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The pitiful meowing had started almost as soon as the ancient, creaking bus lurched forward on its long, bumpy journey. With animal activist instincts, I launched out of my grubby, sagging seat and quickly found the wriggling sack that had been slung to the back of the overhead shelf. I just wanted to make a few holes in the rough sacking to allow the poor puss to breathe.
I had only managed a tiny slit, releasing an angry, dangerous looking claw, when a weathered, hairy hand reached up and stopped me. It was attached to a short, stocky man who was peering steely-eyed from under two huge black, thick eyebrows. His face was the colour and texture of brown leather and was half covered by an unruly grey beard. He wore a coarse black jacket and his trousers were tucked into long black chaps.
On his head was a traditional Chilean black beret. He looked like a garden gnome my Granny once had. By now, I had the attention of the whole bus. Correctly measuring the militant mood of the mob, the Chilean figurine hauled the sack off the ledge without saying a word and sat, stony-faced and furious at the back of the bus.
He dropped the bulging bag on to his lap, guarding it against any more interference. The wriggling had stopped but a low, mournful moan could still be heard. Having said goodbye to Tineke in Cochrane the night before, our group of intrepid explorers had dwindled to Ulrike, Mavis, Lee-Anne, Henk and myself. The journey included a minute ferry ride from Puerto Yungay to Rio Bravo, which I spent trying to avoid my Chilean friend.
