Andes Mountain Milk

When thinking of weather in South America, the first thing that came to mind was hot and humid jungle. I’d imagine that most Americans think the same way I did. But there I was, sitting in the back of an old pickup truck with a jacket pulled tightly over my chin. Our truck bulged with passengers, in the cab and in the bed. I sat on a spare tire in the bed of the truck with several others, Americans and Bolivians alike. I had been in Bolivia for about two months. And the weather was one of those surprises that arise when traveling outside the country for the first time. Our vehicle rocked into holes and threw dust as we slowly careened off the barely-maintained road and into a field. I would like to say that it was an open field and give you unending details, but my memory is only so accurate. Besides, the fog hung so heavily that, save for the driver, none of us could tell where we were going.

It’s the cold, misty fog that chills the body. I’ve lived in many cold climates throughout my life. From the windy and dry winters of the American west, to the timeless and immovable snow-seasons of the north, I can pretty much handle the cold. But nothing had prepared me for the surprising weather of the Andes Mountains. Far south of the equator and high in the mountains, lies the tiny hill town of Pucara in a region of South America called the altiplano (or high plains). I could relate to the altiplano, to some degree. I grew up in Cody, Wyoming which sits in the Bighorn Basin—a high plains desert area in the northwestern part of the state. The winters are cold, windy, and unpredictable.

But this Andes Mountains winter was ridiculous. Cold fog hung all around. Soon it would turn into a mist and soak everything, including me, right to the bone. Every building was made of adobe brick, which hold and trap the cold. For a while, I rarely ever felt warm.

That was about to change.

Our old truck came to a stop with a lurch. We billowed out and stretched our tight and rattled muscles from the drive. As the foggy mist began to clear, I could see a Bolivian man huddled next to a brown cow. They were revealed like a dream coming through the clouds. We walked over to him and he chatted with us like he expected us to arrive. He sat on a small, three-legged stool and milked into a large bucket. With smiles abounding, he produced a small tin cup, white in color (questionable in cleanliness). And for the next half-an-hour, we each took turns drinking warm and frothy milk directly from the udder of a Bolivian cow.

Beside the fact that it was a lukewarm body temperature and I occasionally had to pluck out udder hairs from the foamy milk, it warmed my body and soul through and through.

anthony forrest