Clean it up

Up above the village of Vilcabamba, way up in the clouds, along a green mountain ridge, lay a path of dirt and rocks. Up there a rooster is the first to get a peak of the sun as its reflection creeps over the mountians summit. The rooster then alerts all the roosters below and gradually the town wakes to a peacful madness.

Town drunks empty there already empty bottles into their dry mouths. School children hold hands and skip across the street. Police men gather around a post and share cakes and croissants. And I walk upstairs to the bar so that I can sweep up dead beatles, mop their blood and decide what to do with the several dozen live beatles that scamper across the floor.

I feel dirty. Not because of the dead beatles nor because of their blood. And not because I havn´t showered in 5 days. I feel dirty because I am volunteering at a whore house. The owner calls it a hosteria which is supposed to be some form of hotel or hostel. But in reality it is a whore house. There are many whores and there are not many not-whores. But if it were just a whore house and I happened to be just working at the bar, the place that serves alcohol and fascilitates this sort of practice, then I might not feel so dirty.

Perhaps I wouldn´t feel so dirty if the owner slept with less guests. Or less employees perhaps. Or perhaps I wouldn´t feel so dirty if dishes were cleaned and if mineral water wasn´t from the tap.

But although it may sound like it, I am not complaining. Not only am I surrounded by beatles, I am also surrounded by lush, green, mountains. I am surrounded by mango and banana trees. And I am surrounded by roosters that crow all day. It might not be enough to make me feel clean, but I always have the option to hike to a waterfall and sit under it until all dirtyness is washed away.