Roulette

(Pic: Remnants of the strike.)

Will the water run? Will it be warm if it does or will I shiver through another freezing cold shower? (Odds are the latter). Will it rain in ten minutes or will the sun keep shining, making it unnecessary to don my plastic poncho? Will I survive the cab ride to work today? (I always wonder, but it seems Señor Dale Earnhardt Resurrected--actually, our taxi driver´s name is Edgar--manages to manuever out of our near-head-on collision every time). Will I get a seat on the two-hour bus ride home? (Front to back, floor to ceiling, the buses are always packed). Will there be toilet paper in this bathroom? (Public bathrooms almost never have toilet paper...you learn to carry it in your purse at all times, right next to your hand sanitizer...in case the water´s not running).
Contrary to how it may sound, I am not complaining. I am revelling in the adventure. Though I tremble miserably through every cold shower, I can´t help but smirk to myself at the wonderfulness of being here and find gratitude in remembering that some people don´t even have showers. Sometimes, when I´m already lathered and the water pressure has composed itself in likeness to an aquatic strobe light, I don´t mind the glacial temperature...as long as there is another spurt lasting enough to wash the soap off. Oh, but when it´s a hot one, strobing or not, I celebrate beneath the scrumptious, steaming glory.
I absolutely love the sporadic downpours of rain. It feels like I´m trekking through some undiscovered place, despite the hundreds of other people milling about with umbrellas. It leaves the ground shiny and slick, to draw a beautiful reflected image in the cobblestone streets, of the tall, old buildings standing over us. A Friday, after searcing through Cusco for a place to sleep, when my hair and clothes were all wet and I was out of breath and prickling with goosebumps from the cold, it somehow made the hostel into a home; that much warmer, that much safer, that much more welcoming, when I collapsed on my one-night-only bed and sighed...at last.
Taxis are fun and terrifying. First of all, there are no backseat passenger safetybelts. Edgar tends to drive very fast and often passes on a blind curve along the single-lane road to Cusco. When there´s a car coming on the other side, which there often is, I can see the three other volunteers, from the corner of my eye, each bracing themselves for the blow. Just like me. All of our hands clench into fists, knees lock, eyes widen with a thrill of slightly amused fright (slightly amused because this is a daily occurence and we´ve learned by now that Edgar isn´t going to crash--the other reactionary stuff is automatic). Once we´ve swerved safely back into the right lane, we all breathe a sigh of relief and giggle together at our brush with death. The day after the strike was the most frightening. (The people here put on transportation protests to get the government to listen to them. They fill the roads with giant rocks and flaming tree branches, and if you try to pass, they throw stones at your car. This time, they´re protesting against the privitization of water, which will make water healthier and more widely accessible, but expensive. The farmers don´t want to have to pay.) No one travels when there´s a strike like this, so we couldn´t go to work that day. But the remnants of the strike, the day after, were horrendous. It would take ten men to move a boulder that size! Edgar wove in and out of those boulders like a professional, into the left lane, toward the oncoming cars and buses. It was a Mario Kart raceway, with all the triumph of dodging those pesky spikes and banana peels, and coming out, not only in first place, but alive in the end. Another time, Edgar brought his son with him. We were all wondering where the kid would go, since us four volunteers fill up the passenger seating. The trunk. Edgar put his kid in the trunk. Granted, it´s a hatchback, so there was plenty of air to breath. Apparently this is quite common, and Edgar has had a few other trunk passengers since then. I always wonder if they get a discount on their fare.
I actually prefer the buses. Though they take twice as long, I find them less scary, less nausea-inducing. I saw an old lady hock a loogie into one of the window curtains (note to self...never sit beside the windows.) I check my ticket, seat number 19. The aisle. Perfect. I sit next to a hefty woman. The aisle fills up and the man standing at my side is facing away from me, but sort of leaning into my shoulder. I´m sandwiched in between the plump lady and some man´s bum. It was a well-cushioned ride, that one.
Will I get sick if I eat this? (I´m practically a professional now at ignoring stomach aches.) Will I get taken advantage of for being a dear-in-headlights foreigner? (I´ve been taken. Generally just overcharged for bus fare.) Will I get a fake sol back in the change for my 10? (I´m pretty sure I can tell a fake one from a real one now, and take great pleasure in telling the vendor...da me un otro, por favor, este es falso).