In the heart of the Andes, where even the air kneels, lies La Paz, a city suspended between earth and heaven. Set in a valley that its Aymara ancestors called Chukiyawu, or “farm of gold,” this city exists as a permanent crossroads between myth and reality.

When one walks here, one does not feel alone. The mountains watch like imposing shadows, yet, at the same time, healing. Here, faith does not console: it accompanies. Symbols of every kind are all over the place like fresh, crusty morning bread. And though this place is harsh, it is also sincere. A world that opens itself slowly, allowing us to glimpse its myth, the weave of its history, the pile of potatoes and the cross.

La Paz explains nothing. It strikes softly and insists. In every altar, every bark, every celebration, its rebellious nature reveals itself.

This is the farm of gold,
a vault where time bends,
where breath is lost,
and yet everything keeps on beating.

Here, without air, we are all the same.