Thoughts on Floating Islands

So, as I mentioned earlier, Oscar got me to think a lot about the roles that children play in the places I have visited--and the long-term effects on their families culture--particularly with regards to making money (in some cases work). I think that I've started to develop some opinions on the subject, but really just wanted to sit down, type things out, and throw out some questions in hopes that anybody who reads this will either come back with some questions or thoughts of their own...

Before you go on, I warn you that none of this may make sense. It is really just for my own sake that I type this out.

Oscar wasn't the only thing that made me think about this topic... It actually all started a while ago when I read about the floating reed islands of the Uro people located on Lake Titicaca and accessible from Puno. I probably should have gone to see it for myself before I really start to formulate any thoughts on the matter, but after hearing things from a lot of travellers, guide books, etc. I couldn't have helped but develop some opinions... Most of the travellers that I have spoken with, and the differing guide books have suggested that thte islands have become overwhelmingly commercialized. One person told me it was, "a fully overblown tourist attraction with a taste of culture--however compromised." I know, what in the hell does this have to do with kids and making money? Well, its really about what the kids or families do in order to earn the money, and what kind of affect it has on not only the kids future, but also the future of the entire culture (Culture is also a common theme amongst all of the places that I have visited thus far, and since the education--of all sorts--of children affects the future of the culture, I thought it all to be relevant).

As I have traveled through Guanajuato, Mexico City, Quito, Otavalo, Guayaquil, Cusco, Huayllacocha, Puno, Copacabana, and now La Paz, I have seen a common thing with regards to the culture--an obvious one at that--kids working in some way, shape, or form. The how and why differ greatly amongst all of the places, and none of them--to my knowledge--are forcing the kids to do overly demanding labor... In Mexico, not a whole lot of kids seemed to work, unless it was in their family shops or bakeries. The same was the case for Otavalo and Quito. In Copacabana, Cusco, and La Paz, kids work--though the degree and method seems to vary greatly. In Cusco, and as I have heard with regard to the floating islands, kids are put on show in order to get photos taken for money, i.e. dressing in traditional garb and posing with Llamas. Here in La Paz, mothers are telling their children to walk up to white people, put on a cute face, and beg for change (I don't find anything wrong with asking for money, but having your kids ask for money--in my opinion--is teaching them something far less important than most other things that kids need to be taught... And I am aware that in a country such as Bolivia, where the economy isn't doing so great, people are going to be down, especially without a primary education in many instances) ... Conversely, in Copacabana kids are working in restaurants during break in order to help out the fam. Or, in Oscar's case, they are trying to guide around obviously confused tourists in order to make a dime. In all cases--I hope--kids are learning things and they are using information that they have either learned from their parents or school.


And here come the questions...

So which kids are going to have a more prosperous future? Which kids are also most likely to maintain cultural traditions and cultural integrity--whatever that may be? In Oscar's case, I wouldn't be surprised if he learns English, moves away from the island and still maintains traditions held on Isla del Sol--though with adjustments, or compromises. In converse, what will happen to the kid on the floating reed island whose culture may--or may not--be compromised by the thousands of white tourists that pay big bucks to come watch the same routine? The kid is learning that you can make a living by sharing your culture with people, right? Is that a bad thing? What will happen with that kid if Lake Titicaca ever dries up? Will he have the skills necessary to make a living then? What about his kids? How about Oscar's? If, in each scenario, the culture adjusts to accomodate survival, what is the big long-term difference? It is entirely possible that the mother on the streets of La Paz will use the money she gets to ensure that her kids get an education and never have to panhandle again...

And some bigger questions...

Will the respective cultures fade away regardless of what happens in the 'opposing' situations? Does the long-term adjustment of culture, via a blend with commercialization, mean that its not the same? Is culture ever the same from generation to generation? Can you ever deem which parts of a culture are the most important?

Kind of a long rambling post, but these are the things that I think about as I move from place to place. In many cases, they're also the things that we aren't always faced with in the states... I don't know. What do you think?

Another Year

These were not on my birthday cake, in case you were wondering...

Last week, as I was preparing to leave Cusco on board an overnight bus to Copacabana de Bolivia via Puno, the lights went out. All of the lights in the entire city of Cusco--gone--for about 30 minutes. That simple lapse in light made me too tired. I didn't care if the next day was my birthday, I couldn't force myself (literally in Peru) into the bus. I headed back to my hostel, snagged another bed for the night, and decided to take off in the morning--to Puno, not Copacabana. In hindsight, it was probably the better decision. I got a full nights rest and was able to get all of my paperwork for the newly required Bolivian visa for American citizens.

I went to the bus station in the morning with Alan and Stephanie, a couple that seems to end up in all of the same places I do (something that actually happens quite a lot). I handed the man my ticket, he proceeded to freak out, give me a hug, and yell "HOPPY BIRDAY!!!" I'm not gonna lie, that is probably the most excited that anybody has been for my birthday in a long time. We boarded the bus, and I tried to go back to sleep, until the guy then got on the intercom and started singing happy birthday. He was seriously very very excited.

Anyway, after a long and beautiful four hours on the bus, we found ourselves in muddy Puno, home of the tour that takes you to the home of the floating reed islands (the reed islands, or at least what I have heard, have become a recent fascination of mine, as well as a hot topic of discussion). After shaking off some hecklers, a cab was snagged and I found myself taking happy birthday shots of homemade Peruvian liquor with the hostel managers (it was pretty tame stuff though, Mom). I went to get some dinner shortly thereafter, and returned to find birthday cake waiting for me... All of the niceties were starting to make me feel sad that I was leaving Peru. Though, there has certainly been a trend between the Andes and absolutely unbelievable hospitality, only rivaled by that of Nebraskans. At least, that's what I've found so far, in my short 23 year old life.

I woke up the next morning to take the early bus to Copacabana--my planned refuge and place of relaxation.

The Bolivian Border is a Joke

Considering what Bolivians have to go through in order to get into America, I could easily understand the reciprocal thinking involved when the Bolivian Government implimented the new visa requirements and $100 fee for Americans (More info can be found here). In short, Americans are required to present the following information at a point of entry or Bolivian consulate:

1. The sworn statement for visa application form
2. A passport valid for six months
3. Hotel reservation or invitation letter
4. Photocopy of roundtrip ticket or travel itinerary
5. Economic solvency
6. Payment of $100 visa issuance fee
7. International yellow fever vaccination certificate

As we approached the border, the stuard on the bus proceeded to tell me that I was the only American citizen on board, and that I would be issued a $40 exit fee from Peru. I called his bluff, and asked for paperwork... He tried to explain to me that the $40 would normally be split between all of the American citizens on the bus, but I was the only one--poor me. Of course, I asked to see the passenger list, discovered that there were two more Americans on the front of the bus, which made me think he was even more full of it than I already did. I told them not to pay anything until we saw official documentation of such, and got focused for the border... Since, of course, being the socially conscious and upstanding American that I am, I needed to have all of my paperwork organized and neatly folded in an envelope.

After brushing off the $40 "exit fee," I was grouped with the other Americanos and headed to the office for visa issuance... It was there that I found out--to no surprise--that the other Americans didn't have any of the paperwork and didn't even know about the new requirements. I couldn't help but be embarassed for the 49% of my country that tries to stay on top of things like this. We got ushered through, the guy didn't look at half of my paperwork, was convinced to not bother with taking any paperwork for the other Americans (with exception of our money), got our visas, and that was that. I'm pretty sure that it was hardly what Bolivian President, Evo Morales, had intended. I thought that maybe it was just about the money. Though, I still refuse to believe so...

I eventually made it to Copacabana, and well, the power was out. I was kind of happy about it... I shrugged my shoulders and took a nap.

Se Llaman Portador

No donkies were harmed in the taking of this photo

The porters that trek the Inca Trail, responsible for constantly carrying a grueling load of supplies up and down the rocky pathway, have historically been treated poorly with regards to working conditions, pay, and weight carried. The Peruvian government has, however, made strides in terms of securing limitations on weight carried by the porters hiking the trail--a mere 25 kilos, if I remember correctly (that's still a lot). Their pay has began to increase over the years, making the job much more lucrative than working in their respective villages. Despite the improvements, after spending four days trying to keep pace with them, I know it is a job that I could never do.

Many and most of the porters are campesinos, or farmers, that hail from small rural towns outside of Cusco, where they own and operate their own farms that produce substance not for markets, but for their families. In many instances, they are indigenous people--the last of a living breed in Peru, as the Quechua culture is slowly fading into oblivion. The porters that worked for our trek company were from the small town of Huayllaccocha, a lively and rustic place where all buildings are constructed with adobe brick.

Having the opportunity to spend the night in Huayllaccocha to begin the trek was indeed a little too staged at times, but I honestly think that it helped to spark my interest in everyday rural life. Had I not been there, I'm not so sure I would have ever thought as much about it as I did over the next four days.

I'm not sure why I developed an affinity towards our porter Angel--it might have been because he was the boss, but I think it had something to do with the man's eyes. You see, Angel happens to have the same stern, and at times steely blue eyes, that my grandfather had in his finest hour. He moved the same way as my grandpa too... You could see how years of hard work had hindered his step slightly, perhaps shortening each one a little bit, and yet his legs have remained defiant to the harshness of time. The guy was also pretty nice to me while I was hurling up everything I had inside of me on the longest day of the trail.

Over the four days of trekking, our group asked a lot of questions about porter welfare--How much do they get paid? How often do they work? Why would anybody prefer this to farming? How much weight do they carry? Usually, we received our answers in full from both José our guide, and the porters themselves... More than they could make anywhere else. Four times a month. They get to hang out with their buddies and don't have to farm. They carry 25 kilos, or roughly 50 pounds...

After a long talk with my new buddy Ty in a quiet area off away from our campsite, I learned about the efforts of he and his girlfriend Kelly to raise money for a local school in Urubamba. He told me that they realized you have to do a lot more than spend a little bit of time in a place in order to change the world... So despite the dismay they felt at learning the enormous costs of overhead they paid in order to participate in this program, they set out to use their ingenuity and leave a lasting impression on the school they had worked at. They ended up raising over $2,000 for the school--much needed funds for simple things such as clean water to wash hands.

Hearing their story stirred thoughts through my head, causing me to wonder how I could perhaps challenge myself... I only had a short time in most of the places that I have been or will be in. And though it may be selfish, I realized that maybe the best thing I can do is find ways to add to myself--to learn, to wander off of the beaten path, and to test my character.

Over the next day my thoughts began to gather, and as Angel and a few of the porters passed us by, I felt glad that I wasn't carrying the same weight. It was then I realized how I could challenge myself, if only for a day... I would ask Angel if I could spend a day working on his farm. As we eventually made our way down the hill, I began to feel myself getting sick and weary. Once at the lunchtime camp, I began to unleash my sickness on the Inca Trail. Of course, Angel was the first guy to check up on me. Though one might not think this to be the most opportune time for discussion, I asked him if I could spend a day working out on his farm... He looked at me like I was crazy and I went back to being sick, but we eventually exchanged information which started my journey to his farm.

Yesterday--three days later--I made my way out to Huayllaccocha. I was possibly, and probably, the first gringo to ever work in one of the village's fields. Men lined up to shake my hand--something I still can't understand. I spent the majority of the day howing an entire field by hand, getting worked over by a 70 year old man (Angel's father), who could only communicate with me in Quechua. They let me drink their homemade Chicha--a corn beer of sorts fancied by farmers all throughout Peru--and didn't mind when I stopped every now and then to realize what I was doing and where I was at.

Though it was only a day, it only took a couple of hours to understand why many campesinos prefer a day on the Inca Trail to working on their own farms.

I Wish You Were Here

As you make your final ascent up to Intipunku (or the Sun Gate as white people like to call it) you find yourself gasping for air. Only--unlike the previous three days--altitude is not the cause. The sun creeps higher in the morning sky, the fog recedes, and you lay eyes on the glorious Incan citadel that is Machu Picchu. That there are about twenty or thirty other people situated somewhere next to you doesn't matter--it feels like they aren't. And in 10 minutes, just as if it were never there, steam rises off all things green and the city is covered in a shroud of fog once again. I must say, that it is quite the wonder.

The last two weeks have been absolutely unbelievable. I got lucky again, booked a trek on the Inca Trail, flew to Guayaquil, met up with the brother of an acquantaince of an acquantance for a night on the town, slept throughout the next day, hopped on a night flight to Lima (that got delayed four times), proceeded to sleep in the Lima airport until I hopped on my 5:30am flight to Cusco (which was delayed twice as well), finally landed in the tourist hub that is the city of the Puma (Cusco), went to the trek company to pay off the balance on my trek and decided to partake in something they called the "Wayki option" the very next day--so much for acclimitizing.

The Wayki option allowed our group of eight trekkers to spend a night in Huayllaccocha, the village where the porters who work for the company live. Though parts were a little too touristy, the evening allowed us to have a small glimpse into the lifestyle of a campesino--we ate traditional Cuscueño food, sampled some homemade alcohol, listened to music, and danced. It wasn't a representation of everyday life, but it was enough to perk my interests. This, of course, would ultimately lead me on the path to another adventure a few days down the road... We spent the first night in the backyard of our guide José's grandmother's abode, spent time getting to know one another in the group, and mentally prepared ourselves for the 33 kilometers of the Inca Trail.


Good ol' kilometer 82... Oh the memories...

The first day of the Inca Trail takes it easy on you as you glide over jagged stones with relative ease en route to Llaqtapata, the first ruin on the trail. It was here that we stopped for our history lesson, and also where I think we all began to realize the privelage we had being allowed to take this trek. From there we began our ascent uphill towards Wayllabamba, swerving around and over the Cusichaca Stream and carving our way through an incredibly fertile valley.


You would think that someone would get tired of taking pictures of the same mountain...

You wake up on the second morning, feeling like you can do just about anything. And you should, you have some of the most beautiful scenery in the world surrounding you at all times--peaks jutting up into the air, dramatic snowcapped mountain ranges, and lush green vegitation. Then after the first hour and a half of hiking, you realize you're body's about to take a beating as you climb up jagged Incan steps to over 4200 meters... You relax for a bit, feeling accomplished and you try to ignore the annoying group ahead of you who happens to be yelling at the one 60-plus year old woman to keep going despite the lack of oxygen, until you finally realize you have to descend back down hellish steps similar to the ones you just came up. This time, you're motivated by hunger and you head downhill like a champ to your campsite and the glorious meal that awaits you...


Fondly thinking of Guanajuato and a shot through the eyes of "The Liam"

Warmiwañuska: The highest point on the Inca Trail at 4215 meters

The second day is hard... but all you ever have to do is turn around, look up, or simply think about what you are doing in order to keep going. Oh, and you can chew coca leaves too, which quickly became a favorite pasttime of our group...


I'd like to tell you that everyday's camp wasn't like this... but I would be lying...

The third day starts off with a visit to Runkuraqay--its theorized to be a place to crash for Incan trail runners--and a short but sweet jaunt uphill past the Black Lake to another summit and place of rest where you learn about the apucheta--an Incan ritual involving a natural offering and small stone pyramids--while reflecting in the midst of clouds. Though hard, you pull yourself away from this tranquil setting and set off towards Sayacmarca, an Incan site considered to be both residential and a fortress. Its known predominantly for its ingenious canal system that directs water from the mountains into the small citadel. On the way, the landscape suddently begins to change to subtropical forest, colorful orchids appear, and a constant myst develops. Despite the overwhelming beauty, your legs have grown tired and you just want to make it to camp where your first warm shower in four days awaits you, along with the option of a cold beer.


Runkuraqay

Sayacmarca

On the final morning, you arise at 4am to prepare yourself for the final leg and your first sight of Machu Picchu from the Intipunku. You hope, during the rainy season, that you will catch a glimpse of the unbelievable Incan citadel before the fog rolls in. However, you first have to wait for about thirty minutes with the two hundred or so other tourists that have been walking the trail, and eventually realize that you haven't had the trail all to yourself after all. People burst through the gates in order to try to make Intipunku by sunrise--and most fail, either by rolling an ankle or forgetting that the sun rises at about 5:30 during the summer in South America... When you do catch your first glimpse, its just brilliant. Its everything you hoped for, and the sickness, fatigue, and lack of cleanliness no longer matter...

Below are a few pictures that I feel appropriately depict an average day at Machu Picchu.


10am at Machu Picchu... No, its not your computer...





The Temple of the Sun

View from Waynapicchu

I'm going to edit this post later in order to add more about my personal experience... Though its been a couple of days, I still need to think about it...

El Camino Inca

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

After four days of hiking and one day of incredible illness, I made it to Machu Picchu.

Sir, There is Something Wrong with Your Language

Looking back on the last few days, I can honestly say that if you ever have a chance, you have to go to the Galpagos Islands. The place is incredible. Puerto Ayora, the main city in Santa Cruz, itself is an incredibly charming, laid-back town, with some pretty patient people. The southern islands, as I can no say from experience, are beautiful. Each island seems to have its own distinct personality. Blue Footed Boobies, however, are still creepy and will forever haunt my dreams. I found out, by the way, that they get their name from diving into the water with their beaks open.

Being able to be in a place where animals take precidence is an experience in and of itself. It was refereshing, especially because they seemed to know it. Even crabs, as tasty as they can be, roam untouched in overwhelming abundance, despite colorfully patterned shells that seem to scream, "EAT ME!" Maybe though, I have just worked in a crabhouse for too many summers...

I honestly don't know if I would hav had as much fun if it weren't for the pople that I took my tour with. Serg was about three weeks deep into work with no holiday, but still seemed to have a passion for what he was doing. At the least, he did everything he could--within respectful limitation--to ensure that we were well informed and entertained. Neil, Coralie, Rob and Bev were great--I don't know what I would have done without people to make smartass remarks with. Its the one thing (smartass jokes) that you can't really understand, or get, when you are beginning to learn another language (at least when somebody else is telling a joke). They lose their charm when you have to break them down word for word, or they can go unnoticed altogether--at leat the little ones.

Language is, however, the gap that divides us from the rest of humanity. As my brother, and now also my ultrawise tour guide Sergio, say, we are part of a family and learning a language allows our family to grow. As I've already found, there are thousands of wonderful, amazing people out there just waiting to make our lives. We just have to learn their language. Although only speaking Spanish makes me as homesick as all hell sometimes (it limits what I think can be the greater parts of my personality... haha), learning the language is the only way that I know I can go somewhere in the future and not get homesick--its the one way I can crack a smartass joke anywhere in the world, and maybe, just maybe, get a rise out of somebody.

In some ways, it wasn't the cultural experience that I could have gotten (but it WAS amazing). It did, however, show me the importance of learning a language. Of course, it isn't only about cracking jokes... Though, that is a part of maintaining my sanity.

Anyway, after four delays of two hours a piece, a computer malfunction and subsequent delay, I made the two and a half journey through the air from Guayaquil to Cusco. My initial impressions are positive... though I could do without the thousands of offers for a massage. I'll explain more later though... I have to get ready for my trek.