altiplano

Five in the morning. A bus out of 1976 pulls off the road onto the gravel. People troop off. The air is sharp. Women in bowler hats walk past. Men in ponchos. In the fields a man wearing a hat and a poncho tends a few sheep. Sheep that look like goats. The mountains loom. Cut into their sides are the terraces the Inca built. Unused for four hundred years. Vestige of a culture and an idea of wealth. Gone to seed.

There's a little hut selling coffee. A hut out of 1936. It's hard to choose which is more joyless, inside the hut or outside. The hut has half a hint of warmth. Outside has a hint of stark beauty. It feels dusty. High plains dust. A veneer like perfume. In spite of the cold.

The odd car pedals past, bound for the capital. That's about it. There are places where you wouldn't mind breaking down and there are places where you'd hate to break down. This is the harshest place in the world. The road is made of femurs and skulls. The sky radiates. The mountains yearn to fly away. The dogs are rabid. Hope is a sheep that looks like a goat.