Taking it slow in Valparaiso after the firedance last night, it's cost hardly a few dollars to travel close to 400 kilometers.
True the trip up was full of stories and experiences worth sharing, but time will only permit a description of Valpo New Years chaos. An interesting word chaos, it's always plural.
The night begins suddenly, mounting a colectivo around 10 to a friend's hut and being introduced to many a couchsurfer who take great interest in your prospective trip and might even decide to join along. Rise to the canopy and you meet a group of gringos here in Chile for a business startup program contracted by the government, it's difficult to get a true vibe reading as everyone is in 100% full-tilt party mode.
The fireworks are only the catalyst of the night as their sparks set-off the chain reaction of bacchus behavior that is soon to come, and when the show finishes you descend the hills.
Remains of the inebrious fruit have already started to accumulate in the gutters as they rattle down the concrete sometimes hopping then exploding into a thousand different fragments that twinkle from the streetlights as if they wish to be fireworks themselves.
The 60% drunk swagger you've used as camouflage seems to be in style. Tunnel-vision still allows for enough periphery to see trees, walls, and doorsills being tagged by the herds of Beerbers in their natural habitat of blurred shadows. "Bathroom is unoccupied..."
Passing through the main thoroughfares is simply mind-numbing as entering crowds is like entering the forests of the Amazon complete with the venomous spitting Waaahalacas making bile pizzas on the sidewalks. Every once in a while you pass the lone crouching Gameovertang who's fallen victim to the over consumption of fruit in this strange harvest.
The night proceeds by scaling the mountains to attend the tribal dances with song emanating from the Bassbills perched on power-poles above the natives. There are distinct family groups but must most come from the Techno and Dance phylum.
As the sun begins to rise and you descend the highlands to the valleys below, the scenery comes into focus. The concrete basins, unable to retain the precipitation coming from the tribal overindulgence of beeries, have been converted to rivers and lakes. The stench of the basic liquid burns the nostrils but doesn't deter the masses from their continuous consumption and the glass shells give a perpetual jingle bouncing down the slopes.
The masses in the valley become restless, an electric tension is felt in the very ground they stand on. The sea begins to bump and crash into the structures of the jungle. You pass broken and damaged public features and decide it best to make your way to the den before the situation becomes dangerous.
True the trip up was full of stories and experiences worth sharing, but time will only permit a description of Valpo New Years chaos. An interesting word chaos, it's always plural.
The night begins suddenly, mounting a colectivo around 10 to a friend's hut and being introduced to many a couchsurfer who take great interest in your prospective trip and might even decide to join along. Rise to the canopy and you meet a group of gringos here in Chile for a business startup program contracted by the government, it's difficult to get a true vibe reading as everyone is in 100% full-tilt party mode.
The fireworks are only the catalyst of the night as their sparks set-off the chain reaction of bacchus behavior that is soon to come, and when the show finishes you descend the hills.
Remains of the inebrious fruit have already started to accumulate in the gutters as they rattle down the concrete sometimes hopping then exploding into a thousand different fragments that twinkle from the streetlights as if they wish to be fireworks themselves.
The 60% drunk swagger you've used as camouflage seems to be in style. Tunnel-vision still allows for enough periphery to see trees, walls, and doorsills being tagged by the herds of Beerbers in their natural habitat of blurred shadows. "Bathroom is unoccupied..."
Passing through the main thoroughfares is simply mind-numbing as entering crowds is like entering the forests of the Amazon complete with the venomous spitting Waaahalacas making bile pizzas on the sidewalks. Every once in a while you pass the lone crouching Gameovertang who's fallen victim to the over consumption of fruit in this strange harvest.
The night proceeds by scaling the mountains to attend the tribal dances with song emanating from the Bassbills perched on power-poles above the natives. There are distinct family groups but must most come from the Techno and Dance phylum.
As the sun begins to rise and you descend the highlands to the valleys below, the scenery comes into focus. The concrete basins, unable to retain the precipitation coming from the tribal overindulgence of beeries, have been converted to rivers and lakes. The stench of the basic liquid burns the nostrils but doesn't deter the masses from their continuous consumption and the glass shells give a perpetual jingle bouncing down the slopes.
The masses in the valley become restless, an electric tension is felt in the very ground they stand on. The sea begins to bump and crash into the structures of the jungle. You pass broken and damaged public features and decide it best to make your way to the den before the situation becomes dangerous.
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