The Rage

As nice as they are, two piles of rubble are enough for me. It's time to head to the capital, Asuncion. I'm late to wake up, so it's 1030 before my bus starts moving. This bus might be the oldest vehicle I've ever been on.

At about 1500, I'm getting pretty uncomfortable. I slept for a while, but now I'm really feeling last night's half chicken working its way through me. Crooksy could tell you all about how the body reacts to protein in great measures - but for your own sake don't get him started. I didn't ask how long the journey was. I'm sat up near the front. Both the bus and my bowels jerk with every change of gear. There are young, old, fatties, and combinations of those all around me. I'd love to bundle one squeaky little turd of a boy out the window. For a few stops, some awfully, awfully obese woman has struggled to force herself into the seat next to me. She can't understand me, so I'm muttering about how much I dislike her and how she's a fat sack of crap, and so on and so forth, at a normal volume, but in the direction of my window. The seat in front of me is reclined, and periodically, the leathery hand of a woman grasping the back of her head rest appears in front of me. It's close enough for me to see the hairs on it. All this and together with my angry intestines make for a deeply painful ride. On the plus side, I've worked out the bulk of Iron Maiden's The Trooper.

I'm glad to be off the bus, and have reacquired the comfort of my guts, but it's not over. Now I've got to find a roof for the night. I know there's hostels in town, and I'd much prefer to use them than a hotel. After a lousy day, it would be very easy to jump in a taxi to whichever hotel the driver likes, but that's not my style - for a start, I'm too much of a cheapskate to spend the money. After finding an internet cafe and sketching myself a pilotage plan of the hostel and surrounding roads - my land version of the sailing method - I power through, and go in search of the promised hostel. When the inevitable fiery rage builds up to melting point, it simply must be doused with beer. The barman knows the hostel, so I can really enjoy the beer. As I'm leaving, I ask him how far it is to the hostel. He steps out with me and points to a doorway about six or seven metres down. Nice beer, though.