Bus Chronicles

Under the shadow of snores, my husband relieved himself into a plastic bag not thinking to tie it first before heaving it out the bus window. Blowing away like a deflated balloon, his urine splashed on the outside windows, just an inch of glass away from sleeping heads.

Not your typical honeymoon memory but then it isn't a typical honeymoon to backpack around the world together for 10 months. Toilet stories and odd travel encounters float to your mind's surface whenever you reminisce and want to make a room of people laugh. These tales are the collection of colorful magnets proudly displayed on your fridge, your badges of honor. Memories of beautiful landscapes and famous sights tend to fade into fuzzy oblivion; kept in the back shelf like half used condiments.

Traveling on the overnight Bolivar bus from Sucre to La Paz in Bolivia will guarantee you fridge magnet stories to take back home. Roughing it with the locals, there are no reclining seats nor working toilets on board. There are regular protests against the government in the form of barricades blocking entry and exit from towns so make sure to plan ahead. We didn't and our delayed departure meant our bus driver refused to stop for toilet breaks during the 12 hour bus journey to catch up on lost time. He did, however, hand my husband the plastic bag as compensation.

As the sun rose into the day, our appetites rose with it. Three ladies boarded the bus and a deep herbal woody smell came dancing up the steps before them. My ears pricked up and my senses awoke with immense curiosity. She removed the bulging colorful blanket from her back and laid it on the seat in front of me. Entranced I sat up to watch her open it and reveal a glistening roasted leg of llama. Before my eyes could gaze its perfectly crispy moist skin she began hacking into it with a machete, showering me in bits of meat as hungry passengers put their orders in. She stopped butchering only to shovel the cut meat into sandwich bags with her stained hands which she handed to her two daughters who fought against speed and gravity to go up and down the aisles to the eager fingers holding coins. Every time the bus made a sharp turn, the mother threw her body against the leg of llama, pressing into it as if protecting a young child from danger.

Arriving into La Paz, I was tempted to ignore the llama parasite stories I heard and taste it. But to come home with a parasite would certainly not have been a proud honeymoon souvenir.