The lake is huge, blue and clear, like a giant, rambling Crater Lake. I lie down on the crude dock and stare straight down to the rocks, through so many meters of water. Not a single fish moves among the seaweed and stone rubble bottom.
Donkeys sip delicately from the crystal clear waters on the rocky shore.
The uneven stone steps are darkened with splatter from the gushing crystal Creek, flowing to the sea, as we trip down the cobbles and dusty trails to the huge deep clear water.
I cannot pass the evil glare of my pig, glowing in the sun, on the woven blanket, with the old lady smiling. 10 bolivianos and he is my new companion forever.
This is what I imagined Cinque Terre to be, said Helen, gazing over the steeply terraced hillside, broad beans and potatoes growing unevenly.
Panting gasping tourists stagger up the stairs. Wizened locals carry suitcases, gas canisters, and who knows what, wrapped in blankets.
A Sprite , cool but not cold, sweet and sharp, like the sunlight on my ears.
Sighing, groaning, big old white man: "I've been waiting 40 minutes," he complains to no one, as he resentfully moves his bag for Asian looking newcomers, on the return boat. I reject his misery and chat happily with the newcomers. His reality sucks. Luckily it's his not mine.
Softest of white afros on the baby alpaca, nursing from a sippy cup. Two bolivianos, to get a photo. I would have paid 10, but it was free to run my fingers through it's exquisite soft fur.
Far in the distance snow tipped Andean crags peek out of the little fluffy clouds.