Have you ever seen the full moon rise? And other stories from the southern hemisphere

I've always been a little irritated when people begin stories with something like, "Well, I really can't explain it." That's always seemed like a cheap cop-out to me--people make up for their limitations as story-tellers or writers with lines like that. But damn it, I just can't chronicle what's happened in the last two and a half weeks. So yes, I really can't explain it all. In lieu of a chronology, I'm going to tell one story.

Last week, I met three Europeans (two Czechs, one German) and we became good friends over a bottle (or two or three) of wine. We decided to do a trek together--Salkantay. It's one of the alternative trails to Macchu Picchu. But that's not the story.

On the third day of our trek, we camped outside a little town called Santa Teresa. I was craving a cup of good coffee, so I went into town to look for "café molido." After a long search, I met a woman who said her friend had a restaurant with real coffee, and she offered to take me there. And indeed, I saw real coffee beans! But they were white... that was strange. Basically, they hadn't been toasted yet. So I would have to wait a while, but that was fine with me. I generally have lots of time here in Peru.

I sat down at a table to wait, but curiosity got the best of me and I walked back into the kitchen. It was lit by a large fire in the middle, and guinea pigs scattered at the sound of my footsteps. La señora walked in and we started to chat. I asked if I could help toast the beans, and she said, "¡Claro que si!" So she filled a big ceramic bowl with the fresh coffee, set it on the huge stove, and I set to stirring them with a giant wooden spoon. While I stirred (and sweated) she ran around the kitchen, preparing for... something. Occasionally, a guinea pig or a small child would bump into my legs.

Twenty minutes later, the beans were toasted and el señor got out the hand-cranked coffee grinder. We took turns grinding the still-warm beans, and after a while, I sat down and drank the best cup of coffee I've ever had. (El señor and la señora chatted in Quechua while I sat. This happens a lot--it´s a way to gossip about gringos with no chance of them understanding) La señora continued her frantic cooking, and after I finished my coffee, I asked what was going on. "Well,"she replied, "there are 30 people coming over for dinner in one hour. I've got a lot to do." I offered to help--could I cut something up for her? And the answer was ¡si! Soon, I was stirring a giant vat of boiling chocolate.

An hour later, I was splattered with chocolate, burned (she squeezed a tomato all over my burned left hand), and dehydrated--my misery was clear. So I was sent out to the dining room to eat something. Now, picture this. I haven't showered in almost a week. I've been working in a broiling kitchen for an hour. And I open the door to the dining room, Michael Jackson's "Thriller" blaring, and the 30 people who are here for dinner are a group of high school girls from a neighboring town on the way to Macchu Picchu. Things made a little more sense later when someone explained that these girls were from a town devoid of tourists, but at that moment, I had no idea what was going on: I couldn't tell if the gasps all around the room where inspired by my blue eyes or my sad appearance. So I slowly made my way through the giggling hordes, cowboy hat placed firmly upon my head, sat down at a table, and tried to avoid the stares. Meanwhile, four-year-old Ana (daughter of la señora and el señor) was crawling up my back and pulling on my ears.

Later that evening, I was pressured into a group photo with the class, but I drew the line at individual photos with the girls. That just seemed... weird. After they had all left, I sat down with the family and ate a real dinner, and we talked about my life in the United States and theirs in Peru while watching a Jean-Claude Van Damme action flick.

But that wasn't the end of it--those damn girls were on the same train I was the next day, and stayed in the hotel next to mine in Aguas Calientes. I even ran into them at Macchu Picchu, where they continued to ask for photos. Flattering? No, not really. Just kind of astonishing.

As I think about it now, that evening seems almost unbelievable. But it happened and I couldn't have asked for a better night here. That's Peru--forget the happening clubs of Lima and the guided treks to Macchu Picchu. These little towns make this country.

And here are those other stories from the southern hemisphere: I've been searched by Peruvian soldiers wearing cast-off US DHS uniforms. I've eaten mumu (kind of like a spinach mash) with a dozen Peruvian women in a market. I've hired a Peruvian police officer to drive me for two hours in his official truck. (It broke down twice.) I've been within striking distance of a deadly snake. I've trekked to Macchu Picchu with complete strangers. (They are now great friends.) I've heard more Quechua than Spanish some days. I've been the eighth person in a moto-taxi designed for three. I've been counted by the Peruvian national census. I've salsa danced in Cusco's hottest local club. (Those lessons finally payed off!)

So that's what it's like here. A constant adventure, with almost no rhyme or reason. And I love it. I'll be in Cusco until Friday, then I'm headed to Lake Titicaca and Bolivia. Damn it, how has a while month gone by since I was in Lima, searching for my backpack? I love what I'm doing.