After the comfort of my long bus ride in Argentina, I was hoping for more from this Paraguayan bus, but the price correlation is precisely reflective. I´ve got just enough water to hold myself intact, and I expect I can avoid the toilet.
I wake up to on dirt tracks of the Chaco, the views coming into Bolivia are striking on account of the change from flats to green mountains. The roadside rock is often a deep, rich red, marbled with white, although, this is helped by the tint on my window. The mountains extend far into the distance and up into the low lying clouds. Occasionally, a wide, dry river breaks up the mountains. I´m compelled to paint. Can I paint? I study the picture carefully and work out how I would paint it. Maybe I´ll give it a shot on my return home to continued unemployment. It´s a long ride, so despite not wanted to miss the view, sleep is a good option.
I wake up again. This time I find an incredible surprise. There´s a cling-filmed polystyrene plate of fried chicken and chips on my lap. It´s like the Christmas morning of 1993. After being relatively satisfied with my presents, my old man pointed me to look out the window, from where I see a brand new black bicycle. This Christmas, I´m asking for bucket of chicken.
Eventually, I arrive in Santa Cruz at a comfortable 2000, and make the acceptable, but soon sweaty traverse across town to a mismarked hostel. For a start, it´s a hotel with shared bathrooms, not a hostel. It´s pretty enough, but signs declare that alcohol prohibited. I don´t immediately want any alcohol, but the principle makes me angry.
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