Just as the sun sneaks over the Andes, eyes open.
Tap tap, as the birds peck the windows.
Almost 8am... Yep, there he is, selling potatoes over a megaphone.
Papas papas, buenas papas.
Same questions every morning, and it never gets old or frustrating. It's genuine.
The gas stove turns on, eggs hit the pan, tea bags drop into cups of blue. Shirt full of oranges comes inside.
Time to go cobbing.
No one's waiting for anyone to start a conversation during the walk. It just happens. Frenchman with speakers in hands, Marley playing, old Latvian hands grasping trash bags, English folks with food bags, a Korean with just a smile, Ecuadorean leading the way. Step by step on the dry, dusty hills. This is our ritual.
This is our rise.
It's the rise of the dogs. The Stray Dogs of Collaqui.