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Shared Wounds at Machu Picchu

Last month I visited Machu Picchu. Since I was exploring the ruins by myself, I chose to hike to the site so I could meet people along the way. I made the trek with a few Colombians, a couple of Spaniards, some Peruvians, and a group of Panamanians. There was one other US citizen among us, of Mexican heritage. We spoke Spanish the whole way up the mountain, sharing stories about other parts of Peru we had traveled, and advice for future destinations. When we reached the entrance to the national park that led to the site, we drifted apart looking for our designated tour guides. Originally, I was with an English-speaking guide. There was more blonde hair and blue eyes in this group than those I had hiked with. Less than ten minutes into the hike to the top of the mountain where we would see Machu Picchu, the 18 month-old baby nestled in a carrier around her mother began to wail. It became harder to hear the tour guide and my patience began to wane.  I'm not a baby-hater but I didn

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