So I set sail across the deep blue lake, praying that Pachamama had had her fair share of human sacrifices lately and slightly regretting not having made more offerings to her (you are supposed to pour a little of the first of whatever you drink onto the ground in her name. She´s thirsty. That´s why Bolivia is so damn dry).

It was icy cold outside at 3800m altitude, but the warm sun was breaking through, and the colour of the lake changed as the sky brightened.

We arrived after an hour and a half at the southern end of the Isla del Sol, the port town of Yumani, though town is an exaggeration, it is a little cluster of rustic dwellings perched on a hilltop. The only way to the hilltop is trudging up 240 pre-inca stone steps, with a waterfall running down the side. Apparently there used to be 1000 steps, but the lake is constantly rising, and has swallowed the first 760. Thank God. At a height of 4000m, I thought I was going to die after the climb.

We checked into the world´s worst hostel which allegedly had hot water but we didn´t check that one out (please see Bolivian Suicide Shower #2) the beds were at 45 degree angles (sideways) and it was generally filthy, though as we learned that all inhabitants must carry all their own water up the slopes, I kind of sympathised with the slack spring cleaning.

We looked at the "map" (an outline of the island with a couple of dotted lines traced across it) and were told we would reach the Inca ruins at the far end of the island in two hours, "that way". So we walked "that way". And walked. And walked. And walked. There are no roads on the island, just ancient stone trails which are not too kind on the ankles. We went up and up to the highest peak, and carried on over the crest of the island, gasping at the spectacular views, and even more spectacular lack of oxygen.

Considerably more than two hours later we found the remains of an Inca palace, which was labyrinthine, and Fred managed to lose me amongst the aging stones for some time, as I´d found my way out to the other side, and was admiring the view over the crystal clear waters of a secluded bay. We passed a sacrificial table, and the sacred rock of Titicaca. And then decided it was definitely time for lunch.

The way we had come being rather barren, we decided to take the coastal dotted line back to Yumani, and it was very, very beautiful. The water was turquoise and we paddled, and we passed shepherds and farmers (almost all, it needs to be pointed out, women) herding donkeys and bulls (!) and tiny sqealing pigs and carrying bundles of god knows what in their colourful textiles tied across their backs. We saw waterfalls, and a couple of other lost-looking hikers.

We saw how the rocks changed, from green to rusty red to sandy yellow, and the vegetation changed along with it, with eucalyptus groves (I was sniffing deeply at the seed pods in a futile attempt to relieve the horribly runny nose I seem to have at the slightest hint of high altitude) and ferns and very strange cacti that looked like they had been burnt.

But no sign of civilization... or dinner. Eventually a four year old child came out of nowhere and said "almuerzo?" and we screamed "si!!!" and he led us to a restaurant where we finally rested our lead-heavy legs and ate and ate and ate.

Revived, we set off back to Yumani. If we took the wrong trail we would never get back, so we tried to follow the restaurant owners indications, well aware that the sun would set within a couple of hours, and they don´t have streetlights on the Isla del Sol. We knew we had to cross over a peak, but each turn in the trail led us disappointingly back downwards, and everytime we had to descend we howled with frustration as the steps upwards were becoming agonising, and the air was getting colder. We were told we should be Yumani in an hour and a half, but after walking for an hour and a half, we were told we were still an hour and a half from Yumani. Thus I discovered that the Isla has its own time measurement, very distinct from our own, considerably more optimistic, and it also helps if you were born at high altitude.

We couldn´t stop to rest as the sun was setting fast, and finally we found a trail that crossed the peak, and saw Yumani on the other side. We slumped at a trailside stone table for a celebratory beer, of which liberal amounts were spilled onto the ground in the name of Pachamama, and watched another thunderstorm across the lake in Peru. Bliss.

As we stood up to go back to the hostal, now in pitch darkness except for the (thankfully) full moon, we realised that not only did we not know where our horrible hostal was, but we did not know its name, either. Great. There are no roads on the Isla, so neither are there road names. We staggered and stumbled along the rocks, looking for something familiar, and by some miracle found the right set of stone steps to take us back home. I have never been so happy to crash upon a slanted bed, with a donkey making horrible donkey noises and a terrible trumpet player posted right outside the window.