Desperate in the Jungle

11:30 PM, July 1st, somewhere in northern Minas Gerais.

We crossed the Goias / Minas Gerais border about an hour ago, heading south at 90 km/h. I leer out the window, the only one awake on this godforsaken bus, watching the trees and the dark.

Dark and terrible thoughts on a cold night on the far side of the world. Even if my 2nd grade Portuguese vocabulary could hack it, the snoring natives around me could never understand such a uniquely American despair. The sour blood that runs through my veins is completely alien in this place, the culture gap is too vast to ever explain the American nightmare.

I violated a cardinal rule, and in my sleeplessness let my wandering thoughts turn to home. Never think about the real world when traveling, to destroy one’s suspension of disbelief on the road is to throw away an entire trip.

If I


Damn this rickety bus, destroying my lovely handwriting.

If I were at home, I’d get wasted on a roof, listening to LA Woman on repeat. I’d throw my empty bottles into the crowded streets below, and wake up in a Texaco bathroom in Reno three days later. All would be well.

As it is, I sit here on our shuddering bus thinking of the fuckstorm that awaits me in the homeland. Christ. Two weeks till i go back to the Real Life, the life of squandered youth and unpaid bills, of shady women and shadier landlords. Horrible times, from any point of view.

Our country is besieged by thieves and liars, a government made up of villains and puppets. My life is in no better state. There are times when the fuckers get even to me, the stone-skinned jester. My life here in Brazil will fade like a crack dream, and I’ll slink back through customs into my own personal disaster. Shit.

This epileptic bus confounds me; I can write no more. We’re stopping, for some reason. Probably ran over a leopard or a pygmy or some shit.

12 hours left to make it to the wedding,



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