15 October 2003 Wednesday Puno

I still don’t know exactly what day it is, because I write in this journal in the morning about what happened the day before. I think it is Wednesday, but I am not sure. In fact, I am not sure of anything anymore ... who I am, what I want, where I am going - it is all a blur, a beautiful, blissful blur. I suspect I have never truly known any of these things, but convinced myself, and others, that I did. Do we ever know? Do we ever know anything? Or is it all illusion? Is it all pretense and camouflage and a mirrors game?

Kelsey, not being amusing.

We left Puno at 10:00 yesterday, heading south to spend much of the day on Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world, where floating reed islands are home to an entire village of native people. Before we hit the playa, we stopped to visit a small village that was alive and kicking in the middle of the Fiesta for the Virgin Rosario.

Americo first took us to an ancient Incan fertility ruin; just outside the village center where we could hear the music had already started playing. The roofless stone enclosure, about a thousand square feet, was filled with many stone phallic symbols, looking like a field of tall black penis shaped mushrooms. It stands in the shadow of the oldest Catholic Church in the area. Two different cultures sitting peacefully side by side. My reverence took a hike when we were inside the ruin, as I hiked my legs around the largest stone phallus for a picture. Americo was not amused.

One group, dressed in elaborate costumes, a black gorilla here and a red devil, complete with horns, over there, reminded me of any Halloween night in the states.

We then walked in the direction of the lively music, feeling like Pied Piper’s mice. Once in the village center, we were treated to a veritable cacophony of cultural music. Four or five different bands, ten to twenty musicians in each, filled the streets with marvelously dressed men and women, dancing and twirling. Everyone looked drunk with bliss. The air was thick with loud Peruvian music, each honoring the Virgin in their own special way. I don’t know who Rosario was, but she must have been one heck of a party-girl.

Lake Titicaca ... This is not a tourist destination. A meandering dirt road cut through dry, furrowed fields, many separated by low, rock walls, probably built centuries ago. Cattle, burros, sheep eat what they can find, which doesn’t look like much from where I sit.

Thatched roof, adobe huts house the few locals we saw tending their flocks. The sky was an incredible shade of deep blue; the only clouds hovered just above the distant horizon.

The white capped mountains on the other side of Lake Titicaca are in Bolivia. The donkey seems unimpressed by our intrusion.

When we came around a bend in the road, there it was ... Lake Titicaca ... taking my breath away.

Americo led us across the fields to a small curved peninsula, almost like a jetty. Several pink row boats were tied to the rocks.

A small group of the dirtiest sheep I have ever seen grazed next to the water’s edge.

Some legends say that the lost city of Atlantis lay somewhere at the bottom of Lake Titicaca. I don’t know if this is true, but I am beginning to believe that anything is possible - anywhere, anytime. Americo invited us to find a place to meditate on the "sacred filaments" produced by this awesome alpine lake. Somewhere during the meditation I opened my eyes just as Americo was helping Angela climb into one of the boats. Two local fishermen were commandeered to give several of us an enchanting boat ride on Lake Titicaca. I wonder how many people have gotten to do this. What a blessing!

On the way to our next destination, Americo informed us of the news he had heard that morning which was changing our travel plans. Twenty seven people, mostly Indians, were killed that morning in the degenerating situation in Bolivia. He thought it better that we avoid going anywhere near Bolivia. Good decision.

Earlier Americo had mentioned something about our silence being a reverent invitation to the birds. Little did I know.

Instead, we drove to another sacred site, to a mystical place Americo simply called "Valley of the Sacred Indian" ... where we, again, spent the day with soaring native birds, mischievous, dark skinned children and massive stone guardians.

At the entrance to this quest, we were met by an enormous granite rock looking very much like a Melville’s Moby Dick that turned out to be a reason for us all to laugh. Americo, with a flourish of his hands pointed toward the stone beast calling it in Spanish, "ballena" which Marilyn didn’t quite hear as her translation came out as a "giant vagina". Laughing right along with us, Marilyn said she didn’t think it looked like a giant vagina when she translated, but figured Americo has a right to his own perspective. I do love this woman!

As we ascended in silence along the steep trail, straight, tall rock walls on both sides of us, I realized I wasn’t dressed properly. It was late in the day, the sun was about to set and I had left my coat in the bus.

In the meantime, we all became aware of several children who had been following us. Americo took them aside, forming a circle.

A few minutes later we heard all five of them, squawking exactly like the birds. Americo has a Pied Piper in him, finding waikis everywhere. In each village we went to the children instantly responded to him, their faces so eager to play and to please.

When Americo invited us to find a place for meditation, I headed straight for the last place that would receive the setting sun’s warmth - against a rock face. I was grateful to feel the heat against my shivering body still radiating from the granite wall.

Above me, Christian climbed to the top - maybe with the same intent in mind.

The dot on the right of the middle spire is a smiling Christian.

Our descent turned out to be another opportunity to practice patience as well as an opportunity to practice mind over matter. My body temperature was quickly losing to the outside temperature - which was dropping precipitously with each step. And Americo was taking his sweet time getting down to the bus and my coat. Seeing my predicament, precious Carla came to the rescue, offering me her alpaca gloves, already warmed by her hands. What a buddy!

We drove home in the dark, generally not a great idea in this part of the Andes. Cows and sheep and dogs and goats are everywhere. Our bus often shares narrow bridges with flocks of sheep. Many vehicles have no tail lights. Ditto with the many bicycles which don’t even have reflectors. Dante, our Buddha bus driver, continues to amaze me with his skill, precision and unyielding focus.

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