Yesterday was a full moon. Andrew and I met a sexy dragon lady from the states with Indian blood and black caterpillars for eyebrows, named Sonia. The dragon lady, so called because of her intense intelligence and crass way she displayed it, told us that the Inca festival of the full moon was tonight. It was to occur in and around the temple of the moon at the ruins of Sacsayhuaman (the gringos call it "sexy woman" and that's pretty close to how it is correctly pronounced). Andrew was exhausted, so Sonia and I took a cab up into the hills that overlook Cuzco in search of the mysterious festival of the full moon.

   My companion spoke fluent Spanish to the cab driver (leaving me only to guess and project on our situation) which left me at a disadvantage because I had little control over what was to befall us. As we traveled deep into these eerie hills, it became clear that there were some problems.

  The first: We arrived at the ruins of Sacsayhuaman, and no festival existed. It was believed that we were going to have to drive even further. Apparently, the temple of the moon overlooks the ruins of Sacsayhuaman, not inside of it. Only thing is, the driver didn't exactly know where we were going.

  The second problem was that the cab driver was nervous. I could tell from the thickness of the air in the cab. No shit, I could feel his fear. I didn't quite know why. Then Sonia (who was beautiful, but evil, and with whom I did not care to sleep --unless she asked me to) confirmed my intuitions. She relayed that the cab driver said it is very dangerous to be traveling in this area at night.

   Here is the deal. The crime problem in Cusco, in Peru, is such that you don't travel at night into unpopulated areas. The raiding parties of thugs and chokers don't just stay in the city. They roam these hills in search of cabs bearing one or two passengers, preferably tourists. The cab driver didn't want to go any further and he crept slowly along. But Sonia--as any domineering, respectable, dragon lady would--convinced him to keep going. I wasn't frightened. I figured we were in the car and if a gang of banderoles attacked, he merely needed to gun the accelerator and off we go, unscathed.

   But you know how it is with fear. It creeps up on you like a bottle of wine. As we winded up the small paved road, I began to take heed of the power of the engine. This was no road warrior deluxe. This was no Al Unser, careening his way around the Indy, Havoline ads pasted on the wheel wells. This was a one-lung, clogged air filter, sputtering and putt-putting, economy car. Power? This was a two-llama engine and the hills, er I mean the Andes, were getting steeper and steeper.

   We climbed further, and I could feel the cab driver,s fears become thick, and lumpy like peanut butter, spread all over the inside of the car. I got to thinking: If a taxi driver, a breed that routinely discards fear and good senses for a decent fare, is this scared - maybe it's time to turn around.

   But the dragon lady would have none of that. She was all about, "push, push, drive, drive, amigo!" We stopped and asked for directions from a farmer who was walking outside his cottage , in Espanol, of course. As later described to me by Sonia, the farmer also confirmed how dangerous it was for turisticas to be travelling at night. He advised us to turn around. But the full moon and the promise of an enchanted Inca ceremony propelled us further.

   We made a left onto a pitch black dirt road, and our fear became terror. This was the road to the temple, which was about ten minutes away, and we could only travel at five miles an hour. My imagination was having a fiesta in my temple. To my left, I saw movement; to my right, I heard rustling; and straight ahead I saw a glow. Was it the temple? Was it Cuzco shining upwards? Or was it the luminescence of the previous cab, upturned and burning; gringos face down in the mud, pockets inverted?

   Sonia grabbed my hand. This was the first time in our journey that she revealed that she was a human being. I despised this action because it revealed to me that it was all an act. Her bravado and her condescending attitude, was all a front for her little girl insides.

  We were totally silent. There was nothing but mountains on either side of us, until we approached the skeleton of a pick-up truck. It resembled a steer skull that you always see in America's western deserts. In reality, it probably meant nothing. But I saw it as a horrible omen and was absolutely consumed by fear.

  "Tell him to turn around," I murmured

  "Are you sure?" said the dragon lady. "We're so close."

   "TURN - THE FUCK - AROUND."

   She said something in Spanish and the driver began to maneuver the car. As you can probably guess, the road was exactly the width of the taxi and for him to about-face meant a 65-point turn. We were sitting ducks, and we knew it. Back and forth, back and forth, all of us spinning our heads around to see who might be coming. When the car finally pointed in the direction of our most elusive sanctuary, I breathed a sigh of relief. Only, we still had many miles to go.

   When we pulled out of the dirt road, Sonia became obsessed with returning. She wanted to see Incas. We noticed a passed out drunk on the nexus of the dirt and the paved road.

   "Let's ask him," she said. She was possessed. She wanted to get there.

  Now I'm not normally comfortable with being out-couraged by a woman. This is my testosteronic upbringing. We males are conditioned to be braver then woman. It's the very source of our misdirected manhood. But I had no qualms about trashing my machismo "I'll save you," attitude and revealing my fear. Clearly, she had left her common sense behind in favor of some undisclosed dragon lady tendency which requires that no obstacle stand between her and her goal. This isn't to say she wasn't frightened. But that, once we were out of ground zero, her tendencies kicked back in.

   "Ask him what?" I said. "He's passed out drunk."

  "Ask him if there really is a festival and if there is a safer way to get there."

   "There is nothing he could say that I care to hear." I explained. "He's wasted. What could he possibly know past the holes in his liver?"

   She agreed. But she was not finished.

   About ¼ mile down the road, we saw a Policia van. Two cops were lying back, eyes closed. My first thought was that they were assassinated by bandits. However, they were just sleeping. The dragon lady, who at this point, I am convinced, was as insane as the Andes are steep, tells the cabby to stop. I, too, was insane. Insane that I was unwillingly dragged on her chaotic hayride. I made a mental note: Save my life; learn Spanish this weekend.

   The cops told her, what else, that it was dangerous and we should return to Cuzco.

   About a mile down the road, we found a lonely hotel sitting in the crux of a mountainside. She said something to the cab driver and he pulled into the driveway.

   "What are you doing!?" I demanded. "Let's go back."

   The two Peruvians who answered the bell were immediately suspicious of us. Why? Because only lunatics and thugs are out at this time of night. The cabby, the dragonetta, and the proprietors spoke for quite a while. I picked mud from my boots making out a few solitary words like "death" "mangle" "rape" and "gringo stew." Finally, she said that one of the proprietors, the one in the hunter,s orange down vest, offered to come with us for a small tip.

  "What is one extra guy going to do to protect us from a raiding party?" I asked.

   She said something in Spanish. He responded with more Spanish and patted a bulge in his vest. I had not noticed the bulge before. The bulge had a metallic thud to it.

   "He's got a gun," she said."

   The first thing I thought was, "what's to keep this guy from using the gun against us when we got out into Nowhere's Land?" My second thought:," If a raiding party comes to get me, I just want to hand over the money and beg forgiveness for being an evil tourist and that I didn't want my money anyway. I wanted nothing to do with a gun battle in the Peruvian Andes, under a full moon, five minutes away from Inca festivals, and a 1,000,000 miles away from my couch, Seinfeld, and a Budweiser.

   "Look Sonia, if we need a hired gun to escort us to a party, I think it's a party that can do without us. Let's go back to Cuzco and have a beer."

  She registered this thought, weighed the supreme sense of it against her nagging compulsion to control everything around her.

   "I guess you're right" she agreed"

   "Yeah, I am right," I answered.

   I guess I don't have to tell you that I really miss home right now. It's a dangerous place. But it's also magnificent. And the fact that I have to watch my back and my backpack is all part of the adventure.

   Good night everybody, I'm going to bed.