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Text :

The road to Cochabamba leaves
the coast, and in a twinkling of
an eye this narrow land transports
you to heights that other less
cramped countries need miles
and miles to attain. The air rarefies,
purifies (in Bolivia, the Indians of
the High Plateaus die when
transferred to the plains, from
microbes to which they have no
immunity). You suffocate from
the purity, and it preserves the
dead better than the work of
the embalmers.