The Zen of Travel

Travel is not for everyone. I'm not talking about package deal, seven day six nights,all inclusive, fanny pack and tevas travel. Im talking about hostels, 36 hour bus rides, month old beard, "shit wheres the embassy", backpacking. Now I do not claim expert status. In fact one of my first lessons on the road was that there are way more hardcore travelers out there- folks who've been living out of a bag for year, that have no mailing address and carry around thick, ink drenched passports. I am not an expert, but I am compatable to the lifestyle.

Two months deep, the necessary ease and flexibility required of comfortable travel are formatted into my perspective. I roll into foriegn towns at dark with no bed booked, no food, no direction- with no anxiety. Stress is dissolved by the optimism that everything will eventually work out. Travel requires an acceptance that there will be pain, problems and lonliness. But all these things are trivial in the face of the beautiful big picture.

In terms of steering the course of a trip, nothing beats the advice of fellow travelers. Guidebooks end up being nothing more than exra weight. Over the course of this trip, I have cut my South American guide book in half and sent my Argentina one home. A good map is really the only necessary item. There are of course the occassional downfall with this minimalist approach. Recently, after getting as far south as I wanted, I planned to venture North through Chile. I learned then that between where I was and where I wanted to be was mostly all ice, and no bus traveled that route. Flexibility. To get to Pucon, my desired destination from Puerto Natales, I had to head four hours further south to Punta Arenas, then seven hours North East back into Argentina to Rio Gallegos, then 26 hours North back to Bariloche. Only then, at Bariloche, could I get a bus to Pucon. This is chess on a bigger board. Much like pawns must be moved out to bring bishops and rooks into the game to execute an eventual checkmate, getting somewhere often requires undesired stops along the way.

I love these stops though. They take me off the gringo tourist trail and reveal an authentic South America. Rio Gallegos for instance has no tourist draw, apart from its bus station. The small city is set up like a concentration camp- not a nazi camp, but like the ones Japanese-Americans were forced into during WWII. Rio Gallegos is made up of identical concrete dwellings that fit like legos into the town's simple grid structure. The hospital seemed to be a focal point. With its tin roof painted with a big red cross over a white circle, the building could have been plucked from the set of M.A.S.H.

Flights would eliminate these unneccesary sidetrips, but I am insistant on doing everything on the ground. So far I have logged 120 hours on buses. I have taken luxory buses where the seats recline to become a bed as well as not so comfortable buses where I've been crammed into a hot window seat next to an old lady with chronic flatulence. In the end, if its got a bathroom, I am happy.

Bus travel exposed me to the wonders that would only be green and yellow patchwork from the sky. Traveling back north via Argentina gave me another opportunity to whitness the mind numbing nothingness of the plains between Southern and Central Patagonia. Out my window, the terrain of yellow and dark, muddy green grass seemed endless. The sky gave points of reference to scale the distance of the terrain. In the foreground the sky was of a deeper blue and the dark bottoms of the clouds where the sun did not hit were visible. Beyond that the sky faded into a softer blue while the clouds shrunk in the distance. Depite its desolation, the scene was not lifeless. Heards of Guanocos (a close relative to the llama) and Nandu Ostriches nosed at the arid ground, searching for sustenance.

Traveling on the East Coast the road ran parallel to the Atlantic. I was overjoyed to be reunited with the Ocean I love. Seeing that familiar blue again, with birds diving into the white wash, I forgot where I was. I let my mind think that I was home again. Slithering back into my seat from the window, hoping the bus would stop so I could take in the salty air, my first real potent taste of homesickness hit. I almost wished I never saw it...almost.

When we arrived in Bariloche, I did not waste any time to book a ticket on the next bus out to San Martin. While I love Bariloche, it was becoming a black hole. This was my third time going through the Swiss town. I knew if I booked a room there, two days would turn into six pretty quick. So I suffered through another four hours, and got to San Martin.