I am sitting more or less in the shade of an overhanging tree and look at the deserted street, where the whirling dust is the most fun. The stone on which I have sat myself, is not just one stone: it is my rock, my favorite spot on the waiting bus. Between all the sounds of music, cars and children playing, I try to distinguish the soft rumble of the bus, even before it has turned the corner, this is truly ... my favorite game. I hope that the curves of my buttom, the lines from the one leg that over the other hangs and the prints of the rhythmic strumming of my fingers will be carved in this stone forever more.  A pleasant rumble reached my ear field and moments later, the brightly colored bus turned around the corner. By that time I have stood up with the appropriate coins in my hand and jump smoothly on the half moving bus. With one arm out of the window, the wind in my hair and a nice temperature I fully enjoy the view of the city. The brightly colored buses winding pass, the dogs fighting and playing on the street, the Quechuawomen with their hats and hoop skirts. The variegation holds me, being an outsider, in a magical spell. That poverty, corruption and sometimes endless hopelessness lie hidden under this facade, probably won't reach the touristical visitors of this poor country. We pass the beautiful but smelly lake, the statues of the wearer of jars, to the police station and than disappear between the barren mountain, a far more harsher and poorer region. On our way we see  homeless people in many grass areas, equipped with a bottle of chicha beside them, begging artists conjuring up new works and children playing with what they find. By leaving your homeland, you leave a part of yourself behind. The commoncy of things fades; the structure into your calendar, favorite hang spots, familiar shoulders to cry on, those same annoying hits that over again from the speakers of your radio blast. Knowledge you have gained many years to properly survive in your city and society gets knocked over in one blow. With this awareness comes a crack in your current personality has now lies under a thick layer of dust. You discover new features of yourself, to make other and working on a constant self-development. It is a self-knowledge, a wisdom, a worldimage that you probably even can't compare with a rightfully earned masterdegree. While I'm still musing, we drive on the bumpy road. My attention is distracted by the festive crowds in the streets. Even more than usual crowd seems a lot of diligent ants. I count the days in my head. Precisely, it is the day before a national holiday. Tomorrow rows of students, miners, farmers, agents and dancers will be parading through the streets. A series of hymns blare through the speakers to bring the people in the right atmosphere. Grinning, I notice that the lips of these busy bees move almost synchronously. The anthem sounds like a buzz through the streets, gently sung by everyone. No embarrassment as the bumbling at the opening ceremonies of the Belgian Red Devils or the political blunder of Yves Leterme singing. (=You'd probably have to be a Belgian to understand this comment)As busses and cars pass the locals, they start to yell: VIVA COCHABAMBA! QUE VIVA! I am sometimes still amazed of the love for their city, their country and their culture. Although, I truly lost my heart to the always festive atmosphere of this "city of eternal spring".