God bless the Homos (and tales of Bus Trip Festivities/Traversties)

Buses I have seen many the last few days, climbing from Cusco ( Memories of Mrs Piccua -unreal- swathed in her ancient mists) toward Lima. Buses, a mutual tomb from where drivers may ply (at full volume) his sadistic froms of Bony M torture .Feliz Navidad it is no more. In Peru its either Carols, aching Spanish Ballads or worse- the traditional pan pipe music, which reminds one of being stuck (as we once were) in an eternal elevator.
I have plenty time to sit and ponder and mostly read. Sit through the stink of road side lunches lingering in collective 28 hour farts. Sweaty socks stewing in stagnant boots .Films, at full volume and all through the night. Rot of the B´st grade. Rippling 80´s Van Damme fok em ups and worse still (poorly dubbed) Lindsay Lonhan movies. Often trips without a break (and when the bus loo is broken the bladder too must wait). Blood, lung, patience screaming for a tobacco fix. Navigating my retarted knowledge of Spanish with fellow passengers over delays wrought by land slides. To Lima- oh Lima. The horror they warned. (Just a big stinky city in many ways like our own) The Lonely Planet recommends a gay friendly hostel. Having trodden the heteronormative road, my ear providing the sounding board to one to many yobo tales of pussy and Bangkok brothels (The couples generally sweet but mostly of the hen pecked husband, winging totalitarian wife variety – living their precious independence before stretch marks, cribs and car pools claim their days) I check in. Gay friendly I discover simply means a gratis bar of soap, towel and toilet paper (very welcome for someone who has been drying himself with a ripped sheet and reaching for the nearest strip of newspaper). A spacious renovated old mansion with an ample supply of excellent literature to peruse in the book exchange and a Vanity Fair in the bog. hahahahha. God bless the homos! Lima is in full festive swing. Black and White Bing Crosby movies on the telly. Spin doors swallowing late night shoppers and forget full lovers. Stations crammed with families heading home for the holidays. Families that gather beneath a single roof to do what it is that festive folk of the world do- drink, fight, love, forget, gossip, reminisce. Southern continents similar in their nostalgia for a white that will never fall. Celebrating a child that ( Tracy Chapmans words) might never come, if he came at all. I see it (Lima) in passing, another bus this time, nine hours to Hauraz. Here I sit at the front of the bus on the top story. Inches away from a panovision windscreen. Sweeping through the city, like a low flying pigeon, high enough to note the fire juggling, flik flakking street kids. The slums and villas. A desolate desert coast subsiding into a cormorant infested pacific.
Christmas I am ambivalent (though i wouldn't say cynical) toward. I light a candle, hang a dusty string of tinsel in my room. I remember the quantity of wondrous people at home whose company I shall not enjoy on this particular day. As for New year – I dread it more. A memorial, notch of my failings, rapid age, wasted hours. This I intend to resolve (or rather forget) by spending it out in the Cordelia Blanca Mountain range . A series of Andean glaciers-no doubt a wonder beneath this mighty moon of ours. Better I think then meeting a bastard headache in the morning.
Of course there are more appealing stories to tell then of Busses, but I lack imagination and strength beyond this ,my immediate.
Christmas I am ambivalent (though i wouldn’t say cynical) toward. I light a candle, hang a dusty string of tinsel in my room. I remember the quantity of wondrous people at home whose company I shall not enjoy on this particular day. As for New year – I dread it more. A memorial, notch of my failings, rapid age, wasted hours. This I intend to resolve (or rather forget) by spending it out in the Cordelia Blanca Mountain range . A series of Andean glaciers-no doubt a wonder beneath this mighty moon of ours. Better I think then meeting a bastard headache in the morning. Of course there are more appealing stories, observations to tell then of South American Busses, but for now I lack imagination and strength beyond the immediate.