball and soccer came after the nightly jog, and if we thought these activities would tire them out before the hour of English class, we were very wrong.
One night before English class. Don Hilario is waiting to host our evening running race.
A power outage almost forced us to host this class outdoors one night.
Arturo playing a game during English class with Don Hilario looking on.
Marina teaching in the common room of Inca Thaki. Me holding up the Tiquiña chalkboard--Tiquiña is the Bolivian equivalent of Bud Light.
Some of these kids didn't even know how to read or write in Spanish--everyone in the village spoke the native language Aymara. Though schools are now taught in Spanish, and most villagers know Spanish as well, some were very slow to read and write. Nevertheless, having lessons for an hour a day, six days a week, must have helped them somewhat.
By the end of English class, we were exhausted. We sipped tea and had another piece of bread for dinner.
Some nights, large thunderstorms and hailstorms loomed in the night sky. The village had the peculiar tradition of yelling, screaming, and sounding vuvuzelas in order to scare away the threat to their crops. Our students, Hilario, and Gustavo took part in this tradition with enthusiasm after class, so our dinner was often accompanied by the sound of 10 kids screaming at the night sky to "go back where you came from, you storm!" in Aymara, while Don Hilario blew the vuvuzela.
Daytime storms looming over the lake.
We spent one afternoon on Isla del Sol, which was very beautiful.
Traditional boat made of woven reeds, sailing around the Isla.
View back towards Sicuani from the Isla.
Cool rocks in the lake.
We spent one day as well in Peru, where we went to go observe human consumption of the frogs. In a market in a town just across the border, we went to two stands that sold frog juice. We observed as they put frog soup, a skinned frog, honey, and entire raw egg, and sugar in a blender. 1 sole for a cup! Don't worry, they strain it first, so you don't get any frog bones, or egg shells for that matter. We bought some, in order to take pictures, but we gave it to Don Hilario, who drank it with gusto. The stands were crowded, and some people said that yes, they come and have frog juice at the market every Sunday, because it keeps you healthy. Slightly disturbing!
I couldn't get myself to drink this concoction.
Eventually my stay in Sicuani drew to a close. I missed having a shower and food other than rice or potatoes. Getting back was not so easy, however.
My trip was flanked by strikes and roadblocks. While I was lucky on the way out, I was not so lucky traveling back to Cochabamba. Sicuani has three daily micros that run back to Copacabana: 6:30am, noon, and sometime after 5pm. I was waiting for the bus by 6:30 am, and by 8, still no bus.
Gustavo and Don Hilario looking for the bus.
When the micro finally came at 8:30, I managed to squeeze on, though I was one of the last people who could: many other
campesinos lining the road did not get to town till much later in the day.
I was told there were buses every 30 minutes leaving from Copacabana to travel the three and a half hours to La Paz, but there were no buses. I asked many different tour agencies, taxi drivers, and even the tourist information office, and all said there were no buses today! Tomorrow yes, but not today. My Spanish was not good enough to figure out why. Eventually I found someone saying they would leave at 1:30, so I left my bags with them and toured the city of Copacabana a bit.
Road from Sicuani to Copacabana.
My guidebook indicated that there were Incan ruins at the top of one of the hills next to the town, so I proceeded up the hillside. While the view of the Lake and of the city were beautiful, the Incan ruins were...nonexistent, unless you count some very cool-looking, but definitely natural stone.
Cemetary at the base of Mount Niño Calvario, where supposedly there are Incan ruins at the top.
Many wildflowers and steps carved out of big boulders form the path up the hillside.
View of the city from the top! It was pretty, even though the morning was rainy.
Incan "ruins."
On the way down, I noticed this dump in the middle of the woods. Trash disposal is a real problem at Lake Titicaca, and Bolivia in general.
Copacabana harbor.
By the time I got down, I had time to have some delicious ceviche at a stand in the center square: fresh, limy trout with sweet potatoes and roasted hazelnuts, all for $1.50. Yum. But, when I went back to the office, they said, no buses! Sorry, come back at 6:30pm. At 6:30, we waited with a large and annoyed crowd for another hour, before we piled into the bus and drove for half an hour before we encountered a roadblock. No can do, the bus driver said, and we turned around. One night in Copacabana was not bad, I had nowhere urgent to be, and I met a few cool travelers. The next day, the trip went smoothly, and after 12 hours in a bus, I arrived home!
