[Later that evening, a walk with Fiorella and Neri]
Turns out Megaphone Man was not harking independence after all, but revving up for 'Festival de Danzas' in the huge yet empty town square. Panpipes a-go go!
We stood in a tight, jigsaw fit of bodies around a makeshift arena while kids of all shapes, sizes and rhythm contributed traditional, regional peruvian equivalents of jazz hands. What do we have? Glee, or country dancing, and I felt sad as I always do that our own traditional song and dance is so lifeless by contrast to most other places I've travelled. The stiff geography teacher saw to that, ensuring this dance was not, and never would be, a party, and spoiled many a wedding for me since. This, however was pure joy: colour, glisten, ruffles and weaves, drums and strings and pipes, and I watched the little faces of these kids as they proudly danced in beautiful dresses, jumped and tapped and wiggled the stories and folklore of their country region by region.
Freddo the 'Inca Fotografica' dipped around with his beat up old Pentax 35mm film camera; stewards held back the pressing crown, 'por favor, por favor', and in our comfortable, cosy fit we all swayed along with infectious rhythms, beaming - luminoso. We left, but the man with the megaphone was still going when I woke in our hotel room at 4.30am.
The overture turned out to be its prophetic self.
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