No explanation is needed.
Picture 2:
Explains the reason why mp3 music players are evil. While walking down the highway with said mp3 player in hand, I had an undeniable urge to hear "Half a person" by the Smiths. For me, this required exclusive concentration on fumbling with the small device, so much so that I walked straight into this large pile of gray dirt and dust and ruble. The world tumbled unexpectedly as I confusedly fell, skinning my elbow,
causing my hand to bleed and significantly damaging my pride. I jumped up and quickly looked around to see if anyone had witnessed this puerile action; concluding that I had only made a few truck drivers laugh, I strode ahead. It was not until the hoots and hollers past the gas station that I realized my sui generis sunglasses had come unhitched from my shirt during my descent. Restively, I spun around, sure some lucky passerby would see the florescent pink on the ground, screech to a halting stop and take them out of my life forever. Upon returning to the scene of my tomfoolery, I took picture 2. Let it also be stated for the record that I never wanted an mp3 player, never asked for one and should not be allowed to operate electronics, writing utensils or heavy machinery when walking.
Picture 3 & 4:
Upon arriving in La Puri, I was met with a massive, flower-filled celebration outside of the town's church. The celebration, no doubt for some saint I have never heard of, was being led by a priest, microphone clutched in his hand and saying "espiritu" every other word or so.
I wandered away from the church and up the hill for my planned hike to the cross when I was met by picture 4. I had heard the music from afar and finally reached a scene of dance in a local's yard (the bobbling movements will live in immortality on my external hard-drive). I watched the group with a plastered smile that joined me on my hike long after the hatted children and men and musicians played and danced their way down the cobble stone street to the church.
No pictures:
I bushwhacked the mountain, not because I necessarily wanted to but because I have a knack for making things more complicated than they should be. Let us leave it at that and say that I survived. I did, however, take the trail on the way down.
After finishing my trek I decided to try to find Amy's old route to work, which involved scaling a fence. Somewhere. Full of endorphins I seemed to ignore the fact that I had no idea of where this gap in security might be located. I walked and walked and walked around the perimeters, too tired to turn around and give up and sure that if caught, the owner of whatever field I was in would shoot me on the spot.
But all I could see were triple barbed wire fences in every direction. Hungry and enervated I was just about to give up when I assuaged myself with hope and promised myself a taxi if I had to retrace all of my steps. And then there it was: a tree that had grown into the fence and lowered the barbed wire. This had to be it.
I hung my bag on the fence as I experimented with my break-in, but of course my bag fell - now I was committed. Like a kitten jumping off a roof I finally went for it and landed smoothly. Feeling very happy with myself, I noticed that something was amiss. I was, no, still fenced in? I had broken into the fenced in reservoir. How could this be? Feeling completely disheartened by my mistake and afraid of getting caught in the restricted area and with shoes to big to climb even the non-barbed wire part of the fence, I considered digging my way out. I circled the perimeter of my cage to find a locked door that did, however, have an x shape metal covering and to my surprise was located next to a fence missing barbed wire. I propped myself up on the x and stealthy sat on the fence, not yet ready to jump for it. After 15 seconds of fear I gracefully fell, unscathed by the break-in and walked away nonchalantly. To this day, the fence has not recovered.
