Cold Snuggles in the Andes

by David Schlinkert (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Peru

Cold Snuggles in the Andes On one particularly cold night in Cusco, Peru I boarded a dilapidated bus for an overnight journey through the high desert. I sat by the window, so I could take in the surreal countryside under the glow of a full moon. I started contemplating my intense fear of heights and my spontaneous decision to travel from Argentina to Arizona by bus. I knew there would be a host of white-knuckle moments in the Andes, but despite the harrowingly curvy pot-hole laden roads over endless precipices, and a bus driver with the nefarious nickname of German race car driver “Schumacher,” the lush landscape and jaw-dropping views had made Peru some of the most memorable stretches of road I’ve seen anywhere in the world. The journey through Peru’s mountainous terrain had actually become enjoyable, after I accepted the fact that I have no control, and that the bus can fly off of a cliff at any moment – so why not sit by the window and enjoy the view? As the bus filled-up, a heavy-set woman with what had to have been 12 thick Peruvian blankets draped over her, and bags filled with what I am assuming were produce for sale, crammed into the seat next to me. Her blankets spilled into my space, and they had a fierce, biting odor that simultaneously stuffed up, and took all of the air out of the bus. I was irritated, but I politely said “buenas noches” as the bus readied for departure. After the bus left the city and rumbled onto the highway, a stiff and frigid breeze came rushing up into my face from under the seat in front of me. I leaned down and found a gaping hole in the floorboard. The bus was full, and there was nowhere else to go. I pulled out my light-weight Peruvian gloves and hat I had just bought, and slinked into my thin and worn Arizona-grade sleeping bag. In less than 15 minutes, I was freezing. I tried blowing into my gloves, curling into a ball and placing my backpack in-front of the hole, but nothing worked. I looked down at my travel companion’s layers of blankets, and it crossed my mind for a half second, but I immediately dismissed the idea. Two minutes later, I found myself burrowing down into her blankets, oblivious to the previously repugnant stench that emanated from them. Six hours later, I woke up snuggling tightly against her body, completely enveloped in a maze of quilted fabrics. I awkwardly tried to move away as the bus pulled to a stop. She smiled at me and then started gathering her belongings and maneuvering her unwieldy blankets and bags down the aisle. I stayed seated for a moment. She could have sensed my grumpy and judgmental demeanor last night and easily pulled her blankets away from me, but she let a gringo she didn’t know hang out in her traditional Peruvian attire for six hours to stay warm. After seven years of backpacking the world, it’s tough to pick just one experience that summarizes how much you’ve learned from traveling, but if I could recommend one thing to new adventurers it would be to refrain from judgement, for then you are not really traveling at all, just recreating what you already know somewhere else. My life has changed dramatically since my backpacking days. I am now a policy analyst at a think tank in Arizona, and I have a beautiful wife and eight-month-old baby girl. One day, I hope to confront my fear of heights again to take my daughter on a bus ride through the Peruvian countryside, so she can meet the kind and open-minded people who taught me to respect the unique and beautiful cultures of this world.