Cuscuena Beats

There is a rythmn to this city. There is a hidden beauty carefully tucked away into the recesses of second floors and intricate weaves. It is not just the weaves of the hand loomed textiles dyed by nature the crushed up flora that creates brilliant greens, pinks and oddly beautiful browns. It is the intricate weave of taxis and combis, participating in a tribal dance, a russian roullette of sorts, cars literally racing through the streets and drifting around corners. An intricate symphony of horns, calling for passengers, warning pedestrians of the dangerous task of crossing the street. The drum is made up by the cacophony of tires beating succinctly upon the calle de piedra, the stone streets and walkways of the historic downtown. Four-Four time.
There is a constant sigh in the air, the ahhs and oohs of the outside world, the grinding of tiny camera parts as tourists snap photographs of the mezcla entre the incan and spanish culture. The hope that one day they can take their dimly lit photographs from the box in the garage, the best of the 500 they took that day on their overpriced digital cameras, the hope that they can say to themselves, ¨well look at that, I can almost smell the city, tremble in the chill air, taste the cuisine and feel the same feelings I felt at the moment I took this photograph.¨But which moment was it_ was it when they first hopped out of their taxi in the plaza de armas? or was it the 32nd time they were molested by men begging them, dragging them into their restaurants for a ¨very good¨ 2 soles menu? When they look at the photographs will they see the abject poverty that was all around them? Will they see the 8 month pregnant child of twelve years, a victim of the sexual and domestic violence that is so common place in latin america? Will they smell the sewage running through the streets and rivers, the same water that many in rural villages must use for eating, drinking, and shitting? Will they remember seeing the beggar shitting in the trees, right in the middle of the avenue de cultura because he has no place else to go? No, they will look at their picture of machu piccu, throw on their matching alpaca sweaters, smile, and say, ¨Thank god I live in America.¨

This will have to happen in ten. Bullet point like.

1. arrived after no sleep at 8 in the morning. walked around cusco. crazy lady with lama tried to get me to pay her to photograph her lama. it smelled funny and i wasn´t down to touch it. walked to lunch. got lost. but found trail of that llama...excuse me... alpaca´s poo on the calle de piedra.
2. asparagus soup. luke warm. stirfried beef and potatos.
3. borientation.
4. met southern gents.
5. dinner. same thing. but some chocolate cake and lemonade finishd it off and me.
6. 5 extra layers. nights here are cold enough to turn my spit into icecycles. cicles?
7. must remember not to spit.
8. hung out with southern boys and a southern belle. got pisco sours and shared with eachother what was quote in our milkshakes. end quote. silly little bar attempting to be british. hidden behind and upstairs from a tienda. lots of british boys and bean bags.
9. slept 9 hours.
10. more borientation
11. el luncho. alpaca and potatos today. i wonder if it was that ladies alpaca. it didn´t smell
12. got host family.
13. habla con ellos para seis ano y espanol muy terrible.
14. delicious sopa y maize y mucho peliculas en ingles.
15. blogged, watched reese witherspoon makeout with mark walberg sexy'like and tried to make plans with southern boys, no longer gents because they didn´t know they were talking to me for like 8 hours.
16. realized my blogging sucks, is uninteresting, and thoroughly illspelled and grammatically incorrect.