I wake up, accompanied by the one constant in this world. The heat lingers like some vulgar joke. The temperature rises two degrees every minute.
I smoke a cigarette with my head in the freezer. I almost fall asleep. But my feet are still sweating, slipping over the tile floor with faint resolve.
I make coffee. Its all I can do to forget about the heat: spite the motherfucker.
There. That’s better.

An hour later I find solace. On the back of a decrepit bus, I sit behind an open window. The driver operates under constant fury. Fleeing an invisible foe. We’re going very fast. And im grinning, the sweat parting my forehead. Like I’m Moses.
Divine intervention.
A little boy stares at me. I wink at him. He doesn’t panic. His humanity won’t permit it. He laughs.
We’re going faster now. The whole bus blazing through jungle and concrete like a tormented creature. It starts raining. I feel manic. I want it all. Speed, safety, wind, rain. This bus ride is my greatest fear, but my only hope.
I ask God to look after me. After us. All of us. Protect us. Diós nos protege.

i've been away from my site for several days, returning just now.
the children that attend school in the afternoon are walking home. there is no better sound in the world than the boisterous laughter of children.
it's good to be home.

SILENCE! FUCKING!

I'm playing the guitar, enjoying the early afternoon. I can still taste the orange just consumed.
"Misster Willliam," says a familiar voice. "Tocando la guitara."
It's my fantastic viejo communist neighbor. He's 80. Has an absurd, toothless grin that makes me blush. And loves to talk shit. Long ago, he abandoned any social etiquette or standards, such as beginning conversations with "hello" or "how are you?" Old man loves to rehash all of the anti-american leftist news he's just heard on his radio, directing it at me in the form of boasts or accusations. We both allow this to happen, and thoroughly enjoy it, because he knows im not some gringo asshole, and i know he's not some nutjob militant, though we pretend to be.
"Looks like La CIA got rid of the Honduran President," he says.
"yea. 'bout fuckin time," i say.

But then he remembers why he knocked on my door. "Playing the old guitar again, huh?"
"Yea. I can sing too. Yo voy caminando, al monte donde yo nací….”
Luis tries to stop me, in spanish, but to no avail. So he shouts the only two words in English he knows: "SILENCE!!! FUCKING!!!"
So i shut right the fuck up.
And then we both laugh.
And then we talk for a few more minutes. About girls and politics. And soccer.
He shakes my hand, turns to face the world.
"Cuídate, Gringo."
You too, viejo.