Having bid a fond farewell to my temporary travel companion of the last several weeks, I headed solo north to Sucre, Bolivia. Generally I traveled on night buses to minimize wasted days of travel, and such was the case leaving Tupiza.
Just two hours into the ten hour journey, however, the bus stopped unexpectedly somewhere on the side of the highway at a dimly lit shack for a snack break. I’d already taken my mandatory sleeping pills (a necessity on par with clothing, water, and other basic supplies if one is to survive the grueling evening journeys on highways not blessed with pavement). So I stumbled groggily from the bus along with the rest of my fellow passengers and stood idly around waiting for people to finish their rice and mystery meat dinner specials.
A pint sized four-year-old, who should have been in bed, was playing by himself on the floor of the restaurant. He was fidgety in his sullied denim shirt and tiny flip-flop shoes. He was using his over sized red sweatpants to slide around on the smooth concrete floor—spinning in circles like a puppy chasing his tail. Eventually bored with his twirling, he ran dizzily over to his grandmother who was seated solidly on a small green plastic stool outside the restaurant, selling fresh squeezed orange juice. He wrapped his arms around her in a sloppy hug—only partially encircling the brilliantly colored neon striped shall draped around her imposing build. He patted her face aimlessly and she shrugged him off, annoyed. She brandished the small serrated knife she’d been using to slice the oranges in his direction. “I’ll cut your feet off,” she said menacingly, glaring.
He shuffled off, unfazed, and an older child, maybe six, gave him a plastic bag. The younger boy stretched it across his mouth like a face mask.
“Put it over your head,” the older child suggested. “Like a bonnet.”
The bus horn blared, signaling it was time to continue the night’s journey. A group of four foreigners—traveling with a local guide to a volunteer work site in Sucre—looked around panicked for a garbage can to deposit the peels of their recently consumed bananas.
People eating dinner hastily shoveled in the last of their rice laden plates, and we all slowly boarded as the bus engine roared reluctantly back to life. We were off.
Just two hours into the ten hour journey, however, the bus stopped unexpectedly somewhere on the side of the highway at a dimly lit shack for a snack break. I’d already taken my mandatory sleeping pills (a necessity on par with clothing, water, and other basic supplies if one is to survive the grueling evening journeys on highways not blessed with pavement). So I stumbled groggily from the bus along with the rest of my fellow passengers and stood idly around waiting for people to finish their rice and mystery meat dinner specials.
A pint sized four-year-old, who should have been in bed, was playing by himself on the floor of the restaurant. He was fidgety in his sullied denim shirt and tiny flip-flop shoes. He was using his over sized red sweatpants to slide around on the smooth concrete floor—spinning in circles like a puppy chasing his tail. Eventually bored with his twirling, he ran dizzily over to his grandmother who was seated solidly on a small green plastic stool outside the restaurant, selling fresh squeezed orange juice. He wrapped his arms around her in a sloppy hug—only partially encircling the brilliantly colored neon striped shall draped around her imposing build. He patted her face aimlessly and she shrugged him off, annoyed. She brandished the small serrated knife she’d been using to slice the oranges in his direction. “I’ll cut your feet off,” she said menacingly, glaring.
He shuffled off, unfazed, and an older child, maybe six, gave him a plastic bag. The younger boy stretched it across his mouth like a face mask.
“Put it over your head,” the older child suggested. “Like a bonnet.”
The bus horn blared, signaling it was time to continue the night’s journey. A group of four foreigners—traveling with a local guide to a volunteer work site in Sucre—looked around panicked for a garbage can to deposit the peels of their recently consumed bananas.
People eating dinner hastily shoveled in the last of their rice laden plates, and we all slowly boarded as the bus engine roared reluctantly back to life. We were off.
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