california street scene, except in california that bus would be A-ROCKIN’
california street scene, except in california that bus would be A-ROCKIN’
Awesome chalkffiti
amazing 40s architecture… where am i, LA?
…how about tagging it? that’ll show them barefoot bitches!
Mmmmmm, peaceful abandoned alleyway against a Carmelite monastery…
Well, my buds continued north, and i stayed behind nursing the worst food poisoning of my life (among myriad other afflictions). Remind me, upon returning to my home and health insurance, to get my guts checked out, 4 times in 16 months seems exceptional. Quechua class started today (underwhelmingly), but it should keep me busy and give me something to do here in Cocha while my wounds heal (and since i have nothing else to blog).
Wearied by the redeye bus and having about U$S1000 stolen in my daybag at the terminal, I decided to go ahead with my unrealistic plan of attending nearby Punata’s 170th anniversary and fair. Newspaper reports that Evo himself was confirmed to attend convinced the travelmates to come along, or more likely displaced guilt at mt loss. I felt wierd photographing the many awesome fair games and amusements, except this unsettling tableaux created by an absentee in the dart industry.
![Yeah, that’s a plastic bucket full of CHICHA, fermented cornmeal and fruit (in this case, a local dried apricot called mogollín) fortified with pure alcohol INCA-stylee. To be more specific, that was the first OF THREE buckets (!?¿¡!?¿!?¿?!¡) that somehow kept appearing, along with drunken locals hitting on white girls and slapping me in the face (“you come here like it’s nothing— when am i gonna go to the US? never! why is that?” [slap][escorted away by helpful, and more friendly, buddy] ).](http://25.media.tumblr.com/BXZ0BythG9a32piiW4xxe3F3_500.jpg)
Yeah, that’s a plastic bucket full of CHICHA, fermented cornmeal and fruit (in this case, a local dried apricot called mogollín) fortified with pure alcohol INCA-stylee. To be more specific, that was the first OF THREE buckets (!?¿¡!?¿!?¿?!¡) that somehow kept appearing, along with drunken locals hitting on white girls and slapping me in the face (“you come here like it’s nothing— when am i gonna go to the US? never! why is that?” [slap][escorted away by helpful, and more friendly, buddy] ).
The food was a little underwhelming, but watching a pair of progressively drunker grandparents (she, chollatastic with piercing blue eyes, he, some kind of 50s cuban idol gracefully aged and paunched) dance with handkerchiefs every few drinks until dancing was no longer practicable was, to ape the mastercard commercials, PRICELESS. well, maybe the price was my intestinal health, and if so, i want my money back, i’ve seen cuter.
Last day in Sucre, the topper in a long list of bizarre street/plaza happenings stumbled across (tour-de-france style bike race, cute grandparent-aged unions marching in commemoration of a historic agrarian reform, military bands, primary school anniversaries): boxcar derby!
Market fruitstall salad, complete with “diluted” (?!?!? all i know is you’re not supposed to eat two in one day) strawberry yogurt. Joaquín liked them so much we nicknamed them “Joaquines”.
Head, feet, kidneys— who needs anything else?
Or their diablada mask collection either.
Sucre by night! Rooftop garden on a city building-cum-history museum where a long line of jovial, low-key of all ages queued for a 3-second glimpse at the moon through a satellite. It’s the little things, people.
Neon jesus is open all nite, ladies!
