The sound of wheezing and farting signals one of two things: either our bus is stopping or a fellow passenger is indisposed. I tie back the sun-rotted velvet drapes with the elaborate tassel and peer out the smeary window. Armed soldiers in jungle camouflage strut importantly in front of a makeshift military checkpoint. Oh nuts! It's our fifth inspection today.

As we wait for the soldiers to board the bus I think of how our trip has progressed so far. It's 1982 and my boyfriend Julio is showing me Ecuador. The scenery is spectacular and nowhere better enjoyed than from a bus. It's a method I highly recommend for those with very large bladders and a penchant for discomfort.

The ornaments adorning the large dashboard seem ordinary to me now. Furry bobbles crocheted by adoring wives hang from looped festoons in the window, an older, bloodier Jesus looks down from above the rear view mirror. Mary cradles his younger self on the dash. The driver sits on a possibly excruciating chair seat made from wooden beads. Music blares day or night from speakers always located just above my right ear. Why it's enough to drown out the cries of the livestock stuffed under the seats.

I have long since gotten over my amazement at the passing of the clipboard. Passengers obediently note their names beside their seat numbers and pass it on. I usually sign Raquel Welch or an indigenous name like Inti Quispe. I curtailed that practice when Julio told me they use the list to identify the bodies of the passengers. These decrepit buses frequently fly over the edge of a precipice. "Look down there," he said by way of proof.

From my window seat I look straight down (we are that close to the edge) at the skeleton of a bus far below. We have more than once come upon a group of people shrieking into a ravine - the scene of a fresh accident. The drivers, fearing reprisal and having no insurance, unfailingly flee the scene - if they are able.

This time I put on my sunglasses and hunker down in the hard metal seat. Maybe the military police won't notice my eyes. "We're close to the Colombian border," said Julio, "and they're looking for contraband." Two soldiers, their hair sticking out of their tanned scalps like pig bristles, rake the frightened passengers with steely eyes. The passengers pretend to look in bags, feed babies, or tend to the trussed turkeys or piglets they've brought on board.

They needn't worry while I'm on board. My blue eyes always ensure

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