Chimu

Chimu is less like a town, more like a stretch of land on the lake with random dwellings every so often. Yet, it is so peaceful and lovely.

We see reeds laying out to dry, women rolling up bunches of reeds into stack to be shipped, and also rolling them up into mattresses. We walk the fine line between lake marsh and hills, separated only by the highway.

On one stretch of Chimu, the hills resemble sand drip castles, only fatter, as if God threw down a fist-fill of clay and the sheer force of it caused all sorts of bulges and ripples. We decide to climb a particularly prominent outcropping, about seventy feet high.

From above, we can see Puno, roofs sparkling in the afternoon sun. We can see mountains on the opposite side of the lake, land we presume to be Bolivia. Although actually, the lake is so big that what we see was just a big island. Up on the rock feels free. The clouds roll over the water, the reed marshes reflect little sunlight like greasy mirrors, the air cold and windy. It was a place you just sat and stared around, taking in the view from your isolated and elevated perch.