Blame it on the a-a-a-altitude.

We have been in the 'highlands' (or 'Altiplano', for anyone who wants to get technical) of Chile, Bolivia and Peru on and off since the beginning of March. This means many things, including ascending (and descending) in large buses, of varying qualities, sometimes on roads that are not fit to be driven on (particularly on very large, sometimes very old, buses). It means cold mornings and evenings, and midday sunshine strong enough to burn your skin right off. It means very, very little oxygen. The result? Huffing and puffing from 'strenuous' activities. Such as walking up a flight of stairs, or putting on your (enormous and extremely heavy) backpack, or even just turning over too fast in your sleep. Racing heart in the middle of the night? Extremely pathetic. Prior to arriving in the altiplano, I had thought that alitutude sickness ('sorroche') was at the very least an over reaction, at the most some kind of urban legend.

I am sad to report I was wildly mistaken.

So far the worst day of this trip happened on a day after a few too many glasses of Bolivian's finest vino. At altitude. In La Paz, to be specific. I should have known that lack of oxygen would make for a far worse hangover, but I suppose I wasn't that concerned at the time, as I was too concerned with 'getting my dance on' at a crazy place, appropriately named 'Wild Rover'. Generally, one little hangover on six month vacation is no big deal. I mean, its not like I have to go to work. The problem was that we had booked a bus to Copacabana for the next afternoon at 2:00 pm, which required me to do the following: a) pack both backpacks (day pack AND my affectionately (and accurately) named large backpack ('Big Mama'), b) check out of our room (thankfully check out was not until 1 pm), c) drag my hurting self straight up hill with two backpacks that weigh considerably more than they have yet. At altitude. It was clearly some kind of cruel joke that while we were in La Paz J and I had fulfilled all our shopping needs. Because it is so cheap in La Paz, and because we are meeting friends from Canada in Lima, both J and I had stocked up on gifts and souvenirs to send home. We have enough llama sweaters (I believe here they are technically called 'alpaca') and beautiful textiles to last a lifetime. It was great fun (and only a little anxiety inducing. I am the world's worst barterer).  It was just terrible, terrible timing.

I don't care to recall the walk up to the bus station. I will just say that it was slow. Really slow. And after I arrived at the top (about six full minutes after J had arrived), I nearly took the enormous mirror off the side of  a bus. I wasn't joking when I said Big Mama was fuller than she had ever been. I was approximately four inches taller than I am used to being (with my backpack on, about 7 or 8 inches taller than I am sans Big Mama), and I wasn't aware my 'head' (or in this case, Big Mama's head), was capable of reaching the bus mirror. After getting myself settled on the bus, with only one near barfing incident, I began to feel well enough to eat my first meal of the day (pringles, obviously, which is clearly the breakfast of champions...and I wonder why I am rapidly expanding...) without being very worried there may be a bus/barf incident, which would be a problem, as there most definitely was no bathroom.

Unfortunately, when we arrived in Copacabana (but only after ascending many more meters) we discovered that the hotel we were staying at was at the top of the hill. I thought I might actually die. When crossing the road (so slowly I may as well have been going backwards) a car was approaching (which, in South America can very easily mean impending death) I actually thought for a minute, 'Just hit me. If you hit me I can probably stop walking up this hill'. Thankfully, the car did not hit me and we arrived at very lovely hotel (with a room on the top floor, of course), complete with comfy, clean beds, and a television. Television! That never happens, and was very, very appreciated. So, what started out as the worst day of our trip ended up not so bad. It doesn't take much to make me happy, I guess.

I know that some would blame it on the alcohol, but I, however, prefer to blame it on the altitude.
Excuse me. A-a-a-a-altitutde.