Guinea Pigs and Moon Sand

I work the latest fad, moon sand, through my tired fingers and allow myself to feel the advertised rejuvenating properties. I contemplate whether my feet would fit into the wooden box, gaze past the plaster partition ahead of me, and am reverted to the entrancing dunes of Colan on the north coast of Peru.
It is hard to imagine the reluctance I felt when planning this trip, which resulted from the wide-eyed rejoinder of guarded individuals. I downplayed the indiscriminate warnings- “If I come across a guinea pig, I’m eating it.” Despite my efforts, the unwelcomed caution penetrated.
I carried this unsolicited fear, and a small carryon of bathing suits and pareos, from New York to Lima, an hour by plane to Piura, and a couple hours by van to Colan. The vast landscape was dotted with an occasional shelter. A packed-sand road, past the oldest church in the Americas, brought us to a beachfront property.
Mornings were filled with fresh fruits and breads, instant coffee and non-diary cream, and self-guided tours along the solitary beach road by cuatrimoto (4X4). Pisco sours and frightful dunks in the stingray-filled ocean packed afternoons. At night, we planted in thin plastic chairs outside the local liquor store and poured rum into our clear plastic cups. A voice cut the laughter as I stared at the innumerable stars overhead:
“Imagine all of the great conversations that must have taken place around this table.”
And I did begin to think. I imagined how many would come back from this trip with complaints of mosquitoes and lack of rum selection. I made it a point to look at each remaining experience with the same insight that I gained at that plastic table, to control how I see.
Throughout our stay locals insisted we go to “La Cruz.” Before sunset, we cruised through a few miles of uninhabited dunes. The tight winding paths that climbed to the cross sat behind as we gazed toward the coast far in the distance.
The reducing sun blazed the sky in hues impossible to capture outside of memory, and inched into the distant coast. My feet sank into the salutary, spongy sand. Each step smoothly glided me a few feet down the steep decline. I purposefully glanced at each face. Adults and children emitted an unfamiliar look- content.
I did not bite into the foreign flesh of a rodent while in Colan, but I did acquire the ability to command experience and identify commonality in the unknown. I shove my feet into the moon sand and wonder how many see it as a toy.