I left my camera on a train leaving Machu Picchu. After a week of hiking we embarked on two and a half hours of sleep followed by nineteen hours of traipsing around millions of tonnes of organised granite infested by thousands of brightly-coloured rain-ponchos ticking off an arbitrary item of their arbitrary pre-determined bucket lists. The hour-late train was defined by spilt-tea and consciousnesses limited to breathing and I could barely focus my bleary vision on the shit in front of me, let alone the bag under my seat.
And so I've lost my most valuable possession and with it an SD card containing glimpses into a life worth living. Split seconds that seem to explain millennia. And that's what photos are. A reminder to you and to the world that you've seen things, you've met people, you matter. Lost forever are pics of Kay staring out upon gaping valleys, colours painting jagged mountains, startlingly red orchids, ancient Incan ruins and Kojo and Tola jumping in the air with smiles as big as the rocks making up Machu Picchu majestically in the background behind them.
Those photos are a documentation and expression of my memories within my mind of the 57 kilometres that we traipsed through, smiles all the way.