CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY town. Though the engine turned over, it died repeatedly. After a long search, a flashlight was found and the engine examined, but to no avail. Theory, much talk and apparent activity abounded, but no results. A truck drove up and filled our gas tanks from a 55-gallon drum (why we left town so short of gas was never explained), but that didn’t work either. After several hours, my discouragement and impatience gave way to vocal sarcasm, in English of course, although the tone and sentiment were not lost on my fellow passengers. Finally David, who was being more stoic, though hesitant to interject himself into what was doubtless a matter of pride for our crack mechanics, crawled out of the bus through a window (the aisle being blocked by the old woman, among others) and offered his advice. Within minutes, his Swiss Army knife (henceforth regarded as a talisman) had cleaned out a clogged filter and fuel pump, and after a mere four hour delay, we were on the road again. It was after midnight. By morning, we were descending into Abancay amidst a continual series of loud backfires from the flagship of the Hidalgo line. The aisle cleared in Abancay, except for the Indian woman, who insisted on remaining on her backless throne despite having complained the whole trip about her sore back. New excitement. One of those boarding in Abancay, a young man, sat by mistake in the seat reserved for the off driver. As is typical in Latin America, there were two drivers, who alternated shifts. The same driver whose hearing had failed him in Ayacucho, feeling a need to assert the well-known machismo which Latin busdrivers, in particular, possess in abundance, began a shoving match in which driver and passenger scored three blows apiece. All highly entertaining except that it took place directly over the shoulder of the other driver who was trying to guide the bus on the precipitous climb out of town. Though the scenery throughout the trip (when we could see it) was spectacular, the human drama left a much greater impression. And at center stage, the old Indian woman had a bit more to share with us. She pulled from her belongings a framed painting of San Martin de Porras, a Peruvian saint. She obviously treasured it greatly, guarding it with the same zeal as she protected her territory in the aisle. Several of the other passengers began needling her about the painting and the word was passed that she was probably a bruja (witch doctor). Shortly before we reached Cuzco (after 31 hours in transit), we arrived at her stop, a tiny farming community in the mountains high above the Rio Apurimac. As she stepped down from the bus, she turned, and facing all of us, took off her straw hat with a sweeping motion and bowed from her waist. We never determined whether this, her grand farewell, was her one and only friendly gesture of the trip or merely the casting of an evil spell over all of us who had conspired against her.H 19
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