Member-only story
Thin Air
A tale of high altitude
At passport control a middle-aged woman was receiving oxygen. A mask, clamped over her face, was fed by a full size cylinder. A young Aymara woman, in the green uniform of a medic, knelt by her side, making low reassuring sounds. In the queue, Jack moved forward, part of a shuffling, lumbering animal fixed in slo mo, his eyes trained on the ailing woman.
La Paz, at 4000 metres, was one of the highest airports in the world, or so he’d read somewhere. He sucked in more air. Surely there wasn’t enough to go round. He imagined the worst. Soon, he too would be lying recumbent, a fish out of water, silver body flashing and slapping uselessly on the killing floor. Did they have just the one oxygen feed? Welcome to Bolivia, a voice chanted from the back of his head.
He was hardly aware of the ten US dollar ride, sweeping him away from the airport towards the city, cradled in the arms of the Andes.
‘Illumani,’ the driver pointed to a distant peak half shrouded by cloud. ‘1985, bam! Big air crash… Mountain won’t move. Plane stops.’
‘Right. Great.’
He checked in at the Sagarnaga Hotel in the heart of the city as recommended by the taxi driver. At around 21 dollars a night he would have preferred something cheaper. He was used to sharing with bed bugs. But he was too tired…
