No More Buses!

Apparently Matt and Vicki had a pleasant sojourn over the Andes. Us--not so much. I think a private car could make the desolate trip from Mendoza to Salta in 11, 12 hours. We opted for the second story of a greenhouse bus which stopped about 30, 35 times. At La Rioja I got out to use the bathroom and for the second time this trip was interrupted by my friend telling me to hurry because our ride was leaving. This time when I buttoned my shorts I noticed they had a big dirty wet stain from the bathroom floor. Lovely.

When we got back on, someone was sitting in the seat next to me, which had earlier been vacant.

' Our movie was in Spanish, so I decided to talk to him. Thankfully, he was pleasant: Martin, a medical student who was returning home for the weekend. He told me my Spanish was excellent. I told him to vete la ciudad (get out of the city). He disembarked at Catamarca and I checked on mis amigos. Ryan had regressed into a catatonic state, and Mike snarled so I carefully backed away. Clearly we had to get off this bus!

Hours later, the sun rises. We're still on the bus. Another woman is sitting next to me gesturing and mumbling in Spanish. Whether or not I understand is clearly irrelevant to her. I'm getting disoriented; the windows are fogging up. I don't know what time it is. Then the bus stops and we are all ordered off. We are clearly not at our destination, but rather at a lonely truck stop. We're a little confused and then I realize we're supposed to transfer here. At least the new bus isn't as hot, but the seating arrangement is screwed up, and Mike ends up 7 rows behind us.

Finally, 19 hours later, we arrive in Salta. We take a cab to our hotel, where they are gracious enough to give us a room for showering while our room is cleaned. I am happy to say we have no further bus trips planned. Regardless, now that we've cleaned off the road-sludge, the plan is to sleep. We'll talk to you later. . .

Mikes Feet..

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