The mountains are sherbert colored, layered, scooped, and placed cradling the tiny adobe town. Seven colors. Over our first taste of llama we relax, letting the morning dust settle between our toes and the heat retreat. Letting ourselves hide away in this town, in the pocket of the mountains.
But on an adventure one must cross the mountains…and at 4170m we have. My mom with her eyes closed at every turn. The air, the people, the houses, are now thin. We are the handful that exists this high.
To descend, to a point marked in the desolation solely by a small building made of salt and parked cars. We are here, the salt lakes. No perception on a crusty salted plane. How the earth has changed to challenge my mind.
The sun sets over us in Purmamarca, sipping mate, bolts of embroidery, tiny nativities, sweaters, and children playing through the market stalls. Sherbert colored everything, let’s blend in.