I had no book to read. No cell phone. No television to watch. No job to keep me busy. No one I knew. The Internet café was closed.
For the first time since I was out of the womb, I had absolutely nothing to do except watch dirt swirl along the dusty streets.
I went to the rock behind Killawasi that overlooked the river that Freddie had taken me to and the hills we had hiked. As I counted the number of pre-Inca terraces lining the sides of the deep valley, and watched the cows standing motionless far below, hearing nothing but the rustle of the wind, the occasional bray of a donkey, the gurgle of the river, I pondered one of mankind’s more important questions:
Was it truly possible to die of boredom?