The busride from Lima to the Ecuadorian border is very long.
I get up early and say goodbye to the friendly people at my hostel. “Goodbye!” or rather, I told them “Adios!” because, of course, they speak Spanish here. What follows is a long ride through the city of Lima, ending in a bus terminal where I wait having a sandwich a writing a few lines with a real pen. An old German guy who must have felt very south American (I can tell that from the way they move and stand leaning on the counter) told me that Venezuela didn’t “vale la pena” under Chavez. He had lived on this continent for over eightteen years, doing god knows what. He didn’t switch to German when I told him I live in Berlin. Whatever. Some people think the past is something you can want to escape from. And I am not one of them.
So, I get on this bus to Cumbles in the very north of Peru. My neck will hurt, and I will watch some movies on the on-board screen, Hollywood movies that are skillfully made to make you feel light but that lightness couldn’t counterbalance the awkward position of my neck. All night long we drive, that I might as well write a song about it (we didn’t do any songs, did we?), just some rhyme as a hommage to all those countless travelers and backpackers that have to rely on bumpy bus transportation.
How many buses does a man have to take
before you can call him a man?
Yes and how many songs does that man have to sing
before he’s like Bob Dylan?
The answer my toad, lies in following the road
The answer lies in following the road.
The road a-heaaad
That road does never end
The road a-heaaad
da di da da
How many roads does a toad has to cross
before he gets hit by a bus?
Yes and how many buses will go down that road
just ’cause so many men don’t know who they are?