Royale with cheese

"Ouro Preto. Always wide smiles and open."
- a pamphlet I have
(Original text: "Ouro Preto. Portas e sorrisos sempre abertos.")

See? Translating is a viable career choice!


A moment more for Peru, however...
The last week at Mosoq Runa was a party. Literally. Ccotohuincho had its anniversary, which meant everyone was drinking chicha (made with flour) at all hours, dancing in the streets and neglecting their children-- so business as usual. We also went to Ollantaytambo's birthday party and sampled their chicha... after an incredible hike around some high(er) altitude villages (photos to come).

Last Thursday, Yeni took me to the house of a musician friend of hers for dinner. The house, about a half hour walk through the back roads of Urubamba, was gorgeous-- all wood floors, high ceilings and amazing acoustics... a far cry from adobe. Carlos and his wife, Ysabel, were so welcoming, and I ended up jamming with Carlos for hours. I'd brought my flute with me, but I also tried out some of his instruments. It's incredible how you can hear the material; a simple, heavy wooden flute makes a low, rough whistle, while a tiny piece of bone hums and whines its way into the hollow of your tooth. My own Yamaha's tones are pure and beautiful, but lack the echo of the Andes.
Carlos also has a keyboard, and I was ecstatic to play it; I hadn't touched a piano since I left New York. So we sang and played, and he showed me the instruments he makes himself, guitars and the like. I also listened to a recording of his group, who does experimental Andean music. He invited me to play with them in January, as they need a girl who can play keyboards and sing...
Afterwards, mate and sweet mais. Then, the walk back home, under the starry skies.

My last two days in Ccotohuincho were sunny and gorgeous. I spent as much time as I could with the kids, having water fights and promising them that, yes, I'll be back in January, which comes before February, so, yes, I'll be here for your birthday.

Saturday, I took a colectivo to Cusco and hopped on the 18-hour bus to Lima. The views were insane, and I loved watching the cliffs rise and fall while listening to "Ripple" and Townes Van Zandt. Easing my way back into my other life...?
On the bus, I met a Limeño who also works in an hogar. We got to talking almost immediately about sex ed and the like, which suited me just fine. 18 hours and three high quality films (Shaolin Soccer, Kangaroo Jack and White Fang, all in Spanish of course) later, we arrived in Lima and went to breakfast. Over a jugo de papaya, he poured his heart out to me. It started when he mentioned casually that he was Christian (thanks, buddy, I didn't get that from the huge DIOS tattooed on your arm), and I asked him if he'd been raised that way. No, it happened a year ago, when he was in a bad car accident that left his spine in knots. He was practically paralyzed from the neck down, and his family, his girlfriend and his friends abandoned him, for he was worthless.
He ended up in a bed of some boarding house, where the señora would bring him food and water, which he mostly refused. He read the Bible which was next to his bed and cursed God for not helping him.
One day, the señora asked if she could pray for him at her church; he told her to go fuck herself. The next day, she brought her priest and four church friends to his room, and they started praying anyway. He cursed at them, but they wouldn't go away. Then, the priest said, "Give me your hand." "I can't, you idiot!" "Give me your hand. Have faith." And so on. Until, finally, he was able to move his hand to the priest's, who helped him up from the bed. He turned and saw that his spine was straight. He'd been cured. Since then, he's been a Christian.

I don't even know his name.

At the Lima airport, at the bar, a Goldie Hawn type: "So they're down there praying and I'm up here drinking."
Yes, lady, I thought, and went to get my Quarter Pounder with Cheese (which, sadly, is translated literally into the Spanish).

The flight to São Paulo was short and sweet; only 4 hours. Then a rush to catch the 8am bus to Ouro Preto... 11 sweet hours of dozing, hallucinating that I was on an alien planet where I could almost-but-not-quite understand the language, and drooling over the pretty scenery.
More on that scenery-- the Brazilian countryside was a shock after Peru; it's greener, fuzzier, more humid, stickier, mistier, than its Peruvian counterpart. The magic is different; it doesn't come from the cold, sharp Andean air, but from the mystery of that heat, the dark colors and the heavy odors.
We stopped to eat, twice, at typical (I'm quoting the bus driver here) Brazilian fast food joints; one was called "NYC Burger." Everything was fried pastry, mostly with cheese, and it was yummy. Although now I'd kill for a salad.

I had a mission in Ouro Preto. To find an old friend of Mario's, someone he spent some time with in Italy six years back, a miner of precious gems, with only seven fingers left, named Jesus. I arrived in the Praça Tiradentes last night, having skidded down the cobblestoned streets from the bus station, to meet a shady character who took me to a hostel off the square. He then proceeded to show me a stack of business cards, and I was about to turn to the owner of the hostel for help, when I spotted Jesus' name. Turns out, he's a good friend of Shady and the hostel owner, and his shop is right across the street! Unfortunately, he's in Italy now, but I went by the shop today, met his wife and co-worker, bought a ring, and made plans to drink capirinhas with them tonight.

Well, back to speaking my Italo-spagnolo and trying to understand these crazy, sliding vowels.

Love to all.