As it sped off, I was euphoric. I had fashioned a complex sentence and hit a nerve with my pointed words. Or had I?
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It was 2007 and I was weeks into a solo backpacking trip in South America. By the time I reached Bolivia, my Spanish had improved markedly and so had my resolve not to continue being swindled by local taxi drivers and their ilk who dared exploit my first-worldliness.
So when, late one afternoon, I boarded a bus in the town of Samaipata for the 15-hour journey to Sucre, I had done my research and knew the fare was maximum 70 bolivianos (approximately US$10).
