wait for the water to become fire and let it cover the blue from orange and red, I was hoping that the sun ragalasse these colors and then let it dwell the stars in the sky, then the next day would be checked again in a game that now because there has always been reborn with the same colors with which you greet. Instead, to me, towards the lake, cloudy, dense and heavy. The Andes do not betray their magic and give me another emotion: the storm over the lake. Tonight the spirits of the lake and I stan scatendando fisherman I go and pray I do not want to drown.
not believe my eyes: the rain is getting snow, the flakes fall heavy and large covering the green grass of the fields. It 's spring here at 3800 meters, it is spring here on Lake Titicaca, is spring here in the snow.
Tomorrow will be beautiful even if the snow will make it awkward, if not impossible, to my arrival in Charazani, a village lost among the Andes, and that requires us to be joined over a wheelbase of 5000 meters.
I try not to worry and write off the couch and look out, listen to the silent snow that almost makes me think not to be there, I hope that tomorrow will be all melted. The silence around me is the vast room with floor to scacchera red and yellow and with two wax figures that look at me, the wall a large map of the leather in Bolivia in 1859. Now
and oxen, and Quach light peeping timid from the other side of the lake and keeps us company. The two ñ a, with its wide skirt and colorful, comes in hand with Kidron's wort for us to do the hot mate.
The heat of the sleeping bag around me, I hear dogs barking in the distance and the wind picks up and takes their complaint to me, I leave at night and look forward to tomorrow night, waiting for the Andes and the lake, waiting for the sun to melt the snow and allow me to reach Charazani and its Kallawaya.
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