Midnight impressions
- written on Thursday night (technically Friday morning), 12:30 am
I am in the back patio area of my little hostal in Cusco. I say “patio,” but it is more of a back area with a little wooden deck with stairs that lead down to a clothes washing and drying area (one sink and lines for drying). I am outside, although there is only a sliver of the sky visible between the surrounding overhanging roofs, and enjoying the 50 degree F weather alone, with my pen and notebook (jacket and hat). Everyone else has gone to bed in this dorm-like hostal, and I am charged with turning off the kitchen and hallway lights before I go to sleep, down the hall in my room, not numbered, but named “Quilla” or “Moon” in Quechua. (Quechua is the indigenous old language in these parts, and I like that “quilla” could sound like “killa” in English…cuz I’m so tough. ha ha.)
The dogs of Cusco are barking in the distance now, just like they did in Arequipa. How can anyone sleep out there in those neighborhoods? I know I did, though, eventually fall asleep among the sounds of barking dogs in my first hostal in Arequipa (of which I had three). But still, those motherfuckers need to be tamed. They walk around free will in these outlying cities of Peru, poopin´ and peein´ where they please. Not an owner in sight, although they probably belong to someone, nonetheless. I guess there´s something to be said for scoop-your-pet´s-poop laws and training classes, but, as much as this rant may say otherwise, I kinda like seeing the random pooch, which have so far been friendly, and I have to accept the barking and mess if I wanna enjoy seeing them live so free.
Random whistles, too, bellow in the distance, of traffic cops, existing out there at this time only to maintain their jobs, it seems. I can´t imagine why they are needed to direct the midnight traffic of taxis carrying tourists from bar to bar or bar to hostal, unless the taxistas are as barracho (drunk) as their passengers. But everything here has its own reason, as it does in every city. And it is only the observing eye of one who is unfamiliar to note that any of these sounds of the night are strange or nonsensical. Sure enough, any Cuzquenian who would stay for a short period of time in one of my cities would think that the constant wailing of a nearby firetruck (Washington, DC) or the deafening silence of nature (Bethany, CT) are sounds just as strange as the distant wailing dogs or unneeded traffic whistles are to me.
This world is all the same. I am as convinced now as I´ve always been when suspecting that we are all just a bundle of similarities, separated by simple labels of race, place, and generation. Sure, I say these lables are simple, when I damn well know they are not. And “place” can mean several things…physical location in the world, financial status or class, and stage of life. It´s just that we choose to make our labels matter. Some of us choose to let them separate us, and some of us choose to let them enlighten us. As I find myself continuing to grow, while trying to understand our cultural differences, I am overjoyed to know that the same passion that could drive me within my own native borders flourishes even more among the tests of unfamiliar grounds.
