In the world of the Andes, the Sun reigns without mercy, converts the snows of the hills into giant reflectors, and humbles the indigenous faces. Aimara and Quechua indigenous, wrinkled skin like the folds of the mountains, walk in sandals through the cutting wind, at more than 13,000 feet above sea level. Their worn-out ponchos flap, as if trying to emulate the flight of the condor.

The Andes don't have any borders: the Andes are the border. Communities with a shared way of life cannot be divided by artificial lines. Maps draw the beginning of Bolivia and the end of Peru at some point, but the rites of a similar cosmovision converge in the landscape, in the hard life of the peasant communities...

Published in Altair