Sunday June 21st.

 

It’s time for me to be movin’ on, I think.

 

One Krishna week was all fun and good, but a man’s got to eat something other than starches or he just might go crazy and shoot someone. Also my sweet little bachelor pad just got invaded by an Argentinian and a Greek, and this place is hardly as cool with roomies. No place is. Hairy-chested Spanish words are flying around my head. It is time to leave.

 

They took us into town on Friday night to sell whole-wheat bread and propagandize for vegetarianism.

 

I truly never thought I would be that guy: you know, the Krishna chanting and hopping his way through town with a blissful look around the eyes, a fistful of prayer beads and Hare Om Hare Om on the lips. But then, there I was: carrying my tray of bread like a proper disciple, singing along because there was nothing better to do, in the end.

 

The townspeople didn’t blink. They dead-eyed us, and I knew then that we were recognized, a familiar sight. A few approached and asked specifically for the bread; but most of our sales came when tired people just pulled out their coins to make us go away.  I walked through the streets of Huaral chanting Hare Om Hare Om, secretly eyeing the deep-fried, seductively-breaded chicken breasts with dark, desirous eyes. Aji-spiced corazon-on-a-stick is heartmeat, a rubbery, smooth, black delight, three stickfuls for a single dollar, washed down with a yellow Inca Cola, then followed by a furtive Caribe, watch the grey-smoke cloud unfold. A man can get horny for other than sex. 

 

We got back late, exhausted, the monotonous chant ringing in my ears, a cold hole of hunger like a cave in my stomach and there was just cold tomato soup for dinner.

 

 

 

It’s peaceful, tranquil, and dangerously boring here. Today a spiritual master came from Chile to spread his benedictions, but I could not be asked to sit through his lectures. I skipped silently through the potato fields, pushing aside the dark earth, and tramped my way up to the main road, where cars whizzed by me, their honks vigorous and mean. All my underwear is dirty and unusable, all have been worn at least four days apiece and must officially be burned or at the very least washed by someone who is not me. I must leave here . . . but to go where? The money is a horrible problem.