This makes it a hundred, and I step up to the column like Johnny Hernández boarding the bus to Oruro. On the pothole-riddled route, among women lugging massive bundles and babies tied to their backs, among men who snore with a cheek swollen by coca and a thread of green saliva, the young Johnny, bronze-faced, with a small mustache and a piano-smile, parts his feet to stand in the aisle and greets the passengers: “Very cordial good mornings.” He has slicked-back hair, a dark suit with a light-blue shirt, polished shoes, and a black briefcase. “Ladies and gentlemen, forgive me for interrupting your lovely thoughts, your lovely conversations. My name is Johnny Hernández.” From his pocket he pulls out a jar. “I work for a naturist company from Cochabamba, sir, and I’m here to talk to you about your health, I’ve come to present this little ointment, this coca salve, for those who are suffering from rheumatism, arthritis, gout, sciatica. Also, sir, especially to prevent bone pain, bone deformity, muscular deformity, using the salve only at night, sir. Once you rub the affected area, I’m going to grab a small cloth, heat it with the flame, and place it on that painful spot. And now, allow me, sir, to give you a small amount of that salve so you can personally smell its aroma.” Johnny sells coca ointments (five pesos). Other bus vendors advertise toothpaste as if it contained the elixir of immortality, an old man sells joke books, a twelve-year-old passenger steps into the aisle, sings three songs and asks for help with her studies. I write columns: forgive me for interrupting your lovely thoughts, your lovely conversations.