When I think of Bolivia, I remember stout, brick-red mountains.
Women adorning traditional Bolivian clothes mending potatoes in fluorescent open fields.
Men with wrinkled faces driving taxi up the steep streets and roads.
Potato and cheese empanadas being sold in kiosks on street sides.
Bolivian soaps running on the TV in local food courts.
People marching against the democratic government and Chile.
Golden sunshine beaming in through the blue sky.
Enormous graffitis watching us from the walls of a few big cities.
The charismatic salt flats and the blue lagoons sprinkled with pink flamingoes spread in the midst of the driest desert of the world.
Tiny villages bustling with people who went there looking for a simpler life from around the world.
A gorgeous high lake where the indigenous Bolivian people first established themselves but now only a couple of thousand Bolivians live on the legendary islands on the lake.
Sky trolleys flying people from their homes to run their chores in the administrative capital.
And the clingy high altitude that never leaves you oxygenated while you are traveling in Bolivia.