Heart ache, huge women and floating islands

Another bus, another woefully inapropriate film of
sex, drugs and violence playing inescapably loud
through the bus speakers. More desert scenery, but I
am climbing higher, towards the cold mountain passes
to the misty shores of lake Titicaca.

The people are different- The lady in the seat
opposite has a frilled layer skirt, so thick it rounds
out her already robust buttocks. Tight black braids
trail down her back and she has a bowler style hat on
her head. Dark skin etched with wrinkles reveals
secrets of a hard life. The baby she had tied to her
back with a woven, colored blanket bounces on her lap
and her 3 or 4 bags lay about her feet.

Life throws so many surprises at you, and more so when
you´re in unfamiliar territory. Six days ago now we
tried to cross the border to Peru in a 1960s cadilac,
loaded heavy with people and their belongings,
documents ready, only to be informed by the sombre
official that Peru no longer has any convenio with
Argentina and that Matias, with his Argentine document
could not pass. Even with a bribe of a few US dollars,
the official would not be swayed.

The last few days were spent in a state of confusion
and angst as we considered all options. In bitter
disappointment, the only choice we had left was for
him to return and for me to keep going.

The parting was unbearable; it wasn{t the fact of
being separated for a few weeks, as much as as the
thought of the unknown and the place of the parting;
in the desert of Northern Chile, as far from anywhere
else as we could be. I felt my heart rip from my chest
as his hand slipped from mine and the hot air warmed
my tears as they fell and choaked the back of my
throat. I saw his figure getting smaller in the mirror
until he was out of sight and I was rolling to the
border again.

The queue was long and the sun was harsh as I waited
in line for new stamps in my passport. The Chilean
side of the deal was neat and ordered; in stark
contrast the Peruvian side was pure chaos, as the
"gente" whipped themselves into a frenzy of sharp
elbows and stomping heels, desperate to be attended at
the window and heedless of any innocents in their
path.

The next hour passed in a blur as scores of over
weight indigenous ladies with ill-fitting clothing and
sullen facs proceeded to frenetically pass bin liners
stuffed with goods amonst themselves..some legal,
others not. They began running around and throwing
bags in to a dig out in the road, and stashing things
under their clothes, hats, children, the boots of
oncoming cars,in a desperate attempt to cheat the
officials, who easily turn their cheek once their
pockets have been siutably lined.

Through the window I observed the scene. It reminded
me of the movie, Chicken run, as the women{s flapping
movements generated clouds of debree and what looked
like feathers into the sky.

I was in Peru.