Writings By Location| Isla Taquile: Slow Death by Tourism | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |
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| It's Another Taquile Sunrise |
The next day, we woke up around 5am to make a run for the "bathroom" (read: hole in the ground), and catch a gorgeous sunrise from our window, over the mountains of Bolivia. Erin had the good sense to wake up and snap a bunch of photos; I had enough energy to sit up, say "Wow!" , then go right back to sleep until about 7.
As we had no running water here — a public project was proposed to get money together to provide this to the rest of the island — we had to fill our washbasin with some rainwater from a barrel in the courtyard. Erin took a washcloth and rinsed herself off, but I couldn't work up the courage to douse myself with this frigid water, let alone expose my skin to any of the countless, unspellable diseases one can get from standing water. I was perfectly happy with a baby wipe and lots of deodorant.
Having made ourselves as presentable as possible, given our circumstances, we made our way down the stone path toward the pueblo, and up a hill to Francisco's house. At least, that was our intention, until we realized that we didn't remember, after all, which path to take. After a few wrong turns, some arguing between us, we determined that the crazy-looking woman waving her hands in the distance was actually trying to get our attention, not shoo flies away. We followed her up along another path, until she led us right into Francisco's house. The girl appeared to be his daughter, granddaughter, or maybe both.
Just to clarify that, we do believe there's some inbreeding going on in Francisco's family. Our guide actually told us, the day before, that this was becoming an increasing problem here, since the population is so small and so closed. And there were definitely some mild defects and crossed eyes among the children and grandchildren of Francisco's family, and the nearest nuclear power plant is about 7000 miles away, so I don't think that excuse will fly.
At Francisco's house, we were invited to join them for breakfast...though not in person. We were actually seated against the wall in their courtyard, with our pancakes-on-a-plate on our laps, and a tin cup of maté on the ground. It was the most awkward feeling: we were guests, but strangers. Welcome, but only so much. And, only for a fee: 11 soles for the breakfast, which was quite a bit for a paper-thin piece of dough with molasses.
The political debates from the day before began to resonate in our minds, and we realized that while tourism was important to them, too much of it may have rubbed off, requiring them to draw a fine line between the sharing of their customs and the invasion of their personal lives. Or, again, maybe they knew how bad we smelled without that shower.
