In the sky there was a
deep causeway of black, brightening the white.
The rain was coming.
It blew and blustered and wets itself into rivers in the streets.
We traveled into the country in a car resembling a sewing machine.
It bobbed its way unevenly down the rocks and stones.
We passed eucalyptus trees and cacti,
a small town and the road we were supposed to turn on with
patayas for sale in leave covered baskets,
dogs sleeping or wandering, children holding their parents hands.
The end of the road: a car graveyard. And two confused guards at its gate.
The second day we attempted the same journey, though we made the right turn.
The buena vistas and burros and curious construction made up for our map reading skills,
which were more of a conversation than an outlined directive.
We waved at everyone we passed, and they waved back. We shared the road with
cows and seemingly impassable puddles, but our sewing machine forged on.
We stopped and played charades with a man
to make sure we were headed on the right path
and he implied that our car wouldn’t make it,
to which we responded as if his logic was also in a foreign language that we didn’t understand.
Over a cow grate, down a steep, uneven rocky path that continually brought us to the left:
the end of that road lead to two men and no visible waterfall.
It would be a twenty minute hike on an unclear path.
We thought about the wedding in a few hours,
thought about that decent that we were not sure we could ascend
stopped to stretch, smoke and pee,
and decided that we had seen enough.
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