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Buying coke Rancagua

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Buying coke Rancagua

Read the original in Spanish. He has also made a number of short films. He lives in La Pintana. In January she will take up a new post at the University of Glasgow. Do all the sanctimonious fucking moralists who police and decry such behaviour not know about their own fucking contribution to landfill? Do they really feel so far removed from rubbish tips, missing out on the new shrines of their own modernity? Just the medium ones. Not too thick, not too thin, just somewhere in the middle. I head to the bar to get more beer. On the way home she tells us someone stole her car battery last night. The anthropologist drops us off outside a car wash and we say our goodbyes. Gustavo and Yaax live inside the car wash, on the second floor of a building erected inside a car park. Before heading to bed we have a cup of tea and Gustavo tells me he used to live in New York and that there are more Guatemalans living in the US than in Guatemala itself. I set up a whatsapp group with Itzayana, Fidel Castro and me. I write: all good, love you guys. I was waiting for the Western Union office to open. The tv was tuned to CNN and Trump was talking. Eggs, beans, bread, orange juice, coffee. Eating was a struggle. On CNN they went on over to sports. The security guards have submachine guns. You could be the lucky winner of a set of saucepans of every conceivable size if you nominate this as your designated branch for withdrawing funds wired from the US. I headed over on foot to the part of town where the buses for Managua leave from. My plan is to travel from Guatemala City to Managua non-stop. Thirty dollars. What are you going to Managua for? I stand there expectantly waiting for some kind of ticket or proof of purchase but no dice. I gather up my things and get my two backpacks ready to go. I take a couple of selfies with the boys. Before getting in, I give them both a hug. I thank them for everything. When I climb into the taxi, I catch my arm on a bit of jagged metal poking out of the doorframe and get a nasty scratch, bleeding all over my white t-shirt, when I get to the bus station about five guys yank open the car door and start shouting MANAGUA! Things are pretty hairy down there. Are you travelling on your own? Santiago himself is a Nickie. We get on to check out our seats only for me to discover a lady pretending to be asleep in the place where my name tape was supposed to be. Santiago and I end up miles away from Carlos Alberto. Our bags are stowed up at the back. The windows on the bus are wedged shut, we crawl out of Guatemala City in a haze of humidity, my knees start aching right away for lack of legroom, and we commend ourselves to the saints, the tv cycles through three action movies one after the other, all jam-packed with explosions and deaths and blockbuster-style dialogue, clipped and to the point. She fishes out a scrap of paper dated from her handbag and shows it to me. Her dad was a teacher and he was Chilean alright. Just before nightfall we arrive at the border and cross into El Salvador. At 10pm we stop at a gas station to eat and make use of the facilities. I try to buy Santiago a beer. I ask him if he smokes. You brought marijuana with you across the border? Marcia pitches up and suggests we all go smoke together at the tables down along the side of the gas station shop. We follow her over and I get out one of my bottles of Quezalteca. My dad was Chilean as well and his eyes were just like that too. We hasten to finish our cigarettes and climb back on board. Marcia and I carry on working our way through my Quezalteca supply. I was so mad, Juannie, the guy had lied to me, he was seventy-five! Not even so much as a semi! Marcia starts singing along in impeccable English. I crack open the last bottle of Quezalteca and Cindy Lauper comes on over the loudspeakers. Marcia sings along perfectly. I draw breath and clear my throat, but before I can start singing I burst out laughing. Santiago is in the row behind us, towards the back of the bus, crammed in with a gaggle of teenagers and an evangelical priest. They start yelling at the driver to change the music. To be on the safe side. And almost all of us had coughed up. Marcia starts showing me photos of her five daughters, and then right before my eyes clicks over onto a special separate folder. That noble mortal quest for the fountain of eternal youth: the image. Luckily in these photos Marcia has visuals and attitude in spades. I regretted it instantly. A guy asks if he can borrow my phone charger. I hand it to him. His name is Ernesto. Cigarette packets are proffered. They ask me what Chile is like. In the winter the mountains are all snowy. There are beaches where you can still go camping with your girlfriend without fear of being robbed or murdered. The mood mellows and everyone tries to settle down to sleep. Marcia leans her head on my shoulder. Shortly before sunrise we arrive at the Nicaraguan border. We queue up outside the border guard booths. I hand over my passport to a weary-looking woman in uniform. She sees my passport and pauses. Her eyes flick from my photo to my face. I head out for a cigarette. The birds are singing. Wildlife is stirring. The drivers of the Julius Caesar are napping on bits of cardboard laid on the ground alongside the bus. An hour later a hulking great policeman with an intimidating air about him, as broad as he is tall, emerges and asks which of us is the Chilean. What are you doing here? Santiago must have had his ear glued to the door and practically comes flying into the room when I turn the handle. He immediately gets asked for his name, address and occupation. The policeman studies them carefully. I had no idea Chileans could dance like that! Silence reigns. I thank him. I share my bread and cheese with Marcia, Ernesto and Santiago. Next to me is a girl with five enormous bags of god knows what. The reggaeton comes on and the crowd goes wild. But the bus breaks down. The heat and humidity are merciless even at this hour. Her stop is before Managua proper. Santiago comes over and sits down beside me. The outskirts of Managua consist of patches of reclaimed wasteland with ramshackle houses flying the flag of the Sandinista Front. Read the original in Spanish Listen to an excerpt of the original Spanish read by the author:. Read translator's note. Read bios. One week left to join the team—send in your application today!

Buying coke Rancagua