Here’s where it gets surreal. Two days ago bus tickets were purchased for my colleague and me. Today, she texts me a few strange texts. Rains up north caused problems with our tickets. She will therefore have to repurchase new bus tickets to Macora, Ecuador. I do not know why rains invalidate pre-purchased bus tickets. However, I’m not in a rush to board a bus which likely will run on dirt or otherwise poorly constructed roads. Drivers here are renown for making fatal mistakes. A recent newspaper reported a bus that fell into an ‘abismo’, causing fatalities. Therefore, I’m plenty fine delaying the visa again if it means saving my life.
My colleague, seemingly panicking over the trip texts me on my phone for my phone number. Um…I’ll strike that up as nonsensical point number two.
I sat on the phone then, listening to this sane, soft-spoken woman, who I do like very much. But by the time she’d gone round and round and round about all the variables of tomorrow’s trip– which bus we’ll take, when we’ll meet, etc.– I became dizzy. We could meet at 530, or 6, or 930 am; we could take the bus the whole way or take a bus to a different station then take two taxis to get to the appointment. Finally, it was decided that the original plan, to board the 930 bus, would suffice. You learn when living abroad not to try to make sense out of certain situations. Logic evidently takes different forms in different countries. Instead, you also learn, to just laugh.
But wait, there’s more.
As my laughter ceases my landlord knocks on the door. She’s learned that I can interpret Spanish well enough so she usually speaks her lovely Spanish at mach speeds. The lavadora, she tells me, is fixed. I can now finish washing my clothes. I wasn’t sure this afternoon what had caused the washing machine to stop in mid cycle, filled up at it was with water, so I’d told here there was a problem. She said she’d have her husband look at it when he returned home. It was now hours later. So, I proceed to the rooftop where the washer is and where I enjoy hanging clothes on the lines. There’s still water in the machine, which makes me frown in question. Well, OK, I figure, I’ll just rerun the cycle. It doesn’t work. I try again. It doesn’t work. Who fixed this thing, a pastry chef? Laughter comes forth again while I shut the lid, turn the light off behind me, and return to my room. No laundry for tonight.
If all goes well and I make it alive back to Piura tomorrow night, I’ll again attempt the lavadora.