Every traveler faces moments when the bumps and bruises threaten to overwhelm the wonder of it all--because it isn’t always wonderful. We live for the great moments and the fullness of our adventures in retrospect and while it is always the road that brings us to these moments of doubt, it is the road that brings us back.
It was 4am and I was lying on the floor of a shed that
called itself a bus station. The metal gates were shut and locked and through
the vents of the aluminum walls street lights shone both dim and harsh. I was
twisted up in my own clothes and deeply tired. After forty-eight hours of
border crossings and buses I was on the far side of limbo and losing patience
with every exhale. Trapped in my own little tragedy I failed to register the
other inhabitants of my cramped enclosure. But then I saw them; a dozen
Ecuadorian women in traditional Ecuadorian dress, sleeping on the floor—waiting
just like me. Their colorful shawls, the jaunty hats pulled over their eyes,
their children nestled in the comfortable crooks; these women were in the early
morning hours of everyday life. I was the thing that did not belong. I was a stranger
out there in the world. I tried to sleep but sleep wouldn’t come. A million
miles from home I watched the images of Ecuador shifting and snoring. Exhaustion,
filth, muscles bunched and sore; none of that mattered now.
Travelers never tire of finding the same people
wrapped in the colors and textures of different cultures.
I was standing at the edge of a crater awed by the lake
below. The wind was whipping up the walls vicious and cold. Everything was vast
from up there and it felt like the world couldn’t get any higher. My friends
were behind me. We were backtracking because we had taken the wrong trail—a dangerous
trail and as a consequence every new bend felt wrong. In the distance a
sheepherder was sitting on the hillside surrounded by her flock. I was elected
to ask for directions so I climbed the hill and sat beside her. She was young,
late twenties maybe, her face chapped and scarred from constant exposure to the
mountain winds. She was wearing a bright purple and red shawl wrapped tightly
around her body. I greeted her in Spanish and she paused before answering,
taking me in with wide wary eyes. I smiled gently and asked her if we were on
the right path. I asked her how much longer it would take to reach the town of Quilotoa.
She answered with a nod and mumbled numbers. I had the answers I needed but
I wanted to stretch the moment so I asked her simple questions about where she
grew up and the sheep grazing around us. She softened and answered with words. We
fell into a brief but easy conversation.
I will never forget the time I sat on the top of a mountain in Ecuador and had a conversation with a sheepherder in a language I barely know, and maybe she will remember the blue eyed gringo that stayed longer than he needed to. Unwrapped we were just a man and a woman chatting about nothing, but when two people treat each other as unwrapped gifts it matters. I am almost positive that sheepherder sent her son to protect me. Not long after we left her hillside a little boy appeared out of nowhere. He was maybe four years old, wearing a worn blue jacket and a woven winter cap. He had the same wind chapped face and wide wary eyes as his mother. My friends were behind us and they told me later that every time I got a few feet ahead the little boy would sprint to catch up. Anytime the path splintered I asked him for help and he shyly showed me the way. When the town of Quilotoa appeared in the distance he drifted away, knowing that I was safe and no doubt wanting to get back to his mother to tell her all about the things we had said.
I will never forget the time I sat on the top of a mountain in Ecuador and had a conversation with a sheepherder in a language I barely know, and maybe she will remember the blue eyed gringo that stayed longer than he needed to. Unwrapped we were just a man and a woman chatting about nothing, but when two people treat each other as unwrapped gifts it matters. I am almost positive that sheepherder sent her son to protect me. Not long after we left her hillside a little boy appeared out of nowhere. He was maybe four years old, wearing a worn blue jacket and a woven winter cap. He had the same wind chapped face and wide wary eyes as his mother. My friends were behind us and they told me later that every time I got a few feet ahead the little boy would sprint to catch up. Anytime the path splintered I asked him for help and he shyly showed me the way. When the town of Quilotoa appeared in the distance he drifted away, knowing that I was safe and no doubt wanting to get back to his mother to tell her all about the things we had said.
Travel friendships exist on a different timeline; they
bloom quick and lasting from the richness of shared experience.
At the
top of the Quilotoa Loop on what was quite literally a dark and stormy night, I
huddled in a frigid room with my new friends Alex, Connie, Humphrey and Kate
waiting for a tiny woodstove to warm the room. It was a night for stories but
the stories saved in our phones were too soft, no match for the winds battering
the windows around us. Half joking I said, “I can read you one of my stories.”
I expected uncomfortable laughter and instead they bounced in anticipation.
Suddenly my throat went dry and I flushed with embarrassment. Did they really
want to hear my stories? Did I really want to expose that side of myself? If
they had been work colleagues or barroom acquaintances I never would have. But
I trusted them, I had just met them, but I knew I was safe. So I read them a
story. And then another. It was a great night—a shared experience between friends who knew that even if their paths never crossed again they would always have
the adventure that brought them together.
All travelers are addicts jonesing for the high of
places that cannot be explained.
Cordillera Blanca, Peru. The Santa Cruz Trek was one of the
greatest travel highs of my life. My friend Taylor who did her field school
studies there later asked, “Is it not the most magical place you’ve ever seen!?”
I can’t think of a better description than that. It is as grand and varied and
impossible to fit into three dimensions as the world gets. And my friends and I
did it the hard way. Rhys and Tim had been traveling with me since the border
of Peru. Josh and Helen joined us in Huaraz, a mountain town near the base of
the trek. We shunned the organized tours and their luggage carting donkeys
opting instead to rent our own gear and pack our own food (not nearly enough food
it turned out). Over the next four days we hiked more than 30 miles at high
elevation through dry river beds, icy mountain passes, and lush river valleys.
We made campfires at night, listened to music and told old stories to the
joyful amusement of new listeners.
Every day was an adventure but Day Three best encapsulates
the ups and downs of our journey. We woke up early to a dead fire and ice on
the ground. The sun was creeping over snow capped mountains but its warmth was
nowhere near. Our camping stove had died the night before and would not be
revived. We relit the fire and warmed water just enough to make room temperature
oatmeal. With grumbling stomachs we hiked a short but steep hillside to a
glacial lake ringed by behemoths of stone and snow. The sun was beginning to warm our prickled skin and the view instantly burned itself into memory. From there we backtracked
to the trailhead and were already breaking apart. Who hiked with whom
alternated throughout the day but after the lake we were never together as a
group. After three plus hours of moderate hiking we began a nasty high altitude
ascent to Punta Union, the highest point of the trek. At nearly 16,000 feet
Punta Union offers views of some of the highest mountains in the Andes, glacial
lakes, and wildly differing valleys on either side. Standing at those heights I felt both enthralled and frightened because how could I possibly hold onto anything but a faded version of what I was seeing. It started to snow and
below we could see that the snow was falling as rain. We covered up and began
the long slog down. By the time Tim and I reached Camp One, Rhys and Josh had
already pushed on toward Camp Two. I was angry because the sun was close to
setting and Helen was god knows how far back. Tim went to find the boys and I stayed to wait for Helen. An hour later I found her coming down the path, we
picked up the pace and joined the others as dusk was turning to dark. The boys
had picked a spot between the two camps at edge of a rushing river—a good spot,
as much as I hated to admit it at the time. We talked in an unexcited way about
how exciting the day had been. Exhaustion had temporarily sapped what we knew would
become reawakened joy. Dinner was an utter failure; a pot full of half cooked,
flavorless lentils that proved inedible even in our near starved state. With
smoke driving us away from the fire we quickly choked down dry Top Ramen and
shivered ourselves to sleep.
The trek was difficult and at times frustrating, but it was
a challenge to be proud of. We didn’t have daypacks and donkeys. We didn’t have
guides cooking us dinner and making us tea. We did it all on our own. We
drifted at times but we came back together closer than ever. We held each other
up and moved each other forward--overwhelmed by the rush of a magical
place.
Every traveler occasionally misses routine; a kitchen to
cook in, a familiar bed, the exotic comforts of normality.
We had explored ancient ruins, traversed Andean peaks and partied
until the sun was high in the sky. We wanted to slow down and revel in the
repetitive do nothingness most people are dying to escape, so we made a
temporary settlement at a quiet hostel in Arequipa, a beautiful colonial city
in southern Peru. Arequipa is known as La Ciudad Blanca which sounds romantic
but is actually some imperialist racist bullshit. When the Spaniards invaded they forcibly removed the indigenous people and used sillar, a white or pinkish volcanic rock, to build white stone mansions and Jesus houses; white people living
in white buildings—La Ciudad Blanca.
Choosing the right place to stay is difficult. Party hostels are barf receptacles for culturally ignorant vacationers and the truly local places are typically empty hotels that provide loneliness but rarely towels or toilet paper. Travelers look for the sweet spot in between—a place where they can get a good night sleep, chat with the staff in the local language and meet a social crowd of likeminded wanderers. When you find the right place there is an assumed level of safety; leave your phone charging or your computer on the bed, buy a round because you know it’ll come back—travelers always take care of travelers. Our hostel in Arequipa was right there in the sweet spot and together we
represented a global contingent; The United States, Germany, Argentina, Australia,
Netherlands, Brazil, Peru, Ecuador and more. The language never stayed the same
for the entirety of a conversation but we understood each other well. We were
travelers who wanted to live cheap and enjoy shared meals. We were strangers in a new city who couldn’t avoid the allure of a
night out. The boys and I stayed in Arequipa for nearly a week and aside from a walking
tour of the city we avoided all things touristic. We went to the gym, shopped
for necessities and tried to catch up on our various personal projects. It was
a nice little home. And then our home was invaded.
The road is forever unpredictable.
Towards the end of our stay in Arequipa this fat boisterous dude named Leopoldo Ribeiro Neto
showed up. He was Brazilian by birth and claimed to live in San Francisco working
as a lawyer. Homeboy knew one speed, 100 mph. He cooked fantastic meals for
everyone and led the charge to go out at night, plying the whole crew with
Tequila shots. Everyone loved this dude; except maybe this Scottish guy who had
lent him cash until a Western Union transfer came through. The two of them had
been traveling for a few days and it seems Leo’s shtick was getting old. From
the beginning I figured the guy was at least mildly full of shit, but I never anticipated
what was coming. Leo started talking about all these airline miles he had accumulated
and how they were set to expire in a few weeks. He offered to buy tickets for a
few us at the hostel. We would only have to pay for the taxes and fees. A few
people jumped at the opportunity. Leo booked the flights and promised to forward
the confirmations. He let everyone know how much they would owe, anywhere from
$100 - $300. Meanwhile the Scottish dude had a flight to Cusco that afternoon—a
flight that Leo had booked. Leo was working overtime to get him to delay and
stay in Arequipa for a couple extra days, but the Scottish dude wouldn’t budge.
He said his goodbyes and took a taxi to the airport. No one for whom Leo had
booked a flight had received their confirmation so persistence was
getting less gentle and Leo was getting visibly itchy. He mumbled something
about dropping off laundry and never returned. Josh, whose skepticism had been
mounting throughout the day, got online and researched our oddball housemate. It
turns out Leopoldo Ribeiro Neto is a notorious conman who has been scamming
people at hostels all across South America since 2007—the airline ticket scam
being his go to move. Not long after our Scooby Doo unmasking the Scottish dude
returned from the airport—the flight of course had been nonexistent. All told the
poor guy had been scammed out of nearly $500. No one else paid Leo for fake flights
nor had anything stolen, but everyone felt exceedingly icky. While no great
loss, I did lend that fat bastard $20 at the bar. If I ever find you Leo…
Speaking of which… A few days later we returned to Arequipa
for a one night stay on our way to Cusco. I spent the day in a café working on
this very blog. Getting a bit brain numb, I decided to call my bank and take
care of a boring but necessary errand. While I was on the phone half listening
to the call center guy, I glanced out the window and saw none other than Leopoldo
Ribeiro Neto! He was walking by with some new rube, casual as f—k, still
wearing the same stupid orange shirt. I hesitated, paralyzed by the
impossibility. Then excitement took over. This was my chance to confront that
fatty and get my twenty bucks back. I hung-up on the call center guy and leapt
to my feet spilling a potted plant all over the floor. I left everything at the
table, hastily apologized to the staff, and ran outside. I reached an
intersection and looked around frantically, but the weasel was nowhere to be
found. And he wasn’t in any of the nearby shops. I checked them all.
Unsatisfied, I returned to the café and spent the rest of the afternoon
distracted by every flash of orange.
The world is finite but travel is not. New places, old
places seen in a new way, the oxygen of anticipation forever feeds the flames.
South America is feeding me now. I am traveling slowly and
yet I cannot travel slowly enough. Everyday offers a new mountain to climb, a
new city to explore, a new jungle to tip-toe through as I live out boyhood make believe.
I am meeting new people, absorbing indigenous and European histories and
learning a new language. All the travel lessons I learned long ago are true on
this new continent as well; the wild unpredictability of the road, the
beautiful predictability of people being people, the blooming of friendships and
the bumps and bruises easily overcome. And yet it is all so new that I have
hardly had time to write. I will try to do better, but please understand that
the flames of anticipation are burning bright. Machu Picchu is soon; Lake
Titicaca, the Bolivian salt flats and the mighty Amazon too. If I delay it is
only because I am in the land of adventure blissfully consumed by the stories I
will one day tell.
"Whereas the tourist generally hurries back home at the end of a few weeks or months, the traveler belonging no more to one place than to the next, moves slowly over periods of years, from one part of the earth to another. Indeed, he would have found it difficult to tell, among the many places he had lived, precisely where it was he had felt most at home."
Paul Bowles - The Sheltering Sky