End of the Year: Pt. 4 - Alone, Forgotten, and Out of Time

And as the last hour of the year crept across the clock face of the Cuzco Cathedral, the steady movement of the minute hand drove the crowd into a state of celebratory inhumanity, each tick unleashing waves of cheers and counter-cheers from the bundled masses in the church's shadow. Jeff had pushed his way into the closest market, and as he jockeyed for the last box of Gato Negro, Sarah and I watched the growing madness in the plaza; nearly ten thousand people jumbled and swayed, setting off firecrackers, throwing confetti, drinking, yelling, all at once but never at the same time. It was 11.20 when we broke open the wine and, dodging the endless taxis around the corner, slipped into the plaza.
Cuzco, despite being in a tropical summer, is still two miles high, and I wore a hat, a sweater and a jacket, but not yellow underwear. Andrew had explained to us that wearing yellow underwear, specifically panties, brings prosperity - at least in Cuzco. There are other traditions with less clear meanings: walking outside at midnight carrying a briefcase of fake money, lighting piles of garbage on fire, candlelit family conferences, etc. As of late, I'm still unsure what my green boxers will bring me.
Making slow, single-file progress through the crowd, we attempted to reach the fountain opposite the cathedral in the center of the plaza. What had been a largely empty park in the afternoon, filled with a few ambulantes and tired tourists, now pulsed with bodies packed too tightly, facing no particular direction, crowded around bottles and cans or waving across the plaza, each carrying massive fireworks of every size and volume. Holding each other's hand in the crowd, we tried to get to the center, only to be repulsed by immovable groups, or redirected by the waves of people turning away from a mis-thrown firecracker. Roman candles haphazardly flew through the air, over our heads, into the crowd, bursting and burning on the ground. It was like a party and a war zone had merged into one swirling, exploding, drunken mass and we were heading for the flickering heart of it.

At one point we reached the edge of a large circle of people, each tossing fireworks into their center; some would explode and rattle windows, some would just shoot flames or smoke or sparkle, others would hiss past people's legs. We turned to go around, towards the fountain, but I was stopped by a kindly old Andean woman, who just smiled and tossed firecrackers at my feet. We retreated back across the plaza and turned towards the cathedral. It was 11.59.
At the same time, somewhere in the north, Diego sat sixty seconds from glory on the beach, Alex counted down with a rediscovered twang, the cat pounced on a piece of paper in our empty Lima apartment, and my camera was stolen. Ten seconds to midnight, memories taken from me with a supple wrist.

I knew it happened. I saw who did it. I don't think I've ever been the victim of a crime before, except when someone took my coat at Smith and wandered into the Northampton night, and even then some woman found everything on her lawn the next day. My grief lasted until 2006 had burned its last second, for then the great hands of the cathedral hugged, and the Cuzco sky erupted in flame, a streaking, whizzing, bursting fire for 2007.
After the initial shocks had reverberated through the city, a police cruiser started making its way around one side of the plaza, directing great groups of people around its path. I thought the party was over, or at least being contained, but the masses began trailing the cruiser, soon forming a great swirl of humanity around the plaza, with people running in staggered lines, or linking arms to rapidly skip down the street. The police were acting as a pace car of sorts, and, having nothing better to do, we all joined in.

As we walked, fireworks rained down from balconies, and drunken Brits with yellow underwear on their heads darted in indecipherable circles. As we passed by the cathedral, where the more reasonable Cusquenos had gathered with their families, many sharply dressed men and women frowned at the spectacle before them, of the morose American sipping wine with a gringa and chino. They may have frowned, but I didn't mind. After all, it was 2007, and I had nothing left to lose.