Sunday, October 26, 2008


The white salt crunches under the wheels, flat as far as the eye can see. We get out and climb, between cacti flowering for the only time in a century, pausing to catch breath in the thin air. Reaching the top, my Spanish friend & I avoid the hungover Brits and stare - out at the whiteness, its nothingness drawing us in. The shrine to Pachamama, the earth, has coca leaves & cigarettes left at it and in the midst of nowhere, we stop, and give thanks.

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