The Road Provides

The bus to Pucon was scheduled to leave at 640 in the A.M. I lay restlessly in my tent, tossing and turning in a foggy facade of sleep. Having abandoned conventional time long ago, I no longer trusted my normally precise internal clock. Every half hour I frantically shook awake and turned on my cell phone for the time. The small black connection to my former life survives on the last charge I gave it back in the United States- requiring me to turned it off immediately after each check. At five o´clock I gave up on pretending to sleep, and began the process of packing up my gear in the illuminated circle of my headlamp.

With my gear haphazardly packed, I said goodbye to the campground once again- I hoped for the last time. Trudging down the streets of San Junin, where the street names are carved into trout shaped signs, teenage drunks congregated loudly outside the town´s seemingly only club. Still donning my headlamp, I knew I was a good target for drunken harassment. Robbed of sleep, and beginning to sweat stickily under my jacket and pack, tired frustration made me more dangerous than that of their drunken courage. I decided if they approached me and I sensed any hostility, I would knock out the teeth of the biggest one with my tin water bottle. Of course this situation never materialized. Every intoxicated Argentine I have come across has been more than gracious to me- or as gracious as possible when slurring one´s Spanish and fighting to focus . A night without real sleep made me bitter.

At the bus station, I flopped my pack against the exterior wall and sat on it. Across the street a shop catering to the waiting passengers was opening. I was surprised by this. Argentina´s shops hold the most peculiar hours. Normally, a shop opens at 10, then closes at12 for a five hour siesta, after which time it reopens till 10. Siestas made no business sense to me. The midday time of the siesta seemed to best period to sell things. I guess enjoying a midday nap after lunch is worth the money missed. Regarding it a rarity that this shop was open right now, I dashed over and purchased a Coke, sweet bread, and an box of crackers that I still smirk at when ordering, Saladix. Back at the station, I looked over the gathering of waiting passengers. An old man wearing a Canadian tuxedo, jeans and a denim jacket, paced before me. His pristinely shined black dress shoes clapped loudly on the pavement. Impatience rang out into the gray morning with each of his frantic steps. To my right a family sat. Each were dressed neatly, and the father sat eating a sandwich which he occasionally fed to a stray dog. Their son, a miniature version of the father, sat there sipping on a coffee. The boy was no more than eleven. Children here become exposed to the addictions of caffeine very early. On one occasion at a border crossing, I saw a little Chilean girl of no more than four sipping on Mate (the highly caffeinated South American tea). The boy sat there smiling, sipping his black coffee like any working stiff would to jump start the day.

Boarding the bus, I slid into the partially reclined seat with deep satisfaction. After extended periods of camping, bus trips are always a welcomed opportunity to sit in a proper chair. Closing my eyes, I hoped to slip into a deep sleep. But no, sitting across the aisle from me was the caffeine charged boy from the bus station. From the moment his rear end hit the seat, his mouth was moving. He talked frantically and without end. When he ran out of things to pepper his father with, he resorted to singing a futbol anthem until something new to vocalize entered his mind. Soon the chatter became as ambient as the hum of the bus. I withdrew my broken, water damaged iPod, and thumbed it, hoping that this moment of undeserved torture would warrant a miracle.

After an hour, the bus slowed to a stop at a border crossing hidden deep in the Andes. This was my third time crossing the border. Each time proved to be an interesting experience. Crossing the Argentine border tends to be rather easy. Everyone disembarks with their paperwork, and waits for a passport stamp. After the Argentine border, the bus passes through what I presume is a neutral area, and then it stops at the Chilean border. The Chilean border is not so easy to cross. After descending the bus, all of the luggage is taken out of the bus and brought into the office. Above all things one could sneak into the country, more than drugs or firearms, the Chilean government is most concerned with the smuggling of fruit and meat. In the bus, a form is filled out declaring if you have meat or fruit in your luggage. During my first crossing of the Chilean border a couple of Brits stood visibly nervous behind me in line. Dressed in archetypal hippie garb, I thought for sure they had drugs in their bags. Having never witnessed a drug bust, and relishing in how innocent I was, I waited with brimming anticipation for their turn to have their bag searched. When the two met border patrol men, they guiltily handed over a sausage and an apple. That´s it? I dissappointedly thought. Karma ended up biting me for wishing ill on my fellow passengers. Waved over , I handed my sheet to a stubborn looking Chilean. He asked in Spanish what fruit I had. I said I did not have any fruit. Pointing to the sheet, he drew my attention to where I checked the box saying: ¨Yes, I am carrying fruit .¨ In my half sleepy state on the bus, I mistakenly checked the wrong box. The ¨Yes ¨option seemed more positive at the time. Stumbling over my Spanish, I struggled nervously to convince the man that it was a mistake, and that I was not carrying any fruit. Excited to make an example of this gringo, he pulled apart my bag- tossing my clothes on the ground. He even went as far as taking apart my tent. I learned my lesson that day. Here, now crossing for a third time, I deliberately and clearly checked, ¨No, I am not carrying fruit¨.

The process at this border crossing was far more civil. Instead of border patrol men pulling out underwear and hygiene products in search of a hidden banana or a slice of ham, the bags were passed through a x-ray machine. We swiftly retrieved our luggage at the other end and boarded back on the bus.

The bus rolled into Pucon Chile. I disembarked and collected my gear in the rain. A hostel was necessary for tonight. Setting up a tent in the rain is a miserable practice and inevitably spawns a lasting foul mood. I stepped into the first hostel from the bus station. Entering, I was met by a gracious young host who showed me to a spacious, seven bed room. Later, sitting in the common area where a small wood burning stove flickered light in the dimmly lit room, I sighed contently. Staying in hostels has become an absolute luxory. Struggling to keep this trip on budget, I continually resort to camping to save my pesos for future bus tickets, park fees, and food of course. In the last month, I spent five nights in a bed, under a roof.