Coca Mate

We arrived in the ancient city in the early afternoon, a residual ringing tumbling in our ears. The sky seemed to bend and fold in layers of unfathomable blue, miles above our heads. Nestled 3,310 meters above sea level in the Andes Mountains, the antediluvian city of Cuzco showcases like a stray's pedigree. Romantic and narrow cobblestone streets of Europe; the brightly colored buildings of the Caribbean; scarves, gloves, and woven blankets of alpaca wool. The air was ice in the lungs. Refreshing and opposing, thin and fluid. A toxic elixir that could incite a surreal, and weary defeat. Battling a nagging exhaustion, we sat down at a small kitchen table in a lime green room. Faded wedding photographs and school diplomas dotted the walls, some hanging haphazardly on rusty nails, others absent-mindedly hung askew. The final details of the trip were made as a large metal pitcher was placed on the table in front of us. The perfect resemblance to a summer night's vessel, I almost expected to find the pitcher dripping in condensation, overflowing with fresh cut lemons. But this particular vessel held steaming water, and within this water danced green leaves from the mountains. Let the tea steep, scoop sugar into a cup, slowly pour the faint green liquid over the sugar...watch how it disappears! The leaves fell into our steaming cups, and we contemplated them, swirling them around with our spoons. Could someone tell the future or predict their fate by analyzing the leaves at the bottom? We felt a sensation of clarity and renewed eagerness to venture out and loose ourselves among the small, twisting, alleyways of the city.
(Peru, 2006)