sTrangers meeting in Bolivia

I had just gotten off a bus in the middle of no where. When I mean no where. I mean I had no clue as to where the h, I was at. And? Well, I was hungry. So, I went along the road until I came upon a hostel. A hostel in the middle of nowhere. To be precious I was in the middle of no where Bolivia. And? To make matter worse my Spanish is worse than my English.

And thus I came upon this hostel and knocked on the window. The door being barred shut from the inside. I could hear muffled voices in Spanish. And their requests and my replies would have made a great comedy act some place and sometime. But I was hungry and after a bit of a two-way comedy act. The door was open, and I was let inside.

Now this hostel must have been a few hundred years old or more. To be exact, the door was made of solid ebony. Which to my knowledge had not grown in Bolivia since the King of Spain ordered all the ebony trees to be burnt down in the late 1600s. Why? Evidently he wanted a monopoly on ebony and the ebony forest of Bolivia was burnt down. So what? Well, the last ebony tree noted in Bolivia was cut down in the 1950s and made into a presidential desk delivered from my memory of the tale in the 1960s to JFK.

So the ebony door confirmed the oldness of the hostel. The people inside? What a lovely group of people. An elderly lady and her son and his. I don’t really remember what they were, but they were there.

Anyway, for a meal I got a sheep’s head and blood wine. Now let’s be honest, I can talk a bit of German, Spanish, Aymara, English, a word or two of Cheyenne. But when I am a bit talkative, I can speak and tell stories with the best of them.

The white boy, which I discovered was older than I was weird. His taste for blood wine unusual. Why? To be honest, vino de la sangre. Well, I thought they said sangria. Meaning a thrice heated liquor which is a burning liquor drink I have had before. It loosens the tongue and well. We got to talking.

The man. Not boy was into history. To be specific, he wanted someone to go with him to a cemetery where supposedly the priest had a hidden mine under their church leading through the cemetery into a silver spot. This being close to Potosi, Bolivia I suppose that could be a truth.

Now, I was a bit drunk. Let’s say I could speak fluidly to Aymara at the time and decided to go with this boy. That I had just met to see a mine. Why on earth? Simple. If you want to live. You must go where the adventure is.

And? I have lived. Anyway. Back to the story. So me and the boy. I mean, man, go off after I finish eating to this cemetery. Now in the movies where they have old Spanish cemeteries of adobe and clay. Well, that is where I ended up around 3 AM going. Again why? To see this site.

Was I scared? Thus at that present moment I was a wino. Full of courage and bravo. So no. I was kind of needing to use the bathroom.

Anyway, we get to the cemetery. Now, I was off a bit and the boy. I mean man was a bit offer than me. Meaning we were both into like six bottles of wine within a little less than three hours. So you do the math.

So for whatever reason they do not lock up their parish churches there. We both walk into the church. Now I had been to several of their churches before. And well, I did not expect to see a dead priest right off the bat up front in full view of the church. And to make the matter worse, his skin was still on.

This not putting me off. Just a noted part of the story. The boy. I mean man goes up and pushing on a wall painted I think with Judus and it pops back into a room.

So off I go. Upon entering the room, the white boy pulls on a knob on the floor to pull up another door. At this point I am thinking if he can do all this by himself. Why am I here?

Anyway in for a penny in for the pound. The meaning I was there and I might as well have some fun. We both get down into the tunnel. And I hear this wicked deep voice.

I thought I was nuts because it was in broken English. What the voice said? Who knows? All I can say is I started to run. Why? When a wino says he starts to run. He runs and well I ran. I heard the boy screaming behind me. And I ran. I ran and ran and ran.

Let’s be honest. Running into the dark was stupid. But being drunk on wine hearing a voice in broken English causing my gut to say run. I ran.

And? I somehow broke into someone’s grave. And ended up running right through a coffin into the graveyard. I blacked out upon getting out of the grave. I awoke with a group of women surrounding me. I got up and ran back to the hostel. Note somehow I was missing my clothes at this point.

I got back. Wrapped a blanket around me. And went and reported what had happened to the elderly lady. Who did not seem concerned what so ever?

Anyway, I between 3 AM and 9 AM when all this occurred I got two deep puncture wounds and seemed to have lost like 30 pounds of fat.

Meaning? Well, I had alternative cloths at the hostel but had to purchase a new belt to hold up my pants because of the amount of fat I had lost during the night.

A few months later. I got told a tale about a monster named PISHTACO. A white man looking monster who sucks out fat. During the tale the description sounded like the boy. I mean, man that I meet at the hostel. How did I get away?

Oh I did not. You see. I am a ghost. And you are in my story now.