One man-child and a baby

It has been said that a good story should always have a beginning, a middle and an end. This is not a good story.

This is a story about my end.

One thing you need to know about South America is the over-reliance on buses. The cost of flights is astronomical, with even the cheapest seats going for hundreds of dollars. Alternatively, there are buses. Hundreds of bus companies line over-crowded terminals, shouting at passersby to come aboard their "luxury coaches". Sure, in Argentina or Chile these buses may range from decent to better-than-business-class, but in countries such as Bolivia and Peru, where prices are low, expect some interesting cost-cutting measures. Hence, when booking a bus from one small Bolivian town to another, well, hold tight.

The other thing you need to know about South America is that even the strongest stomach is bound to get a case of food poisoning at some stage. Having previously been well acquainted with various forms of E. Coli and Salmonella (thank you Iguazu Falls cheese and corn pizza), I have learnt to recognise the warning signs that prelude complete digestive failure.

And so, lets begin in Uyuni, Bolivia. A town famed for its proximity to the Salt Flats, and not for its cuisine. As it turns out, ordering a lasagna can lead to consequences more explosive than a Bolivian miner's protest.

After a day of vomiting behind town monuments, and more graphic expulsions behind quickly-closed doors, I made the decision not to join my fellow amigos on an overnight toilet-free bus to Tupiza. Perhaps the wisest decision of my life. After a night of sheer agony, and with an untested stomach, I boarded a 5:00am bus. Just how would my body react to newly ingested fluids? With great trepidation, I took my seat, and with hyper-vigilance clenched every muscle at the first sign of each and every faint stomach growl.

So there I sat, the only tourist on a bus full of traditionally dressed Bolivian locals, loading their giant bags of produce and crafts into every conceivable nook and cranny of the already cramped coach. I sat there, alone. The seat next to mine empty.

And that's when I met her. The woman who would come to forever change the way I think of travel. Stout, rotund, and willfully oblivious, she nestled herself into the tiny seat next to mine, and with one heave forced a single buttock under my armrest and onto my once self-occupied chair space. All the while, her two babies (one tied to her back, one held at the front) slept peacefully. In the process of unleashing Back-Baby, Front-Baby was shoved aside into the only space left available : My lap.

I don't know about you, but babies in general make me rather uncomfortable. They are so small and fragile, and frankly, I just don't want the responsibility of not accidentally dropping them on their soft spots. Taken aback, I sat, baby perched on my lap, surely looking aghast. At least the baby wouldn't be there for long, only until Back-Baby was rightfully positioned somewhere less prone to suffocation.

I watched as the woman skillfully untied her baby-carrying wrap and held Back-Baby in her right arm. Perfect, there would be room for Lap-Baby (formally known as Front-Baby) to be gently cradled in her left arm. I waited. And waited. And yet she showed no sign of taking her child back.

Still shocked and astounded, I held the baby tightly as the bus bumped and winded around canyons and mountains (terrain straight out of a Road Runner cartoon), jittering loudly and shaking in ways that could only be described as unhelpfully conducive to digestion.

Ask yourself, how many times have I ever muttered "Don't throw up on the baby"?

My answer: Approximately 357 times.

Frantically, I searched for words in my limited Spanish vocabulary to express my desire, nay, need to get this stomach weight of a baby off of my lap.

No pequeño niño para me, por favor. Which I believed translated to: No small child for me, please.

Of course, completely flustered and awkgasming, I lacked the courage to try my uncertain phrase out, and so I sat. For six hours. Launching into the air with each bump, holding a stranger's baby for dear life, and using all my will to keep my digestive fluids contained to less baby-present areas. For six hours.

As our bus finally pulled into the Tupiza terminal, I looked at my newly bonded pal with a sense of endearment. Whether he knew it or not, we had both survived a potential disaster. And in that moment, he was gone. Snatched back into his mother's arms as she wordlessly and without eye-contact scooped up her beyond-lucky son and disembarked from the front of the vehicle.

My Bolivian family was no more.