Sajama, Bolivian desert and mountain stories

Sajama is a small town of maybe less than 50 people, and I am staying for a few days with the woman who own the bodega in town, where you can get the best and only cheese, chocolae, bread, tampico and toilet paper in town.
I think I am the only foreigner in town, because everyone who is not from here stays here a night before climbing a mountain whose sumit is extremely difficult to reach. Sajama is at the base of a mountain, it is not a place one stays.
My presence here sparked a lot of curiosity, mainly the two ten year old boys that live next door that say buenas tardes the 50 times they pass me, and dry to decipher the letters of whatever i am reading over my shoulder. And of course, the señora. We call each other señora and señorita, because I can´t pronounce her aymara name, and she hasn´t asked mine.
At night, just before the cold gets unbearable, she weaves Alpaca gloves with her sister next to the chair i´m sitting in and writing, and she periodically asks me if I want another coca tea, and then tries to read my journal.

I cooked Lama steak and potatoes with her, while Lama hides and fetuses lay drying in the sun next to us. She told me she would tell me all the legends she knew, though it is the grandparents that know them all, she said. She only remembered a few. She told me why the ground was uneven, and when mountains used to walk and talk and breathe.
There are part of the ground here that are uneven, mostly deroted from salt. Otherwise, there are just miles and miles of desert, and river, and Chile, just over the mountain