Combi Ride

A combi is a small bus, similar to the old Volkswagon models, but never as cool. Often beat up, and run down, it is the principle form of semi-long distance travel in Peru. It’s appeal to foreign travelers lies in the fact that it is a quintessential culture shock. People are crammed together in bench seats that are merely medal frames with fabric wrapped around them. There is no cushioning, nor hint of an effort to put any in. The leg space is barely adequate for Peruvians; for gringos, it’s a medieval torture device.

I have ridden plenty of combis in my time here, and was once even enamored with the immersion into the characteristic Peruvian form of transport. Every combi ride was a clear elucidation that I was actually in Peru, living the dream. But since my three hour trip from Yanama back to Huaraz, I have changed my opinion about any part of the combi experience that may have had appeal.

It was the first time I forced to sit in a specific seat in a combi. Apparently, the driver wanted to make the experience seem like a real, legitimate bus ride. Usually I opt for the position that will promise a fraction of legroom, but this time I was mandated onto a small rectangle of space that they were trying to pass off as seating for two. My knees protruded through the seat in front of me and into my fellow passenger’s back. I apologized, but there was no chance of me being able to move in order to accommodate his comfort, or my own. To my left side was a short old man, and to my right a sack of potatoes crammed into the aisle. The sack made any stretching into free space a challenge, and the man that they had sit on the sack made it an impossibility.

There were enough seats in the combi to sit fifteen uncomfortably. Twenty-five of us squeezed in for the first half of the journey, until one woman left and then three more came aboard for the second half. The amount of discomfort was exponentially increased by the fact that there was relatively little ventilation and a free release of body odors from every possible human orifice. The only shame to release flatulence came with the audio and not the olfactory. Silently the petulant gasses arose, and silently they pervaded the atmosphere.

The road was not pleasant. It was windy and washboarded. It surmounted a ridge of 15,000 feet and then descended toward a rocky canyon below. I had hoped to see untouched granite cliffs, but was only able to glimpse the dirty pours of the man seated centimeters away from me. The road curved through endless switchbacks, inducing nausea to passengers seated in the rear. A call for bolsitas was ushered from the motion sick populous of the last row and small, plastic bags were sent to them to assist in any emergency.

The vomiting started about an hour and a half in. A little kid seated in the aisle spewed forth his breakfast to the cacophonous melody of the unmistakable wretch. Clearly he was in pain, as second after second his guts contracted and his throat echoed the sound of complete submission to the body’s will. But this was of no concern to the driver, nor to many of the other passengers, the kid’s mother included. The combi continued its descent hitting every curve just as fast and abruptly as the initial ones that were the catalyst for the child’s projecting forth of traditional Peruvian food. I noticed that the event at least offered a new odor to intake, albeit much worse then those released after food digestion had already taken place, but new nonetheless.

The word ‘agony’ came to mind just as the mini torture chamber arrived to its stop. I emerged from the cage as a victim of a natural disaster emerges from rubble, using all my might to escape the clutches of that which had toppled me and turned me into the broken body that was moving forth to free itself. I had taken on the smells or all the other passengers as well as stinging pains in both knees and in my lower back.

The honeymoon must be over. I no longer believe the combi to be quaint or a good chance at a cultural experience. I believe it to be painful and an unfortunate necessity to get where I need to be. I’ll continue riding them, out of pure need, but have forgotten any romantic illusion that I may have had about them before.