The boy
The bus groaned as we stuttered slowly around the hairpin bend, engine protesting loudly at the strain of its load. My travelling companion grinned as we mimicked the sound. “Gringo”, he teased, suddenly mocking my broken Spanish. “Why you come see my country?” I sank back in the seat of the coach, swathed in the clothes and detritus that marked me out as a backpacking foreigner. I glanced absently out of the window, at the soaring foothills of the Andes that threatened to break into jagged peaks with every twist of the road. From the moment I met the boy, I liked him. He had eyed me cautiously at first, staring through the crack between the row of seats in front. And then, silently, a hand extended in friendship that I met with a mouthed “Hola”. We were in Ecuador, moving slowly south on a winding road that would take us out of the coolness of the Highlands and to a coastline that promised lazy days of sun and sea. We played games to pass the time, the barrier of our lan...