countryside wanderings

Have you ever been to the countryside? The rolling hills kind of countryside. The faraway plateau with a lonely house countryside. The roaming cow countryside. The kind that extends all the way to the horizon, looks back, and waves. The kind with dirt roads and kind faces. The kind that is gentle but rough, simple and knowing, isolated yet completely at home.

I had never been to that countryside. At least not on bike. And not alone.

I had never been exposed, face to the wind, foot to the pedal, dignity in the deepest pothole. I left Junín de los Andes seeking adventure and dirt roads. And I am humbled by life’s ability to always gently catch me off guard, swiftly knock me to the ground, and then lift me up again with a study helpful hand.

Figuratively, of course, not literally. I did not crash nor fall off my bike.

The forecast warned rain, but I felt it was time to leave Junín anyway. I packed my bike, said goodbye to Ailén and Walter, and pedaled off. I stopped to talk to two hitchhikers who eventually got a ride and passed me. They waved from the back seat.

The wind ran east. I headed north. When we met, I was jostled towards the edge of the pavement. But luckily there was hardly any traffic, so I stayed central and avoided eating gravel.

Speaking of gravel. After the rickety bridge at Malleo, I was introduced not only to Gravel, but to her friend, Uphill. That’s when Gravel, Uphill, and Wind all ganged up on me. They poked and prodded. They pointed and laughed. For hours I put up with them, trying not to lose my cool. They even invited their friend Desolate Landscape to come join in on the fun. That’s when I noticed that the sun was getting dangerously close to the horizon. Suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore.

I was in the middle of nowhere. No house in sight. Uphill gravel roads leading to more uphill gravel roads. No trees. Nowhere to pitch a tent. Wind. Fast approaching nightfall.

Trying to calm the rising panic in my chest, I pedaled on. There must be something up ahead. There must be something. Anything. A tree. A cabin. A shelter of any kind to pitch the tent. There must be.

There wasn’t.

And then it got dark.

And cold.

I had stopped and was in the middle of a self-encouraging pep talk, when I see headlights approaching. I waved down the pickup truck. It almost didn’t stop. A man rolled down the window. It turned out that there was hardly anything for the next five kilometers, but after that there were some houses. I convinced the man to take me at least that far. We loaded Tioca into the back of the truck and I warmed my hands in the passenger seat.

Orlando took me to the house of an elderly couple. After some mates around the woodburning stove, the couple invited me to stay with them in their house. They had an extra bed. I was very gracious.

I learned a lesson that night. I learned that I need to be more careful heading out into the countryside. I get used to there being houses, towns, cities, farms at every corner. And sometimes there aren’t. Sometimes there’s a whole lot of nothingness. I was angry at myself for letting myself get caught in that situation. What if there hadn’t been a car passing? What would I have done? I went through a lot of shoulda-woulda-coulda’s in my head that night, but at the end of it all, I was once at the mercy of kind strangers.

Don Domingo and Doña Juana are country folks. They live in a humble house with a few chickens, two dogs and one cat. Their children are all grown and have families of their own. They drink mate, eat meat as their main ingredient, and talk about country happenings. Life is slow, rough, and simple. They almost exclusively use the formal “Usted” instead of the informal “Vos”. They regarded me with respect, but as an outsider and, no matter how much time I spent with them, I don’t think I would ever fully enter into their circle of complete confidence.

Their son, Omar, took me for my first day of fishing. His practiced fingers threaded the worms onto the hook. I just squealed at them wiggling in my hand. I have a long way to go until I throw off all my old big city habits. He showed me how to cast the line from my tin can. After a few tries, I got the hang of it… and Omar, Olga, and their daughter Paulina went to eat lunch.

After 30 seconds of them having been gone, I got a bite. Call it beginner’s luck. Call it bad timing. Call it what you will, I was alone on the beach with a fish tugging on the fishing line. What do I do?

I immediately started yelling for Omar. No response.

I pull the fish closer to shore. Still shouting. Still no response. At this point adrenaline is pumping through my body. I have a vague idea what to do, but I’m not confident to go at it alone. I look at the fish. After some more shouts (please imagine this scene) I reluctantly pull the fish up on to the shore. There it is. Gasping. Flapping. I get closer. I can’t do this. I can. No, I can’t.

I prop the tin can behind some rocks and run towards the house. The dogs sense my panic and attack. Soon I have two small dogs biting at my ankles. I’m screaming. Not only do I interrupt a happy family lunch, but I look like an idiot. Olga comes to my rescue, shooing the dogs away. Omar accompanies me down to the river. He patiently pries the fish’s head off, takes out the hook, scrapes the scales off, and slides my knife down the belly of the fish. Soon the fish is clean. Here, he says as he hooks the fish’s jaw onto my finger. And just like that I have a fish, my first fish, hanging from my hand. He slides some more worms onto the hook and hands me the tin can. Then he leaves me to keep fishing while he finishes his lunch.

Daniel is Omar’s son and happens to love fishing. When he arrives home from school, he grabs his tin can and we fish together. I end up hooking something on the bottom of the river, pull too hard, snap the line, and lose two hooks and a leaden weight. We take turns switching cans until I get another bite. Nine-year-old Daniel springs into action. He knows exactly when to tug the line to hook the fish, he pulls the flapping fish ashore, and grabs it with his hands to unhook it. He lets me cut and clean the fish. Then he scales it like a pro. I’m in awe.

I give one fish to Omar, Olga, Daniel and Paulina and carry the second one home to Juana and Domingo. We spend all night chatting around the wood stove.

The next day, I decide to move out. I have a knack of making myself at home in other people’s homes. And my fear is to overstay my welcome. So I left to pitch my tent by the river in the “arenal” or the sandy area. I spent the whole day gathering firewood, trying my hands at arts and crafts, picking rose hips, talking to myself, reading, writing, watching the river’s current, listening to whistling gauchos on horseback, having stare-downs with candy wrappers and other trash specimens, and thinking thinking thinking.

When the sun dipped behind the hills, I pitched my tent and started my campfire. This was the first time I had ever lit a campfire by myself. I mean, I love campfires. I sit for hours and get lost in the dancing flames. I love the way the embers twinkle. I love adding wood at just the right angle. I love stoking the fire to keep it going a little bit longer. But I’ve never begun and finished a campfire session by myself.

I’ll admit I was scared. Scared of two things, really. I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to control the fire I made, resulting in a devastating fire, no more tent and a hysterical screaming Alisa. I kept a paranoid eye on the flames at all times, brushed away anything flammable, and jumped to extinguish any rebel ember that was catapulted from the main circus of events. I was exaggerating the danger of course, I was on a sandy beach with two nearby trees, but I was terrified nonetheless.

My other fear was drawing attention to myself. Usually I’m not scared of being alone. I know country folks are good people. And I’m confident that nothing with happen to endanger my safety and overall well being. But everyone I meet keeps asking me if I’m scared to travel alone. When I tell them that, no, I‘m not scared, they come up with all sorts of reasons why I should be. Sometimes it seems that they want to convince me to share their fears. And sometimes all it takes is for them to plant the seed… and then the mind grabs a shovel and a gardening hat and tends to nurse that sprout until it blossoms into a thick vine that chokes reason in doubt. So on that waxing-crescent-moon-lit night I was scared to be alone. I was scared to be on the beach alone. I was scared of the radiant warming flames drawing attention. What if, what if, what if…

I calmed down by reminding myself that whatever happens, is meant to happen. And honestly, if I can’t control it, I shouldn’t worry about it. Worrying never helps. I’ll repeat that, worrying never helps. What does help is to be prepared and to remain calm. Whatever happens will happen. And will teach me many many life lessons. So bring it, world!

And with that thought, I put on two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks, two sweatshirts over my t-shirt, a fleece hat, and a scarf and cuddled up to Horacio el Batracio in my sleeping bag and prepared myself for the bitter cold night.

Yes, I remembered to put out the fire. And in my paranoia, I thoroughly soaked the entire fire pit with river water. Then I sat back and watched the smoke curl up to the starry sky and felt at peace with life’s workings.