Triping over my tongue to order una cerveza. Tripping over my toes to dance the salsa. A middle-aged man breaths pisco, while I stare at my feet. I quickly escape presumption.

Cold air, cold beer and drunken laughs. Thieves linger at the edge of darkness along the streets of Bellavista. Unseen. Collecting cameras and credit cards, and stealing into the night. Police swagger to the scene, puff their chest, exhale smoke and look down upon the naive, incomprehensible tourist. A jolly busker plays the pan flute. He is wrongly accused, unknowingly. He scampers toward paying ears.

Two bottles of vino to forget materialism and attachment. A trip to the police station, first thing in the morning. A tussle with financial institutions, later on.

Hungover, the streets are grey and straight, snow-capped mountains hover above the copper-coloured smog.