Last 3 Soles

The peaks of the Andes around us had recently become shadows against the dusky night. Mario and I sought out a plaza bench where we could think of ways to avoid spending our last 3 soles or essentially $1. It wasn’t that we were broke, just trapped temporarily without ATM. So what can you buy with a dollar in Latin America? A handful of dulces, some cold bubble gum colas, a national newspaper, a few postcards to scribble on. Answering the same question for the young mom who sat nearby watching her kids climb through the fountain, I might've said, a dinner, some fancy shoes for first communion, 10 days worth of penicillin, some cold bubble gum colas.

Suddenly we perked to the sound of a drum and a shout that wet the night. The sound came from above us on the mountain and was joined now by trumpet, horn, violin and more shout. We could feel the noise descending on us, growing in size, but we weren't sure what it would look like, what shape it would take; a group of children, drunkeness, danger? It arrived into the plaza like a snake, long and narrow with spirited bodies of men and women moving to the tune created by their own exaltations of "He!" and the few minstrels whose shirts were soaked through with emotion. Some moved in costumes, some in fumes of alcohol, everyone shining, eyes big and sparkly and mouths open with release of the song. Quickly, the snake snatched us up as well, carrying us around and through this mountain pueblo of Aguas Calientes in its contagious and unknown joy. Amidst the procession I saw in Mario's face that he did not recognize this thing, this exposed ecstacy, but that he felt it as if it were part of his story. It is becoming part of my story as well. Tres soles, tres Americas, a sol above that alternatively blazes and blesses. The simultaneous resource and irrelevance of a dollar in the story. The soul of Latin America. Inside it, Mario, me, you. An entire town out to celebrate our three soles.