Lessons at Bolivian roadblocks- part 1

Part 1
When the robbers wanted my money last summer they squeezed off the flow of blood to my head. In Bolivia when someone wants something they cut off the roads until the country begs mercy. I was the only gringo on the bus on its way to Cochabamba when the Bolivian Coca farmers (the key ingredient to cocaine) decided to strangle their country for some reason.
I looked out of the windshield. Ahead of us they were picnicking in the middle of the road, having piled big rocks in lines across both lanes. After an hour or so I got off, driven by hunger, and walked between the burning tires and protest banners. About the time I should have turned back to make sure my bus was still there, a kind but desperate looking woman waddled by me carrying very bulky cargo, “Please, can you help?”
“Of course I can help,” I said and took her huge bucket of street glue (street glue?). I propped it on my shoulder and began the hike. About a mile into the roadblock I set the bucket down where she told me to. I turned around and began to run back. I knew that it was possible that my bus had turned around and gone back to La Paz with my backpack safe onboard but me neither being safe nor on board.
Reader, tell me this. If my bus has left without me, was it still a good decision to help the woman?
I peeked around the big Bolivian protest banner as I peaked the last hill. It appeared my bus driver was kindly returning my backpack to La Paz but they had left me. I sat down on the side of the patient road.
Was it still a good decision to help the woman? I guess it depends on what type of life I live. Perhaps I could look at this as a problem that I should have avoided. Or perhaps I could look at it as God, writing a new adventure and challenge into my life for the sake of teaching me something and making life richer. Not easier, but richer.
After a few minutes I saw a cloud of dust rising in the distant desert. A bus was at the front of it and there was a chance it was mine. It would be a long run again, almost another half mile carrying my jacket under my arm, to meet up with where it would intersect with the highway. If I didn’t get there in time, it may hit the main road and head back to La Paz full speed without even noticing I’m in very cold pursuit.
When I finally got there on time and climbed onto the bus, it seemed the whole front quarter of the passengers were in the aisle or standing waiting to hear what happened to me. First in line was the woman I had been sitting next to. I had shared a cookie with her earlier in the trip and I guess that had instantly won her over because after hearing a bit of my story (I had also found out she was quite deaf so she may not have heard any of it) she helped me into my seat, gave me a cough drop for my coughing, told me I should take my jacket off, eat this bread, told me how much she had looked for me before the bus left, and she said I cannot get out of my seat again until we get to Cochabamba. It was really a quite warm welcome, like she were my own mother, though quite embarrassing. She kept on asking why I had gone so far away from the bus. I kept on answering but apparently she was deafer than I had thought.
I had helped a woman and kind of gained a new mom. This is rich living.