After a night south of Puno, departing Perú was easy, while entry into Bolivia was difficult.  It would be a harbinger of my time in the country.

    I was nearly denied entry for not having a fire extinguisher and hazard triangles, and had to promise to get them in Copacabana.  I would soon learn that this was the least of their road safety worries in Bolivia.  And I did not get these things in Copacabana.

    I was glad to see an enormous Brazilian named Tutan, as MapsMe had led me down yet another bad route.  He had been here a few months and claimed that the altitude had helped him lose nearly 100 lbs. already.  He and his much smaller friend coached me off the empty lot/hill where I was stuck, and onto the “street” nearby.  We met up down the hill and they turned me on to a place to stay.

    Nilton welcomed me to Suma Samawi.  He was a super mellow and nice dude who smiled, spoke soft and slow, and used the word tranquilo (relax, easy) - at least with me - a lot. I presented as extra crazy on border crossing days.

    It was a funky little hostel.  A few buildings with rooms.  A few tents scattered around.  I parked my van in one of maybe 2-3 spaces for vehicles my size, and was able to buy and refrigerate meat in the shared kitchen.  Tutan and Little Guy were nice enough to take me on a tour of town.  “Here's where you get empanadas. These guys have good bread.  They have the cheapest meats.”

    The next day, I celebrated 23 years of sobriety, and took Nilton’s advice on checking out the Isla del Sol (Island of the Sun), a 2-3-hour motorboat ferry across a southern bit of Lake Titicaca, South America’s largest and the world’s highest navigable lake at 3,810 m (12,500 ft).  The Inca believed the sun god sent their founders to this place, which still practices their terrace farming and prohibited motor vehicles.

    I retrieved my van a few nights later, caught the ferry at San Pedro de Taquina, and headed into the mountains for Sorata.  There was no vacancy at his place in town, but Carlos let me stay alone, a bit out of town, at a huge, rundown, two-floor former residence/hotel.  I caught up on writing and enjoyed nights by the fire in the shadow of great mountains.

    I had been warned about exploring La Paz with a van, so I stayed on the rim above the city.  Shortly after checking into my hotel in El Alto, I waited with locals as a huge rainstorm hammered the city.  The streets turned into cold rivers and we all just watched and waited.  I returned to the heatless hotel, donning multiple layers before climbing into bed at 4,149 m (13,615 ft).

    The hotel was in the middle of one of the largest street market/bazaars I have ever seen - miles of all manner of anything imaginable for sale.  New stuff in the package, used stuff, cheap stuff, electronics, shoes, blankets, books, DVD copies, piles of screws, nails, buttons. I rode a gondola down to the city proper, wandered about, chatted up a few people, and decided to check out Valle de la Luna.  Not my last “Valley of the Moon,” it was a gorgeous anomaly on the outskirts of La Paz, small in scale, but impressive in its psychedelic geology.

    I headed south to Oruro, where it appeared I would be spending Christmas.  I pulled the van into the narrow courtyard of Resedencial Vergara.  I worked on my photography website, creating folders for countries and within them, galleries of the towns I had stayed in along the road.  A fellow traveler from Argentina helped me plan out a route through his homeland.

    I spent Christmas Eve wandering around Oruro.  Stores open, streets filled with markets and vendors, music, food, families, bubbles in the plaza central, Papa Noel (Santa Claus), reindeer, people shopping for last minute Christmas gifts.  The standard of living is much lower, yet the principle remains the same: buy as much as you can for as many as you can.

    At the time, 60.1% of Bolivians were living in poverty. 37.7% in extreme poverty. With an annual per capita income of $4800, it was the poorest country in South America.

    I wandered, sat on benches in plazas, wanting to see the people and how they celebrate the holidays. Some were buying, some were celebrating, some enjoying time with friends and family.

    Others - almost entirely women – opened up and hoped for some business on the cold sidewalk, their wares in baskets or spread out on a blanket. They were spending their Christmas Eve selling whatever they could to make a few Bolivianos. Toilet paper, Kleenex, Q-tips, pieces of gum, individual packages of crackers, anything imaginable, really.  Anything to make something. A few had nothing to sell and simply begged.

    Sprinkled throughout the town were children dancing – some with joy, others with purpose.  I passed by a few young, young children shuffling, twisting, a dirty paper cup in front of them, doing their best to dance for a few centavos.  I had seen similar performers and their presentations while driving through the hills of the country.  There were dogs in the hills of Perú – here, there were children.  They were heartbreaking gyrations.

    I gave them what I had in my pocket, then slinked back to my dingy/luxurious hotel, turned on American football, desperate for some sort of holiday normalcy, escaping into the refuge of my privilege.

    I thought of the family at the parking lot in Oaxaca, of all the shacks and tin roofs and plastic walls I had passed by.  It is a strange sensation to be ashamed of having so much.  I suppose it's also good to realize that same thing.  And to be reminded again of just how little I had to do with it all.

    Feliz Navidad, girls.