Zach W. Watson
I thought the Gypsy Train was over. But I am bus.
I thought, after we met our goal of reaching the end of the world in Ushuaia, we would sell the bus and the next phase of my life would begin, one where I would have an apartment and a refrigerator that I could keep orange juice in. I would teach English, learn Spanish, and maybe buy a new pair of pants, living a quiet life in some quiet place in Buenos Aires.
After finding out the impossibility of selling a foreign car in Argentina, we have decided there are two options. One would be to kill the bus, blowing the fucking thing to smithereens. Two would be to continue gypsying the South American continent, visiting the places we haven´t seen.
As much as I talked, over the last few days, about filling the gas tank and strapping sixteen sticks of high grade Bolivian TNT to the undercarriage, I knew, in all reality, we couldn’t explode the bus.
With Mike leaving to Mexico next week to see his family, we will be without a cook. With Beanie and Tegan leaving for the vaginally rhyming Saskatchewan capital of Ragina, I will no longer have an audience for my seemingly endless barrage of tasteless potty jokes. With Matthias having to return home to the Deutschland, where he will be forced to speak a language he has almost all together abandoned, we will be without a scapegoat.
Ben´s gone. Jake has a motorcycle. Marta left to study chemistry.
We have bus, A&A and I, but we have no people. They are all gone.
So long, dear friends, my gypsy family.
Now we are back to the way we began. Like in Quito, we are three searching for others to join us. I hope we can find people that are at least as good, hopefully better, as those we became so close with over the last six months.
It´s our only logical choice, to run the bus into the ground, to get every cent of worth out of it, to destroy the axels, the transmission and whatever other part could break on the bumpy death roads of Bolivia.