I
The sun began to peek over the mountains of the city of El Alto, bathing the landscape in a golden glow. Alejandro watched from the window of the minibus as it went through the steep streets toward the center of La Paz. The cold air brushed against his face, carrying with it the earthy scent of childhood memories.
La Paz, a city nestled in a vast bowl in the middle of the Bolivian altiplano, is a place full of life, color, and contrasts—even in the early hours of the morning. Modern buildings mingle with old colonial structures. Narrow, cobblestoned, and steep streets house a blend of cultures and traditions. Alejandro had spent much of his life here, and every corner reminded him of moments shared with María, his girlfriend, before they moved to Copacabana to open their restaurant, now famous almost nationwide.
The minibus stopped in front of the General Cemetery, where the remains of generations past from centuries ago rest.
Alejandro stepped off the vehicle and found himself at the imposing entrance to the graveyard, still closed at that hour of the morning. He had hoped to visit his mother’s grave before setting off on his trip, but that fantasy would have to wait until his next visit to the city.
The cold wind blew, freezing his face and threatening to frostbite his ears to the point of falling off. He pulled on the green-and-blue wool hat María had given him before he left her side three days ago.
A loud, rhythmic rumble overhead snapped him out of his reverie and forced him to duck in fear that something might fall on his head. The cabins of the red cable car, which he still wasn’t used to, floated above the cemetery.
When they had left the city four years ago, the cable car had still been a half-finished project. Now it was a reality whose extravagant modernity disturbed the memories he held of the city.
His thoughts turned to María, waiting for him at Lake Titicaca. He remembered the moments they had shared, the laughter, and the dreams they had built together.
A sense of calm and happiness overtook him, driving him forward on this journey toward reuniting with his beloved, leaving behind a city that had long since ceased to feel like his own.
He boarded the next interdepartmental minibus without looking back and settled into a seat by the window to avoid getting motion sick. The accumulated fatigue in his body weighed him down, and little by little he gave in to sleep even before the minibus started moving.
He was half-awakened several times along the way by the sharp curves of the highway, the countless potholes, horns, and speed bumps, and the occasional sudden brake of the “skillful” driver. But the gentle rocking of the vehicle and the monotonous purr of the engine lulled him into a deep drowsiness that was difficult to shake.
He noticed, half-asleep, when they reached La Ceja del Alto, after passing the toll, with its cabins half-rebuilt, dilapidated, and blackened from the many times they had been destroyed or set on fire in revolutionary protests and political demonstrations.
He regained awareness when they got stuck in a trancadera (traffic jam) near the well-known 16 de Julio fair, which took the driver almost an hour and a half to get through. Alejandro used the opportunity to continue resting after three sleepless nights. He hugged his backpack tightly to protect it.
He had been up at night for a week, preparing his speech for the loan officer at Banco Unión, who would approve his loan to expand the restaurant and begin building guest rooms on the lot behind it. Soon it would become a recognized lodging for tourists on the shores of Lake Titicaca.
Once he arrived in La Paz and the bank approved the loan, he didn’t sleep while waiting for the next day to cash the check. And when he finally had the money in his hands, he couldn’t sleep that last night out of fear that someone had followed him and would rob him at the motel where he stayed.
He had never held so much money in his hands and didn’t know what to do to protect it and get it safely to María, who would welcome him with open arms as if he were a hero.
After graduating together from hotel school, they had decided to move to Copacabana, searching for a peaceful life, to start a business that would allow them to live the rest of their days without worrying about money. And that loan would now allow them to fulfill their dream.
Another jolt woke him briefly.
He eyed the surrounding passengers with suspicion. The minibus was full, and he tried to study the faces of those nearest him, but sleep overcame him, and he could only shift to a more comfortable position and clutch his backpack tighter.
Alejandro sank into a world of fragmented dreams. Several images flickered through his mind: María’s smiling face welcoming him, the reflection of the sun on the peaceful waters of the lake, and the sense of peace and fulfillment only she could give him.
Another shake woke him abruptly. He opened his eyes and found himself engulfed in darkness. Through the window, he saw a static, somber landscape. The sun had vanished, and night had fallen.
The minibus was stopped in the middle of Route 2, which should have taken him to Copacabana in just a few hours. Confusion overcame him. The trip to the lake shouldn’t take more than three or four hours, and he had left early in the morning.
He looked around and noticed the other passengers in the cabin had also just awakened from a deep sleep. Their faces reflected the same confusion and surprise.
The silence turned into a buzz of voices that began rising into a chorus of questions and speculation. Alejandro joined the conversation, sharing his doubts and confusion.
Theories began to emerge. Some suggested they had veered off course and were now stranded with a broken-down vehicle; others believed they had been kidnapped and drugged by the bus driver.
A boy of about ten suggested they were trapped in another dimension. Everyone ignored the childish, ridiculous comment.
Alejandro kept quiet, listening and observing everyone, clutching his backpack tightly against his chest, trying to feel the bundles of bills through the fabric without opening it and showing its contents to the others. He was convinced this was a planned robbery. But all the money was still there.
He looked toward the front of the vehicle and realized the minibus driver and his assistant were nowhere to be found.
“The minibus broke down,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “The driver and his assistant must have gone to get help and haven’t come back yet.”
“At this hour? Couldn’t they call the police or a mechanic”
“Hasn’t another car, a bus, a truck passed by? They always know how to fix vehicles.”
The discussion carried on, growing more heated, but Alejandro no longer paid attention. At least half an hour had passed, and not a single other vehicle had appeared on the horizon, and he began to worry. That road was heavily traveled, and even at late hours of the night some car should have passed.
“What time is it?” His voice was drowned out by the passengers’ arguments.
An idea had taken root in his mind, stirred by the boy’s remark about parallel dimensions, and it scratched at the back of his brain. He shook his head vigorously, trying to chase away those ridiculous thoughts.
In a sudden burst of clarity, he remembered the cell phone in the front pocket of his backpack. He pulled it out quickly to check the time and see if he had a signal to call the police for help. The phone was off, and after several attempts, it wouldn’t turn on, though he was sure it had been fully charged when he left the lodging that morning.
The cold seeped through the windows of the minibus, heightening the sense of unease inside. Alejandro couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. The absence of the driver and his assistant seemed increasingly alarming.
Where had they gone in the middle of the night without saying a word? His mind raced. Why is no one else worried about it?
He decided it was time to act and stood up, urging the other passengers to remain calm.
“Can you check if you have a signal? Mine’s dead.” He held his phone up to show them the black screen.
The passengers searched through their bags and pockets. Nothing. The disappointment was a heavy blow for everyone, and silence fell over the minibus. Alejandro opened the door and stepped out into the cold night.
“I’m going to look for the driver and his helper. They can’t be far,” he announced firmly.
The wind blew hard against his face. He pulled his green-and-blue wool hat back on and slung his backpack over his shoulders.
“Hurry, young man, how much longer are they going to leave us abandoned here?” said a woman in a pollera seated near the door before slamming it shut behind him.
Alejandro ventured into the dark road, following the path they had come. Each step seemed to take him further from the safety of the vehicle and closer to the unknown. He looked back several times, afraid he might lose sight of the minibus forever, but he had to continue if he wanted to find answers and return to María.
After walking what felt like an eternity, he saw lights in the distance. He approached cautiously and realized it was a small village in the middle of nowhere. The lights flickered faintly, and no sound dared to break the night’s quiet.
He entered the village and wandered its deserted streets, searching for signs of life. The houses seemed abandoned, and the shops were closed. There was no trace of the driver or his assistant.
The light came from the streetlamps, from the few that still had intact bulbs. All the houses were dark, their windows boarded up. Alejandro stood frozen in the middle of the main street, finding not the slightest trace of civilization.
He was bewildered. He knew every town on the road from El Alto to Copacabana. From the landscape, he calculated they were stranded between Huarina and Batallas, closer to the latter since the lake wasn’t visible yet, but this village was neither. He had never seen it before.
He had no choice but to return to the minibus and inform his fellow passengers of his failure—if he managed to find them again.
As he began his way out of the village, a figure appeared in the distance. It was the minibus driver, walking alone toward him. His face was pale, his expression one of deep shock. Alejandro ran to him and asked what was going on.
The driver looked at Alejandro with empty eyes. “I don’t know. We were in the minibus, and suddenly we fell asleep. When we woke up, we were here, in this strange village. I have no idea how we got here or how to get back.”
A strange feeling of sadness and defeat overcame him again. He decided to return to the minibus with the driver and tell the others what he had discovered to see if anyone had a better idea of what to do next.
As they walked back, Alejandro couldn’t shake the chill he felt at the sight of the driver—pale, thin, with sunken eyes and a vacant stare. He also wondered what had happened to the assistant, who was nowhere to be found, but couldn’t summon the courage to ask.
He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind that something very strange was happening, something his mind couldn’t explain.
Why hadn’t we ever reached the lake? What is this place? Why hadn’t a single car passed by in hours?
The unanswered questions tormented him through the entire long, silent walk. He regretted not having more education to better understand what was happening around him. He was the only one in his family to have finished high school and studied at a technical institute, but this was far beyond what his mind could process. His head throbbed, and he felt dizzy.
They arrived at the minibus, and the scene was not encouraging. Half the passengers had disappeared, leaving only the woman who had been seated behind him with her 10-year-old son—the one with the multidimensional ideas; two pollera women still sitting inside; and a skinny teenage boy of about sixteen, sickly-looking, who was holding the head of an old man who, as Alejandro drew closer, realized was bleeding from the nose.
“What happened?” Alejandro asked, frightened.
“That other boy hit him, the thug-looking one,” answered one of the women from inside the bus, pointing down the road ahead, which looked deserted. “They started arguing, and he left with his girl and the other three.”
“But where?” Alejandro squinted, trying to pierce the darkness to catch sight of the group, without success, instinctively covering his backpack with his hand and hugging it tight.
The woman shrugged. “They said that way is the university, and surely there’s a phone there to call someone to pick them up. The old man tried to stop them, saying we shouldn’t split up. That’s when they hit him and just left.”
Alejandro knew they were mistaken; the university was in Batallas, in the opposite direction. Though by now, he wasn’t sure of anything.
Maybe he was confused and disoriented about the road; maybe they were right and would have better luck. Though deep down, he was sure that if they found a village in that direction, the thug’s group would find it empty and desolate.
“I told him we should stick together and try to drive to the next town, and he hit me.” The old man had improvised a plug for his nose with toilet paper and spoke with a nasal voice.
“The minibus won’t start.” No one had noticed the driver’s presence until that moment, and all at once they began to protest and demand explanations. He didn’t defend himself beyond explaining that he had woken up there in the middle of nowhere; after that, he simply went quiet and sat down on the ground next to the tire of the minibus.
The complaints went on for several minutes, but seeing the driver’s unflinching attitude, everyone fell silent. Silence returned, and despair crept back onto the passengers’ faces.
“We could fix it,” the old man whispered to the skinny boy, who was surely his grandson.
“Are you a mechanic?” Alejandro asked the old man.
“Yes, and I’m a truck driver too.”
“Were,” the boy interrupted, “you haven’t driven in two years.”
“I was a driver and mechanic for nearly fifty years. You don’t forget those things.”
Amid the chaos, Alejandro held onto hope. He knew he had to find a way out of that abandoned road and reunite with María. He would not give up.
“How do we fix it?” he asked.
