52 minutes from Pisac to Cusco.
A man holding a single pink rose dozes beside me. His head bobs and turns with the sharply mounting curves. And - luckily - the quiet darkness keeps those of us awake from seeing just how sharp are those curves we are embracing.
Seven Germans behind me and one more on either side. A Qechua woman's thick, black braids tumble down her back like streams of water. A small, round hat perched impossibly atop her head.
We catch sight of more potential passengers in the headlight...
An aisle full of rocking bodies.
Our diesel smoke rolls along the steep valley walls and somewhere far beneath us, alpacas mingle with ancient Incas.
The Copa Americana sings to us through a lisping radio: "somos peruanos...orgulloso...nuestros jugadores...GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!!!
And Peru clinches 3 to Uruguay's 0.
52 minutes from Pisac to Cusco.
A small black wristwatch on a deep, brown arm counts and collects each one.
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