Andrew and I had latched on with a group of Oregonians from Medford and a Scottish family. After a short ride on the boat, during which we rammed another tour boat that tried to pass us, we got to our first floating island of the day. Almogenes, our guide, walked us to the center of the 100' by 70' island and sat us down on reed logs while he explained the various curiosities of the floating islands and their peoples (how they were constructed, how the people cooked food, etc).
Walking on the island felt like walking on a bed, what with it giving way before the surrounding tension kept us from sinking down any further. After Almogenes had finished his spiel and we had been kept there long enough to bilk money out of the Oregonians for the natives' various woven wares, we took a ride on a reed boat.
Unlike the island, the boat was surprisingly firm. It had no sail; it was propelled by the native on the aft two- handed till. My respect for Venetian gondoleers evaporated as our pilot deftly maneuvered us along, while sometimes training his son on the family trade, at a moderate pace.
When we'd finished our fun on the islands, we were taken on a three or four hour ride around the lake. As I was exhausted from the bus ride the night before, I slept a blissful, drooling sleep. Andrew, the social butterfly, spent the majority of the ride on the back deck, regaling the Scots with his tales.
At length, we arrived at Amantini, the island which we were staying on for the night. We scrambled off the boat and were immediately paired up with our host families, at whose homes we would be eating and sleeping. Andrew and I drew Florenzia, a tiny, hunched over woman who appeared to be about seventy and was more likely forty. She led us up the island, which was two big hills (230m above the lake) and a connecting ridgeline, to her home.
Much of the home appeared to be built on faith, what whith everything (walls, bannisters, etc) canted at a perilous angle. We weren't much concerned, other than when Andrew's head knocked off the rain gutter. Our room, with its hobbit-sized door, was everything we could have hoped for, in that it had marvelously soft, warm beds. Andrew particularly liked the room because it was "Andrew- sized", meaning that when he stood up his head perfectly wedged him under the canvas ceiling.
The thing about Lake Titikaka is that, at the end of the day, it doesn't have a Nessie, nor is it made of wine; it's just a lake. As such, Andrew and I weren't particularly riveted by the sights, though we were treated to a spectacular sunset on the top of one of the wind swept hills, but, rather, we were most interested in the culture. Our two meals were, in my mind at least, fantastic. Lunch was a fabulous soup and then a sort of fried omelet souffle on top of potatoes; supper was a different, though equally wonderful, soup and then rice and vegetable sauce.
The highlight of our time there, however, was most definitely the dance. When Almogenes had mentioned there would be a dance that night for the tourists to dance with the locals, Andrew and I were taken aback; it simply seemed exploitative and too manufactured. Thus, when Florenzia woke us after our post- supper siesta, neither of us were particularly excited to go. She offered us ponchos, which we thought was because it was cold, but we didn't accept them because I already had the poncho I'd bought in Cusco days before and Andrew had a jacket.
When we stepped outside, our jaws dropped. As there was no electricity on the island, and thus no light pollution, we could see more stars than we'd ever seen and the glow of the Milky Way was brighter as well. We both had a hard time following Florenzia on the rocky paths because our attention was diverted.
Florenzia, in our minds, had broken the cardinal rule by bringing us to the party early. We sat there, as though we were back in junior high, and chatted while the band warmed up. Three local women entered, all in the island's traditional garb (black embroidered blanket draped over their heads, white blouses with black open sweaters, and gaily embroidered turqoise colored calf length skirts), when I noticed that two of them were wearing pants underneath the skirts. They were two of the Oregonians. We quickly discovered, as more of the group showed up, that we all were supposed to be in native garb, which was the real reason Florenzia had offered us the ponchos. Fortunately for us, as it was chilly, we had worn the woolen Peruvian caps that everyone else had on.
Everyone had arrived and we were all sitting on the benches that lined the walls. I jokingly explained to the couple next to me that I would let them all have a go first because I was such an amazingly good dancer that I didn't want to steal all of the attention by being the party star off the bat. That blew up in my face when Florenzia waddled over, took me by the hand, and we started the dance. I was a bit self- conscious, but I threw that off and went for it.
Now, as I've mentioned before, ordinarily a bit of the sauce is required for a true Andre dance experience. Perhaps not having enough oxygen flowing to the old noggin put me in a similar state, or maybe it was that I had been blessed by my kinsman Wirracocha, the white- skinned Peruvian god of creation; whatever was causing it, the fact remains that I tore up that dance floor. We danced alone on the floor for a minute or so, as gringoes and Peruvians alike clapped, cheered, or sat dazed in overawed stupefaction. Finally, the Peruvians grabbed gringoes and we all boogied down.
Though I was undoubtedly the Peruvian dance god, the altitude still did a number on me. Unfortunately, I wasn't given a chance to rest as Peruvian woman after Peruvian woman sought me out to dance; however, this was where Andrew shone yet again. As, not just me, but the other gringoes flagged, he kept the party going, bouncing all over the dance floor with his partners and starting the congo line. Even with his prodigious stamina, we were both worn out after an hour and, I think to Florenzia's dismay, we made our way back to our room, where we collapsed into an exhausted slumber.
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