It's another day, another month...

*a car passes by as he walks confidently down his own street, littered with bits of shit and an old aerosol can (as flat as the Golpe wrapper beside it, the former resting in the same spot since his arrival into Barrio Recoleta), and smelling of the remains of Q'oa, burning sweetly last night outside every participating establishment - a very community strengthening ritual (every first Friday of the month) of burning an incency mix of coca leaves, spices, traditional Q'oa plant and various sugary items of symbolism for luck from Pachamama in the coming month. Midnight Oil reminds him of the forgotten years on his MP3 player while normality seeps into his conscienceness, Guido his quirky Spanish profesor having just listened to that fast abstracting Australian band and calling it "cowboy music".

*he doesn´t flinch as that car swerves into the road he´s crossing, blinkerless and unforgiving, as he whacks it on the boot to let it know he´s there.

*he arrives home to his already prepared lunch, al muerzo, his digestive system now "used" to the daily intake of carne and he wonders if his favourite cafe will reap the benefits they wished for in last night's small, metal sacrificial K'oa alter. He hopes so, and looks forward to sitting down tonight with the owner's mum again to smoke and drink with her over his favourite gourmet sandwich as she lets him know more about the equally compelling troubles, triumphs and trials of her and her country´s life.

*enjoying his daily routine, which includes the peek into his internet inbox and the more and more occasional missive on his blog, his weekend will feel strangely empty without his students, most of them very willing subjects to his Imperial Language indoctrination - "Australia's a beaUUUtiful country. This is what the Opera House looks like (draws his rendition, complete with "NO WAR", on the white board). In Australia we give way to pedestrians and there are fines for dropping rubbish." One class thinks that he can understand everything they say when they talk Spanish. He thinks this is a good ploy and insists with a cheeky grin that it's not true.

*it´s Teacher´s Day on Tuesday and he feels a force of connectedness at the insistence of his students "surprising him" with a traditional meal to celebrate the day.

*a siesta that went an hour too long, being Saturday and no need to set his alarm, and the progressively sunless sky draws him to the street, and he feels a similar comfort as he stalks (his imagination often runs a little too wild) in the oncoming darkness.

Life is normal. It´s wonderful and trying, creative and boring. Excitingly new and comfortably familiar.

*imagines the Parque Nacionale Noel Kempf Mercado and he can't wait for Fiona to arrive.

*imagines Sydney Road and dries his cheek.

*it dawns on him that the K'oa can speak another message each month, this one to himself. It´s now 2 months since he left his home country and the day went by without note or fanfare, as will moreso the following months. Darkness falls finally, again, and it's time to find some dinner, like any other dog on the street.