The palm-reading masseuse

And so it was, that after 200 bus hours it was finally deemed necessary for some spinal relief. Such a decision happily coincided with a trip to Coroico, a quiet town nestled between green hills and just a whisper away from La Paz.

Asking amongst the locals, Juan's name came up as the man who can. Said masseuse appeared promptly at our breakfast table the next morning, and the date was set.

The appointed hour arrived, and we found ourselves a world away from the insence-infused and pillow-filled palace of our collective imagination. Instead, an old matress filled a hot room, where whitewash walls screamed for a second coat. Casting all expectations aside, therefore, we began.

Hands were soon cast aside in favour for leathery soles, and oily feet worked their way across my back. I remaining in silent surprise whilst a foot pushed inquisitively against my hip, a move only previously utilised to check whether a street-dog really was dead.

The hip-prodding promptly progressed into foot-slapping, and was accompanied by the first of Juan's 'readings'. He sensed trouble in my mind, and delved further through my tense muscles to a previously unknown childhood trauma (I still wonder). Digging fingers into my wrists he beamed with the gleeful delight of a masochist as I whinced in sudden pain; this was inevitably deemed a clear sign of my aforementioned trauma, and Juan produced a knowing smile.

Thus an hour passed in the anonymous room, during which my mental state was transformed into a haze of haphazard predictions. Yet my muscles protested of their neglect, and were soon yearning for the soft seat of another night bus.