A Cellarful of Nose - Future Shoes

Grave Possibility, then you're the silly one, and your silly
contempt.
The sun bore down on us as we stood in line and one by one
surrendered our papers. My Spaniard architect friend seemed to
have a problem. Guatemala has broken off relations with Spain, I
thought. I considered coming to his assistance, then fantasized
myself saying the wrong thing:
"Listen here, soldier. I'm an American journalist, and
everything you do here will wind up in a major publication back
in the United States, so I advise you..."
Blam. Thud. Fantasy concluded.
*
We reboarded. Exhausted, we jolted along another sixty
miles, another three hours.
By now the lime dust was everywhere on us, our hair was
stiff with it. Children were bawling inconsolably. The English
leaned glumly into one another. The grandmother had emptied
two coconuts in two strong draughts and slept now, head
slamming unmercifully, rhythmically – and strangely peacefully –
against the bus window.
We came to a river. We were asked to get off the bus, take all
our luggage, cross a rickety plank-bridge as best we could, and
reboard another bus – whose passengers had been waiting for us
for over three hours – on the other side!
But the long day, the long road was almost behind us. It was
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