Puno

With our new travelling companions, Tracey and Shaun, we caught our bus without any problems, and crossed the Bolivian-Peruvian border without incident. We'd heard some feedback from other travellers that Puno was a bit of a dump, but were keen to see the traditional floating reed islands we had heard so much about.

On arrival in the town we discovered that our preconceptions were not far wrong. Puno is billed as Peru's folklore centre, with a vast array of handicrafts, festivals and costumes, and a rich tradition of music and dance. After fighting our way through the fifteen or so touts, all vying for our custom at their respective, but probably not respectable abodes, we jumped a taxi and plumped for one of the many hostels from the guidebook. The hotel in question won't be remembered as one of our favourite stopovers, but it sufficed for the one night we would need it. We walked into town, past the baroque style Cathedral but there wasn't a great deal more to see, and so taking advantage of the new drinking partners, we all headed straight to the main street for some food and all important bonding over beer. The night turned into quite a heavy one, and it was fairly late by the time we returned from the strange Reggae/Rock-style bar we had been drinking in for most of the evening.

Heads were a little hazy the following morning, as we arose early to catch our boat to the collection of 40 tortora reed islands. A quick forty minute sail, and we were dropped to the first of three islands we would be visiting that morning. Here our guide explained to us the living habits and practices of the people who permanantly live out on the floating islands of the lake. Life for these people is hard. Forced out here as the Incan Indians pushed further and further into their territory, they use the reeds which grow naturally on the banks of Lake Titicaca and matt them down. The islands rot quickly from the bottom and so the fresh reeds need to be added constantly in order for the islands to survive. The sensation of standing on these islands was like walking across a waterbed; almost spongy and unstable under-foot. The people fish, hunt birds and live off the lake plants, most importantly the reeds used for the making the boats, the houses and the very foundations of their islands. They also have to travel long distances for fresh waterm which has meant that now fewer than 200 Uros live on the islands, many having now integrated themselves back into the mainland.

Unfortunately, it is now clear that tourism is one of their main sources of income, which has turned the islands we visited into floating souvenir stalls. Whether tourism has done irrepairable harm to this area is yet to be seen, but the mini-supermarket with internet access and pay telephone we saw on one suggests that it may have tarnished what was once a traditional way of life. One young boy took us into his home to show us how his solar-powered TV worked, which again spoilt the image slightly. After a quick journey on one of their traditional reed boats, we were taken back to the mainland. Although an interesting sight, by the time we left it wasn't clear to us whether we should be contributing to the Uros livelihood, or leaving well alone.

Back on dry land and with just moments to spare, we took a taxi to the bus station for our seven hour ride into the mountains...

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