i awoke from a sudden crack to my head and bolted upright. Frantic, confused thoughts circled as i rubbed my throbbing temple, where was i? Another bone rattling bounce and concerning roar from a diesel engine answered the thought. The morning Sun's piercing rays blinded from behind the large window i'd bounced off of. Memories loosened as i untangled my contorted limbs pinned against the row of seats in front of me. The van struck yet another bump along the battered highway. Rescued by the old rust bucket from the hungry jungle in the final hours of the night, it must have been fuelled by Dues Ex Machina. The frail frame shuddered again. Only sheer exhaustion could have allowed slumber down these roads.
My eyes darted as i tried to get my bearings. We passed dried, wasted farmland, the soil scorned and sad, tormented and pillaged by a deaf Sun. The difference in wealth from neighbouring Brazil was drastic. My impression of Bolivia in the last twenty four hours was coloured in empathy, and care. The poor nation, neglected, and taken advantage by the powers surrounding it. Lost, runted by circumstance, overwhelmed by unjust struggles and blows upon it. Befouled by abuse almost to the point of hopelessness, shoved in the bottom of a towering metaphorical well, with only the smallest scope of the potential freedom above.
Potholes rocked the van again. It was hard not to feel a bit jilted to be leaving the jungle so quick, though the memories of those rough roads, the heat, the animals, and almost having to spend a night spooning spiders, quenched the feelings, leaving me with nothing but gratitude for the ride. A half full van of slumbering friends and family graciously towing a wayward stranger from the wild to the city.
Outside, a weathered sign read Santa Cruz. i couldn’t wait to arrive, freed from the expenses of Brazil, fantasies of the delicious delicacies i'd be able to afford, the comfortable beds, the cool hostels, meeting interesting travellers flashed as i watched the fields pass. i had high hopes for relaxation, indulgence, and conversation. To unburden myself for a few days from my hitchhiking regiment, and the confines of not having enough money to take proper care of myself.
An hour later the looms of the city leered from the horizon. i collected my things, and gave my thanks as we weaved through the dusty streets. The van stopped a few kilometres from the centre of the city. The doors opened with a shrill, rusty squeak, and with a wave, i took off.
My first thoughts of the city were rife with bleak disappointment. After having spent the last two weeks in rural Brazil, the thick of the Pantanal, and windy dirt roads through the fringes of Bolivia, the harsh city bustle was abrasive, and overwhelming. Cabs circled and pestered like annoying hordes of flies. The temperature was boiling and uncomfortable. After less than an hour of walking i was hot, sweaty, tired, and frustrated. This was not the 'land of milk and honey,' that i had imagined.
i jingled my pockets and found a few Bolivian coins, the last of what i had exchanged at the border, and bought myself a soda for breakfast. Over the last day i'd had nothing more to eat than an apple, and a small sandwich. My body immediately reacted to the syrupy cola, and i could feel the sugar and caffeine brighten me up. The burst of energy came with a cost, i felt disgusting, and ashamed with the desperation that had led to my choice.
Warm dusty winds caked dirt and disappointment across my brow. Thus far Santa Cruz hadn't come close to my expectations. My misleading hope that the town would be similar to the Californian paradise sharing the same namesake was dissolving by the minute. The landlocked city was filthy, hot, crowded, and i began to rethink my situation there. This had not been what i’d wanted at all.
As the afternoon neared i made my eventual arrival to the town square. While it was beautiful in comparison to the rest of the streets, i was still far from satisfied. From across the park i spied a tourist snapping photos and approached him. A Frenchman in his late twenties, he could only give me a lethargic shrug when i asked of recommendations, or things to do while in Santa Cruz. He had only come to visit the Panatal, and was flying in and out of the city as fast as possible. Our conversation was as dry as his personality, and after gleaning a bit of information regarding directions to a hostel and ATM, i excused myself to a bench to rest.
Towering palms and elegant colonial buildings circled around the square. i found a place to centre myself by fountains, and sat across from a tall ornate cathedral. It’s shadow cast a tranquil bubble over the historic Plaza 24 de Septiembre. Despite the shade and relief from the underwhelming city i began to feel restless. That was enough for me. One night would be plenty before venturing deeper into Bolivia.
Finally able to will myself upright again, i followed the Frenchman's directions to the ATM, and withdrew a small amount of cash to tide me over for the next week. Nothing crazy but enough to take care of myself. From the bank i set off in search of the hostel he'd spoken of, my body in contest for what it needed more- rest or a shower. The next day i’d sort myself out with a new plan and direction.
As far as i could tell the hostel's he'd mentioned were non-existent. i found hotel after hotel but nothing that i was prepared to spend my money on, nor wanted to stay in. They seemed either a bit too fancy, or too plain for the fees. While their beds might be nice and restorative, they were cold in character, and i was looking for conversation. At the very least a dorm to meet and connect with other travellers.
After winding through the streets for a few hours, taking in the limited sights, i could feel myself giving up. My frustrations with the city peaked, and i returned to the square. i took pause with my book, giving my mind a rest along with my shoulders, and knees. An hour slipped and i looked at my large rucksack with disdain. It was getting time to try again.
As the work day ended, and the day's light began to dwindle, the streets busied. A few roads up, on the corner of a shopping district was a large congregation of Argentine Artisans. It was as if their clothes and jewellery had been chosen by a panel composed by Fleetwood Mac, and pirates. At best, they looked like ninety-seventies Californian hippy inspired stereotypes of gypsies. The worst looked like carnival buccaneers. Contrary to their outfits their hairstyles took inspiration from a combination of nineties industrial goths, rastas, and cyber-punks, with different patches shaved to the scalp and long twisted dreadlocks. The eclectic group smoked and chatted, waving at potential shoppers as they passed.
They sat upon patterned blankets, playing music, selling crystals, pipes, rings, jewellery, and various other crafts. i locked eyes with a beautiful girl sitting cross-legged and barefoot beside her intricate creations for sale while she worked on a new necklace. We smiled at each other, and i couldn’t help myself from walking over, drawn like a magnet.
She had long brunette hair, with one side of her head shaved, a black tank top, black stockings, a short army green skirt, a nose ring and deep chestnut pools for eyes. Her smile could light up a city block.
i dropped my bag, introduced myself, and explained my situation. That i'd been hitchhiking for five straight days, was exhausted, and looking for somewhere cheap and safe to rest. With a nod she pointed down the street, and told me of a small hotel she was staying at with her boyfriend. It was a little ways away, roughly two dollars US a night, wasn’t in great condition, but i’d get a bed. i thanked her, and told her that was more than enough.
She reached her hand up for me to shake and told me her name, Alexandria, with another smile. Alex gave me directions then told me she’d be packing up around 9 pm and if i hadn't found it by then to come back and she’d show me the way. Not willing to leave anything to chance i jotted down the basic directions, and hoped for the best. We said our goodbyes, and i sauntered onwards.
During my lackadaisical look for the hotel i somehow stumbled on an old cinema. i couldn’t resist from taking a peek. Going to the movies alone was a major guilty pleasure of mine and i hadn’t been to a film since i left Canada. That night the theatre was showing Cowboys and Aliens starring Harrison Ford and Daniel Craig. Indiana Jones, and James Bond in a Sci-Fi Western- for three bucks, it was perfect. Well, the concept was perfect, the movie was ok. Cheesy and a bit of a weaker story than i hoped for, but still, entertaining enough, and it felt great to relax in air conditioning for a few hours.
The film had been longer than i'd expected. By the time i exited, night had fallen and Alexandria had left the corner. i sighed. This is what happens when you indulge yourself. From my pocket i unfolded her directions and resumed my march. i got lost a few times, and circled back. My back was sore and i still hadn’t eaten a proper meal. From a small shop i ordered something called a pizza cone. The crust had been made into an ice-cream cone shape, with a bunch of scalding hot cheese and vegetables inside. The concept of somehow making pizza easier to eat was both ridiculous and poorly executed. But i was famished, it was greasy and delicious, and i couldn’t help from ordering another.
Waddling now, i continued down the large major avenue. The night started to feel a bit hopeless. Afraid i wouldn't find the hostel, my mind began forming alternative plans, of pushing forth towards the exit of the city. i'd be satisfied catching a ride, crashing outside of a gas station, and hitching bright and early the next morning. It wasn’t the most comfortable option but i’d already treated myself to a movie, ice cream, and pizza, what more could i really ask for?
As i began to convince myself of my new plan of action i noticed i was passing a Mariachi school that Alexandria had told me to keep an eye out for. The directions were starting to make sense. While an early exit from Santa Cruz seemed like a great option, a bed still sounded nicer. i was getting irrational, irate, and in desperate need of sleep.
And like that, providence smiled on me again. Out of nowhere Alexandria stepped out onto the street with her cell phone and a cigarette. “Oh! You found it!” she exclaimed and ran over to hug me. “i have to make a call but i can quickly help translate with the old womyn for you.”
The building we entered was falling to pieces. Following a walkway made from broken concrete slabs we made our way to a small open courtyard. There were a few rusted chairs and tables, what looked like a makeshift office, two tiny dirty toilets, a small shower, and a rusty spiral staircase. Alexandria called for the owner, and a stubby, fat woman with short black hair rushed over. The excitable manager told me i could have a bed for $2.50 USD a night, but would have to pay upfront every morning. That was fine, and despite not being fond of Santa Cruz i paid for two days. Knowing i'd have a guaranteed roof over my head sounded like heaven.
Alexandria took off for her call while i was shown to my room. Up the spiral staircase to an upper floor that felt more like a rooftop. Doors dotted the walls surrounding the courtyard, set up like a cheap motel. She led me to the first room, inside i was pointed to a bed that was nothing more than a hand weaved sack stuffed with straw. It was lumpy and hard, when i turned round to the old woman she was already handing me sheets and a blanket. i looked back, and saw the bed in a new light. There were no spiders, no gas pumps, only a single other bed in the room where i was told a friendly Argentinian man was staying. It was perfect.
The old woman bid me goodnight as i placed my bag to the ground and went about setting my bed. Not willing to spend another night in my own filth, i beelined straight for the shower. The freezing water almost sent me shooting out into the courtyard completely bare-assed. In the shock of the cold i deduced that there was no chance of heat or hot water and scrubbed myself as quick as i could before racing back upstairs for warmer clothes. With a fresh, cozy sweater, and comfortable shorts, i stretched over the lumpy bed and passed out with the light on.
The next morning i awoke to the sound of boiling water. Through squinted eyes i saw sunlight and a skinny shirtless man with his back to me. “Good morning,” he said in Spanish, and after my sleepy mispronounced response, he chuckled and rephrased in accented English. “My name is Stephano, would you like some tea?”
With a nod, and thanks i introduced myself as i rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Stephano had a strange small black tribal triangle tattooed below his shoulder blade, short black curly hair, a neat goatee, and a large gold earring in his left ear. He looked like a pirate, and moved about picking up his necklaces and bracelets as our drinks steeped.
As we sipped our tea and made small talk Stephano noticed my guitar sitting in the corner. He nodded towards his own six-string and told me he was on his way to ‘play for the people.’ Stephano had been supporting himself in Santa Cruz by busking in public buses during the morning and evening commutes for the last few weeks. i was impressed. He stood, polished off his mug and said we’d have to have a jam later that afternoon as he buttoned up a shirt. Guitar in hand, he attached a small bucket to the head stock to collect change, and headed off to work.
While i wanted to laze through the morning, i needed to prepare for the next leg of my journey. It was time to shave off my week-long beard. i wandered downstairs with my electric razor, and plugged it in above the sink. The moment after i had stroked a line of hair off my cheek the power point zapped and short circuited my razor. It was completely ruined, and i was shit out of luck. With a sigh i tossed it to the garbage, and wandered outside to the street corner for a cheap throw away blade. It had been years since i’d shaved with a razor. Without the money to splurge on shaving cream i resorted to rubbing hand soap until it was frothy enough to use on my cheeks and chin. i grimaced as the hairs were torn for my face. Each stroke felt like i was meticulously ripping individual follicles rather than cutting them at their base.
As I finished shaving, Alexandria wandered hand in hand with a young Argentine man with short hair and a dreadlocked mullet. She waved and introduced me to her boyfriend Juan, and they invited me to a breakfast of cheese and rolls with them. i accepted but asked for ten minutes so i could find some fruit to contribute to our meal.
With hands full of bananas and mangos i returned to the roof to find Juan and Alex waiting with another young traveller, Pablo. As we ate on our rusty chairs our proper introductions and stories unfolded. Pablo knew a few phrases in English, Juan however had no footing with the language so Alexandria did the bulk of translations. Pablo, eighteen, from Chile, had been roaming Northwards for the last eight months, and was beginning to circle back home. Juan and Alex from Buenos Aires had been travelling and selling their wares for the last five months making their way towards Venezuela. Through mouthfuls of mangos i shared my story of hitchhiking up from Rio de Janeiro, which garnished some impressed nods of approval. Juan and Alex had done a fair amount of hitching in Northern Argentina, and Pablo mentioned that Chile was very good for catching rides. All music to my ears. i still hadn't planned my routes ahead and implored my new friends for advice in their respective countries.
It wasn’t long before Stephano returned and joined us in circle and conversation. While we brewed more tea i announced that i would be leaving the next morning, making my way to Sucre. Pablo suggested a river i might want to check out along the way that he’d camped at a few weeks prior. Stephano chimed in that he’d been thinking of heading somewhere new too, and that the river sounded great.
While i wanted to set off early, i extended an invitation for him to join me hitching. He was enthusiastic and asked if i could wait until he busked the buses one last time before leaving. That was fine by me. Alex and Juan spoke rapidly amongst themselves before suggesting that the five of us go for a trip to the river together.
A plan unfolded around me. Between them there were four tents, enough shelter for all. The weather was warm and it sounded like an ideal detour, and i nodded in agreement. Alexandria looked at our instruments, and suggested rather than waiting for Stephano to finish his rounds, we busk as a group in the markets. Stephano, Pablo, and i all had guitars, Juan had a hand drum, and Alex could go around collecting money.
Wasting no time, out came our instruments and our group formed. Stephano took the lead while we strummed chords around him. While i stumbled with the Spanish words the songs came easy. After a few hours of a playing one of the other tenants came out to join us. An older man, balding and overweight, asked for a guitar then played us a truly heart aching song rift with melancholy. He played with tragic beauty, and from that sombre song he sang another. After he finished his tunes he slurred us his story. Alex, sat beside me, leaned in and whispered he had been a music teacher and was the hotel’s drunk, hence his mangled speech. She translated his tale. It was jagged, didn’t make sense, and had something to do with him being abducted by aliens. The situation started to get a bit weird, and i found a polite opportunity to excuse myself for a walk.
Santa Cruz was significantly easier to handle when i wasn’t carrying my home on my shoulders. i wandered the streets for a final time before heading back. i ran into Juan and Alex selling jewellery from the same corner as the previous evening and sat for another chat with them and their friends. Together we returned to the hotel, where we had a final rehearsal. When i felt good with my grasp of the music i bid everyone an early goodnight. Still exhausted from the days prior i hit the sack- literally, and fell fast asleep.
The next morning we ran through the songs a few more times over breakfast before packing up our things. Once we were all set, we headed to the market. We entered near the vegetable stands, dropped our bags, and launched right into the songs.
Stephano, who had the most experience busking and the strongest voice fell into a leadership role. Pablo and i carried the chords, and Juan thumbed a beat, while Stephano called to the merchants and shoppers like a circus ringleader. With a twinkle in his eye, Stephano's charm corralled a crowd, and he began to bellow. While i couldn't understand the specifics of the Spanish songs, the words remained romantic and moving. More powerful in performance than our rehearsals. i danced about with my guitar, struggling to remember the correct progressions in the magick of the moment, clueless regarding the lyrics, and attempted to sing some supporting"oooo"ing melodies. It actually went quite well.
One song led to the next, and the applause and cheers raised in volume as we played onwards. As we sang hands reached towards Alex and her bucket, and coins started to clink in. With each verse, our eyes locked, and friendship grew. The power of music was working. At the end of our fourth song Stephano pointed at me and announced that their Canadian friend would be singing in English.
Shocked, i froze. i'd never sang before in front of a crowd. My fingers struck against the strings, and strummed a barred G chord. It wasn't my own song, it wasn't a popular one either. Saw Red, a sad song by a lost Californian soul. My voice cracked when i looked into the eyes of the audience, but grew in timbre from the encouraging nods of my friends. The song ended and i held the note. A wave of applause rushed forward, and with it more coins. i glanced at Stephano who patted me on the back with a knowing smile.
"Bueno," he chuckled, and with a wink said "Now, let's play some more."
Thanks for reading,
Wazoo!
-Mr. Write