Travel blog: Lake Titicaca pantomime

Rhian Nicholson has swapped the bright lights of London for a three month journey across South America from the Pacific to the Atlantic coast. Here is her tenth blog entry:

Lake Titicaca sounds like it belongs in a fairytale and indeed it boasts many of the requisite qualities - cold turquoise waters stretching as far as the eye can see; floating islands made of reeds; and villagers cloaked in traditional embroidered blouses and layers of heavy felt skirts.

Straddling Peru and Bolivia it may or may not be the highest navigable lake in the world depending on which section of the Lonely Planet's guide to South America you happen to be reading.

One thing's for sure though - you certainly wouldn't want to end up swimming across it…

And for that extra touch of mystery and intrigue, Inca mythology has it that the first Inca - going by the name of Manco Inca - magically appeared from the lake one day along with his sister-wife to get the ball rolling on Peru's greatest civilisation.

Unsurprisingly therefore, Lake Titicaca is a popular stop-off on the tourist trail.

At 8am the jetty at Puno is a pickpocket's dream, packed with camera yielding tourists eager for a slice of life largely untouched by the modern wonders of microwaves and the internet.

Disneyworld move over: Lake Titicaca comes across as a living breathing theme park where many of the islanders' traditions are packaged up and sold off in what, at times, can only be described as a pantomime.

One excruciatingly slow boat ride later - partly because the engine had lost the will to live and partly because this is South America - you rediscover your land legs on the charmingly rugged island of Taquile.

And you would certainly be forgiven for thinking you had been magically teleported back to rural Greece. Small stone houses shaded by fruit laden trees, linked by rocky paths and surrounded by herds of grazing sheep complete the rustic scene. Not an alpaca in sight.

Unfortunately it didn't take long for the tourist charade to get into full swing.

As soon as the lunch plates were cleared away, the restaurant owners plus a few family members and friends appeared fully garbed in ponchos and woolly hats (for the men) and neon trimmed black felt skirts and feathery hats (for the women).

To the broken sound of twangy guitars, thumping drums and breathless panpipes, the women took to the floor with rather pained expressions on their faces.

Maybe they were deep in concentration or maybe they found it rather uncomfortable to dance for meagre tips from a group of bemused tourists while the guide explained just how much the cost of living has risen in Peru over the past year. It made for an awkward half an hour all round.

Another excruciatingly slow boat ride later and the island of Amantani swam into sight.

Laden with the presents of food and felt tip pens you buy for your surrogate family for the night, you traipse out onto the jetty like a Second World War evacuee in front of the group of locals gathered to greet you.

Although Quechua is the lingua franca of the islands, a smattering of Spanish and a lot of hand gestures get you a long way.

And before you know it you're snuggled up against the cold night air in the family's small kitchen watching the Mama of the house rustle up a tasty dinner of vegetable soup followed by a carbohydrate-laden chip-pasta-rice concoction.

Admittedly it brings back memories of being a 15-year-old on a school exchange trip but there's nothing like sharing a couple of beers to get the conversation flowing.

When you're fed, watered and temporarily immune to the cold the fun really starts - especially if you've never really let go of a childhood passion for dress-up games.

In this case you trade your Western-style clothes for a traditional flowery blouse, a layered skirt which would make Kate Moss look like she'd been force fed lard for a year and a long woven shawl.

Just to complete the look your hair is pulled back into two plaits and voila you look like a cross between a Dutch milkmaid, a Russian peasant and a blind art student - in other words it is entirely unbecoming.

Thankfully every other tourist staying on the island that night looked equally stupid - although the blokes got off lightly in woolly hats and ponchos.

But that didn't help them when it came to the dancing - a long line of bashful faces and stumbling bodies snaking their way across a small village hall fortified by a few swigs of beer.

Still the entertainment value just about won out over the embarrassment factor. The locals put on a far more polished performance, stepping and stomping their way around the floor with a few masks, pom-poms and agricultural props for the added X-factor.

After all the foot stomping action, sleep should have come easily that night but sadly the biting cold gnawed its way through several layers of clothes and two woolly hats. Oh for a radiator…

The next day with the sun blazing in the sky and a stomach full of pancakes and coffee the shivers of the previous night disappear - along with any sense of balance you may possess.

The floating islands of the Uros people are made of tortora reeds, stacked layer upon layer until it there is a platform strong enough for the villagers to build their homes on its springy surface.

Just as well there are no hurricanes here otherwise there'd be a fairly bizarre version of bumper cars going on. And if the reeds hadn't already proved useful enough, they also double-up as a celery-like food - although the water around the islands is so polluted that afternoon snacking can prove lethal.

And then as la piece de resistance, the giant dragon-headed reed boats like something out of Homer's Odyssey shuttle tourists between the floating communities and make the whole place seem like one big fairground ride. If nothing else it's intriguingly tacky.

Rhian Nicholson