Lonely Planet
He waved somewhat maniacally with the frustration that only incessant insects can bring. The flies were not deterred or dissuaded. They dive bombed the plate like seagulls around a fishing boat. It was hunger and no other choices that had brought him in here at all. It didn't look like much of a restaurant and, by that point of the trip, he had become a pretty good judge. The food was an exercise in necessity. He was far enough south to have dropped off the Altiplano, but not yet far enough to benefit from the European influences of northern Argentina. Having partially shrugged off the Gringo Trail, he was at once happy and uncomfortable. Hardened salt flats that you couldn't really get to and diminishing elevations, populations and prices were the attraction. Basking in the latter two, he none the less coveted the higher climes he had left behind. Cold at night equals no bugs. He could only imagine the battalions of backward kneed flamingos said to inhabit the relentless salt flats in numbers that complemented its eternal expanses. He had not enough time to try to get that far. The flies tried to die a gluttonous death and put his world weary self image and patience to the test.
He flash backed to a time a thousand years before when he had angrily reclaimed his tattered seat on a three day, third class trip across the Chihuahua Desert. It was the second day of the first time he had ever been in the third world. He didn't speak Spanish. He never once got off the train for fear of it leaving without him. The day before he had barely managed to buy a few tamales and liquados through a broken window as the train pulled away. He was half starved and fully dehydrated. It was six a.m. and he was sleep deprived. The old wrinkled Mestiza he woke up was stooped and four and a half feet tall. She was laden with all manner of third world essentials including chickens and a child. To his eternal wannabe world traveler shame, he insisted she vacate his seat. She, sad-eyed and exhausted, moved off and stood. He, hard-hearted and exhausted, sat down and slumped. Up a moment later, he couldn't do it. She refused his offer. It went vacant but a short time. He and the old woman stood at opposing ends of the car, all the rattling way to Mexico City. She shunned his every attempt at apology, preferring instead to let him sink in self loathing. And sink he did. He sunk as deep as that train sunk into Mexico.
He slapped himself in the head ostensibly chasing a fly but effectively bringing himself back from Mexico to Bolivia. He was as likely to make contact with a fly as you are of touching a single student in a school of fish. No, his frantic waving only managed to garner the unwanted attention of three men across the room at the single other occupied table. They had sauntered in, tightly whispering, a few minutes after he had sat down. They glanced his way, then away. He instinctively averted his eyes. Out in the wide world, it's best to leave some encounters unencountered. Avoidance, though never desirable, is occasionally the correct tactic. He'd already ordered and in fact the hostess/waitress/cook/dishwasher/cashier/owner was serving him as they entered. She didn't make eye contact with them either. They used the pretence of misunderstanding the waving as an invite. One of them approached. The man wasn't obviously menacing, he didn't lean hard on the wooden table and stare. Though neither did he smile. The man barked out, slightly aggressively one word . . . 'passport.' Looking up from his fly spotted meal, he replied, 'What for?' 'Passport, por favor.' He stood up as if maybe to get his passport out of a pocket but stopped short. Acting as brave as he thought he could, he looked eye level at this low key demanding man and asked in Spanish, 'Who are you?' The other two men began to rise but he sat them back down with a palm of his hand. The man announced that he was the police and wanted the passport. The Lonely Planet lay open on the table. He had read what he could before arriving. He was finishing the section on Sucre when the men had entered. This city was known for the earlier mentioned things but there was also a passport scam that for some reason was more prevalent here than other places. Even the most ignorant traveler knows not to let go of your passport easily. The events unfolding at the table were textbook passport scam, if you were consider Lonely Planet a textbook. The man and the other men were not wearing uniforms or any identifying markings. The book mentioned that some times it is the police pulling this scam. The man became a bit more menacing with the ticking clock in the music less room. With much better Spanish than he had had in Mexico he said, 'If you are the police, identification please.' He wasn't fluent and never would be. He knew though that he had said 'identification please' correctly. The man's friends did join him then. The proprietress intervened and scolded these big men back to their table. Flies no longer a nuisance, he finished his meal, paid, tipped large and thanked the woman profusely. She modestly accepted this gratitude as the three men rapidly got up and exited before he could. They managed with her broken English and his busted up Spanish to communicate. They indeed were the police. But, no matter, he had done the right thing. It's not such a big thing from police to prisoner here, she smiled. Stepping out into the street, the men were gone. Feeling like a savvy world citizen again, he brazenly spent a few more days in Sucre. He avoided the police station. He always had a good reason to go the other way. His curiosity as to why a crowd might be gathering up ahead was easily quelled by his desire not to see the men again. And he almost didn't.
The bus started moving, customarily behind schedule, but came to a stop a couple blocks later. He looked out the window and there they were. His world traveler self image took a dive like the flies at his food. This time they were wearing uniforms, thus eliminating any lingering doubt that the woman at the restaurant might have been lying. He lowered himself halfway down the seat, halfway down the aisle, hidden behind his book and thankful for his window seat. He had a brand new appreciation for the gruff character who only moments before had unceremoniously flopped down in the seat next to him. The men were wearing shades and hats and clubs and guns. The man, the man that came over to the table first, flanked his men around the bus with a gun-toting gesture. They might as well have been banditos brandishing rifles with cartridge belts crisscrossing their chests. The man, the very man, the same man, the boss man, boarded the bus and walked halfway down the aisle. Completely menacingly now, the man spotted who he was looking for and violently escorted him off. The door closed and the bus lurched away, chasing other peoples dust. It spun off down the street, taking its noise with it. Smoke and dirt merged and swirled. It made its very own grey paisley eddies.
He stood at the back window. His stomach churned as the air churned. The spinning gritty air quickly obscuring the image of the man and the men doing whatever it was they were doing to their detainee. He shut his eyes because it wasn't obscuring fast enough. He sighed relief. He returned to his seat and his Lonely Planet guide. The seat next to him was empty as an unanswered question. It went vacant but a short time.
He flash backed to a time a thousand years before when he had angrily reclaimed his tattered seat on a three day, third class trip across the Chihuahua Desert. It was the second day of the first time he had ever been in the third world. He didn't speak Spanish. He never once got off the train for fear of it leaving without him. The day before he had barely managed to buy a few tamales and liquados through a broken window as the train pulled away. He was half starved and fully dehydrated. It was six a.m. and he was sleep deprived. The old wrinkled Mestiza he woke up was stooped and four and a half feet tall. She was laden with all manner of third world essentials including chickens and a child. To his eternal wannabe world traveler shame, he insisted she vacate his seat. She, sad-eyed and exhausted, moved off and stood. He, hard-hearted and exhausted, sat down and slumped. Up a moment later, he couldn't do it. She refused his offer. It went vacant but a short time. He and the old woman stood at opposing ends of the car, all the rattling way to Mexico City. She shunned his every attempt at apology, preferring instead to let him sink in self loathing. And sink he did. He sunk as deep as that train sunk into Mexico.
He slapped himself in the head ostensibly chasing a fly but effectively bringing himself back from Mexico to Bolivia. He was as likely to make contact with a fly as you are of touching a single student in a school of fish. No, his frantic waving only managed to garner the unwanted attention of three men across the room at the single other occupied table. They had sauntered in, tightly whispering, a few minutes after he had sat down. They glanced his way, then away. He instinctively averted his eyes. Out in the wide world, it's best to leave some encounters unencountered. Avoidance, though never desirable, is occasionally the correct tactic. He'd already ordered and in fact the hostess/waitress/cook/dishwasher/cashier/owner was serving him as they entered. She didn't make eye contact with them either. They used the pretence of misunderstanding the waving as an invite. One of them approached. The man wasn't obviously menacing, he didn't lean hard on the wooden table and stare. Though neither did he smile. The man barked out, slightly aggressively one word . . . 'passport.' Looking up from his fly spotted meal, he replied, 'What for?' 'Passport, por favor.' He stood up as if maybe to get his passport out of a pocket but stopped short. Acting as brave as he thought he could, he looked eye level at this low key demanding man and asked in Spanish, 'Who are you?' The other two men began to rise but he sat them back down with a palm of his hand. The man announced that he was the police and wanted the passport. The Lonely Planet lay open on the table. He had read what he could before arriving. He was finishing the section on Sucre when the men had entered. This city was known for the earlier mentioned things but there was also a passport scam that for some reason was more prevalent here than other places. Even the most ignorant traveler knows not to let go of your passport easily. The events unfolding at the table were textbook passport scam, if you were consider Lonely Planet a textbook. The man and the other men were not wearing uniforms or any identifying markings. The book mentioned that some times it is the police pulling this scam. The man became a bit more menacing with the ticking clock in the music less room. With much better Spanish than he had had in Mexico he said, 'If you are the police, identification please.' He wasn't fluent and never would be. He knew though that he had said 'identification please' correctly. The man's friends did join him then. The proprietress intervened and scolded these big men back to their table. Flies no longer a nuisance, he finished his meal, paid, tipped large and thanked the woman profusely. She modestly accepted this gratitude as the three men rapidly got up and exited before he could. They managed with her broken English and his busted up Spanish to communicate. They indeed were the police. But, no matter, he had done the right thing. It's not such a big thing from police to prisoner here, she smiled. Stepping out into the street, the men were gone. Feeling like a savvy world citizen again, he brazenly spent a few more days in Sucre. He avoided the police station. He always had a good reason to go the other way. His curiosity as to why a crowd might be gathering up ahead was easily quelled by his desire not to see the men again. And he almost didn't.
The bus started moving, customarily behind schedule, but came to a stop a couple blocks later. He looked out the window and there they were. His world traveler self image took a dive like the flies at his food. This time they were wearing uniforms, thus eliminating any lingering doubt that the woman at the restaurant might have been lying. He lowered himself halfway down the seat, halfway down the aisle, hidden behind his book and thankful for his window seat. He had a brand new appreciation for the gruff character who only moments before had unceremoniously flopped down in the seat next to him. The men were wearing shades and hats and clubs and guns. The man, the man that came over to the table first, flanked his men around the bus with a gun-toting gesture. They might as well have been banditos brandishing rifles with cartridge belts crisscrossing their chests. The man, the very man, the same man, the boss man, boarded the bus and walked halfway down the aisle. Completely menacingly now, the man spotted who he was looking for and violently escorted him off. The door closed and the bus lurched away, chasing other peoples dust. It spun off down the street, taking its noise with it. Smoke and dirt merged and swirled. It made its very own grey paisley eddies.
He stood at the back window. His stomach churned as the air churned. The spinning gritty air quickly obscuring the image of the man and the men doing whatever it was they were doing to their detainee. He shut his eyes because it wasn't obscuring fast enough. He sighed relief. He returned to his seat and his Lonely Planet guide. The seat next to him was empty as an unanswered question. It went vacant but a short time.
posted by Steve-O at 12:56 PM
1 Comments:
Well done!
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