Lago En El Cielo

---

Lake in the Sky

After a series of micros and a ferry, Anna and I finally end up in a shared taxi leaving a tiny village on its way to Copacabana on Lake Titicaca. The taxi - a station wagon - is already full by the time we arrive. But there is a blanket folded in the trunk section, so we throw our packs up on the luggage rack, and crawl inside.

Seated backwards with our knees scrunched up to our chests, we watch the road fly away from beneath us through the rear window. The hilly and winding road is lined with beautiful green trees and grass that permeate the air with the pristine scent of forest.

As we come around the corner of a hill, the lake comes into view below us. Titicaca is the highest commercially navigable lake in the world at over 3,800m (12,400+ft), and the largest in South America by volume. It lies on the border between Perú and Bolivia and is shared by both countries.

The taxi drops us off on a corner of Avenida 6 de Agosto - the main strip of town that runs uphill from the lakeshore. Anna and I walk up the street and take a room in the first hostel we find.

We have two main objectives during our stay here. One is to take a day hike between Copacabana and a village further up the coast called Yampupata. It is supposed to be a nice walk with a great view of the lake. This is normally done by taking a taxi to Yampupata and then walking back to Copacabana. That is because it can be nearly impossible to find a taxi in Yampupata if you walk the other direction first. I guess we'll just close our eyes in the taxi to keep from spoiling the view.

The second objective is to take a boat out to La Isla del Sol - The Island of the Sun. This was a sacred place for the Incas, who were sun worshippers. The island is where the sun was believed to have been born.

The problem is money. There was no ATM in Sorata, and evidently Copacabana hasn't managed to obtain one either - despite its status as a popular tourist destination. There is a bank that gives cash advances on credit cards. This is an expensive option due to the commission they charge, but it is the only option left to us considering we only have about 80 Bolivianos between the two of us. That is enough to survive until the bank opens tomorrow (Tuesday) afternoon at 2pm, but we won't be doing much else.

After exploring the small town a bit, we walk down to the lake, which is lined with a dozen or so small restaurants. One particularly pleasant place is run by a friendly elderly couple. Trucha (trout) is a daily staple here - even more so than in the rest of the country. We order it "al Ajo" (al Garlic). It is fresh and delicious.

In our advanced state of destitution, we kill the rest of the day in an internet cafe catching up on emails and then walk back to the lake to watch the sunset.

-

On Tuesday, we get up early, grab our daypacks filled with water bottles and cameras, and hit the street. We're going to try and do the Yampupata walk during the first half of the day and make it back to Copacabana by the time the bank opens. We return to the same restaurant for breakfast. The old woman who runs the place smiles and wishes us a good morning. She knows she's gained a few regulars - if only for a few days.

After breakfast, we walk back up 6 de Agosto to where a few taxis are parked. We spot the guy that dropped us off yesterday and ask him how much for a ride to Yampupata. The cost is a little more than everything we have in our wallets. I didn't realize it would be so expensive.

"Sorry, but it's up and down all the way," he explains. "Really hard on the gas mileage."
"Ok, is there a micro that goes back and forth?" I ask.

The guy is friendly and honest, and tells us we can catch one on the other side of town. He gives us directions on how to get to the street where it stops every half hour or so.

We head off in the direction he told us, but stop and ask again after twenty minutes as we don't know the town too well. We spend the next hour or so walking around to different streets and getting different sets of directions. Never fails. The people mean well, but I think they jus aren't quite sure where to go, and don't want to be unhelpful.

We finally give up and sit down on a curb to take a break and have some apples from my pack.

"It's getting late. At this rate, we won't get back to town until 4pm," I say gloomily.
"Yeah, and who knows how long banks in places like this stay open. Maybe two hours, maybe four," says Anna.
"You read my mind precisely."
"Ok, so we can just go have lunch and wait for the bank to open. We can do the walk tomorrow, and go to the island the day after."
"Deal."

One of the town's few taxis cruises up the road and stops outside a shop in front of us. The driver runs in for a bottle of Coke. When he comes back out, he notices us sitting on the curb with our chins in our hands.

"Hola! Necesitan un private taxi?" he asks in fluent Spanglish.
"Yeah, to Yamaputa!" Anna responds hopefully.

The driver pauses for a moment and looks at me. We both burst out laughing.

Yamaputa. As in 'llama puta'. As in 'call the prostitute'?

"Yampupata?" asks the driver.
"Yeah!" says Anna who is now laughing at herself, having realized what she said.

He gives us a similar price as before.

"Sorry, man. We're in economic crisis until the bank opens," I reply. "Maybe tomorrow."
"Ok, hasta mañana then. Good luck."

Still giggling, he gets back in the cab and drives away.

We take our time wandering back down to the lake. Since they are cheaper, we decide to try one of the other simple restaurants further up the shore.

The food turns out to be not nearly as good, but the tables are further from the front door and closer to the lake.

I order a beer. There is something about sitting near the water on a sunny day with a beer that is irresistible. Back in Madrid, my roommate and I used to sit on a terrace in front of the pond in Retiro Park on Sunday afternoons in June for hours on end in happy agreement on this fact.

After careful observation for nearly a month, I am convinced that there is one stray dog in Bolivia for every four citizens. Quite a few of them are down here by the shore lying in the sun and lurking around the outdoor tables hoping for a scrap of food. The owners can't stand this, and occasionally shoo them away with a broom. But they always come back.

Anna and I don't mind. They are very well-behaved and polite. There are two black dogs hovering around our table, and we take turns tossing folds of fish scraps to them when the waitress isn't looking. At the end of the meal, I slide the tip of my knife into the mouth of the trout head left on my plate.

"What are you doing?" asks Anna.
"Catapult. Tell me when she looks away."
She pauses for several seconds, "Ok, now."

With a flick of my wrist, I send the head soaring in a parabola across the table and toward the dog sitting a few feet away. The velocity was a little overdone, so the smelly fish head smacks the dog right between the eyes. He jumps back in surprise before realizing his luck and devouring the head in a few gulps.

-

At 2pm, we walk to the bank. A long line of people trails out into the street.

"God, good thing we didn't get here at 4. We might have had a problem," says Anna.
"No kidding."

Once we get inside and revitalize our economic positions in the world, we walk out and head up the street toward the hostel to drop some stuff off. Behind me, I suddenly hear a series of high pitch sounds and indistinguishable words that can only be produced by two girls recognizing each other. I turn and see Anna hugging someone. I walk over to see who it is.

Too my surprise, it is Patricia from The Netherlands, a girl who was in our hostel room way back in San Pedro, Chile. I always read about backpackers running into each other hundreds or thousands of miles up the road, but it is still very weird when it happens.

The three of us stand in the street catching up for several minutes and make plans to meet outside our hostel tonight for dinner.

It's a small world, after all.

-

At the north end of the beach, there is a large hill that towers above everything. In the early evening, Anna and I walk around to the back to find the trail that leads us to the top. It's a steep climb, but we get there with plenty of time to catch the sunset.

There are three or four other people at the top enjoying the scene. One man sits with a sketchpad and occasionally glances up at the horizon as he swipes the side of a pencil tip across the paper.

We all sit for the better part of an hour and watch the sun slowly lower itself into Lake Titicaca. Every ten minutes or so, we take photos of a radically different set of colors and fiery clouds that make the scene from ten minutes before look mundane.

Once the sun has returned to its birthplace and has been extinguished by the water, we get up and make our way back down the hill.

Down and Out in Copacabana

By the time we make it back down the hill, the sunlight has disappeared and the lights of Copacabana have taken over. We walk back to the hostel and wait outside the front door for Patricia. A few minutes later, she and her friend Sara show up. We do introductions and walk downhill toward the lake where the girls know a good restaurant.

We have dinner and swap travel stories. Patricia and Sara met in Thailand while doing volunteer work and have kept in touch.

It turns out that Patricia went hiking in Colca Canyon in Perú after leaving Chile. This is where I will be going next, so I hit her with a volley of annoying questions. She tells me it is beautiful and actually really easy to do.

"After doing Machu Picchu, the elevation there really isn't bad at all."
"I'm not worried about the elevation," I say leaning forward. "Are there rocks? I can't tell you how sick I am of climbing all over rocks."
"No, no rocks. The trails are all nice and clear. You'll love it!"
"Good, can't wait," I sit back and sip my wine.

After dinner, we go to a bar across the street. The place is loaded with tourists. We take a table in the corner and look over the drink menu.

"What on Earth is a White Russian?" asks Anna.
"One of my favorites," I respond. "It's like an alcoholic milkshake. Vodka, Kahlúa, and milk. I think I'll get one, actually."
"You never had a White Russian?" asks Patricia. "I thought Poland was famous for vodka."
Anna covers her face and laughs, "Don't get Tony started on this one."
"We think maybe she was adopted from outside the country," I say in a hushed and sympathetic voice.

In the end, Anna screws up her courage and orders one with me. Patricia and Sara order some frou frou tropical drinks that have equally little to do with Andean Bolivia.

The cocktails come out and we continue chatting while sucking the drinks through little tiny straws.

Why do they always put three or four of the straws in the glass?

Before we finish the round, Anna slides the remaining half of her drink over in front of me.

"Don't like it?" I ask.
"It's good. But it's too much on top of the wine I already had."
"Ok, want some water or something?"
"No, I'm going to go ahead and go to bed. I drank too much."

The Dutch girls and I whine and protest. Don't go. The night is young. Etcetera.

But she's really zonked and loopy, so she insists.

"Ok well want me to go with you?" I ask.
"No, no, of course not. I'm fine. The hostel is just a block away."
"Ok, you're sure?"
"Yes!"

I dig through my backpack for the key to our room and hand it to her. The girls wish her a good night and negotiate a time to have lunch tomorrow.

After she leaves, we finish our drinks and decide this place is a little dull.

"We know a great little pub up the street owned by some Argentineans. We went there last night and loved it."
"Sounds perfect."

We pay the tab and move to the Argentine bar a few doors down. It is a cozy and dimly lit place with short tables and puffy chairs all around. The music of Gotan Project and Federico Aubele drifts from the sound system and gives it a hip Buenos Aires feel. We gather around one of the midget tables near the door and order a bottle of wine.

Not long after the Malbec is poured into our glasses, two tall and slender young women come to the front of the bar with microphones and face the rest of the bar. The music fades and is replaced with a momentary whine of feedback as the input signal is switched to the microphones.

They introduce themselves as two sisters from Buenos Aires and proceed to give a somewhat comical bio of their early lives in the form of rapid back and forth completion of each other's sentences. Patricia and Sara speak a little Spanish, but the Argentine accent is tripping them up a little. So I do my best to softly translate on the fly. Processing it into English is a bit difficult as I tread over the obscure references to "the old days" in blue-collar neighborhoods like La Boca.

The job gets a bit easier when they switch to singing jazz songs from the golden age of Argentine film and theater of the 40's and 50's.

At the end, everyone applauds loudly and one of the sisters walks around with a derby hat to accept coins as payment. We all throw several Bolivianos in and thank them. They then bellow a farewell to the bar in their thick Porteño accents and head out the door.

The tango-fusion music comes back on and the dull roar of conversation slowly returns to its original level.

Patricia and Sara converse for a moment in Dutch.

"Do you know how to play Shithead?" asks Patricia.
"I'm a backpacker," I reply, smiling.
"Right. Of course you do! Want to play?"
"Always."
"Ok, but we'll probably have to teach you the Dutch version of the rules."
"Bring it on."

Sara pulls a deck of cards from her purse and starts dealing. They both explain to me the variation of the 'trick cards'. You can't do this. You can't do this. You can do that. But not this. The rules are brutal.

Sara deals, and we play.

The first few rounds are murder. The girls slaughter me as I struggle to adjust my strategy.

Eventually, I adapt and stop losing outright. Patricia starts losing round after round.

The problem is Sara. She is some sort of Shithead genius. She can see what's going to happen six turns ahead of time, and has a perfect strategy for every move. As soon as Patricia drops out of a round, Sara obliterates me.

After about an hour of play, the champion starts yawning, "Guys, I'm done. I'm going to bed."
"Ok," says Patricia. She looks at me "Another bottle of wine?"
"I'm up for it if you are."
"Ok."

Sara says good night and leaves.

Shithead is a game that technically works between two people, but isn't nearly as much fun. We play a few rounds and get bored.

Patricia looks over my shoulder, "What about them?"

I look back and see a longer table surrounded by a low sofa and several beanbag chairs. There are four or five guys and a few girls. They are tossing cards back and forth onto the table and talking boisterously.

"Worth a shot," I say, turning back around.

We grab the wine and our cards and walk over to the table packed with Argentineans.

"Mind if we join you guys for a game?" Patricia asks in her broken but well-pronounced Spanish.

She's smoking hot, so of course the guys all simultaneously agree amiably and make some room for us to squeeze in. Works every time. We all shake hands and make introductions.

They proceed to explain the rules of the game they are playing. It is insanely complicated. Ace of Spades means one thing. Ace of Diamonds means something else. Twos are this, except in this case. Fives are this, except for Five of Spades. Patricia and I exchange looks of terror.

"You know, this is probably a bit complex to learn so late in the evening, we should probably try something a little simpler or we'll never finish a game," says one of the guys.
"Good idea, do you know Yaniv?" asks Patricia.

None of them know it, so she and I deal out a few sample hands and start explaining. I start describing the flow and rules to the left half of the table while Patricia handles the right. Occasionally I turn and correct her grammar or vocabulary so that we don't end up playing two different games. They all get it quick enough and we start playing.

The group is very friendly and we have a great time playing, talking, and laughing. Most of them are traveling like us. But a few are actually working here for a short time to save some money.

We play several rounds, and one of the guys running the place comes out and taps his watch, "Sorry guys, I gotta close up. There's a curfew of midnight."

He says the last part, "there's a curfew", in English. I assume he means closing time. I look at my watch. It's 2am. I look back up at the guy.

He grins and shrugs his shoulders, "Oops!"

We say goodbye to the table - the only group left in the bar - and most of them head out the door. Patricia and I linger a few minutes more to try and find more or less exact change to pay our tab. Breaking large bills in South America can be a tremendous pain.

From the warm, orange glow of the tavern and its faint ambience of electronic tango, we exit into a dark, briskly cold night of dead silence. Lit by a few street lights, we can see that the previously bustling main avenue has completely shut down. Metal shutters have been pulled down to cover all the restaurant and pub doors.

"He wasn't kidding when he said 'curfew'," I say putting my jacket on.

Patricia and I stand and talk in the deserted street for a few minutes more. Then we say goodnight and she walks down the hill toward the lake where her hostel is. I make my way uphill toward mine.

When I get to my block, I stop. Like the rest of the street, all the businesses have metal shutters pulled down. There are three doors in the middle - one of which is the hostel. But I'm not entirely sure which. The shutters make them indistinguishable by covering all individual traces of identity, including signs.

Which one do I knock on? Which one has a warm and comfortable bed awaiting me beyond? What kind of screwed up backpacker game show have I walked into?

I'm pretty sure it's the one in the middle, so I go up and knock on one of the metal slabs of the shutter. I allow a minute to pass and knock again a little louder.

I do this twice more and then try the other two doors.

No answer.

With some careful concentration, I'm convinced the door in the middle is the hostel. I go back and rap my fist on the shutter. It's loud enough to be heard up and down the street. I hate making noise, but I need to get in.

No answer.

I let five minutes go by to give someone a chance to open the door. These are five minutes I use to consider what to do if no one does.

No one does.

I walk down the street toward the lake. I haven't seen Patricia, so I have to assume she had better luck. Hopefully, they have their door open and I can get a bed for the night. It will be worth the extra $5.

The entire avenue tells the same story. Ghostly silent storefronts and restaurants have their nocturnal armor lowered and fastened. If any of them are welcoming hostels, I can't tell. I continue down the street all the way to the lake and never see a sign of life or lodging. The breeze from the water is bitter cold, so I hike back up the hill to Anna and I's hostel.

I knock one more time and wait. I consider just sitting on the sidewalk in front of the door if no one answers. This idea is quickly abandoned when I hear a pack of drunken fools yelling and laughing a few blocks away. The main street is well lit and I would stand out quite well. This is a small town, and I don't think it's dangerous at all. But the middle of the night is the middle of the night. I'm not going to risk it.

Convinced no one will answer, I go further up the hill and turn left off the main street. I walk several blocks into a darker neighborhood. I'm looking for a place to sit where I won't be seen or bothered. The problem is that all the doorways have those damn shutters pulled down. This means there are no entry ways to give a bare minimum of shelter.

After walking up and down several streets, I finally find a shop with a large doorway with its shutter set further in. The doorstep is a good two feet deep and provides a dark corner to sit.

The only thing I'm really worried about is my backpack. It has my camera inside. It is something I don't want to lose in the middle of traveling. I have a modest amount of cash on me, but nothing I would miss. I always leave my passport and bank card in the hostel, so they aren't a problem, either. It's all about the camera.

Keeping the pack on, I take a seat on the cold concrete of the doorstep and gently lean against the wall - being careful to position the camera down low to avoid damaging it. I bring my knees up to my chest, rest my head against the solid wall, and close my eyes.

A few minutes later, I hear the scraping of dog paws trotting around the corner of the intersection in front of me. A skinny mutt walks up and looks at me. I wave my hand at him as a motion to go away. He takes the hint and scampers off.

Another five minutes go by and I hear another one - this time from behind. I keep my eyes closed until I hear the steps stop. I look down to my right and see the dog peering around the doorway at me. With eye contact established, he walks forward into full view and faces me. It's a big dog, and could almost be a golden lab were it not for the other five or ten breeds splashing around in his internal gene pool.

I repeat the waving of hands in his face and hissing for him to go away. He just stands there and gazes at me. He turns his head to look at the rest of the doorway and sniffs at the air.

Great. This must be his turf.

I reach back to unzip my pack and pull out a banana I have leftover from earlier. I peel it and toss it in front of him. He lowers his head to sniff at the fruit. After giving it a few unimpressed licks, he looks back up at me and continues to stare.

"Sorry, I'm all out of hamburgers," I say.

But the gesture evidently works. He wags his bushy tail a few times, walks over to the other half of the doorway, and lies down at my feet.

Fair enough.

I reach into my pack again and pull out my utility knife. Just in case.

"What are you planning on doing with that?" asks the dog, keeping his head down.
"There are vagrants walking the streets. I'm not going to kill anyone to protect a lousy camera. But I can sure as hell surprise them with it if they try anything. That buys me five seconds to start running. And I can run fast - altitude or no altitude."

I flip the duller of the two blades out and pull the sleeve of my jacket down over my hand. I rest the hand down between my legs and chest and cover it with the other.

Sleeping on the streets. How the hell do I get myself into these situations? I don't do it on purpose.

George Orwell did. He spent time living with tramps and vagabonds just to write a book. I suppose I'll get a good blog entry out of it.

"Good night, George," I murmur to the dog.

He lifts up his head and blinks at me a few times.

"Well, I'm not about to roll you over to check to see if you're a Georgina. So we'll stick with George."
"Ok," says George, putting his head back down.

I lean my head back and close my eyes again.

I doze off. Occasionally, I awake to the sound of barking dogs, but they are all several blocks away. A few dogs trot into the street and stop in front of our doorway. But seeing it occupied, they move on.

About an hour into this strange experience, I hear another dog approaching from behind. When I hear him stop next to me, I look over at the newcomer. This dog is dark and more forlorn than the others. Unlike George's floppy Labrador ears, this one has two ragged triangles protruding from his narrow head.

The triangles fall backward ever so slightly as a low, hostile growl rumbles from the canine's throat.

I don't move. This is a dog, not a jungle puma. He won't attack if I don't. But if he is rabid? He'll attack for no reason.

He is about five feet from me. I become aware of the muscles in my right arm. If he comes at me, the best I can do is bring the blade of the knife out and cause him to fall on it. I don't want to kill a dog anymore than a human being, but we're not talking about a camera anymore.

And if he gets a bite in before the blade sinks into his throat or chest? How long do I have to get medical attention without having had a rabies shot recently? Twelve hours? Five days? I can't remember.

All of these thoughts run through my mind in less than three seconds. Before they are even finished, George leaps to his feat and runs at the dog with a snarling growl of his own that blossoms into a full-blown series of barks. He chases the invader down the street to the end of the block.

Satisfied that the intruder is gone, he jogs back over to the doorway and lies down again - this time resting his chin on the top of my shoes.

Good boy.

Sleep, which was already shallow and light, won't come again. I was only half-concerned about vagrants or drunks picking on me in the night. Now I evidently have to worry about Cerberus digging his way up from some Andean version of Hades and injecting my blood with a neuroinvasive viral infection from a pair of jaundice yellow fangs. Still, I close my eyes and try to at least rest.

Half an hour passes, and I hear human steps making their way up the perpendicular street ahead of me. A man rounds the corner and stops in front of the doorway on the other side of the street. He faces the door, unzips his fly, and urinates onto the concrete sidewalk. He sways gently. Drunk.

I silently lower my head to the left so that I can keep my right eye just barely open enough to see him and still appear asleep.

When finished, the man turns to walk away and notices me. He babbles something in drunken Spanish that I can never hope to comprehend.

I continue to pretend sleeping as my right hand tightens on the knife. Jump up. Flash the blade. Yell. Run. He'll be too startled to know what's going on.

George raises his head and looks evenly at the drunk. The man stands there and sways back and forth for another moment, then shuffles off back around the corner and up the street.

I look at my watch. 4:30. I close my eyes again and wait for the next jagged shard of madness.

An hour goes by without incident. At 5:30, I start to hear the intermittent sounds of metal doors, car engines, and voices. The town is slowly coming awake. Fishermen, perhaps. I still have little hope of getting into the hostel, but I know early workers are going to start noticing me as they walk through the streets. They will probably ignore me, but I'm done playing this game.

I slowly get to my feet and slide the knife back into the pack. I look down at George. I want to give him a big hug and a scratch behind the ears, but I doubt he's had a bath lately. Besides, he's fast asleep and has earned it. If I ever see him again, he'll get that hamburger.

I walk up the street and back to the hostel. By the time I reach it, the minute hand on my watch is flirting with the top dash mark. Almost 6:00.

I knock on the metal shutter. This time, I hear someone or something rustling behind it. I hold my breath. The sound of a piece of furniture squeaking as it moves across a tile floor. Thirty seconds later, the shutter comes up as high as my lower chest. The drowsy looking night clerk is fumbling to put his glasses on and whispers a good morning.

I mutter a greeting and thanks as I duck down and step into the hostel.

Up on the third floor, I ease the door open as quietly as possible, step in, and close it behind me just as carefully. Leaving the light off, I set the pack at the foot of my bed, shed the jacket, and slip in beneath the blankets.

Relief. Sleep.

-

At around 10:30, I wake up and see Anna sitting cross-legged in her bed as she writes in her journal.

"Good morning sunshine!" she smiles.
"Morning."
"I heard you come in last night, that had to be at like 5am."
"6."
"Wow, you had fun then."
"Best night of my life."

I tell her the story.

"Oh my God! You must be exhausted!"
"Something like that."

We were supposed to do the walk from Yampupata today. No way. On top of only four hours of sleep, my back is killing me from sitting in the doorway for so long.

"Go ahead and go. Maybe Patricia and Sara will want to join you. I don't want you wasting the day because of me."
"Don't be silly. We'll take it easy today. Besides, we'll go to the island tomorrow and do plenty of walking there."
"Mmm k."
"Oh I went to get some fruit earlier and ran into Patricia and Sara. We're meeting them at our favorite place at around noon."
"Cool."

I get up and take a long, hot shower.

Eventually, we make our way down the hill to the lake. The street is alive again - the iron eyelids of the shops having been lifted. We take a table in our restaurant. Before long, Patricia and Sara show up and join us.

Patricia looks at me, "You weren't drunk last night, why do you look so tired?"

I tell the story again.

"Man, that's terrible. I knocked on our hostel's door and the guy opened two seconds later!"
"Yeah I went looking for your hostel, but everything was shut and I wasn't sure where it was."
"Wow, that sucks."
"Oh, it sucked," I reply.

Sara pulls the deck of cards from her bad and smiles, "You know what you need."
I look at Anna, "Are you ready to be destroyed by the Dutch rules of Shithead?"

We play a few hands while waiting for lunch. Anna mentions that we are going to the island tomorrow. I say something about missing the walk from Yampupata.

"So? Do it tomorrow," says Patricia.
"Would take too long," I reply.
"No, I mean do it the other way around. Walk from here to Yampupata, then take a boat to the island from there. You were going to leave your large packs here, anyway."
In my head, I see a flash of a map I saw online a few weeks ago, "Of course! Yampupata is much closer to the island. It would be cheaper and faster from there. If we leave here in the morning, we'd be there just after noon. You're a genius!"
"I know!"
I throw an Ace down on the pile of cards, safely putting Patricia beyond all hope of winning, "but unfortunately you've lost yet another round."
"Dammit!"

After lunch, we sit and talk for a long while. Then we walk with the two girls back to their hostel where they will get there stuff and catch a bus to La Paz. We exchange email addresses and goodbyes.

Afterward, Anna and I return to the water and take a long walk along the shore of Lake Titicaca. Fresh air emanates from the trees. On the way back into town, we stop to watch yet another incredible sunset.

---

Photos

Lake Titicaca
Photo by Anna

Comments

[anonymous]

your bolivia street-sleeping story beats my napoletano street-sleeping story. paws down.

[Mario]

Great Work
Great shots, fantastic compositions, congratulations, really nice work. http//tuga7.blogspot.com