#llachon

Llachon Perú - Pentax K3

After a seven hour bus ride from the heart of the Sacred Valley, our class landed in the peaceful community of San Pedro, of Llachon, on the western peninsula of Lake Titicaca. Our homestays were all sorted out after a warm welcome of Allillanchu's. Karen and I roomed with a single mother named Viviana. She was a kind woman, 58 years old, beautiful, with a son in Puno, who works while studying at university. 

  My dealings with giardia definitely affected the visit there, but the magic of place was no less amplified. Despite serious stomach pains and explosions of various kinds of bodily fluids, I hiked to ruins, swam in the lake and boated to the incredibly serene Isle de Taquile. This island, I kid you not, is like some floating time capsule of past. As an island, it is secluded and highly communitarian, controlling what comes onto the island, how, and what leaves the island. We entered the island by boat, which was impressively chill. There were super kush multi-colored couches in the cabin and it managed to take the lake’s oceanic waves by storm. Sometimes the lake seemed more like a sea, with distant mountains decorating the horizon.

  After arriving on the island of Taquile, we began our 45 minute ascent into the main village center. Along the stone-worked path, new species of wild plants emerged, between rows of fava beans (habas), amaranth (kiwicha), quinoa and corn. The terraced landscape set against the expansive lake was breathtaking. I took pictures of the plants, but didn’t have the opportunity to ask about the names or uses of any of them. The really striking impression of the island was the energy and her inhabitants. The energy was incredibly peaceful – fluid like glass, calm like polished river stones, and quite a bit surreal. The people, mostly all dressed in traditional clothing, worked in the fields and walked along the paths in a way that suggested deep ancestry – like the roots of a five hundred year old windswept tree. These people have evolved with this landscape for a very very long time. The women wear these three pointed hats with long black fabric blankets underneath the hats that fall along their back and shoulders, acting as protection against the sun as well as the cold. The fabrics give them a sort of monkish appearance. The men mostly wore black pants with natural white or tan fabric shirts and vests of various colors and patterns.

  We hiked to some ruins at the very top of the island after a very delicious meal of quinoa soup and fish. The food destroyed my gut though, and I was crippled over in pain for much of the hike. Before we went on the hike, I was waiting for Sam to check out the textile market and noticed three locals sitting down next to the entryway. I figured we were pretty damn close to Bolivia, and I might not have another opportunity to ask about the language, so I leaned over and asked the two women if any of them knew Aymara. I studied the Aymara language and people a bit while still in Olympia, and for whatever reason the language continues to intrigue me. When I asked the women, they smiled and shook their heads no, but the younger of the two pointed at the man sitting next to them and told me the he speaks Aymara. So I sat down next to this ancient old man and between the four of us I learned that he was in his 90’s and has spoken Aymara his whole life. And I learned a basic greeting: Kamisaraki, which means something to the effect of “hi, how are you?”, to which you respond, waliki, meaning “good thank you”. The younger woman was translating for me but she said she didn’t know the exact translation of those words in Spanish. She said her mother speaks Aymara sometimes and she’s heard those words frequently in context, but never explicitly translated. The older of the women invited me to stay at her hostel, which I would have LOVED to do; to investigate the language, culture, ruins and wild plants at my own pace and with more time. But the group was heading up the hill towards the ruins so I had to take my notes and leave.

  I will never forget that exchange of language and culture. That old man was incredible. With a cane, thick calloused hands, wrinkles like canyons and valleys, darkened by many years of work in sun, he sat there and smiled with his missing teeth and opaque eyes, probably amazed that a young American girl might be interested in his ancestral language. I hope to return to that island some day.

Weavers of Llachon, Puno Perú.