Cuy

I woke up Thursday with my hips sore and my quads killing me. It hurts to go up and down the stairs of the hotel.  I have no energy either. That hike kicked my ass. I  had breakfast at the cafe next door. I have been going here everyday for breakfast and ordering the same thing: oatmeal with a cup of the best hot chocolate I have had in a while. Returning to the hotel I got on line and started posting on the blog.
     Once again I hear drums and trumpets. This time its the Independence Day Ceremony in the town square. All the local politicos and bureaucrats are there, marching behind the Peruvian flag. They march up to a small stage they have set up and begin speechifying. The mayor gives an impassioned political speech about how they are being constantly fucked around by the central government. Then there is a parade of just about every branch of government in town down to the street sweepers and mototaxistas, followed by the campesino organzations from outlying villages dressed in colorful regional garb. Finally the police and National Police come goose stepping thru. It looks like half the town has been in the parade, some marching thru 2 or 3 times
 Around mid afternoon I drag myself out to lunch. I have decided this is my day to try cuy,guinea pig, a local delicacy. So I went to a nearby restaurant that advertised cuy al horno, roast guinea pig. It´s terrible.
It has tough leathery skin and very little meat. What meat it does have is intensely gamey. The side dishes are little better. So an hour later I was back at the breakfast cafe for lunch pt 2. A bowl of quinoa soup and a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich hits the spot. Then back for a nap. A little before dark I finally snap out of it and go for a beer at one of the 2 bars in town that cater to tourists, Quechua Bar. There are a few primitive local bars but none of them have cold beer. In their defense, it is cool here, so the beer is not totally hot, but room temperature is not very appealing . Quechua Bar is  almost always dead. The bar maid is a cute young Quechua girl named Ada. We have been chatting and watching bad Peruvian TV almost every early evening, as the other bar, Ganso´s, doesn´t get going until later. She says they have a strict no local hippie policy. A large tour group of 15 with guide had been there one night drinking upstairs when a hippie came in and tried to sell them dope. The guide flipped out and said "What kind of place are you running here?"so no more hippies. Peruvian hippies are total hippies. There is no half way. They all have huge dreadlocks, walk around barefoot or in sandals, and are filthy. There are little clusters of them everywhere I have been, supplimented by dreadlocked foreign girls sitting in the square selling crappy handmade jewelry. After a couple of beers I´m off to Ganso´s. This bar is a hole in the wall. The far wall is dominated by a wood burning oven with a fantastical sculptured hood. To the left is a couch contantly occuppied by one or two hippies playing the large bongo drums there. The drums also double as a rolling surface and they are not shy about firing it up right here. Up a sketchy stairway is the upstairs room. Its a real hippie haven with all the benches suspended from the ceiling with a rope. Colorful paintings and posters adorn the walls. A wooden fireman´s pole in the corner provides a quick alternative to the stairs. Last nite I was up here and a hippie pulled a huge chunk of weed out of his bag. It was pretty good. Tonite there is a group of 5 American girls having a going away party for one of them. More people join the party and people start piling in until the place is packed, upstairs and down. Its the day before independance day so everyone is out partying. My friend Arturo from Monday is there with his younger brother and his friends. Its a very lively crowd and we drink and bullshit for hours. The young Peruvian guys ask me about buffalo soldiers. They play Marley here constantly and that is one of his better known songs. They are really interested in American Indians, since they are indigenous people themselves. I name of most of the tribes I know and where they are located. They really like the part about the Custer Massacre and know about Geronimo. A tall red head at the bar has been hit on and danced with by almost evey guy in the bar. She asks me to dance and claims she is German and doesn´t speak a word of English. I´m not buying it and start saying some nasty shit to her in English but she doesn´t bat an eyelash. She danced with a few more guys and left alone. I christened her "The Red Baron"-80 men tried and 80 men died. Arturo tells me he lives in Cusco and gives me his email. I still haven´t heard from him. By now the crowd has thinned out after drinking almost every beer in the bar. I head back to the hotel. It´s 3:30 when I ring the bell and wake the owner.