Is what I think I have. I swear I´m dying. Okay, maybe not dying, but comatose. The kind where you can still type.
Jess and I are wrapping up our time in Sucre tomorrow, then to La Paz for the gran Poder, which I´ll explain later, at some unforseen, less-mucusy time.
I have spent the last five days glued to my bug infested matress, staring at the yellowing walls in our daggy, albeit cheap hospedaje, surviving on the eternally graceful Jessica´s offerings of coca maté and ginger tea, as my lungs construct some sort of interstellar spacecraft in my throat. A plan to which I have opposed myself by coughing up all progress on a routine basis.
More later. Ciao.
Hack. hack.
N.
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