11.11.2012 - 11.11.2012
We are at the bus station, two hours too early (or five minutes too late) for a bus that will take us to Llano Grande, a village in Pueblos Mancomunados. I sense a sort of tautness in Chris that stems from the knowledge that today he will be on the move, which means uncertainty and expense and discomfort and possibly hunger. I suppose that strain is in me, too, but I barely notice it so attuned am I to the thrum of his tension.
I think I am half asleep, too full from brunch, baked beneath the desert sun. The air here has no cushion--only strange flora and fauna survive. Iguanas, yucca, cacti, and the ubiquitous humans. They nod off in the shade of the streets, in the cool, dusty buildings. They fall alseep here on their bags in the bus station, waiting to go to Llano Grande.