Feliz aniversario, Tioca!!

(Don't freak out, English version below!)

Hoy cumplo un mes de pedaleada. Les dejo con un texto que siempre ha influenciado mis acciones, mis viajes, y mi filosofia de la vida. Que lo disfruten!

Desiderata

-Max Ehrmann

Camina plácidamente entre el ruido y la prisa,

y recuerda qué paz puede haber en el silencio.

En la medida de lo posible y sin traicionarte

procura vivir en buenos términos con todo aquel que te rodea.

Di tu verdad tranquila y claramente;

y escucha a los demás,

incluso al aburrido y al ignorante;

ellos también tienen una historia que contar.

Evita a los ruidosos y a los agresivos,

ellos afligen al espíritu.

Si te comparas con otras personas,

puedes tornarte vanidoso y amargo;

porque siempre habrá personas más grandes y más pequeñas que tú.

Disfruta de tus logros y también de tus planes.

Mantén el interés en tu propia carrera, por humilde que sea;

es una verdadera posesión en las cambiantes fortunas del tiempo.

Sé cuidadoso en los negocios;

pues el mundo está lleno de trampas.

Pero no dejes que ésto te ciegue a la virtud del mundo;

muchas personas luchan por grandes ideales;

y en todas partes la vida está llena de heroísmo.

Sé tú mismo.

En especial, no finjas afecto.

Tampoco seas cínico ante el amor;

porque frente a la aridez y al desencanto,

el amor es perenne como la hierba.

Toma con serenidad el consejo de los años,

y renuncia grácilmente a los dones de la juventud.

Nutre la fuerza del espíritu para protegerte de las desgracias inesperadas,

pero no te crees falsos fantasmas.

Muchos miedos nacen de la fatiga y la soledad.

Sin olvidar una justa disciplina,

sé amable contigo mismo.

Eres un hijo del Universo,

no menos que los árboles y las estrellas;

tienes derecho a estar aquí.

Y no importa si te resulta evidente o no,

no hay duda de que el Universo se está desarrollando como debe.

Por ello procura estar en paz con Dios,

de la manera en que lo concibas,

y cualesquiera sean tus trabajos y aspiraciones,

mantén la paz en tu espíritu en la ruidosa confusión de la vida.

A pesar del trabajo duro, las falsas esperanzas y los sueños rotos,

este sigue siendo un mundo hermoso.

Procura estar alegre.

Lucha por ser feliz.

Happy anniversary, Tioca!!

One month ago today I began this epic bike journey. I want to share with you a text that has been very influencial for me, my trips, and my life philosophy. Enjoy!

Desiderata

-Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,

and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,

be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly;

and listen to others,

even to the dull and the ignorant;

they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;

they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,

you may become vain or bitter,

for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;

it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,

for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;

many persons strive for high ideals,

and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love,

for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,

it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,

gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,

be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe

no less than the trees and the stars;

you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,

no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,

whatever you conceive Him to be.

And whatever your labors and aspirations,

in the noisy confusion of life,

keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,

it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Big city girl in the… big city.

Well, Neuquén isn’t really a big city by big city standards, but I’m peaking out from my small town world, and it leaves me wide-eyed and bewildered. Lots of people. Lots of hurrying people. Lots of cars. Lots of hurrying cars. Lots of movement. Lots of energy.

But it only takes a few hours for me to get back into the chaos of it all. Soon I’ve quickened my pace, activated my city eyes, and immersed myself in an accelerated version of dodge-the-vehicle and pedestrian game.

The city is also a great place to play hide and seek. If you want to escape it all, you just step outside and walk. Suddenly you’re invisible to just about everyone. Everyone except the political leafleters, the artesanos, and cat callers. But if you don’t mind them, you’re golden.

You can lose yourself in the streets of your thoughts. You can take the subway of your emotions and watch the stations whiz by. You can sit in park and people watch. You can figure things out. You can mess things up. You can stress yourself out. You can relax. You can accelerate. You can slow down. You can be alone as you want to be as life swirls around you.

I came to Neuquén to see my friend, Juanjo, a seriously Argentine personality. He does everything. He fixes anything. He knows everyone. He has unlimited energy. He’s always up for anything. Even a bike ride to the wineries.

Round trip it would have been close to 100km, which is a lot. So we loaded the bikes into the truck and gave ourselves a few kilometer headstart.

We escaped the dirty noisy busy city and went out to the countryside where the sky and horizon actually meet to shamelessly shake hands. Out here they don’t hide behind concrete buildings.

The day was a cloudy perfect. Not too hot. Not too cold. No wind. It felt good to be back on the bike. It had been **gasp** over a week since I had pedaled. Unacceptable.

The Fin del Mundo winery was my preferred destination. Having worked at a restaurant that served their wine, I had become a big fan of the Malbec Reserva. I was excited to go to the origin of this great wine.

After a tour by our super informative guide, we came to the best part. Yes, I bet you can guess what that was…!

We were given two wines to try, but since both Juanjo and I are big talkers and ask a lot of questions, we were treated to a few more. And a few more. “I don’t want to get you guys drunk,” said the employee. We just laughed.

On the ride back, Juanjo was having all sorts of bike issues and I was having an emotional crisis. On top of it all, we were both exhausted. And a little buzzed. At the end of the day as the sun was setting, we got a ride from a friendly pick up truck.

The next day was tranquilo. We threw some veggies on the grill, stuffed our faces and pleased our taste buds with smoky flavors.

Mix in a little bit of fernet.

A little bit of truco. And…being adults, there was no one who could tell us not to play with our food.

We were doubled over laughing until late into the night. Which wouldn’t have mattered much except the wakeup alarm was set for 4:15am.

Why? Juanjo has had many jobs. His newest one is truck driver. A meat truck driver. Which means abnormal hours, lots of driving, lifting really heavy boxes, and wearing blood-stained white clothes.

And on that next morning, I accompanied him because it promised a free ride back to Zapala. So after a hour or so of sleep, let’s go!

From before the sun came up to well past when the sun settled back into the horizon, we were in the truck. The guys worked very hard delivering huge hunks of meat to supermarkets in Senillosa, Plaza Huincul, Cutral Co, and lastbutnotleast Zapala!

It’s an experience like this one that gives a food fanatic like myself a chance to peak into the big food-corporation machine at work. It helps me start to piece together the origin of the food we eat and the path it takes to get from soil to spoon. It also helped me appreciate some of the hard work that it takes to get things that we often consider basic to the supermarket shelves. I’ve always taken for granted that I walk into the supermarket and find what I need. I’d never really sat down and thought of the human and engine-power involved. It’s a huge operation.

And it makes me want to keep things simple.

Go to the veggie store for veggies. Go to the meat store for meat. Go to the cheese store for cheese. And if you can, go directly to the source. Go to the farm for produce: animal, vegetable and textile. Go to the river for fish. Go to the soil for root veggies. Go to the tree or bush for fruit. Go to the animal for meat. If you dare to know where your food comes from. If you care about what you put into your body. I think it’s important that people realize what goes into their food production. It’s easy to avert eyes. It’s easy to plug ears. But if you’re not ready to take responsibility for what you consume, maybe you should reconsider your consumption habits.

Yesterday’s Humbling Moment of Beauty

Yesterday was an atypical partly cloudy day in Neuquén. We decided to do the winery tour on bike anyway. While we passing through a small town, I saw a man walking quickly towards us motioning for us to stop. He was waving us down and calling to us. I was skeptical at first; my tourist senses on highest alert. I thought, he probably wants to sell us something. Or rob us. Or sell us something and then rob us. We slow to a stop.

Where are you from? He started. Are you doing the tour of the wineries? He asked.

Lots of questions, I thought.

He continued. Well, I’m just heading home and, well…

Uh oh, I thought, here it comes. Some pre-planned story about needing money for the bus or something. I’ve heard this one before. Sigh.

Well, I’m just heading home and, well, I have these tortas fritas* and they’re going to get cold by the time I get there. So, well, you have a long bike ride ahead, and I thought you could have them.

*tortas fritas are amazing. They are fried dough. They are a great mate accompaniment. They are typical of countryside and small town living. Everyone’s grandmother makes the best torta frita.

Huh?

From my heart. He says as he puts his hand on his chest. Take them. They’ll get cold before I walk home.

I didn’t understand. I stood there, bike between my legs, with a guilty disbelieving face. Really?

Really. He gave us the bag and walked off. I turned to Juanjo. What just happened? I asked. Juanjo shrugged. Small town folks are like that, he replied, grabbing a torta frita, still warm.

I stood there clutching the plastic bag, still in awe, not believing that I had had so little faith in human kind. I felt worse than terrible. I had thought this man was going to rob us and instead he ran out to the road to catch us before we pedaled off only to give us a bag of torta frita out of the pure kindness of his heart.

I love people. And life is constantly reminding me how lucky I am to be alive. This is one such reminder. There are good, really good people out there. Simple, humble, wonderful people. Today my heart was won by this stranger, whose path I was fortunate enough to cross.

Tomorrow I will go out and do something beautiful for someone else. That’s a promise.

Today.**

**Well, not actually today. It was today when I wrote it… two days ago.

I’m tired. Today was a big day. Today I was invited and enthusiastically interviewed on a Zapala radio station. Today, for the first time, I really enjoyed riding horses. Today I herded sheep. Today I learned that, yes, counting sheep does make you sleepy. And that they actually do a funny little jump as you count them! Today I butchered a carcass. Today I was unbelievably cold. Today left me with squinty sleepy eyes and physical strength only to type these words.

Let me explain.

Susana arranged for me to be interviewed on a local Zapala radio station, FM 96.3. We arrived to the studio to meet Hugo and sit in the small padded room with microphones. I wasn’t nervous, but my heart must have missed the memo because it was beating as though I was. I took a deep breath and reminded my confused beating heart that if I get nervous, my voice will shake. If I’m my electric, smiley, confident, comfortable self that radiates positivity, everything will be ok.

I had a great time. Hugo fell in love with my story. So did the producers. So did the Mormon woman who had her interview directly after mine. I was overwhelmed with positive feedback.

If I can get my little hands on a recording of the program, I’ll see if I can post it!

I arrived at Vero’s estancia all aglow for an asado lunch that left my digestive tract bursting at the seams. So much food. So much of it meat!

Then it was time to round up the sheep.

My horse’s name is Pluma, which means feather. She’s old, lazily sluggish, flatulent, and perfect! You see, when I was very very little, I fell off a horse. Since then I have been utterly terrified of horses, riding them, or having anything to do with them. Let’s just say that I wasn’t a typical ribbon-in-hair little girl who dreamed of having a pony. When I was 13, I tried again, this time in the open plains of Montana. And fell off again. Twice. My conclusion: this riding horses gig is not for me.

But I’m realizing that, since Day 1 of this trip, I’ve been overcoming all sorts of fears, learning learning learning new things, and reflecting back on it all. I’m also learning patience, overall hardcoreness and the fine line where they meet. I took a deep breath and, with it, breathed in a new determination. I will ride a horse… and I will like it, dammit!

Today was my second time on Pluma. The first time was a complete disaster. Every time we tried galloping, I entered in terrified panic. We ended up walking for most of the afternoon, much to the dismay and boredom of the kids who have been riding their entire lives. Today was different. Today I relaxed. Today I feigned confidence, and it yielded real confidence. And besides from finicky stirrups, I had a great time. I actually got the hang of galloping. And I really really enjoyed it. Wind in my hair, arid countryside with millions of prickly bushes, big open blue sky, and yours truly Ms. CityGirl galloping through it all with a gigantic smile. I felt like a real Cowgirl in the making!

So, confront your fears. Look it in the eye and challenge it to faceoff. Being scared is normal… and it’s also the first step in overcoming those pesky and often debilitating fears. Take a risk, slowly at first, let it gather momentum. And then you will realize that it’s not so bad. Whether it’s a fear of eating bananas, of hairy 8-legged creatures, of jumping out of airplanes, of trying a new cuisine, or launching a trip on bike with no set path for an unspecified amount of time. Do it! Go for it! If you keep an open mind and a strong character, you will be glad you did.

Have you ever been driving along and have to stop because there are cows, horses, sheep in the road? It happens quite often in these parts. It’s not so often, however, that I get to be one of those on horseback, yehaw-ing at sheep so they cross the highway. I sat up tall and felt very very special.

And then we came to the counting of sheep. I never quite understood why children are told to count sheep if they are having trouble accessing nighttime dreamland. I mean, I’ve tried it. It’s never worked for me.

That is, until I did it for real. Here’s how this works. You have all the sheep in one giant pen and you scare them into running through a gate to another giant pen. This is a very delicate maneuver. If you have too many sheep running at one time, it is very easy to lose count. And there’s no real way to start over. That being said, are you ready? Let’s begin. 1. 2. 345. 6...7. 8910.….

By number 532, my eyelids were getting heavy. By number 794, I was yawning uncontrollably. I was kept entertained though because, as the sheep passed through the gate, they did a funny little jump. More like a leap. I’m not sure why. There was no obstacle that needed to be avoided. There was no reason for them to prance. But for some inexplicable reason about 85% did this funny little frantic leap. I was very amused.

1051. That’s the final count. Then they were herded and separated. Girls and boys. I’m glad that I’m not an animal-rights activism extremist. And that there were none present. I mean, none of the sheep were hurt, but farm life is rough. It’s rough on farmers and on farm animals. It’s not a sugar coated super shiny cotton candy padded life. It’s tough. And it’s about survival.

In modern urban societies, we are losing touch with basic human knowledge. Children grow up believing that vegetables come from supermarkets not from nature, that money is not only the key to survival but also to being happy, that soil is dirty and should be avoided, that cellphones and internet are life essentials, and that chicken nuggets are real meat. Some children have never seen stars. Some children don’t know that potatoes grow underground, are covered in dirt, and have a green leafy plant. Some children have grown up glued to the screen (tv or computer or cellphone) and eating from the microwave. Some children aren’t allowed to scrape their knees, get dirt under their fingernails, or eat worms.

Some adults have never considered harvest season. Some adults have never thought of killing an animal for food, yet eat meat daily. Some adults don’t know how to sew (with thread or with a hoe). Some adults have children and yet don’t spend any time with them. Some adults live trying to escape life.

And why not?

We live in a time where we don’t have to think about our survival, only about our levels of comfort. Why should we have to know basic human survival practices? They’re so primitive. Why grow food when I can order it to be delivered? Why make instead of buy? Time is money and money buys things. Why think about where things come from? Why leave the comfort of my bubble? Why trouble myself to think about simple things when I can complicated my life with new gadgets, latest crazes, relationship drama, magic pills and diets, and reality shows?

It’s really not my place to say that all that is bad. It’s not. Everyone has their path. I lived in the big city and loved it. I used to turn my nose up to farmers and simple country folks. I used to be stressed, accelerated, overly dramatic, and obnoxiously know-it-all. I used to drink organic soy double pumpkin lattes. I used to spend my time worrying about if I filled my schedule and then complain about not having enough time. I used to play a lot of mental games, with myself and others. And I loved it.

But it’s not for me anymore. I’m cultivating a new Alisa.

Whew. I went way off track on that rant. Back to the story.

After the obligatory 6pm tea time, we went to the carnicería… the butchery. Chan.

When you simultaneously live on a farm and eat meat, sometimes you have to do the dirty work. That may mean sacrificing and carving up a very large animal. At first I shivered in a mixture of repulsion and disgust. Maybe it’s the former vegetarian in me. Or maybe it’s the fear and uneasiness that society has instilled in me to keep me dependent on the system for providing something as basic as food. But with my travels and experiences, I’m realizing that it’s completely natural to provide your own food. Animal, vegetable and mineral.

So when I entered the meat room, I came face to face with very large hunks of meat hanging from large hooks. Let’s get to work!

Manuel sharpened the knife and started carving out cuts with familiar names. Cuadrada. Bola de Lomo. Tortuguita. And then when we got to the bones, we brought out the big guns. The saw. We sawed out portions of puchero, bagged them, and dumped them in the freezer.

I secretly wished I had been there for the actual slaughter.

By this time, the sun had gone down and it had gotten very very cold. All this hard work had obliterated my body and I had a hard time not shivering uncontrollably. I was cold down to my bones. My exhaustion was written all over my face as I huddled near the fire.

I always knew that farm work was tough. From sun up to sun down… and often much longer… farmers are working. And it’s not sit in an office, wait tables, fly through the trees kind of work. It’s real physical work. I got a small teeny weenie little taste of it today and it completely destroyed me. The pay for this work is not in dollars, pesos or euros… it’s in basic life necessities: food, clothes, warmth, security. It’s a kind of work-lifestyle mixture that involves the whole family. It’s cyclical. It makes sense. It yields a sweaty satisfaction, appreciation, and gratitude for things that I’ve never given a second-thought to. It also makes me realize how soft and wimpy I am.

But everything comes with practice.

a short interjection

I watch. The Alamo trees overhead sway gently announcing a change in weather. Any stubborn leaves still hanging on will eventually lose patience or strength and join their brethren to be swept into piles. Just like they have in years past. And years to come.

There is a simple complexity, or a complex simplicity, in the natural course of a year. In New York I was vaguely aware of the passing of time as a natural occurrence. Time was, instead, marked by the school year, a human creation. The seasons passed and left a taste in the mouth, like eggnog in the winter or fruit smoothies in the summer. But no matter the weather, life continued as normal, hardly batting a mascaraed eyelash. Anything could be done in any weather. That’s the convenience of a city. It allows us to be independent of season, moon phase, hours of sunlight, temperature maximums and minimums, wind. In fact, we hardly even notice them. And why should we? They’re just another thing to interfere with business as usual.

But what happens when we are unprotected? When we are exposed to the mercy of the weather? When survival depends on harnessing natural resources? When importance shifts from knowing how to use android apps to knowing how to use your hands? When we are forced to face raw life, rather than life filtered through a screen? Well, perspectives shift and priorities switch.

Comforts of modern society are just that, comfortable. They are shields. They protect. And most are fantastic! But they should be used in moderation. They are very easy to overdose on; one should be careful not to get addicted. They dilute life. They cloud our vision. They skew our senses. And what is the point of life if you’re not really living it?

I’m not saying that everyone should give up everything and go live in the countryside. Although that would be funny. No. The world works because there is a grand variety of people, interests, skills, and beliefs. What I’m saying is that perhaps it would do one good to step outside of the monotonous churnings of the daily grind every once in a while. Wipe your eyes. Blink. See something new. Sit in silence. Meditate on the nearest blade of grass. Appreciate the simple. Slow down. Try something new. Dance. Have a conversation with a stranger. Climb the next tree you see and feel the strength of the bark breathing under your fingertips. Smile more. Discover profound passion.

I found this Manifesto on my friend, Ashley’s, blog: www.miniskirtninja.com I thought I’d share it. Holstee is company that sells organic, recycled, fair trade… etc. goods. Check it out! www.holstee.com

y en castellano!

I cheated.

But I don’t regret it. To be honest, I don’t regret much of anything. It had to be done; I didn’t have any other feasible option.

I loaded my bike in the back of an empty vegetable truck and rode in motorized luxury to Zapala. Yes, I admit it.

It was a beautiful journey. I would have liked to bike it. We first climbed the famous Rahue uphill (all gravel) which offered some pretty spectacular views, we coasted into a valley, we climbed the second long uphill, we coasted into a valley, we climbed the third epic uphill, passed a beautiful saltwater lagoon, and pulled into the dusty desert city of Zapala. All of that would have been a dream to do on bike… perhaps in summer. Winter is quickly descending on Patagonia. It’s getting cold. I can’t just pitch my tent wherever I feel like it. And sometimes there are long expansive deserted distances between anything at all. I can’t risk it. So I cheated. I hitchhiked.

But I’m over it. There will be plenty of kilometers to bike in the warmer northern roads. And honestly I’m glad to be here.

That being said. I like Zapala.

I like Zapala the way I like Comodoro Rivadavia. The key? Arrive with low expectations.

I had heard nothing good about Zapala. I was told of the infuriating all encompassing wind. The kind of wind that violently shakes houses, mercilessly snaps trees, and keeps inhabitants locked inside and staring at the tremendous dust storms. I was told it was a very ugly city. I was told to flat out avoid it.

But everyday I like it more. I think it’s the people.

I’ve been drifting from the city to the countryside and back again. And I feel very fortunate to have friends in both places to help me out.

Here in the city, I’ve been staying in a 5-star luxury mansion with Susana, Quique, and their nephew Matias. Dinners are always delicious and generous. They let me come and go as I please. And they don’t seem to mind that I’ve been here for almost a week.

In the countryside, Veronica and her family have a working estancia with cows, sheep, horses, rams, bulls… They have thrown me headfirst into their activities, at my request. I have no idea what I’m doing. I was not raised on a farm. Sometimes I feel so over my head, that I start flailing my arms in panic. But I’m learning and learning by doing, which for me is the best kind of learning. First you look like an idiot, but then you leave with your brain overflowing with knowledge. And I don’t really mind looking like an idiot.

Veronica also let me crash one of her English classes. I forget sometimes how much I enjoy teaching. There I was bouncing around the classroom, gesturing wildly and frantically getting the students to overcome their fears of speaking. Have I mentioned that I have no problem looking like an idiot? And then I was offered a subbing gig for three days when I come back from Neuquén. Horray for work!

Yes, the adventures continue.

I feel at peace. I feel calm. I have no hurry. I have developing philosophies on my mind and developing calluses on my hands. I’m excited about what I’m doing.

I want to give a great big thanks to Adriana. I am in debt to her and her wonderful contacts that have made this pit stop extra special.

apple trees, a dusty town, and reflective philosophizing

Magic. That’s how I define the moment of bliss that comes from sitting in the branches of a wild apple tree, finger tips mere centimeters from a bright yellow orb, sun sending its blessing and spreading its joy, and heart open to the sheer beauty of the world exactly as it is. There is a love, fully directed towards all life’s manifestations, that radiates from the first bite, when teeth meet apple. Learning to identify Mother Earth’s edible gifts, because they are everywhere, little packets of nutrition and succulence, is a natural and socially responsible tool. And, in our city/work/money/buybuybuy mentalities, sometimes we forget that food originates from the seed of nature‘s womb, not from a sterile white laboratory. We lose the wisdom and patience of our great grandparents and chose convenience and comfort over richness and quality. When we slow down, pick a fruit, and take a moment to enjoy life’s gifts, living becomes a lot fuller, a lot more colorful, and a lot more worth living.

The road from Pilolil to Rahue may wind up and down, sideways and backwards, around and around, but it always stays true to River Aluminé. On a beautiful day, the countryside glows and the water shimmers and sometimes a girl on a rainbow bike takes it in with an open heart and a deep sigh.

The gravel road shakes and shutters the bike. The gashes in the road run like grooves in a saw blade. The going is slow, washboard style, but I’m in no hurry. In fact, just to stick out my tongue at time, to show time that I could give two beans about its bullying, I stop and harvest prickly rose hips until my fingertips can’t take it anymore. My idea is to sell them… if they sell, great, if they don’t sell, I’ll give them away. The main idea is to enjoy spending time, eyes squinting into the sun, breeze in my hair, fingers to the pricklies.

Two pickups stopped, unsolicited, both offering me rides. I graciously declined both. The day was brilliant and my legs needed the exercise from three days of bike neglect. One gentlemen stopped to talk as I was bent picking up rosehips that had planned an escape mission from the bag I had non-chalantly tied onto the elastic bungees of my bike. He told me of apple trees a few kilometers ahead. Enthusiastic, I kept my eyes peeled until I saw them. It’s late for apple-season, so there weren’t many left. I climbed trees, plucked apples, munched appreciatively while looking out from the rib cage of the branches breathing life into the afternoon.

It was 4:30pm when I reached Rahue, a junction where gravel meets pavement and where a little girl brought me hot water for an afternoon mate. I decided to spend the night in Rahue instead of continuing the 16 km to Aluminé. I was tired and the sun sets around 6pm these days.

Aida, a landmark woman, lives at these crossroads and has the opportunity to often help the stranded traveler. I am no exception. I pitched my tent beneath her apple trees. She invited me inside, gave me tea and homemade jam, let me cook my rice and mushrooms, and talktalktalked! She is a firecracker, doing a million and a half things at once.

That night was cold. A hefty frost lay on the ground the next morning.

That day brought me to Aluminé and to the house of Viviana. Viviana is a no-nonsense woman who raised five children and teaches English. She seems rough around the edges, but is a sweet heart. She let me stay in a storage room smelling of freshly made homemade cheese, with a bed, and a woodburning stove. After four nights on the road, I was overwhelmed with luxury. There was electricity, a washing machine, internet, bathroom and kitchen access, pizza, and direct TV. I felt like a million pesos.

For the next few days, I was a lounging bum. I didn’t do any hiking, I didn’t ride my bike, I didn’t go off and have adventures. I took a break. I walked in circles around the little town, made friends with helpful locals, drank mate by the river, but mainly just flat-out chilled. I felt a little guilty for not having done much of anything, but it felt right. I needed a little comfort.

Thanks to Viviana, Jorge, and Juan! For letting me stay with them, treating me like I belonged there (not like a guest), sharing conversations and episodes of Law and Order, and letting me bum around their house.

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.