I rode into this city on a Tans Copacabana MEM Tres Files bus
(pronounced boos)
The ride was 14 hours long and I brought the only white face aboard
Next to me, a man with a serious commitment to sleep and no understanding of personal space.
On my other side the country of Bolivia passed by, remaining mysterious, wearing the shade of the night.


Between bouts of successful slumber I caught glimpses of what we were passing through;
drunken men who had to be coaxed out of the rode so that we could continue,
a 1:30 in the morning stop for bread, cheese, maté and the opportunity to stretch your legs,
a street-side fried egg stand, cooked just the way you liked it and served in a plastic bag.
(The streets are filled with plastic bags—this country must take great pride in it’s fried eggs.)


I woke up once, disoriented and cramped from my neck to my toes
The sky outside was still pitch black but there was lightening on the horizon
The first strike I thought I had imagined (there wasn’t any rain) but I watched at least six more and was convinced.
The light made a silhouette of the Andes in the distance.
I had never seen such contrast in the night, the onyx sky was being flooded with a force of pure white.


Once in the city I found a place to settle, at least for a few days.
I stumbled into the 10 person dorm at 8:30 in the morning, careful not to disturb my mates who were all still sleeping off the previous nights festivities.
I caught some supplemental sleep too.
Waking up, I went down to the free breakfast of bread and jam to see what I had gotten myself into.


Everyone else at the table was too hung over to stomach the stuff
Judging from conversation the drink of the night seems to have been rum
Everyone made it back to the hostel breathing; I don’t know that I’d call them alive.
A friendly couple who seemed as annoyed as myself gave me the WiFi password and I took leave of this mess.


The city offered, at the same time, too little and so much at the same time.
All the store fronts were closed for it is both Sunday and Carnaval
The street vendors sold water balloons rather than the food that I badly needed
Little kids and car passengers of unknown ages assaulted me with water balloons and guns.
It was fun for a while, but got old fast.


A man at the airport had told me that Sucre had good sausage
He was right, the Plato de Chorizos that I had for lunch was a little more than I should have spent, yet delicious.
And it filled my stomach so that I could go back the safe-house, the hostel.
All the bunkmates were there too, hiding out from the water-powered street forces.


After some reading and studying Spanish, I became disillusioned once again.
I have 89 days left in this country to flop around
Unable to communicate with the locals, unable to connect with the tourists
Languages don’t come easy to me, friends don’t either
After some time I elected to take a nap.


I went to sleep with the sun still shining through the windows,
I woke up with the rain pounding on the roof.
I went to sleep with the Carnaval parades making a ruckus that only a Latino parade can,
I woke up to their persistence, continuing the beauty and enthusiasm through the storm
While inside we travelers, we thrill seekers and adrenaline junkies, hide from the unavoidable wet of the world, afraid to live its full glory.