On my first trip to Peru in 1983, I slipped a note into my pocket to give to the guerrillas in case they stopped the bus and searched the passengers. The note introduced me as a journalist who wanted to interview Abimael Guzmán, the leader of the Communist Party of Peru-Shining Path, an insurgency that had by taken hold in the southern highlands. At the gas station where the bus would fill its tank for the journey, the driver first turned to the passengers to take a vote about whether to proceed. Our destination, Ayacucho, was where the guerrillas were strongest. Often, they had lists of names and culled  like damage damaged fruit the passengers who were police officers or had commited a perceived crime, like skimming money from a potable water project or wheedling a peasant community out of land. These passengers were shot, kneeling, at the side of the road.  Among the peruvians, there was anxious consultation. I felt only excitement.