It is something when border towns fill to the brim;
when borders close up and you are shut in
'for good?' 'Just for now' or 'until news it out,'
'till tomorrow, manana, pocito mas tarde,'
the fishermen say to the townsmen in tongues.
It’s a landslide, they tell us, there are men with their backs
bent over like lampposts to shovel it up,
but no gets through for today, ask tomorrow,
when they say: it’s Peru; it’s the polls, it’s their fault!
It is a country that’s utterly falling apart!
Tut tut to Peru, but you cannot get through,
only through Chile, dinero, and long days on a bus,
and you’ll be sorry tomorrow when it’s all in the past,
but for now the Aduanas aren’t giving out stamps.
The Carabinieros are picking their nails with the
corners of passports and wiping their boots
with the cash of the fools who are pitching their tents
on the edge of Peru, no food now for days
empanadas no water no tomorrow we'll know,
now we know! News is out! It’s the miners, you see,
they are worse off than us. It’s the miners blockading
and causing the fuss. Get your stamps now, for what?
The roads are all blocked for hundred of miles,
just imagine the rocks! Bigger than houses
they’re blocking the way with peligrosos incendios!
Bolders and flames all the road long, the length of the lake
and los campesinos borrachos, the men with their belts off
are whipping their rage and their tongues,
they are drunk now for days, and angry and tired
from lugging the rocks. They will not let you through,
not even for favours, not even with luck.
But what luck for the border town, Copacabana,
(not the one from the song), when the fisherman's homes
are converted to bars and the tourists are trapped
and are drowning their woes in Pisco and Pilmes
and plentiful bank notes from new leather wallets
with desperate measures and new woolen socks.