The Bus to Copacabana
The bus to Copacabana
is a van; the woman wedged between me
and the driver wears layered purple
skirts, a simple sweater and a rounded hat
that floats atop her head.
The back is packed with puppies, people,
among them two Bolivian hipsters in faux
Adidas tracksuits, big, glamorous shades.
They pose melodramatically, whistle at the ladies
through the window glass.
We climb collectively out of La Paz; a sign
that reads Copacabana in Old English
script is propped against the windshield, held by a roll
of papel higénico, always pink here.
We level off in El Alto, careen through
a potholed market, lleno de gente, swimming
in gente, and they are selling flowers, food,
blankets hecho del arco iris,
encendedores, camisetas, baterías —
The mass of people fades; a boy in a ski mask
digs dirt into a pothole half his height, holds out
his hand as we pass. The driver gives him
a Boliviano, gracias
gracias.
We pass through farms where bright-skirted
ladies carry blanketsfull of grasses
on their backs; we follow the shores
of the sacred lake and at Tiquina, leave the bus
for an overloaded boat to the opposite shore:
yellow, green and red, she teeters, leaks,
but does not sink,
esta vez.
We rejoin our bus, wind uphill
and down, around wild
corners where suddenly squares
are cut out of asphalt, ¡Cuidado! Hombres
Trabajando, but nobody slows down, there are no
hombres, nadie está trabajando; we swerve
past autobuses, camiones, Corollas, crosses
covered in flowers.