Puno to La Paz

Clouds pause in formation, hanging against the blue, producing intermittent shadows as we bounce along beneath them in the bus. In a sky devoid of air, the puffs of white stand still long enough for us to see them - tails, bust and crown.

Bald hills interrupt the plains for miles either side of the narrow highway. The earth is dry and except for the odd adobe building, or motionless cow, the ground is covered by green/yellow weeds. A farmer walks his red clay plot following a pair of bullocks, struggling with a wooden plough. It´s hard to imagine anything growing in that dirt.

Suddenly we see reflections - 100,000 panes glimmer in the sun, dense and flat in the distance. The plain is transformed ahead of us by the roofs, windows and brick. Each house looks as though it has been abandoned before completion. Building sites abound in every direction. If each home was to realise the potential of its designer, this would be a desert full of skyscrapers. In actuality, occupants call the ground floor home while the materials for imagined altitude weigh above them collecting dust.

This is a neighbourhood on the outskirts of La Paz.

1 comment:

  1. I remember it well. So jealous right now.

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