An enjoyable chronicle of a journey through the Aymara soul of La Paz and Oruro and up into the Cordillera Real, before landing at the Salar de Uyuni, the gates of Tiahuanaco and the charming town of Copacabana on the shores of Lake Titicaca.

Test y Photos: Rolly Valdivia 

I am a few steps from Bolivia, but to be honest I feel farther away than ever because of the stupidity of the immigration officer who is accusing me of not having my documents in order and implying that I am somehow of dubious character. "So un-Peruvian", I mutter, furious yet resigned. "So near and yet so far", I think philosophically, as I watch those more fortunate than me crossing into Bolivia, walking nonchalantly and setting their watches forward one hour. 

My complaints, lamentations and explications fell on deaf eras. It seemed useless to insist. My identity card had been declared useless and even suspect. I returned to the struggle, to no avail. "You're not crossing", reiterated the loathsome bureaucrat. Then, like an experienced cardsharp, I played my final, almost magical card, which immediately converted the official's "no" into "yes" and his brusque phrases into a melodic "Yes sir, go on your way". 

I had not produced soles, bolivianos or dollars. It was my press card that gave me back my citizenship. Now nothing could stop me: Goodbye to Peru and welcome to Bolivia, a magical land of contrasts and inequality, the land of the Yungas and the Collas, an Andean land which I was about to set foot in... 

"Hey! Stop there!" I am still in Peru. A police officer has noticed something suspicious about me. Perhaps it is the long hair or the unkempt beard. My appearance condemns me. "Tell me, Valdivia, what have you got for me", says the "public servant" in a conspiratorial tone. My first reaction is to tell him exactly what I think of him but I swallow my expletives. This is no time for small talk, with a bus waiting for me on the other side of the border. To get the bus I am forced to dip my hand into my pocket...

But don't think badly of me. What I had for the police officer was my credential with the word "press" written in big letters. The cop's attitude softened. "Long live journalism", I shouted when I finally had one foot in Peru and the other in Bolivia, our sister nation, perhaps even our twin, united with Peru through deep historical and cultural ties. 

Devil's Tooth
I am the last passenger to board the bus. Everyone looks at me angrily, as if to say "we will arrive in La Paz late now and it is your fault". La Paz is the seat of government, the country's largest city and, more importantly, the first stage of my Bolivian journey. 

At the "Terrapuerto" I got off the bus, stretched my legs after the full day's journey and then started to walk through the streets of that highland city (3,650 metres above sea level) founded by the Spanish captain Alonso de Mendoza on October 20th 1548. The city centre is old, colonial. The Plaza Murillo, the Palacio Quemado, Aymara women dressed in wide skirts, the men in jackets and ties. The shoeshiners wear balaclavas that remind one of other hooded men from the past. I quickened my pace and put some distance between us. 

I took just a brief look at the heart of the city, for I had already been told that the devil had lost one of his teeth (a wisdom tooth, perhaps?) in the rocky outskirts of La Paz, and that in these "outskirts" there was a valley that looked like the moon. And so, without really knowing why, I found myself heading south in the hope of witnessing some devilish dentistry and setting foot on the moon, just like Neil Armstrong when he made that "great step for man".

I doubled my pace as I walked along a steep and dusty path. The scenery was by turns rough, rugged and sown with crops. The trip took less than two hours, and ended at what is surely the most bucolic face of the highlands around the city. The Devil's Tooth stands on a small hill. The "tooth" appeared healthy and in fact it is one of those caprices of nature capable of captivating the passing walker. We stayed for hours and hours, but the Valley of the Moon still awaited us...

From orthodontists to rooky astronauts: I was not on the moon, but I pretended that I was. In fact, the surroundings are distinctly lunar at this unique site just twenty kilometres from downtown La Paz, for this valley with no river consists of extensive, strange rock formations sculpted by the wind that seem to be from another planet. 

Frozen Face
"Hurry up", ordered the female guide, addressing the driver, who was dawdling through deserted streets. "Hurry up, man", she insisted, correctly anticipating the silent anger of the passengers, who were repressing their collective urge to strangle the driver as punishment for his exasperating slowness. 

With a show of patience that would have awoken envy in Job himself, the group listened to a description of what would be seen along the way: flocks of llamas, pristine lakes, the snow-capped peaks of the Cordillera Real and, of course, the ascent of Chacaltaya, that emblematic peak which, so it is said, possesses the highest natural ski run in the world (at over 5,200 metres). 

The guide took advantage of the more than thirty kilometre journey to tell us more about the first section of the mountain range, Mount Illimani (to the southeast) and the last, Mount Illampu (to the northeast), very close to Lake Titicaca. 

Our journey continued. Somebody began to feel the effects of altitude sickness. "That is known as sorojchi", said the guide. "Soroche", I countered. She recommended that we "picchar", or chew coca leaves. "Chacchar", I corrected, forgetting that in Bolivia one suffers from "sorojchi" and not "soroche, as we do in Peru, and that the chewing of coca leaves is known as "picchar" and not "chacchar".

After a heated debate, with both parties hotly defending the terms used in their respective countries, it was decided that the altitude sickness sufferer would receive intensive treatment: she was given lemon-flavoured sweets. This decision resolved the impasse just in time for our arrival near the top of Chacaltaya. 

A survival jacket and a wool hat, warm and life-saving: We walked the rest of the way to the summit. Our breathing was laboured, the snowy scenery around us imposing, moving even: Illimani, Mururata, Huayna Potosi. To hell with the cold, it was lovely. 

At the summit there was just one skier: "The snow is soft, this is not a good time of year", he said, and before I could ask his name he launched himself down the slope, his tracks remaining on the frozen surface. 

A Little Salt
I looked for a bus but found only "flotas", and I looked for someone to argue terminology with but there was nobody. And so I silently boarded a bus to Oruro (a four hour journey), from where I would then take a train to Uyuni (3,665 metres above sea level), and the world's biggest salt flats. 

Oruro (3,706 metres), the folkloric capital of Bolivia, is famous for its carnival held in honour of the Virgin of the Mine. Declared a World Heritage Event by UNESCO, the festival is a joyous outpouring of dancing and music in the city's streets and squares. 

During the celebration, held in February, Oruro fills with life and the atmosphere is unforgettable, but that page of the calendar had been torn away long before my arrival, and there was no dancing in the city or Chinese devils or dark-skinned beauties in tight miniskirts. 

It was time to leave for Uyuni, where one can always see salt, colourful lakes, snow-capped peaks, volcanoes, flamingos, vicuñas, petrified trees and locomotive graveyards. 

I boarded the train in the mid-afternoon. Nightfall was magnificent. I sought refuge in a small, unpretentious hotel in the town of Uyuni (in the province of Daniel Campos, Potosí), in preparation for my visit the next day to the immense salt flats: sixty-four million tons of salt spread in eleven successive layers. 

I awoke and readied myself for the departure by all-terrain vehicle to the Eduardo Avaroa National Fauna Reserve. It would be a four-day trip through a surreal landscape and tiny villages remarkable for their austerity and poverty. The first day we saw only salt. The world had turned white and was filled with brightness, silence and meditation. And then in this pristine land there appeared before us Fish Island, with its enormous cacti over seven metres high. 

When one leaves the salt flats the world recovers its colours, forms and faults. The mountains reappear on the horizon and the adventure takes on a new dimension: We visited lakes that were red or green or even stinking, all due to the minerals held in their waters. 

In the freezing small hours we headed for the Morning Sun geyser, seeing in the distance the stones of Salvador Dali in the shape of the Licancahur volcano (5,900 metres and in Chilean territory) and the village of Culpinak, among other visual marvels. 

Homeward Bound
Time was now short, with my return date approaching I still had to visit Tiahuanaco (3,870 metres) and Copacabana (3,841 metres), at 71 and 155 kilometres from La Paz respectively. 

My expectations were high: Soon I would be in Tiahuanaco, photographing the Sun Gate and its forty-eight elves, an architectural wonder which since childhood had existed in my fevered imagination. When I arrived I discovered that the Sun Gate was not the only monument of distinction, and I also saw the Fraile and Ponce monoliths and the carved heads of the semi-subterranean temple. 

My final destination was the town famous for its annual fiesta in honour of its patron, the Virgin of Copacabana. On arrival I headed for the promenade to admire the sail boats that seemed to be sleeping, rocked by the cold highland wind and the intense waters of Lake Titicaca (3,800 metres). 

From there I sailed to the Islands of the Sun and the Moon and walked along a stone path and counted the steps of a Pre-Hispanic stairway and touched the walls of an ancient Acllawasi ("chosen women's house") and a copper-coloured man told me that just ahead of us lay Peru...

Once again I found myself at the frontier. I readied myself to put my watch back one hour and thereby recover the hour that I had lost when I entered Bolivia. I didn't want to leave, but this time nobody tried to stop me from crossing the border...

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