Except for lake-fishing, the career paths that lie open to the people of Uros are limited on the islands. They could go ashore, but many inevitably find that when working onshore, it is easier to live onshore – and leave the islands.

Once or twice a day, the peace of the lake is broken by tourist boats, and loud, gullible foreigners pour onto the islands.

Demonstrations on how to make an island are given, souvenirs are sold, and rides in ‘traditional’ boats are offered. Some islands also have restaurants and B&Bs.

It is hectic on the islands while this goes on. It is possible to understand the point of view of people who after an hour of this chaos dismisses the Uros as a commercial hell-hole.

Visitors are going to feel bad about not buying the stuff that the big-eyed and colourfully dressed Uros-people are displaying. The islanders know this, and they also know that by making you feel just a little bit worse, you may buy something.

But this is a game. You should, of course, buy something. The islanders should be left with some reward for the trouble of having you. It would, however, have felt better if this was included in the tour. That is not the nature of things in Puno.

Looking past that, the Uros Islands remain unique. They may not be life-altering but exciting nonetheless. I, for one, am happy to have been there.

Stepping from the boat and onto a floating island is a peculiar feeling. You are standing on something that is not entirely solid, nor yet do you sink through.

There are many tiny islands. Each one is surrounded by water, and to visit your neighbour or school, you must use a boat. The school also happens to be floating.

As a bonus, the Uros Islands also sit in a spectacularly beautiful natural setting. Brace yourself for the onslaught of sales, but go. Next time—if I’m lucky enough that there’ll be one—I’ll stay overnight.

I had read up on the floating Uros Islands before arriving in Puno. I had become particularly fond of a message board, that discussed the relative merits of visiting these islands.
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Public opinion was divided. On the one hand, a visit to the Uros Islands was a life-altering experience that must not under any circumstance be missed. On the other hand, they were a terrible tourist trap, devoid of anything or anyone authentic, and should be avoided at any cost.
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The users had strong and polarized views on the topic. The discussion had descended into an exchange of personal insults before finally being terminated by the moderator.

One user had raised questions about the mental health of another user’s family. That user had then proceeded to describe in rich and colourful language, into what part of the human anatomy, he thought the first user might profitably stuff his head.
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The camp that appeared to gain the most traction on the message board argued that to learn anything about Inca culture, it would be necessary to move here. If you would simultaneously buy a poncho, take up pan-flute playing and start worshipping the sun-God, Inti, this might well be a start. Scratching the surface, so to speak.
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While this might well have been so, I didn’t have that much time at my disposal. And since there wasn’t a poncho in South-America that would fit over my head, I had decided that the Uros Islands were for me.
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A month in advance, I had prearranged a boat to pick me up at my hotel at dawn. From time to time, I had pondered over what sort of boat I might have rented. I had paid a pretty hefty price for it, but then again, it was a special request. In my head, I had pictured a tiny boat with an outboard motor.
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As I approached the pier at Hotel Libertador, I saw my mistake. Instead of a rowing boat, I had an extensive tour boat with a capacity of thirty or more passengers wholly to myself.
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I also had a captain and a guide that I didn’t know exactly what to use for.

As my Uros cruise began, we passed by a boat of the type I had expected to find myself in. And that is the photo above.

My mid-life crisis had primarily been a peaceful experience; there was no motorbike in my garage. Notwithstanding, some profound change had come over me. I had started to consider security when choosing travel destinations. Until recently, I had felt that a high crime-rate added to the ‘exoticism’ of a place.

This time, I had not overlooked that Lonely Planet described Puno in terms that could only be called unfavourable. I had therefore booked myself into an upmarket establishment just outside Puno, the Hotel Libertador.

This was a perfectly serviceable accommodation machine – but lacked in personality. Encased in a white concrete box, it had a large atrium lobby with an unremarkable bar and an indifferent souvenir shop. There was also a jewellery stall awaiting husbands who had made or were about to make, expensive mistakes.

On the positive side, however, I was not robbed. Nobody with sinister intentions seemed to take any interest in me. Nor did the reception manager or the bartender.

I decided to call it a night.

The altitude didn’t agree with me, and I woke up several times from shortness of breath during the small hours. Finally, it turned out to be morning. A fire was lit in the eastern sky, and I could see the blue-to-orange gradient of the sky mirrored in the water. A small boat made its way out on the lake through a corridor between the reeds.

Dizzy with anticipation, or possibly suffering from oxygen deprivation, I leapt to my feet without bothering to dress.

Finally, I had seen Lake Titicaca through my own eyes. And on the backdrop of my floodlit room, Lake Titicaca, without ever having had a say in the matter, could see me.