Islands of Lake Titicaca

Islands of Lake Titicaca

Vast sea-green lake with displaced Canadian
trout, let me introduce you
to the floating islands made of grasses
-- snack on the lucid roots
for calcium-white teeth and a diluted celery aftertaste --
the islands' foundations, thick patches of soil connected to support
the tentative, dry, straw-coloured layers
that sink beneath your feet, like the floor
of a bouncy castle, nice
on the knees, Señoras display their art
describing arduous detail
-- we try to knock a few soles off the price, then
take a ride on a plaited boat reminiscent
of dragon-faced Viking ships
-- no whitecaps here, calm rises and falls, off
to another floating craft-fair island
with diminutive basket habitations
-- no one huff or puff.

Back on the boat tour to our
overnight spot, greeted at the dock, a troupe
of tourists march up behind their billets
to the mud-brick homes, each outfitted
with a little room
with a little door
for the big visitors
-- did I drink Alice's Wonderland potion?
or maybe coca mate
on the island of Amantani, a yellow-green-brown mound
of terraced garden plots concealing tiny potatoes.

Stout ladies with little legs sticking
out of their puffy petticoated skirts
remind me of half eaten popsicles but twice
as bright, the pinkest pinks, the reddest reds illuminate
against the sun-baked earth
black shawls and bright white embroidered blouses
belted high with a rainbow cummerbund that barely allows breath
-- shallow gasps at this altitude
and supports the bulk born on backs because everything they have up the hill
was once down the hill, at the dock.

Grey light floats around at shoulder height
in the musty but cozy kitchen,
the matriarch by the hearth with a coca leaf on her ailing eye
Señor Onifacio entertains a few questions after quinoa soup,
and we struggle to salivate through seven salty potatoes each.
Then happily sip fragrant minty muña tea from sprigs
that grow along the steep erratic road, part dirt
part step, part cobble stone mosaic.

In the distance, cottony clouds migrate over mountains
across the lake.

At the top of the hill, teenagers meet,
the boys flaunt their portable radio
sets from the mainland, girls flirt back
with gifts of tuques for when the sun
descends, the air is cool.

Night falls and the locals turn
on the tourists, laugh at the gangle of their long pale limbs
imperfect mannequins in folkloric garb, digital
cameras flash like a lightning storm
to capture these clownish moments, down the hill
to the dance, drinka inka cerveza to loosen up
as much as you can in these tough textile layers and dance
to the sounds of the troubadours who tempt the toes to tap
and twirl around a wholesome hoedown, centuries in the making
-- don’t let the tourists make it trite
-- if irony exists here yet.

We walk down the hill, our sojourn complete, we meet
a little man with sun-creased eyes, hunched
under the weight of a giant bolsa, he zig-zags
uphill, a potted pink flower in hand.