Post-Trek Exploration

---

Cusco
November 23, 2008

This morning I awoke to a festive ceremony of music and yelling
downstairs. I stayed in bed and listened intently to the singing and
the flutes or recorders or whatever they were. Some of them sounded
off-pitch which didn't encourage me to go down there. Emily did. She
said it wasn't as many people as it sounded like. A lot of kids and
what appeared to be a protest.
Lying in bed, I was reminded of one morning in Glasgow when I awoke
to bagpipes coming from downstairs. The culture was unavoidable—even
in bed. Any country that provides that has pride.
Now I sit at a café on the second floor just off Plaza de Armas. I
tried to write about the four bokes on a bench but got accosted by
locals trying to sell me things. I let Edgar shine my hiking boots,
failing to realize just how vulnerable that would make me. My Spanish
wasn't good enough and I didn't want to be an asshole, thus making me
an easier target and a "good tourist".
The young girls, older women and middle-aged Peruvians with something
to sell had persistence that amazed me more than ever. I bought a
watercolor painting of the Sacred Valley from Henry and a monkey
finger puppet from a young school girl who begged and pleaded and
begged and pleaded for me to buy more so she could get some chicken
for lunch. I'm no expert at haggling so I ended up lying.
"Manana," I said. "Hasta manana."
"Promise? She asked.
"Si," I lied.
Just to avoid the locals trying to take advantage of me, I took B up
on his offer to check out his body piercing studio. I looked at some
designs and told his brother I'd consider coming in to get one
tomorrow, which was another lie.
"You can bring in your own designs if you want," said B's brother,
who was covered in tattoos from head to toe. Where he didn't have ink,
he had hair or piercings.
As we walked back outside, B told me that his business was not
tattoos, but drugs.
"You want grass? Coke?" he asked.
"Can I get a joint?" I asked.
"A joint? Si, si. Come with me."
I walked with B toward Plaza de San Francisco and he told me he could
sell me three joints for 75 soles, but couldn't sell just one.
"No, gracias."
"One joint, 25 soles."
Not bad, I thought, but not the best, either.
We sat down by a llama statue and he put some grass in my hand.
"Papers?" I asked
"No papers," he said.
"I am muy mal at rolling joints," I said, honestly.
He told me he had papers at his place but didn't know where I could
get some around the plazas.
"Lo siento," I said.
We started walking back to Plaza de Armas and I asked him how business was.
"Very good," he said.
"Lot of tourists?" I asked.
"Eighty percent of business is tourists," he said proudly. "Hasta manana?"
"Hasta manana," I lied. "See you at your studio."
In retrospect, I didn't even want to smoke weed. Think I was just
curious about how B operated. He's from Lima and makes a better living
dealing here than there. He's good at not being obvious with the
tattoo decoy. He's very charismatic and persuasive with decent
English, more so than Edgar and the other characters in the plaza.

---

Photos

View From a Glass
Plaza De Armas on a beautiful May afternoon. Photo taken by Thomas Cox during his visit to the Picchu.

Plaza de Armas
Photo taken by Emily on a beautiful, busy day in November