the baby on the bus goes gua gua gua

so i missed (the rains down on) toto. sorry (the rains down on) anna. sorry.

however, the bjork concert reignited my inner pixie like a personal invite from moonface to tour through the land of take what you want. Her crouching and accompanying ¨will my eyes be closed or open¨fist motions during hyperballad was the best. Aaron of Radio One´s flash not so new breakfast show was kind enough to let me review it , though I thought it came off as more of an add for the big day out. oh welly welly welly. there should still be a copy (legally speaking) floating in the ether for the next three weeks should you dare to request one, for broadcasting standards breaches only, naturally. Tomorrow is the soda stereo concert. The Cure of Latino America. Rumour has it they´ll play three hours. It´s in Parque Simon Bolivar, which is a huge fish pan shaped structure built upon an older indigenous market/ meeting site, as many other ¨successful¨conquistador developments were... see Mexico City. The three day free metal hardcore and a splashing of wussy crap festival Rock el Parque was recently held there, bruising my neck and back in an aguadiente fulled haze of angsty moshing. I thinking it should be renamed washing here, as everyone dances fairly considerately in a giant human spin cycle. Great from an aerial perspective.

Today I celebrate a year travelling. The idea was to enjoy the long bus ride from Medellin (the first place I´ve felt really, genuinely excited for in terms of local government initiatives (that is, resources used rather than drained) for example, the biblioteca españa (not only an architectural masterpiece, but a massive library with 70 or so internet connected computers in one of the poorest and formally most dangerous neighbourhoods). Such projects appear specifically aimed at leveling out class boundaries, which are devistatingly rigid, to the poin that they´re categorised on a scale of 1 to 6. The numbers help decide how much the inhabitants need to pay for amenities such as water and gas, but they carry much more cultural weight. Museums in Medellin let stratas 1 2 and 3 in gratis (or free), while malls in Cali specify their strata 5 and 6 clientele specifically). I know, I know, too many brackets, not enough editors.

And there I was, sitting in my discounted, please I´m backpacking, bus seat reading my book, not getting uptight about all the traffic delays due to maintenance- I´m happy to wait for road maintenance, having travelled along the privatised roads from the coast to the jungle of Peru, formerly unpaved in their pre-privatised form, now days they´re a pitted squalor left with no other option but to bite resentfully at car tyres and watch the toll booth dollars sail off shore. Let´s road maintenance out corruption eh? Yeah, egalitarianism. Thing was, well, not exactly sure what the thing was... possibly a stop go man that got it wrong, a too-wide turn around a sharp bend, an over enthusiastic passing truck (there is a whole OTHER system of headlight signals and faith when it comes to passing on blind corners in this part of the world. You can fit three legal passes into the rugby field the road code says you should leave between you and the oncomer here. two if they´re oil tankers) but there was a krunchy bang, a lot of wobbling, and we were hurtled into the trees on the side of the road, coming to a halt with no more than 5 meters between us and the approaching yellow truck cabby.

I remember thinking, man, this is just how I dreamed a bus crash would be, like an inescapable tin can, crashing through a moist wilderness of shrubs which shreek like polystyrene against the windows, unsure whether to prepare for the sides crumpling in, or the rolling of the bus down the bank and into the path of the oncoming truck. My seat neighbour held me by the waist as apparently I stood up to complete some affirmative action either way. Our driver swerved the bus into a tree, mashing his leg, but stopping the bus in it´s tracks and saving the passengers from injury.

It´s 5am, I´m tired and not explaining the ordeal particularly well, save to say that boy oh boy am i glad to be here to relay the story, and how rich it was to dance like a maniac to a Colombian new wave covers band verde 3 that ripped out ´material girl´and ´love will tear us apart´ just a few hours earlier. oooh, and the upstairs dj popped on Trans Am: the robot sounding vocoder and accompanying jogging-on-the-spot-dancing may save globalisation from it´s sleazy corporate cesspool yet.

There may be photos to come. The camera I was using battled on, still coughing up a photo or two throughout the recent crowning of Miss Colombia, the accompanying street parades or gyrating primary school kids, flour bombs and colourless crackers called buscapie or looks for feet, which are lit and hurled into the crowd across the street, producing deafening bangs. (Worst case scenario, there´s alway´s wet toilet paper to protect your precious aural investments. The look didn´t catch on.) However, it no longer posesses the reliability i require for such snap-a-ramas. Following the crash I gave my email to a man taking photos. Little did I know the airbag inflated in the crushed black cube behind us had recently received his face, but his responding expression got me up to speed in a jiff. Don´t hold out on those photos.

I had to spend another 8 hours on a smaller bus to get back to bogotá in time for the concert. I took a cab not to my friend´s house, where i´m staying, but to the supermarket for Cabernet Savingnon, dark chocolate, wasabi peas, pistachios, olives, grapes and fresh orange juice.. a selection of flavoursome bits and bobs that remind me just how precious it is that I´m living through this strange adventure, and that you, dear friend, are out there, where ever there is, sharing this short time with me.

Arohanui. xxx Emma