Conversations on the Road

Some of the most enjoyable moments we had in South America were the conversations we shared with locals and other travellers. In Argentina everyone wanted to talk! Verbosely. But mostly the Argentinians we met talked at us, quite animatedly for long periods of a time, and it didn't seem to bother them that we couldn't understand the majority of what they were saying and that we didn't offer much more than a few Si's, No's and Bien's! However my two semesters of Spanish evening classes didn't quite prepare me for one of my first conversations with the hostel cleaner in Buenos Aires. After I finally caught on to the fact that she was asking if she could change the sheets on our bed she fired the question at me that has been on everyones mind: "Obama or Hillary?" Ashamedly I have to admit that I didn't have an answer for her. I struggled to explain that I hadn't taken the time to research what each was offering (or not) and as a result I didn't have an educated preference for either one; that in fact I was sick of politicians and the money consuming battle between these two. I did manage to assure her that I believe either one would be a vast improvement on Bush. Since she insisted I name a favourite (hers was Hillary) I ventured there wasn't much point for me to rally behind a candidate when I am unable to vote because I am a British citizen (despite the fact that I pay taxes to the US government). It would have been so much simpler to have answered her three word question with a single name, but I would have missed out on a fun and farcical attempt to explain all the above in Spanish!

Politics continued to follow us throughout the next three months from the Argentine farmers blockading roads and demonstrating against the increase in export taxes to the international trade summit in Lima which prompted the government to magnanimously declare a holiday turning Lima into a ghost town while the politicians played trade games. While we were in Bolivia there was a divisive referendum in which the wealthy eastern half of the country greedily voted for greater autonomy so they can avoid paying taxes to help the impoverished western half of the country. We skirted riot police in La Paz and quickly headed to the tranquility of Lake Titicaca. Unfortunately our awareness of these issues was gleaned from local news broadcasts and papers rather than through informative conversations with the Argentinians, Bolivians and Peruvians.

Our most enlightening conversations were with the mountain guides who we had to ourselves for multiple days and nights. We were led down the Choro trek in Bolivia by our young guide and our porter, his father-in-law. We quizzed them about the vegetation, wildlife and the villages and small subsistence farms we encountered on route. We passed through the village they both grew-up in and were greeted by various family members and friends. We spotted our guide's Mum plying him with potatoes. Evenings were spent discussing the trekking, the mountains they'd climbed, their new lives in La Paz working as guides and whether there were frogs waiting for us in our sleeping bags in a slow dance of Spanish and miming. Javier was our friendly Peruvian guide who escorted us ever so slowly along the Santa Cruz trek. He taught us about medicinal herbs, encouraged us to taste the various fruits growing along the trail and translated the Quechua mountain names into Spanish. During our end of trek celebration dinner we discovered that our stalwart guide who had cooked for us every night, paced us perfectly during our long climb up to 4750 metres and broke down the camp every morning in the shivery cold, had four older sisters who still simultaneously doted upon and bossed around their baby brother. Some things are the same the world over.

In the small town of Ollantaytambo between Cuzco and Aguas Calientes we stayed at a homely hostel run by a Peruvian ex-guide. We were astonished to discover that he was single since he was tall, incredibly handsome, cooked fantastic breakfasts (pancakes, scrambles and a different fruit smoothie every day) and ran his own business. He sang us Peruvian folk songs in his beautiful rich, deep voice while playing his acoustic guitar. He even taught a few of these tunes to Jon who was delighted to hold a guitar in his arms again. We learned that Peru's most recognised folk tune, El Condor Pasa, was covered by Simon and Garfunkel (If I Could) and I had previously been under the false impression that Peruvians love Simon and Garfunkel since it was played ceaselessly on every bus!

Then there were the conversations with the British, Americans, Germans, French, Israelis and Brazilians we met in the hostels, during our tours, treks and on the interminable bus journeys. It's one of the aspects I love about traveling like this; not only do you meet people from the country you are visiting, but you also encounter many different nationalities and learn about their homes, lifestyles and cultures. Most of us sadly shook our heads together over the policies of President Bush and the materialistic American dream lifestyle and it's associated disasters of fuel guzzling cars, increased obesity rates and soulless suburban strip malls. Only the Israeli stood up for Bush:
"He's good for Israel!"
True, but perhaps a little narrow in scope considering the instability the Iraq war has brought to Israel's back garden. We listened to accounts of the current political situations in various European countries (and Israel) and discussed the problems and benefits of different education and health care systems. We compared jobs, hobbies, homes and dreams. We discovered much about Israel from conversations with Israeli's but mostly from their mentality. South America is overrun with packs of young Israeli's who are taking time out after finishing their three years of military service. At some point during conversations with people we met on the road, the question would inevitably be asked in a hushed and uncertain tone:
"What do you think of the Israelis?"
Which would provoke a wry smile before stories of woe caused by encounters with the numerous Israeli groups would be exchanged. The Israeli hoards would take over the hostels they descended upon and you would be lucky if you could squeeze into the kitchen to make dinner or get a turn to flip through the channels on the TV. If you did have TV control you could rarely hear the homogonous US crime program (the only English-speaking options were back-to-back reruns of CSI, Law and Order and NCIS) over the din of Hebrew. On the Santa Cruz trek we wearily arrived at the Punta Union Pass, the most breathtaking moment of the four day trek, where we crossed through a narrow notch on a rocky ridge dividing two glacial valleys and found ourselves surrounded by towering icy peaks. Sadly, our hour break spent basking on a sunny rock while soaking up the mountain scenery, was shared with a group of fifteen Israeli's chatting incessantly (almost shouting). I have no idea why they needed to talk so loudly since they were sitting huddled in a group and there was no other sound in the air to compete against. I don't believe they once looked at the mountains, apart perhaps through their view finders. They certainly didn't chill out, listen to the peace, worship the presence of the mountains and loose themselves in the spirituality of the moment which the natural world inspires in most. We couldn't understand why they were there and moreover ruining our experience. As one friend humorously theorised; they're searching for a new home.

The British banter we shared caught me off-guard and made me realise how much I missed the British humour and perspective. The Brits don't take life too seriously. In fact any hardship is turned into an adventure or a source of comedic material. The ability to laugh at situations is indispensable while traveling and probably explains while they can travel for a year or more. We would moan and groan about the long bus journeys, the late-night noise at the hostels and the strange food while the British would shrug it off with an:
"It's all a bit of a laugh, really"
type comment. The conversations we shared were never too deep and when they might have veered into melancholy musings about the state of the world the Brits would always pull it back to playfulness with a witty comment. We laughed so much in their company and it felt so good. Yet it also made me feel incredibly homesick for my friends and family, nights out at the pub and many other aspects of my homeland. It's interesting I only truly appreciated this aspect of British mentality while meeting British people abroad, rather than during my trips back home and I like to think that these light-hearted encounters revitalised the Brit in me, which I had lost somewhere during my six years in the States. I'm determined to hold on to it, however I can, whether it's by watching re-runs of Only Fools and Horses or invoking my grannie's spirit when I'm about to complain at some insignificant detail in the story of my life and ask myself how would she look at it.

Despite the nostalgia I felt for the UK, we met a few Pacific Northwesterners with whom we reflected on the beauty of our home. The New Yorker, Austrian and German who accompanied Jon, myself and two women from Olympia (Claire and Jaimie) on the Santa Cruz trek declared that they would like to visit Seattle after hearing us frequently reminisce about home. Over dinner in the turquoise tepee Claire, Jaimie, Jon and I would share favourite Cascade and Olympic mountain hikes, laugh over Tom Robbins novels, agree on Wallingford's hippy charm and fondly dream of the farmer's markets and summer's succulent peaches and cherries. We sold Seattle as the next travel destination to our hiking companions and made Jon and I all the more anxious to return. One of the best chance meetings and a story that illustrates the wonderful people who live in the Northwest occurred on a dusty dirt road in Argentina's Lake District region in northern Patagonia. Jon and I rented a car to drive the Seven Lakes road; a route that winds past beautiful lakes nestled in forested hills and mountains. We stopped at camping spot in a lakeside field full with sheep, cows and birds and asked the three people sitting in their camping chairs, swigging beer in the sun if there were any good campsites further down the road. The grizzled man with the kind eyes, white beard and sunburned nose was from Port Townsend and owned a kayak company called Pygmy Kayaks. In fact he had one of his beautiful wooden kayaks on the roof of his camper van that he had shipped all the way from home to South America. He'd been exploring South America with his kayak, fishing gear and daughter for quite some time. It felt good to chat with such a true Washingtonian in that remote Patagonian field.

Marital Backpacking

Flying back from our three month jaunt around South America I am finally facing a couple of facts. My husband is not a backpacker. He’s positively glowing about our return to Seattle. And I’m ready to settle down (for a while).

Homecoming feels so different to ten years ago when I reluctantly flew back with my university friend from foggy New York after our six month world trip. Both of us had embraced the nomadic lifestyle, when rocking up in a town and finding the cheapest bed and coldest beer were the most important and only necessities of living. Neither of us was happy about returning to find a serious career, an apartment and to start growing up. On this occasion I persuaded my husband of two years to take three months (originally six but thankfully I compromised) out of work and the idyllic Seattle lifestyle and slog our way through Argentina, Chile, Bolivia and Peru. My desire to travel for an extended period was something I was up front about from the get-go. He knew within the first three months of our courtship that marriage, children, traveling and returning to live in the UK were requirements of our relationship. I am stunned I didn’t scare him away. I knew he wasn’t a natural traveler; however I fell into the typical trap thinking he’ll change. I’ll show him how fantastically rewarding traveling can be. I was also remembering my traveling days through rose tinted glasses, forgetting the interminably long and uncomfortable bus journeys, the stomach problems, the bed bugs …. How could he not enjoy those new and wonderful landscapes, fascinating cultures and the freedom of the road? Yet my husband is a person who likes to have some control over his life and despises wasted time. A twenty eight hour bus journey along a dirt road was the first example of inefficiency and I felt that he was contemplating all the things he could be achieving at home during those long bone-rattling and dusty hours. Guitar practice, yoga, preparing and enjoying fabulous meals, a roller-blade around the lake and a good night sleep! I admit the bus journey wasn’t a wonderful travel experience. During the days the driver blasted us with techno music and we spent two nights wriggling around in our seats trying to sleep. The barren Patagonian landscape grew dull after a few hours. The most exciting moment came when the bus shuddered to a sudden stop and an armadillo scuttled into the brush. Many other travel events were similar and left a sour taste in our mouths. We did have travel highs, but we are not convinced that they equally balanced the lows. At the time it seemed as though the lows were winning the contest. Perplexed, I wondered whether my new intolerance to backpacking travel was due to my ripe old age of thirty and with it my more luxurious lifestyle and greater cynicism or perhaps South America is far more challenging than the Asia-South Pacific–US circuit I undertook ten years previously and the European rail adventure thirteen years back. Or was my darling husband dragging me into his barely disguised misery! It was possibly a combination of all three and more. However, as I sit on the plane flying high above Texas I’m already losing sight of the times when I spent nights staggering between my bed and the bathroom in a shivery feverish panic or those terrifying bus journeys crammed into an overloaded mini-van while hurtling around unstable mountain roads. Just the memories of awe and wonder at the places we visited linger, the mountain sunrises, the fun conversations with new friends, the beautiful faces of curious children and the constant newness. I found riding the buses gave me time to think and reflect on what we’d seen and heard, what was to come and where my path would lead back in Seattle.

While I was relishing this mental freedom I was irritated that I had failed to turn my husband into a world nomad. He sits next to me on the plane perhaps the happiest I’ve seen him these past few months, but perhaps it’s for the best. He agreed, nervously, to share this adventure, he didn’t walk out on it half-way through, but gritted his teeth and did have some fun! Now we’ll go home and resume our life. The days of the long trips are over, for now, and that’s fine with me. I’m actually secretly relieved. However the explorer in me persists. I will forever be dreaming of the next adventure. But now they will be ones we can fit into weekends or two to three week vacations. Truthfully I’d much rather have a husband who enjoys shopping on Saturday mornings at the farmer’s market, loves home-cooked dinners with family and friends, happily goes hiking in our beautiful local mountains and will curl up on the couch with me in front of the TV. If I had married a true wanderer would I have had the chance to create a beautiful home? Would I even have seen him? No, probably not. So I believe the past three months were wisely spent for me to realise this truth.