Berkley Center

Aymara legend says that the sun itself and the god-king Viracocha were born from the waters of Lago Titicaca: time had its beginning in this 3,808-meter-high magical lake. I don’t doubt it. After spending two nights at Lago Titicaca, I returned to the mainland revitalized and ready to come back to mortal society.

Copacabana is the nearest mainland town, which is stunning in and of itself: lush rolling green hills, cyan blue skies, and crystalline horizons.

Before solidifying plans to go to the Sun Island, I was told that there wouldn't be any way to make reservations, but that I’d almost certainly be able to find lodging nonetheless. This advice proved to be accurate: I couldn’t find a single hostel phone number anywhere online, in books, or through people. Despite the fact that the island was full of travelers, we did eventually find a place to stay.

After a 3-hour boat ride, we began to approach La Isla del Sol, a famous Bolivian island with a plethora of hostels, hotels, and preserved Inca ruins. These are the well-known highlights, but the island is also home to a number of Aymara communities that have preserved traditional lifestyles and survive on agriculturally based economies. I was told that 10 years ago, gringo tourists were not welcomed on the island—their blue eyes, blond hair, and large backpacks were seen as demonic. Motivated by the potential economic benefits of tourism and a newfound interest in sharing their culture, the island’s residents have only recently opened up to visitors from the outside.

The island primarily consists of two main areas: the larger Yumani community to the south and Cha’llapampa to the north. A 3-hour hike along the spine of the island separates Yumani and Cha’llapampa; the smaller Cha’lla region lies in between.

I arrived with my Argentine friends in Cha’llapampa and immediately discovered that there was no room for lodging. As I was sitting on the grass and looking out over the landscape, I noticed a lanchero (fisherman). I approached him on a whim and asked if he could take my friends and me to a tiny group of houses that we could see in the distance from the shores of Cha’llapampa. The lanchero casually agreed, so we piled into the boat and set off toward Cha’lla.

Cha’lla proved to be cha-mazing! We only met three other nonlocals, two Argentines and one man from Washington, D.C. We found the most beautiful wooden hostel decorated with colorful weavings and exhibiting warm Aymara hospitality. The door to my room opened up to a pristine lakefront view. The Argentines made for fun company, and we explored the island a bit, cooked dinner together, and talked about the difference between the education systems in Argentina and the United States. The sunset was unlike any other—La Paz pales in comparison. The sky shifted between various shades of blues, and the clouds added depth and mystery, as if there was something to discover behind them. I could hear the waves crash on the shore as I laid in my bed.

In the morning I had time to relax and explore before we packed our bags to head to Yumani. Just as we were filing onto the dock to catch a boat back, Javier, yet another lanchero, asked if we wanted a ride back to the Sun Island.

Before my trip, I was told that no one ever went to Coati, or La Isla de la Luna. It is a much smaller island with only 25 families and has a nearly non-existent tourism industry. As a result, it can only be reached with an outrageously expensive boat trip from the mainland. Coming from another island, however, is more affordable.

Javier explained to me that families began inhabiting the island as recently as 150 years ago. The island is almost completely self-sufficient: the people use traditional health practices that have been handed down for generations, and they slowly develop the land to harvest more and more crops. They already grow crops like onions, potatoes, grains, and herbs, and they also have access to a large supply of trucha fish from the lake.

“Tomatoes?” I asked.

“No, the land doesn’t give tomatoes,” Javier responded in Spanish.

His word choice connoted that the land gives produce to the people, in the same way a mother gives a present to her child. The way Javier explained the reverence, care, and forethought that go into the island’s agricultural production made it seem as though they “received” the food with the same graciousness as someone who receives a gift.

The island doesn’t have any doctors, but Javier assured me that the large selection of herbs, the healthy living atmosphere (fresh air and constant physical movement), and ancient healing traditions all tend to keep the island’s inhabitants safe from most health disasters.

When we arrived, Javier pointed us in the direction of his friend, Max, who happened to be the owner of a hostel. Max and his wife welcomed us with large smiles, a fresh lunch of trucha fish, and long-winded explanations of the island’s history, lifestyle, and developing tourism industry.

We hiked to the top of the island, and the path featured a large sheep’s pasture and various herbs. In the distance we could see the glistening snowcapped peaks of the Cordillera Real, the nearest mountain range, and the 6,360-meter peak of Illampu. A sign told us that the Aymara culture cherished their mountains as protectors of society. It was easy to see why; I felt safe and comforted by the presence of these towering peaks, as if they were the islands’ guardians against the outside world.

The backside of the island featured a small Inca ruin. We were able to walk the perimeter of the island in less than three hours, and the rocky beaches were ideal venues for souvenir hunting. The top of the island had trickling streams of water that seemed to come from nowhere. As we descended I kept track of where the water was coming from and where it fell. It seemed as if the sides of the island were sweating. Later on Max explained to me that the island absorbs rainwater so well during heavy rains that the water continues to flow throughout the land and to the crops even during dry times. I thought that this was an amazing phenomenon, almost endowing the island with a semblance of intelligence.

Javier offered to take us out on his small boat to catch some fresh trucha fish for dinner. The people of the island set up permanent nets on the shores of the lake and catch a huge supply of fish during the high season of the year, around the month of January. This serves as a major part of the island’s food source for the next 12 months.

We hopped into Javier’s boat along with his wife, Susana. Javier casually cast a net into the fish reserve and pulled out four large trucha fish. Susana made room on the floor of the boat and I squealed as the fish flopped up and down on my legs, slowly loosing motion on the dry floor. We had our dinner, but Javier let all of us try out the net fishing for ourselves. What followed was excitement, lots of pictures, and many squawks.

Although I was startled as the fish died on my feet, I was also invigorated by the entire scene: Javier tossed in small bait and the fish jumped up higher and higher to catch it in their mouths. The net floating in the water looked like it was bubbling as the fish swarmed below it. The dusk light reflected on their scales and shot off glimmers of brilliant color. Before we hiked back to the hostel, we returned to shore and watched Susana as she calmly descaled, gutted, and cleaned the fish. She was incredibly friendly and allowed me to take pictures. I had lent her my pocketknife, which had been unused until then.

We watched the sunset and then cooked the fish in Max’s kitchen. A huge rainstorm began, and thunder and lightening accompanied our meal. It felt absolutely wonderful to have a fresh meal and dry clothes, and to listen to the noise of rain on the roof. I could occasionally spot La Isla del Sol in the distance when a lighting bolt would illuminate the sky and lake’s horizon.

Javier asked us to wake up early the next morning so that we could get a head start back to Yumani in order to catch a larger boat back to the mainland. I woke up with a sunburn that was almost as stunning as the sunrise. Max and his wife wished us a warm goodbye and asked us to tell our friends on the mainland about the hostel. Max’s wife recommended that I put wet coca leaves on my face to soothe the sunburn. I had nothing else to do on the boat ride back to Yumani, so I leaned back, put wet coca leaves on my face, and sipped the maté that the Argentines were passing around. I let my fingers dip into the sacred waters of the lake as Javier drove us back to the place from where we had come.