[meteorite-list] Butch and Sundance Ride Again

From: MARSROX_at_aol.com <MARSROX_at_meteoritecentral.com>
Date: Thu Apr 22 09:44:08 2004
Message-ID: <d3.1593559f.28486eb6_at_aol.com>

Life sometimes must be harsh. For days your bones must feel the crackling
cold, forgetting they were ever warm. Your lungs must choke from the oxygen
debt of the High Plains vacuum and too many fine cigars sucked on while
chugging old Rum Rockers from Barbados. Your legs must ache at the ankles,
your feet at the arches, hip pointers brittle and knee ligaments grinding and
unresponsive to analgesics. Why? Why are you traveling so many, (too many)
miles to stare at salt and sand in a ridiculous place finding nothing worth
bending over for?

You know you are too old -- too smart (comfortable) for this now, who cares?
Just let Farmer do it.

No! NO! Squeeze it all out, every last drop, fool. You don't care if you find
something from Mars laying in a yak turd. The sky is so blue. The southern
starlight is on fire. Breathe your freedom deeply and suffer these bright
elements like the man you want to be. Life must sometimes be like this to be
properly enjoyed. Get on the ride.

Blaine Reed and I are leaving very shortly for a couple of weeks in SW
Bolivia, specifically, the Salar de Uyuni, an oxygen-deprived salt pan
averaging 4,000m/13,000' altitude that's the size of Delaware. There's no
roads, no food, no water, no fuel. Pooping in public is the least of your
worries. Anyway, there is no "public." The Salar's punctuated by
6,000m/20,000' volcanos and daily temps down to -25C/-20F. (Camper's tip --
don't shop the BlueLight specials at KMart for your sleeping bag.)

On the far-reaching edges of the blinding white stuff is a desert region full
of geysers, hot springs (nothing like a weekly rinse to cut the stink),
suffocating sulfur fumeroles and military checkpoints.

With the full blessing and 4x4 vehicular support of the Bolivian Government
(I'm sure we'll be riding on used Firestones), we'll be again looking for
meteorites in a non-strewnfield area.

We must go here, compelled by some frivolous muse, as there are no
authenticated meteorites from Bolivia. (Or dead dogs in Egypt if I can
mention that here.)

Some might say it's a long way to go just to get away from the women........

I'll miss 'em.

But heck, we'll have beer.

And all-you-can-eat potatoes. Of 207 types, the little purple ones are best.
Roasted in their jackets, they're sweet, but not cloyingly.

In case I get a chance to write from some third-world-squalid cyber cafe full
of young, blissfully naive Bolivianas with high cheekbones, no artificial
enhancements, long, flowing black hair and perfect complexions eating
freeze-fried grits and llama jerky, I want to warn everyone NOT TO OPEN ANY
ATTACHMENTS. I will not send any-again.

Last time, as some of you may painfully remember, the Earth Goddess Pachamama
feloniously corrupted my love letters with unwanted gifts causing you, my
audience of meteoritophile voyeurs to suffer serious computer meltdown. I
will not stand again for any unwanted acts of God, er, Goddess.

"Butch and Sundance came to southern Bolivia in August 1908 and took up
residence with the Briton AG Francis, who was transporting a gold dredge on
the Rio San Juan de Oro. While casing banks to finance their retirement, the
outlaws learned of an even sweeter target, a poorly guarded US$ 480,000
(B$80,000) mine-company payroll to be hauled by mule from Tupiza to
Quechisla." (to be continued...........)

Kevin Kichinka
Received on Fri 01 Jun 2001 12:06:14 AM PDT