A high‑altitude journey toward Lake Titicaca, with alpacas on parade, a crater‑lake picnic, a visit to a local family home, the haunting burial towers of Sillustani, and a slightly chaotic dinner beside the world’s highest navigable lake.
After a breakfast buffet and plenty of coca tea, I joined the coach for our journey to Lake Titicaca. We retraced our route out of the canyon, passing strange moss clinging to the rocks, a plant that can live for 500 years and feels more like stone than anything botanical.
Shepard.
On the way to Sillustani, we stopped at a shepherd’s corral to photograph his alpacas. As we arrived, he was letting them out to graze. They filed out in a perfectly organised line, heading to their feeding spot with the shepherd’s dog trotting behind, keeping order. We learned the shepherd was 65 years old, yet he sprinted after his animals with ease. Meanwhile, I was struggling to breathe properly just walking at this altitude. He must be incredibly fit, or have an excellent supply of coca leaves.
We stopped for a picnic lunch beside a lake inside a volcanic crater. The altitude still made breathing difficult, but I walked up a small mound to admire the deep blue water below. Back near the coach, locals had laid out lunch garments on stone tables, and I bought myself an alpaca cardigan for £15, light, warm, and perfect for cold English winters.
Farmer.
As we continued toward Puno, we visited a family living in a home built from mud brick and dry stone. Their small compound included a living building, a kitchen and a storage hut where manure was kept for fires. The man of the house demonstrated how he and his wife dug the land and planted corn, then showed us how he used a sling to scare off foxes hunting his chickens.
Afterwards, he brought out home‑cooked food for us to try: potatoes, bread, cheese and some excellent corn crackers that I couldn’t resist having more than one of. He was a natural entertainer; in the UK or USA, he’d probably have his own TV show. As we climbed back onto the coach, someone pointed out that none of us had seen him wash his hands between handling cow‑dung patties and serving us food. Best not to dwell on it.
Silustani.
A short drive later, we reached the burial towers at Sillustani. The hill they stand on was once an island, until a cliff collapsed, connecting it to the mainland. We parked at the base and began the climb. The altitude made it tough; we stopped several times to catch our breath, and a few people were sick. I chewed a few coca leaves and pressed on.
At the top, we learned about the burial towers. Local leaders were entombed here, accompanied by alcohol‑fuelled ceremonies and drug‑laced concoctions. Their favoured servants attended the final celebration and were then murdered and buried alongside their masters. The tower we examined had one side blown open by Spanish grave robbers, but intact towers stood further along the ridge.
Hotel.
We continued through Puno to our hotel on the edge of Lake Titicaca. When I reached my ground‑floor room, I looked out the window to find an alpaca grazing just outside, a very Peruvian welcome.
Dinner was unintentionally entertaining. I ordered a starter and a main, but my main course arrived first. I assumed they’d forgotten the soup, but after a few bites of my alpaca dish, the soup appeared, only to be whisked away again when I said I didn’t want both at once. After the meal, while I was having a beer, the soup reappeared yet again. The manager explained that the chef had made it specially. I explained that I wanted it before my meal, not after it. He reluctantly took it away and removed it from the bill.
After another beer and a chat about football with two of my companions, I headed to bed for an early night.
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