After my tittie tumble, I sidled across the street to the bus station to await my late bus.
I shed my Savior (backpacker bag), skated on to the bus bench, and observed my first Peruvian love: a two-year-old lamb with bronzed skin who riveted his dark chocolate eyes to me. Looking at that tiny Peruvian boy my true maternal instincts consumed me: I desired nothing more in life than to kidnap him, spirit him home with me for a day, costume him in Inca Warrior attire, and return him the subsequent day.
His mother noticed my ogle, commanded me to watch her bags and her son, informed me the bus was leaving at 6:30pm, not 6pm, and retreated out the door. She was my first Peruvian friend.
At three of the four stops throughout the following six-hour busride she slapped my foot awake in the chance I intended to exit the bus at that town. I staggered awake each time, smiled no to her concerned face, and shrunk in to sleep.
At the fortieth minute of my lamb howling, I imitated bitch slapping her son across the face to desist his screaming, she chuckled, leaned across the aisle, and stabbed me in the chest with a two-inch claw of a fingernail. After her son´s sobbing ceased, the claw again attacked me, inquiring if I was frio. Of course I was frio. Muy frio. My bag was in storage beneath the bus and I was in tube top beach dress and sandals.
A bus attendant verbal-volleyed me in Spanish, me no comprendo, and my friend, aka Mom, responded accordingly. I cannot envision what the exchange concerned, but she saved me.
My final indication that she was a genuine friend: at midnight she offered me a sip of the concoction she had been inhaling for the past hour. It was Pisco. Peruvian alcohol.