The Che of Making Mistakes

I had two hours to kill, so I went to Brazil.

Brazil - the vast land of samba, futbol, and the Amazon. A nation alive with passion, history, dynamic tensions. Brazil! Is there a more romantic place to visit?

I saw three blocks before I had to catch my bus.

________________

It was planned so perfectly, my bus travel, all the way to Bolivia through the Chaco - thirty hours of unpaved roads. All I had to do was sit back, relax, and get to Asuncion in midmorning.

Well, I woke up in an uncomfotable position, in the dark. We weren´t moving. I pulled back the curtain to see the dirty white concrete of Asuncion´s terminal awash in sodium-orange light. I checked my watch. Four am. I checked my watch again. Four am.

The bus to Bolivia only leaves at eight pm, and I wasn´t too keen on spending a day in the bus station before boarding a thirty hour bus. My mind started to drift a bit, away from reality and real options. At one point I went into the center, probably around seven, and couldn´t find a hostel.

There I was, next to the abandoned train station, with all my junk, at dawn in Asuncion. My mind continued to drift. I was stuck, couldn´t stand pat, couldn´t move forward. I headed back to the bus station.

Instead of waiting twelve hours for a thirty hour bus, I took a six hour bus back to Encarnacion (because you can´t cross the river at Asuncion) then a hop to Posadas. This part went well.

Then I bought tickets to Salta.

I arrived in Posadas around six in the afternoon, maybe seven - but my bus to Salta left at two in the morning. I hadn´t slept in a day or two, so it just never occurred to me that this was, clearly, a terrible decision.

I don´t remember much of what I did, I think, because everything kept closing and the temperature kept dropping. A man fell asleep on my pack for awhile. I think I had some tea, and a medialuna. Argentina lost a football match. I had a sandwich. I paced back and forth for a couple hours. I drank a Coke then returned the bottle. I read the titles of the books in the window of the kiosk. I never sat down except to eat.

I was not happy. It was not a happy time.

Well, seventeen hours later I was in Salta - tired, broken, confused and agitated. It only took me two days to get to Salta, twelve hours from the Bolivian border. Much better than a 30 hour bus.

The streets immediately around Salta´s bus terminal do not have street signs. I walked down Avenida San Martin, past Parque San Martin, and like a modern Joseph, no hostel would take me. Five hostels rejected me. The sixth try, as they say, is the charm. I slipped through the door to my room, and quietly, in the dark, went to bed, in a bed, for the first time in three days.