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headed straight to Cuzco, where all the mochileros start out on their trips to the legendary city of Machu Picchu, the ancient Inca capital, but I preferred to make a brief detour and visit the storied island.

Taquile rises out of Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world. The shores of the lake were filthy, but when one looked out toward the horizon, the water was shimmering. Mountainous islands peeked through the mist that blanketed the lake. It was a beautiful sight.

I had no difficulty finding the ferry. In effect, it found me.

‘Taquile or Los Uros?’ a small boy asked me.
‘Taquile,’ I answered.

He led me to a boat on which a few people were already waiting: a few young Germans and a group of French youths, who were staying at the same hotel as I was. I took a seat close to the stern and read a book.

Soon it was time to start. The pilot, an Indian, stuck out a long pole, which he used as both rudder and oar, and gestured to the boy to cast off the rope securing the nose of the boat and push us away from the dock.

‘Espera, espera [wait]!’ a mochilero running, panting, cried breathlessly, and climbed down into the boat. ‘I almost missed it,’ he said to the Indian in Spanish, ‘gracias.’

He sat beside me, and as I moved to make room for him, he smiled at me. ‘You’re Israeli,’ he said in English.