Writings By Date| Isla Taquile: Slow Death by Tourism | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |
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| Family Pet |
With our packs dropped off, and our bearings beginning to emerge, Manuel departed for his boat, and Francisco led the two of us to the main pueblo, about 10 minutes away. The plaza was filled with a huge crowd...although "huge" here is relative, comprising in this case of about 20 locals and maybe 30 tourists. In the center of the main building's garden stood a line of official-looking men, dressed in their full, traditional garb, having some sort of debate with a half dozen men to one side of the plaza. The officials spoke mostly in Quechua, leaving us pretty much in the dark, but the other group spoke in Spanish. The best we could make out was that it was some form of political debate. We later learned we were right: the point of the debate wasn't 100% clear, but it was centered around the impact all the tourism was having on the island's culture. The chief problems were with among the children and teenagers, who began to feel a need to rebel a little more than usual, by not dressing in the traditional garb and just being generally obnoxious teens. Ah, these kids are the same all the world over. No damn respect for their elders!
After listening for a while, Francisco walked us up a steep hill behind the plaza to his house. He was quick to show us the various belts and hats he had made, making us feel compelled to buy one, since he was, technically, our host. Erin picked out a belt for US$ 35, for which I gave him two 20 dollar bills (the first time I had to go into my emergency money belt). He seemed very confused and/or concerned, since they were so folded. In fact, after starting down the hill to get them changed in town, he even ran back to us a few minutes later indicating that one of the bills was torn — about 1/32 of an inch at the edge, along the fold. Jeez, they really must have issues with counterfeiting here, to be that serious. We swapped the bill for another, and Francisco promised to get us change later. (Yeah, we've heard that story a million times in Latin America.)
We left there with our belt and our free friendship bracelets (or whatever they're called by mature adults, I have no idea), and walked up the hill some more toward some very basic, pre-Incan ruins. It was just a small temple, nothing amazing, but it offered spectacular views of the rest of the island, not to mention the menacing storm clouds headed our way across the lake from Bolivia. So we hiked back down to the pueblo and sat in the community restaurant, drinking coca tea and maté de muña (sort of like mint, but with a hint of anise). We passed the time doing crossword puzzles, which fascinated the locals, and talking to a New Hampshire couple with whom we crossed paths briefly along the trail to the ruins.
