Although there are no photos to testify, the night before this drive I fell into a Guayaquíl manhole-- straight down, into (thankfully) the abundant rainwater, while a gaggle of startled jazz-club goers leaving the club looked on in shock. Also, thankfully, the police pulled me up from the depths before I had a chance to realize what had happened, and reacted only by demanding the one shoe that had slipped off at some point. Diana helped bandage the scars on my back and the fear in my chest once I realized that I could have died, and a few hours later, I was on an early bus back down to Lima. The tedious, 27-hour trip felt light, tranquil... I was alive.