My arrival to Cuzco in November of 2005 was like being born again: complete and utter torture! It was 4:30 a.m. and my bus had been on the road for ten plus hours. The ascending climb from the southern Peruvian city of Arequipa was frigid and visually condensed, for all I could see were the people in the immediate area in the interior of the bus. As we traveled, in survival blanket bundles due to the extreme cold, I prayed for a quick and safe arrival to my dreamt of destination, the former capital of the Incas. My birth process finally culminated with our pre-dawn arrival at the bus station in Cuzco.
Right away, everything was fast and loud. Owing mostly to the lack of sleep I had gotten in the last couple of days (originating while on my bus to Arequipa via Lima, the Peruvian capital city) and to my quaking nervousness given the impending unknown on my horizon, I fetched my bags from under the one of many Peruvian companies' buses.
Amongst a sea of plaid, in the form of colored burlap bags carried by locals, I made my way as a strong minority in the tide of Serranos (people from the sierras, or mountains) that almost consumed me. I shuffled through the indigenous masses with the will of a drowning man finally locating the surface when I found the front door to the station. I took in some much needed air there, but was abruptly approached by five taxistas looking for company. Out of desperation, and need for space, I took the first one's offer and went with him.
