Conor on leaving Bolivia

Cha-Chunk-Cha-Chunk-Cha-Chunk, the sound of the train tracks running under the slightly aged train. The interior is very dusty, although not because of its age. The tracks sit on very loose, dusty dirt, so the speed flings it up into the air and it eagerly jumps into the face of anyone sitting next to an open window. As the sun streams in through the window, dodging even the metal washboard blinds, slipping through gaps, the car’s temperature begins to rise along with the irresistible urge to just crack open the window, only the tiniest bit. Inevitably, the dust rushes in, just before the wind cools off the inside of the car.

We are heading south, towards the Bolivia/Argentina border leaving Bolivia, our suitcases with us this time, a sign we won’t be coming back after two or three weeks. The flat south of Bolivia, contrasting with the mountainous north, whips by, leaving two months of memories behind. Some, like playing ultimate Frisbee with the kids in the Internado in Sorata, teaching “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” to first graders and sophomores alike, spending long Sunday mornings with Quakers and many other memories cling to the back of the train, following us towards Argentina, infinity, and beyond.