Borros de Fuego

Not really a plop.  Not quite a smack.  Almost a rustling, as the the donkey doo collided with the back of my neck, head, and upper right shoulder, provoking in response only a slight "fuck?" and a few darted looks around for the origin of this globulous projectile.  I mean of course I knew the origin, but was this an intentional assault, or had a farmer mis-shoveled, or had the originating donkey somehow hoisted its hindquarters atop and over the high wall at my side.  I reasoned that donkeys are the type to conserve their energy and are not privy to acrobatic amusements, and I deduced that, as the fecal torrent had mercifully ceased, I had not wandered into the work area of any local.  This must have been a deliberate insult.  Someone had insulted ME!  

Well, I preceded to do what any self respecting man in a foreign country would do when confronted with such an audacious effrontery.  My rampage swallowed the small Chavin borrio of La Florida in flames, leaving dozens of citizens maimed, a few donkeys psychologically devastated, and countless guinea pigs digested in my vengefully ravenous gut.  No, I just washed my self under my water bottle, went to the gringo cafe near the local tourist attraction, and had a cup of coffee.  It was some hours later when I got all the donkey doo picked free from the joints of my glasses.

So there is coffee in Chavin, and most of the locals are perfectly sweet.  Two in particular: our hostel hostess and the kind restaurant keeper who makes us dinner every day.  There are also a number of other gringos in town: a 15 strong family of missionaries with us at the hostel, and a wonderfully nerdy archeologist named Matt.  Chavin holds one of the most extraordinary sites of ancient cultural remains on the planet.  Before the Aztecs, the first pan peruvian civilization made this valley its center, and it was on their precedent that all other South American empires made their bones.  Or something like that.  Like Greece.  Sorta.  We're taking the tour on Monday and that'll set me straight.

The first night here I sat in the pristine central plaza and watched the high school dance with Matt and the rest of the town, listening to the sloppy brass of the local dance band and the feedback ridden harp/bass/vocal band on the town PA.  With few exceptions Peruvians can't really dance.  All they know is a short two step and their Catholic restraint forbids them from doing any spins or dips.  Still, they managed to pick a few winners from the participants.  And then the fireworks.  We American have got to appropriate this one.  They build these structures of wheels and joints, load them with sparklers and volcano type explosives, set the fuse and stand back, though not very far back.  I can't believe no one gets cooked.  Its truly beautiful and surreal.

   

My work this week was brief, just two days, but arduous in its commute, the steepest climb of the climbs so far.  The town of Nunupata is tiny and the kids are of simple desires and darling.  Lots of Chechuan, the local indigenous language, so my broken spanish is little understood.  The teacher is cool and she appreciates my work.  We fixed a classroom door together by ripping the useless decorative metal away so the mechanics could work freely.  For a few moments I had my own youth noise orchestra as I conducted several apt sections of preteen Nunupatians performing random XO noises.

4th of July was a deal.  The Huarez crew came on over to visit the Chavez crew and we got drunk on sunlight shining off the churning water and 4 bottles of $4 champagne and 1 bottle of Pisco, a cheap Peruvian rum type thing that reminds me more of gin.  We lounged next to the Chavez river among the stacked stone ruins of the future home an older sweetheart of a man.  Sweetness in the air and fine conversation and cigs with Adam the Brit.  It's good to get a buzz on in the early afternoon sun and to keep it on like a pancho in the rain.

Excuse the late posting.  Internet is pushing a chain.  More to come.