I miss oxygen

We're in the mountains. Our lips are chapped, our skin is dry, and there isn't mud to be found anywhere. In Arequipa our towels dried overnight, a task that would take at least two days back home in Pucallpa.

Instead of the typical selva dress of little more than bark skirts and necklaces, the ladies of the Andes are absolutely fat with clothing. The wear little felt bowler hats, huge tapestry-like skirts, thick petticoats, and layer after layer of wool sweater and shawl. Their cheeks are ruddy from sun and wind, and many of them carry chubby toddlers strapped to their backs as they sell soap or chickens or potatoes in the market.

The lack of oxygen is what we notice the most. We can't breathe! When I walk the four narrow flights of stairs to my room in the hostel, I gasp like a fish out of its bowl and collapse on my bed. We have to recuperate for at least five minutes before we can carry on a conversation. What happened to all those weeks we spent running through the jungle, trying to prepare for these mountains?

All of us, except for John, have been suffering the effects of altitude sickness: headches, lethargy, nausea. We're still functioning fine, but I have great respect for the school children I see here, pushing and shoving and screaming and running on their way to school.