The cobalt blue waters of Lake Titicaca are dotted with fishermen in their reed boats. At an altitude of 12,628 feet, the air is crystal clear. White clouds hang low over the red and brown hills of the Altiplano, reflected in the mirror-like surface of the lake. Irrigated maize and potato fields line the shore. Low, mud-brick houses with glinting tin roofs break the carpet-like pattern. Plumes of wood smoke rise from their chimneys. Indian women in bowler hats and vividly colored traditional garments, with woolen blankets draped around their shoulders, spend the morning herding their llamas.

Customs Office, Guatemala City Each of our four motorcycles now had 31 pages of documentation, ranging from photocopies of passports to typed forms with VIN and registration numbers. Thirteen people at 13 desks had to stamp each sheet. Mercifully, not all of the agents needed to be bribed. The strain began to show on our faces, along with the sweat. Maybe we had made a big mistake.