Though the weather was clear when we departed, a squall blew up midway on the three-hour trip. Waves broke over the boat which vertiginously pitched in the waves as water sloshed into the glass-enclosed cabin. I mouthed the words to the theme song from Gilligan’s Island and was rewarded with a sharp elbow in the ribs from Louisa. The weather cleared an hour later.
Our purpose on Taquile, population 2,000, besides tourism, was to meet the matriarchal Quechuans who lived there, and to assist by harvesting vegetables or teaching at the local school. Our hostess was Elvira, an indeterminably-aged Indian woman with a face lined from unceasing work framed in long dark hair. Her husband, Marcus, and son, Yolver, completed our host family, but it was Elvira who walked us around the pathways of the vehicle-free island.
We had arrived equipped with a Quechuan-Spanish-English cheat-sheet of phrases, but most communication consisted of pointing; Louisa and Yolver communicated by drawing pictures.
The third day, in the afternoon, Elvira guided us to the school building, complete with a three-quarter-sized concrete soccer pitch. The goals were iron pipes. Here, we met other visitors and learned it was time for the weekly soccer game, tourists vs. townies.
Having played in high school and college, I fancied myself a decent soccer player. Local and tourist spectators, including Louisa, sat on the stone walls surrounding the pitch. My problem, even after a week in Peru, was that I still had trouble catching my breath at that altitude, as did many of the other visitors.
The game began with the mountain of Pachamama (named for the Mother Earth Goddess) in the background, rising another thousand feet above the pitch. The visitors had the moves, even if we were huffing and puffing like out-of-shape gym rats. We jumped out to a two-nothing lead and, after about twenty minutes, were still up four-two. Many of our players spent more time doubled over than chasing the ball. A whistle blew after thirty minutes and we crawled to the sidelines for a cup of coca tea to counteract the altitude.
Some of our players began heading back toward their guest homes. “No,” the game’s referee announced, “you don’t understand. The tradition is the game continues until the home team wins!”
A few minutes into the second period, the islanders took the lead. We ceased our slow-motion running and shook hands, then I dizzily weaved down the path in the direction of Elvira’s. I don’t remember much of the rest of the afternoon, until dinnertime, when it was time to catch a Guinea pig from the corral in Elvira’s smoky kitchen.