The sun shines, penetrating through the waves of guitar riff wafting down from above, on us in Lima this morning. Having made it to our end destination, we all got some fresh haircuts and tried to scrub off the helmet tan lines, in vain.
But it does not end. Since, with the foresight possessed within the toeholds of a travelers mayhem, we changed our flights to go out of Quito Ecuador some month ago, the land of lesser embargo, where we think we will be able to fly back from with our bikes. It looked like we were only going to make it out of here with our seats, so onwards,
and,
upwards.
Tomorrow, after our time here, lavishly living the rock star life of sleeping on a punk house floor, serenaded by the possesive squeals of the theremin, whispers of drug dealers on the street,and by wiggling children´s fingers to the accompaniament wiggity wiggity wiggity. After playing so many hands of ochos locos we turn to cucharas,the mystical game of snaps, it is much easier to diseave people into believing you are psychichly charged if they can´t understand what you are saying, and our classic and continuos battles of destructo, the game of drawing demise. After surviving our second Friday the thirteenth with little more encounter than singing when a man loves a women to the accordion played by a fifty year old peruvian man at a collective. After all is said and done, in spanish, how badly depending on which one of us is speaking.
We will be done eating more calories than we can burn dancing to bad eighties music, and so, we will go,
to Quito.
