Picking up from Cusco, Peru: Markets, Guinea Pig, Pisac and the Fortress of Saqsaywaman. The series starts here: Peru and Bolivia: The Andes, the Altiplano and the World’s Most Dangerous Road.

We left Cusco with a new guide in the back seat. Watching me push the 4Runner through the morning traffic, horn working steadily, he offered his assessment: “You drive like a local.”

It was meant as a compliment.

The Andean Baroque Route runs south from Cusco through a string of villages, each with its own specialty — bread in one, tiles in the next, bricks after that — announced by large painted roadside statues of women in traditional dress, each holding the local product. The altiplano opened ahead: flat, wide, and getting colder.

At Andahuaylillas, the church interior stopped us. Built by Jesuits in the late 1600s and covered floor to ceiling in murals meant to translate Christianity into Inca terms, it has earned itself the nickname the Sistine Chapel of the Andes — a lot of chapel to fit behind such a plain adobe front. No photographs allowed — the frescos had to be looked at rather than filmed. Janine found the market stalls in the square. She came back with a bag.

At Raqchi, I assured Janine this was the last Incan ruin of the trip. She was visibly relieved. It was a claim that would age poorly, but the ruin itself earned the stop — the Temple of Wiracocha here once carried the tallest roof the Incas ever built, a single wall still standing more than 12 metres above the plain, columns marching away on either side of it into nothing.

The Altiplano

The road climbed to the pass at La Raya — 4,335 metres, the border between Cusco and Puno marked by a sign and an alpaca. From there, the road dropped gently onto the altiplano. We bought cheese through the car window from a woman on the roadside. Queso Paria. Sharp, crumbly, excellent.

The police checkpoint on the edge of Puno was routine. Documents presented, Pablo’s advice followed: no Spanish. The officer studied my licence for a moment — it is written entirely in English — and waved us through. What he concluded from it remains unclear.

Puno sits at 3,827 metres above sea level, Peru’s self-declared folklore capital and the gateway to the lake everyone was really there to see. Every February the town throws itself into the Virgen de la Candelaria — one of the largest folk-religious festivals in South America, tens of thousands of dancers in feathered and sequinned costume moving through streets this narrow. We missed it by months, which the hotel staff seemed to consider a personal tragedy on our behalf.

The hotel check-in included the standard paperwork and one additional item: oxygen was available on request.

The first twenty minutes were complimentary.

Perched on a hill above Puno sits a large concrete snake, its mouth open wide enough to walk into. I walked inside and raised my arms. Below me, the altiplano stretched away in every direction.