After over eight hours of Spanish dubbed torture, the final scene of the final Twillight "saga" film sparkled on the tiny screen.

Bored, twelve hours into the bus ride, I looked out of the right-hand window and noticed the dizzying height at which our thin tar road unwound along the mountainside. The bus turned a sharp turn. A silver box emerged on our left. I couldn't tell what it was but it was awfully close.

Breaks screeched.

An old lady gasped.

...

The kid on my left had had to take off his shirt after throwing up on it. He peed into a plastic bag. Throughout the night, he had slept with his mother and his younger sister in a pretzel of limbs that had a tendency of flopping onto me: heads on my lap, hands on my face, feet on my knees. His sister cried every three minutes and a half and needed diaper changes about twice as often.

The two men on my right smelt like black horses when they run in the midday heat. Due to some unexplainable physical impediment, they couldn't keep their arms down. One of them kept the mugshot of his son in his wallet.

To the sound of a dull thud, we crashed against the oncoming silver truck.

We would later laugh about choosing the cheapest bus and the dangerous route.

Note: Later.