Back in the eighties, when Jorge lived here, the poor would leave houses made of aluminum pans in the mountains above the restaurants and come into the village to drink for free.
Every night, when the bars closed, tourists and fraises with money still in their wallets were robbed without enthusiasm by diminuitive descendants of Incan princes holding pocket knives and smoking cigarettes.
When we left the bar, the Southern Cross was hanging over us, and Jorge tried to find someone with cannabis. I was nervous and pretended to be sick. I squatted like a primitive man and drew in the dirt until he gave up and we walked home.
“They’ll come down soon,” said Jorges, pointing to the mountains.
I took out my wallet and pulled out all the pesos I had and threw them into the bushes along the road.
I was drunk of course, and Jorge just laughed. He said, “We could’ve bought a pound of ants with that.”