Desaguadero, Bolivia

On the shores of Lake Titicaca, on the border between Bolivia and Peru, I was simultaneously hot and cold - as the sun burned through the meagre highland air, a glacial wind streamed across the great lake from the snowpeaks to the east. I sat at the end of a pier on the Peruvian side of the border, reading 'The Exorcist' and watching taciturn highlanders rowing their small fishing boats.

A barefoot girl of about four walked along the pier towards me, holding her 2 1/2 year old sister by the hand. "¿Quiere regalarme plata?" (do you want to give me money?).
I asked her why she was asking me.
"My mamá told me to", she piped.
"I'm not going to give you money", I told her gently, and gave her a couple of slices of my mandarin. She walked back along the cold sunny pier towards her mother, who was sitting on the slimy green steps down to the lake, washing the family's clothes. The little girl offered a piece of mandarin to her baby sister, who shook her head and agitated her chubby arms in confusion.

The sisters came back twice more to beg from me; I decided that when I was passing by their mother, I'd have a word with her. I'd ask whether she only saw gringos as a potential source of cash. But as often happens, I chose the path of least resistance in the end, and walked past the trio in silence. The little girl asked me where I was going; I told her, resting my hand on her head. The mother shone me a disarming, gap-toothed smile, and said goodbye. I ignored her, and waved at the two children on my way to shore.

At the Bolivian side of customs, I asked a youth for a loan of his pen. He handed it to me, and grinned unpleasantly. "Monay", he demanded.
"Well, take it back then", I told him, adding "there are always people like you at borders." It's true, in South America at least; you always meet nasty hustlers who don't come close to seeing you as a person. The youth watched me as I wrote, his features denoting a strangely contemplative malice - as if my insult hadn't affected him on a personal level, but that he'd be rather pleased to see me dead all the same.
"Have you got a problem?", I asked him.
"None", he said, and turned towards his friend.

Once I'd filled out the form, I handed it to a border official, who sent me on to another functionary. I'd only spent an hour on the Peruvian side of the squat, dusty border town of Desaguadero - it was obvious that my only reason for crossing over and back was to extend my Bolivian visa.
"Why did you go to Peru?", he asked me.
"To see the lake."
He looked at me, irritated. "Don't give me that. You did it just to get your visa extended. You have to spend at least 48 hours in Peru before you can come back in to Bolivia."
I'd never heard of this rule, and guessed that he was angling for a bribe. "Isn't there some fine that's applicable to this situation?", I enquired. He shook his head, at which point I realised I'd entered a parallel universe only superficially similar to our own. I persevered all the same, resorting to the string section: "Please, help me out here - I start a teaching job on Monday. I might get fired if I don't turn up for the first day."
"You're a teacher?". This appeared to strike some chord. He stamped my passport with the green ink of Bolivian customs.

I walked through the cycle rickshaw men clamouring to give me a ride, and got on a bus back to La Paz. By the time we arrived at the rim of the La Paz crater, night had fallen; the city glittered below, like a great multicoloured jewel from the wildest dreams of Imelda Marcos.