The Andes, somewhere between Ayacucho and Cusco.

Things were done for a reason in South America — even if at first glance they seemed irrational and random. Thomas was coming to learn this the hard way. He swore to himself that he would not only remember this new-found piece of wisdom, but he would hold the knowledge close to his heart. After all, it might save him from a future coronary — likely inflicted by another one of Nadia's damned subterfuges.

He had been disappointed by the appearance of yet another ancient bus. Had furrowed his brow when a man walked up and down the aisle, a camcorder in hand, the lens making a grinding sound as it zoomed in, first on Nadia and then himself. Why bother? he had thought, laughing on the inside.

Hah! Sometimes you're as pompous a prig as your father, Waterhouse.

Now, hours later, he understood the reason. If he had been less arrogant, taken a moment to gather the evidence about him and think, he would have dragged Nadia off — kicking and screaming if necessary.

Of course, it made sense to identify passengers before they set off at night, in an old rust bucket, on a long ride through the Andean mountains.

In a fucking storm!

But no, he would follow her through Hell or high water. Well, he was in Hell and surrounded by water. Tonnes of the stuff. Torrents pounded against the metal frame like gravel thrown against a tin shed. He could smell it — pungent over the scent of diesel and packed bodies.

Lightning flashed. The bolts lit their surrounds in terrifying brilliance, highlighting the reality he tried to deny. They moved along a narrow road, cut into the mountains, in places just broad enough for all four wheels to fit. To the right was a sheer rock face, mud and a few twisted and tenacious trees; to the left, beneath his window, a dizzying blackness. A nothingness which reached out for him like a spectre of death and had his guts griping.

Why did I not research this first? he wondered for the hundredth time. Although not religious, he found himself imploring God they would not encounter anyone heading in the opposite direction to Ayacucho. Would this count as suicide if they died — given they had willingly chosen to board the dratted thing? The way he saw things, death was a possibility. If Hell did exist, would it be fire and brimstone, or a muddy quagmire? Right then, he suspected the latter.

When he had said as much, she had laughed, tucked her hair behind one ear and nuzzled against a rolled-up sweater. Ensconced in an apparent cocoon of ease, she pointed out that the danger of the ride was the attraction.

"This is a life-affirming, once-in-a-lifetime experience, Thomas," she had said.

And yet they were the only gringos aboard. Where were the others?

"Probably on the train, or plane," was her answer.

Furious, he had pressed his lips shut. Unable to trust himself to speak.

She assumed his silence came from fear, patted him on the shoulder, made some vague, reassuring comments and popped an earbud into his right ear.

Hours later, he clung to the sound of Stephen Fry's voice as it narrated a Harry Potter novel — he knew not which one — and tried to block out the world. But despite his best efforts, time and again, his mind grew distracted by a myriad of possible harbingers. A gust of wind crashing up the mountain like a wave hitting a cliff or a series of thuds that might be a boulder rolling down towards them.

When the bus started to vibrate and jarred, he panicked. With hands flattened against the damp window, he peeked out.

Hells bells, they were crossing a ravine — via an old wooden bridge.

I'm not Indi-fucking-ana Jones!

Heart pounding, he hauled his gaze from the crumbling menace.

Nadia half sat, half curled in her chair. Her hands were steepled between her cheek and jumper, and the rise and fall of her chest just visible. She looked so damned innocent. How on earth could she sleep on this death trap? God, he wanted to shake her. Instead, he picked up her thin fleece blanket, smuggled off an Air New Zealand plane, and covered her with it. The tip of his forefinger ran down her face.

She mumbled something incoherent and snuggled further into the seat. Try as he might, he couldn't stay angry at her. Unfortunately, that left him with terror.

The wheels returned to solid ground, and they rounded a corner. Ahead, a growing light expanded from the gloom.

Oh no. No, no, no, no, NO!

Two bright headlights sheared through the wall of rain and confirmed his fears. They lurched to a halt. His earbud fell out as his torso heaved forward, then his back thudded against the chair.

He blinked, dumbfounded. After a moment, he shook himself and grabbed Nadia's hand as muffled Spanish voices floated about them.

"Ouch!" She yanked her hand out of his and shook it. "What are you doing?"

Thomas indicated with a nod of his head. The door opened in a blast of wet air and a drenched man squelched up the steps to the driver. A rapid-fire of Spanish passed between them, then the man trudged back, hunching over as he stepped back into the elements.

A gear moved, and the bus beeped backwards. Thomas craned his neck, bending to peer out the windows on the other side. All he saw was darkness and the shimmer of raindrops through the red reverse lights. His stomach plummeted.

"What are you doing?" Nadia repeated, sounding impatient, despite the hint of a tremble in her voice.

Thomas stared at the expanding white.

"Thomas!"

"The — the — we're —"

She nodded her encouragement, but he looked forward again, and his heart plunged into inky depths.

"We're about to be overtaken!" he screeched.

Down the passage, the word 'gringo' was spoken with a snicker.

Nadia put her hands on him. "Thomas, calm down!" An ironic smile quirked at her mouth. "They drive on the right side of the road here."

He shook his head at her, confused.

She poked him playfully. "They have to go around us," she explained, her manner oozing smugness. "I'm not crazy, you know."

Thomas considered this. The weight on his shoulders lessened for a moment — until he thought about the poor people in the other vehicle.

Shouts arose as a wheel rolled over something, lifting the back corner, then the bus thumped back down into the waterlogged track. It jolted a few times and stopped, idling with a low thrum.

More calls drifted from outside. The driver and his assistant exited, leaving them trembling in the shadow of the mountain. A loud growling approached. The truck, the mercifully small truck, chugged in their direction.

Thomas stared out of the window with breath held, as it scraped past with nerve-shattering slowness, creaking and groaning, rocking precariously near the abyss. Then moved on.

The passengers eased out a collective sigh.

Nadia grinned at him with a knowing smile. Apparently, they were safe. He wasn't convinced.

She was already snuggling back to sleep, somehow curling her legs up on to the impossibly tight seat, leaning on his shoulder. People settled about him in dull snores. The thud of her heart moved in a slow and steady rhythm, at odds to the pitter-patter of his own.

Thomas didn't catch a wink that night. He remained wide awake, sweating and praying as the bus skirted around each recent landslide and bumped across derelict bridges.

When the iPhone battery ran out, he distracted himself by planning what he could do to stretch out his time with Nadia. One kiss just wasn't enough, and his time to woo her was running out. The thought of her sleeping in a tent with Khai — that self-important little arse — was enough to make his blood boil.

All the Inca Trail tours had filled months before he bought his airfare. He could meet her at Machu Picchu. Or, he considered, perhaps money would talk, and he could bribe his way on to her tour.

He stirred the possibilities in the sleep-deprived stew that was his mind. And yet, time and again, he was hooked back to an awareness of the dripping perdition outside, until, thankfully, finally, they descended with the grey light of dawn into a sprawling valley full of traditional Spanish architecture.

He sighed in relief. His tummy agreed with a burble followed by a squeal. Mortified, he sunk into himself. If his neck could have disappeared into his body, it would have. For a moment, he thought this might go unnoticed until, against his will, a stench of rotten eggs seeped out of his backside.

Nadia jerked up. "Urgh!" She pushed back a mass of tangled hair from her face. "What the heck was that?"

All he managed was a shrug. Gentlemen did not let off wind. But his lecherous guts had other ideas. A new cry erupted from within, and he threw his arms over his midsection. The gesture was useless.

She held her blanket across her nose. "That is so fucking gross."

This was officially the most humiliating moment of his life. He needed to get off. He needed a bathroom — a private one, where he could have some dignity.

"I don't feel so good," he moaned, as a pool of liquid snaked through his intestines with quicksilver speed. To hell with privacy, it was the cubicle or the seat. He clawed over her and made for the toilet.

"Thomas!"

He turned back, just in time to see the white projectile and grabbed the sweet, sweet softness of toilet paper.

After, there was a brief reprise, until bubbles tickled his insides, warning him the situation was far from over.

Nadia, now sitting in the window seat, turned from perusing a booklet from her medical kit. "Giardia," she stated. "Definitely giardia." She nodded as she reviewed her diagnosis. "Lucky for you, I'm prepared for this." She handed over an old plastic bag.

He groaned and took it, reassured by the thickness.

"Pshh, you could be grateful."

Thomas leaned his elbows on his knees and let his forehead rest in his hands. "I would be eternally grateful if we could stay somewhere nice — with our own facilities."

"But, Thomas —"

"Please!" Thomas snapped. "For once in your life can you not argue? Please. I just need ..."

Another gurgle and he was sick. 

Images by Kyle Loftus on Unsplash.com

This is a BBC episode of one of the bus rides that inspired this chapter. I took the bus in this video (a tourist attraction), and another few (that many tourists don't take for safety reasons), on the way to Cusco. The final ride was at night during a storm and Thomas' experience pretty much reflects my own — except it was my travelling companion who came down with giardia. I love adventure and doing dodgy things when I travel, but I can say with certainty, I would not take this bus again. 

https://youtu.be/qkVC6w7yzOc