Arriving at the Amantani Islands we’re greeted by our local family that we were spending the night with. The Island, we were told, is inhabited by around 800 Quechua speaking families, has no electricity, and we were asked to bring gifts of food staples such as rice and oil, and stationary for the children. Sugar products were not recommended as the island has no dental care.
Previously before reaching the Island in a conversation with Hetal.
Hetal, in his British accent – ‘Bet this is just a set up tourist village where they pretend to be poor and primitive and when we leave they all go back to their modern homes with electricity and laugh at us.’
T, laughing and joking along – ‘Yeah, we bring these gifts of oils and grains, thinking we’re giving them survival consumables when all they’re thinking is “what cheap crappy presents?!” They’ll probably dress us up in traditional clothing and make us dance around a fire for kicks’
Cansu, Gemma and I greeted our new ‘papa’ and followed him as he lead us up the rocky hillside to our mud-walled home for the night. Carrying the gifts of shopping up this incline in high altitude while still feeling the nausea from the boat ride was seriously reminding me of the Inca trail. I realised that I had been scarred by the 4 day Inca trekking trauma and now any hilly walk that went on longer than a minute had become like a scary ‘back in nam’(Vietnam) war flashback.
Our lodging was cute. A small 4 single bedder room on the second story of what looked and felt like a quick barn conversion that would have failed the most basic of western construction regulations.
Gemma, seriously – ‘If I turn in my bed I’m going to go through the floor, best not to move’
The most memorable moment was dinner with our host family. Unfortunately, the boat ride had almost killed Cansu, the only spanish speaker of our little trio, and she was too unwell to join us for the meal of egg and rice.
Sitting in the low lit, tiny, combined family room, dining room slash kitchen, was a culture shock. It was so so basic and poor to my western developed standards, yet full of charm and cultural character, that I admittedly wondered ‘is this a set up?’
With Cansu out of action, Gemma only knowing to ask the basics like ‘what is your name’, and me knowing fuck all spanish, this dinner lasted for what felt like 4 awkward hours with 2 sets of English/Spanish-speaking language phrase books being flicked through and the only end result being semi successfully asking if our papa had any children. ‘yes, 4 children who are already adults who study on the mainland in Arequipa’
Exhausted from the effort of trying to communicate that single sentence and translate the response, Gemma and I decided to skip being dressed up in traditional clothing and save ourselves from dancing around a fire. The evening spent with our Papa, mama, and sister had been quality enough.
As we lay in bed listening to the loud heaving rain on the thin roof, fearful that it was going to cave-in in any second.
T to Gemma – ‘Is this the experience you came looking for?’
Gemma, wanting to turn to her side but terrified of the threatening creaks that each movement brought – ‘Yes.. I think it is’ laughing.
The next morning after saying goodbye to our ‘papa’
Gemma , with a look of ridiculous wonder on her face – ‘ When ‘papa’ said goodbye to you, did he grab your arse?’
Tiara in Transit 