As I had managed to squander a pequeña Peruvian fortune on a taxi two days prior, I Warren-Buffeted my transportation: I boarded a local bus. This bus comprised a vehicle that must have originated in pre-Christianity times. When I entered the metal contraption that appeared to be a cross between a 1967 Volkswagon bus and a machete, it rocketed back and forth like a ship in a squall. I was the lone shot of tequila among a Rum pyramid. Forty pairs of eyes observed my descent from the front to the back of the bus. OutKast's Rosa Parks song, which has entirely no correlation with the situation, replayed in my head like my best friend´s Alzheimer-affected grandpa repeatedly inquiring who I was and why the hell I was at his house. This man also thunderously announced that day that all you need in a woman's breast is a mouthful.
The machete-bus shuddered to a screeching stop one hour in to the three-hour busride. Among Español torpedos, I surmised that as everyone was exiting the bus faster than a Kenyan footrace, I should too. I poised myself closest to the lone Peruvian baby and smiled, repeating "Hola" (what else does one say to a Peruvian baby?) until it's father rotated and accosted me with smiles and light-speed Spanish. An off-duty Peruvian (one of the forty assembled on the side of the mountain-encompassed road) guide communication-assisted me, insisting that I wait with him for the next bus to arrive. "I love speak Ingles," he informed me, complete with a butterfly-force shoulder-pat. Three and a half hours later, finally arriving at our destination, and after being regaled by statements and questions such as, "You big," and, "Your hair brown or blonde?" my guide announced with a laughter convoy, "You tiny titties."
As if I wasn´t aware of my mosquito-bite boobies.