It is hard to concentrate on writing when you are on a night bus on bad Bolivian roads and even worse Chuck Norris action war movies flicker across the screen in front of you. The third movie is Rambo III. Come on.
It’s full moon and the bright, white disc appears 14% bigger than usual.
But this is not the story of a man turning into a wolf, howling into the night. A night in which the only light is shed by that previously mentioned pale, fake copy of the sun. No, this is not about creatures, desperately hunting in a pack for flesh in the dark. It’s never lupus, but it is close, very close.
That night, no moon shining, the pack went out howling at a small black ball upon a stick, covered with a metal net. This little icon, it had a name, and they called it Mike. Passing the Mike around between the members of the pack was an essential part of the setting giving each one the opportunity to show their talent in turning into fools without caring about it. And fools, oh fools, they were.
Flickering beams of light rotated around inside the cave, converting it into an appropriate temple for worshipping the ghosts of the 80ths and 90ths. Liquids were used to intoxicate the brains, elevating the animal nature in every single cell. Indeed the ritual started a long time before, when they would meet to drink red fluids that devilishly lifted their spirits.
And howling and dancing, performing moves like Jagger and Bohemian Rapsodies, getting their Feet loose, they jumped around in shared joy, bonding together as drops that had found the ocean. After so many days travelling around, this might have been their finest hour. And after a myriad of more pieces of individual or group actions, this last night in Puno, this last night in Peru, it turned into a bright light of memories, never to be forgotten by the sixteen men and women that made it so special.
