Oooh, my poor body. It all comes back to me in a wave of weakness as I slowly stir, grabbing at the tail of a
Oruro is a god-awful, no-good lousy town. I make up my mind as soon as I jump out of the bus and the poignant smell of piss and trash hit me, a cocktail so typical to third-world towns and bus stations but which I have so far successfully avoided in Bolivia.
Some people in my Salkantay group were worried that Machu Picchu might not live up to the expectations. After all, all of us already knew what it looked like from the kazillion pictures on Instagram, our travel friends’ photos and the postcards sold all over Cusco that look like they were designed by someone’s dad who’s just learning how to open his e-mails. I didn’t really doubt for a second.