A long time ago the children of the sun god rose from Lake Titicaca to found the Inca empire. When their descendants were faced with defeat they hid their gold in the lake’s icy waters to save it from the plundering Spanish.

This may be a legend, but for the Uros Indians, there is gold in the lake — the gold of the totora reed which forms the basis of their whole existence. They live on floating islands made of the stuff, they build their houses and boats from it, they even eat it.
The original Uros were a small ethnic group who were forced onto the lake centuries ago to escape the domination of the Incas. Since then, they have been engaged in a continual struggle to stay afloat, both economically and literally. The reeds rot away at the bottom and have to be constantly renewed from the top. Soon this may no longer by a problem. Over the last few years the water level has been sinking fast and the islands are going along with it.

For years the Uros lived in abject poverty, eeeking out an existence from fishing and hunting birds. They intermarried with other groups and many left to work on dry land. Then tourism arrived. Every day boatloads of visitors are deposited on the springy surface of the little islands to be met by piles of gaudy weavings, miniature reed boats and postcards drawn and coloured by the children. Provided you buy something you can take as many pictures as you like.

Most boat trips allow only 20 minutes on the island. It’s enough. Some say tourism has been instrumental in preserving this unique lifestyle, but you get the feeling it’s now little more than a tourist spectacle. The culture has rotted away like the reeds. The Uros are sinking in more ways than one.

Travel agents in Puno, the main port on the Peruvian side of the lake, run all-inclusive trips that take in the Uros as well as the large islands of Taquile and Amantani. At 35 soles (about £10), they are almost ludicrously cheap as they include several hours of boat travel, overnight accommodation on Amantani and three meals.

Lake Titicaca, at over 3800 metres, is the highest navigable lake in the world. The steep climb to the centre of Taquile left us gasping for breath. At this altitude the sun’s rays cut through the thin air like laser beams, burning all exposed skin and even the parting in your hair.

A straggle of curious children accompanied us. Their cheeks are rosy, not with health but with soreness from the sun and the biting cold at night. When they took our hands their skin felt like dry leaves.

Taquile has a harsh beauty. Yellow is the predominant colour — striking against the deep blue of the lake. From the small harbour you labour up a rocky path through a landscape of ancient Inca terraces punctuated by eucalyptus trees and small farmsteads.

On islands like this all over the world men sit outside coffee bars smoking and playing cards. On Taquile island, they sit around the main square and knit. Everybody knits. The fine wool and alpaca garments and intricate weavings produced are justifiably famous and a great source of interest to tourists.

Having seen the negative impact tourism has had on the Uros, the inhabitants of Taquile are making a concerted effort to control it and preserve their culture and values. Traditionally the island has been run as a collective with most land communally owned. To avoid the social divisions that arise when there is competition for tourist sales products are sold through a co-operative in the main square. A proportion of the profits go into a social fund which is used to benefit the whole community or to help needy individuals. In contrast to the Uros, the hard-sell is noticeably absent.

Other facilities for tourists are kept to a minimum. Around the square are a few small restaurants serving succulent pink trout from the lake, but there are no hotels and visitors who wish to stay overnight are accommodated by local families.

However, in the high season, Taquile can see around 200 visitors a day and it’s hard to stop the cultural impact of such an invasion. As you pass by, children hiss hopefully “caramela, caramela”? But their demands for sweets are whispered shyly as if their parents have warned them it is undignified to beg. It’s probably better to bring fruit with you which is in short supply.

Amantani is the most remote and least visited of the islands. many of the older people speak only the ancient Aymara language and, like the Taquile islanders, they are keen to preserve their traditional lifestyle.

As soon as we climbed ashore a group of curious islanders circled us — the women in voluminous skirts of turquoise or magenta and traditional black scarves. As on Taquile, there are no hotels and tourists are shared out amongst the families. We followed Irma, the daughter of our allotted family as she trotted up the steep cobbled path to the village. We struggled to keep up, gasping for oxygen.

Irma’s family home was a two-storey, mud brick house built around a courtyard. It was carefully whitewashed and the little doors were painted vivid blue and green. The courtyard was cobbled with black and white pebbles arranged in a pattern. We were shown to a simple room with beds made of bundles of reeds. There was no electricity, and water for washing had to be laboriously hauled up from the lake. At the back of the house they had dug a toilet pit — a concession to the tourists. It was open with a few sparse bushes to provide some privacy.

Irma’s mother disappeared into the smoky kitchen to prepare our lunch. In the corner were a large family of cute guinea pigs munching a bundle of greens, blissfully unaware that they were being fattened up for future dinners. “Cuy” is an Andean delicacy. I was very relieved when our meal turned out to be a vegetable soup with little curly shoots of quinoa, a grain unique to the Andes. The island food is largely vegetarian with quinoa, unusual in that it is a complete protein, one of the staples.

After lunch we climbed to an Inca ruin at the top of the island. The landscape was a maze of small fields bordered by dry stone walling. The late afternoon sun turned everything to gold. The clarity of the light was incredible and in the distance you could make out the snow-covered peaks of the Bolivian mountains on the other side of the lake. That evening we were invited to a “fiesta” in the main plaza. The little community hall was warm with gaslight and there was a makeshift bar. Musicians in traditional costume provided rousing pan pipe music, accompanied by guitars and drums. Tiny children took our hands and twirled us around in a wild dance.

The whole thing was obviously put on for the benefit of the tourists, but the locals were having too good a time and only remembered to bring round the collection hat when most visitors had already left. They had a lot to learn about making money from tourists.
They are fiercely proud of their culture, but who wants to live a life of poverty in this harsh environment? You get the feeling they’ll soon be chasing their lost gold as hard as everyone else — they know the gringos have it. Lets just hope it doesn’'t turn out to be fools’ gold.