Heading out of Chorriaca there is an uphill. It’s of the short and steep variety. The kind that give you a good-morning slap in the face. The kind that kindly takes your breath away. The kind that looks like it’s coming to an end… and then keeps on going. The kind that thanks you and wishes you’ll come again soon.
But it’s short. And afterwards you are graced with perhaps the longest gentlest downhill looking out over a slightly foggy heaven of nature’s beauty. It may make you, like it did to me, want to laugh out loud. I yelled a wooooopie into the crisp air. I burst into song. My lips beamed joy right back at the morning sun.
That day I waved at every passing vehicle. There weren’t many. It was a holiday. Flag day.
I pedaled into Naunauco about 50 km later. I followed the handmade signs to a deserted school, a deserted radio station, and some deserted houses. Where are all the people?
After a little while of walking around and knocking on windows, a door opened. Santiago and his children Florencia (12) and Gonzalo (10) were taking care of the school. They invited me in and we shared some mate with jammed bread. It was a boarding school during the week and, since it was a holiday, bunkbeds were unoccupied. I chose one.
Hot water shower! A luxury. The electricity came from giant solar panels and had to be used sparingly. Gigantic gas stoves were at my disposal and I concocted a mushroom-textured soy-rice dish as we played rummy and watch Portuguese films. The kids talked my ear off from a neighboring bunkbed until well past my bedtime. The stars were brilliant and the third-quarter waning moon caught my eye. I saw two satelites whizzing through the dark sky before the cold got the better of me and rushed me inside.
The next morning was an early one. Teachers arrived well before the sun came up. Small town folks are cordial, but distant to strangers. Situations like these require an extra dose of sociality and constant conversation interjections. I had to flash my charm and, even then, I was basically ignored.
Two small children helped me pack my bike and I gave them a ribbon each. The girl had a sweet smile and a sparkling personality. I told her that she could do the impossible, if she put her mind and heart to it. She understood instantly. I secretly wished her a beautiful adventurous life. She was six years old.
Everyone warmed up to me as I was leaving. We took a picture and the men took turns trying out my bike. I waved goodbye as I headed back down the gravel road to Route 40.
The day was perfect. Not a cloud in the sky. But deceptive nonetheless. A light but persistent wind met me head-on. It made the ultra long uphill ultra difficult. I ended up walking Tioca for many many kilometers.
As I came to the crest of the uphill, my jaw dropped. Snow capped mountains peaked over the ridge. I overflowed with happiness and proceeded to commence my downhill coasting. The air was icy cold and within no time, my gloved fingers were numb. The mountains drew closer. I welcomed the change in landscape. Arid rolling hills are beautiful. But snow tipped mountains are gorgeous.
A few kilometers from Chos Malal, a road-bike cyclist was training. He pulled up next to me and we chatted. My laid back attitude of peaceful meandering tends to surprise everyone.
Perhaps it seems to you, dear reader, that I have a planned route with a planned time frame. I assure you that I don’t. There is nothing concrete about this trip, but the city streets. Everything is fluid. Many decisions are made in the moment depending on weather and current personal preference. My direction is north-ish. My schedule is when I feel like it. And my destination is when I don’t feel like traveling anymore. The moment I stop having fun is the moment I end this trip. Period.
Many people have a hard time wrapping their head around it. I did too, at first.
Chos Malal, once only a name and a dot on a map, is now a real tangible place in my memory bank account. A small town-city full of smiling friendly people who greet you on the street. But at the same time, it keeps me on edge.
I arrived to the sunny central plaza with a cellphone contact in my pocket. And before long I was invited inside and surrounded by truck drivers. I served mate and they gave me a bed and a milanesa dinner.
I’m not sure why truck drivers have such a bad reputation. Perhaps there are some bad ones out there, but the ones I tend to meet are the super friendly super hospitable super gentlemanly. Sure, they can be rough around the edges, but you would be too if you worked irregular hours driving big machinery and hauling heavy cargo. They have never made me feel uncomfortable in any way. And, in fact, they go out of their way to treat me well. Maybe I’m just lucky.
But they snore. And eat a lot of fast food. And keep unconventional schedules. But they trustingly leave me the key to their apartment, so I can sleep in, drink mate and type a blogpost. No complaints from this purple shirted girl.
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