Feathered and leather-clad men and women skip by with spears, barefoot and beautiful, oblivious to the cold mountain air. All kinds of stuffed owls and other birds and animals adorn their menacing spears and headdress. Between the dancers' regular lines, jumping back and forth in brightly stitched costumes, the men challenge each other and roll on the dusty streets, simulating violent fights. Way past midnight, the water-balloon exchanges between spectators on either side of the street have quieted down. Glistening in their silver and blue costumes with clinking boots, almost 500 proud dancers spark the euphoria of the spectators.
Spirits are high, sobriety absent.
Behind the last group of musicians, the crowd jumps down into the street to follow the steps of the dancers. They push their way up the steep winding road to the little square in front of the church where thousands of spectators, musicians and dancers already stand in a half-circle of East facing morning cacophony. Each group of musicians simultaneously plays its own songs from its corner of the plaza, competing to be the loudest in greeting the sun. While tired mouths chew the essential coca leaf, they blow their last strength or relentlessly drum louder and louder into the dying night. Silver and gold sparkling instruments sway to the mingled rhythms of the paling sky.