Mortal Coil

We are on the bus back from Titicaca to La Paz, which traverses the scrub plains of the Altiplano. Along the way has been a constant stream of unimaginable poverty. At the beginning of the trip, entire Aymara families camped by the side of the road, with wretchedly miserable children holding out tiny hands in hopeless solicitation as buses like ours raced past them, oblivious and without a thought of stopping. That was before we got out onto the Altiplano proper and the storm hit. Our biggest problems have been a leaky bus and a washed-out road. Whereas, outside, for mile upon mile, hundreds of small blue bumps in fields by the side of the road revealed themselves to be groups of two, three, four or more Indians huddled under tarpaulins, shivering in the mud, wind, and rain, trying to keep an eye on the one or two pathetic farm animals nearby. Soon, we will be warm houses, while they will likely spend the night filthy, miserable, and cold.

And it’s Christmas Eve.