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Published: September 11th 2008
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sunday market
another market scene Chichicastenango, nighttime.
Chichi's main square - the zocalo - is quiet now with all the traders and their families gone. We're sitting on the stone steps of La Iglesia de Santo Tomas drinking bottles of Victoria beer, a joint passes from hand to hand, the admosphere is mellow and we all agree it was a good idea to hang around here in Chichicastenango for a few more days. In fact we're seriously debating whether we should go on a two day hike to the "zona librada", some sort of libreated zone west of Chichi and in the hands of rebel indios.
We don't expect much of a problem believing that since we're just a bunch of stupid gringos that have hardly any money these so-called rebels will leave us alone.
The old toothless monster we hire our hut from, has told us this morning that every so often "gringos de los papeles" go there, the poor woman speaks hardly any spanish but I got the message, newspaper people, well, if they can go there...so can we.
With the debate settled I return my attention to the zocalo which is shrouded in mist that has come down from the hills around the
city, a near full moon has given the mist a light blueish color, local kids still out in the streets despite the late hour have surrounded us and most of their curiousity is focused on Nora. I presume these ragged looking kids don't often see a black woman, and definetly not one that smokes pot all day long.
Small bats that probably have their domicile inside the church's tower in the day time now fly their rounds hunting for nighttime insects, their swift shadows penetrate the blueish color mist, James and Peter have gone back to their favourite conversation topic; world politics and all the evils of the Reagan administration, the Iron Lady - Magareth Thatcher - is a bitch...."Yeah, man, I'm a Thatcher refugee living in Amsterdam" I can overhear James tell Peter.
Mary Carmen is doing a serious study of the church wall like there are microscopic aliens living in the wall's cracks and I have strong suspicions she is stoned out of her f*cked-up mind not being used to all the beer and pot this possy consumes on any given day.
I look up at the nearly full moon and the brilliance of a trillion stars when all of a sudden a feel a warm hand take mine, hot breath in my ear moist and familiar "I want to dance, Hans".
We dance slowly in a strong embrace surrounded by mist, the bats flying overhead and the kids standing around us watching us dance. Her chin is on my shoulder and I can hear her soft feminine voice singing softly in french...for a moment in time I can feel my inner energy, that what makes me what I am, my mind, my sub-consciousness, whatever it is, leave my corperate body and go up, lifting itself to a certain height above us surrounded by the bats, I can hear the sonar shrieks they make and the fear of the nighttime insect they hunt.
Looking down I can see myself dancing with this stunningly beautiful afro-american lady whose whole life is dedicated to booze and pot, whole realisations come to me in fragments of a mere second before, with a start, I am back there where I belong inside my own body. A hot and probing tongue is doing a slow dance with mine, her erect nipples poking against my chest through the fabric of her shirt demanding...
Sh*t, I was out to the shrine of Huyup Tak'ah with her boyfriend Peter only this morning, he is sitting only meters away from us, she doesn't care...as a matter of fact she has been after me ever since we met up with them last month on the way to Copan...this crazy hippy couple....it was part of the revelations I had up there only seconds ago.
How come I have not seen that before over the last weeks, why was the revelation beyond me all that time, at Copan, on Utila, in Panajachel??????????
Is this pot and King Alcohol induced wisdom??? And how do we go on from here?? What is next?
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