| I would learn
to speak better Spanish, sell off my lifetime collection of stuff and journey
far from the familiar, all for the transcendent moment of discovery.
I found that
moment, November of ‘04 (several times) and our journey to Argentina
began.
May 10, 2005
Arkansas and it is climbing into the mid-90’s. Walking under trees has
become hazardous (ticks) as has walking on the grass (chiggers).
We are surveying our ranch for the last time; empty sheep and goat pens,
empty pastures where the horses had been, the pine covered ridge that
formed a barrier to the chicken house smells, lastly to the hill where
my favorite cat was buried... Time to move on.
Our caravan
consisted of a truck + car dolly, and the Uhaul rental truck. My wife Brandi
and daughter Sierra and I were driving to Portland Oregon, a mere 2100
miles away to return family heirlooms and meet a Delta Flt on the 18th.
No more than 4-5 days of driving - sort of a farewell tour of my life,
growing up in the Midwest, moving to the West coast when I was 11, then
on to Portland and a mini family reunion.
Lots of loose
ends tied up nicely.
Selling everything
you own-down to six, 70 lb boxes, that the airline would allow you to take
was an education. A favorite guitar, the bed that I will always miss, all
the pets, animals, tools, toys, books and music, 5 TVs, “Susie”
my ’85 short bed 4X4 truck, all gone to new homes. It had taken a lot of
‘things’ to fill our lives. Now we were stripped down to the basics
(only 2 computers) and looking to fill up our lives with different
experiences, people and things. Starting with that last look at the ranch,
we locked the gate for the last time at 1:30 and headed for Kansas, and
beyond.
The Uhaul truck
had looked a little shaky when we picked it up but we were assured that
we had 2100 trouble free miles ahead. “I just checked the oil and water
and you probably won’t need to add anything”. The radio didn’t work
and the AC fan cut out as we left Russleville. We drove 50 miles home and
the next day added 1.5 qts of oil.
I should have
thought...
But we had
just loaded a houseful of heavy furniture...
The battery
light flashed a few times as we left Arkansas, entering Missouri. Sometimes
the battery light syncopated with the “check engine” light but everything
was running the as usual: little power and very loud going up the slightest
grades. After a few bumps I noticed there were wires hanging down from
the dash but the radio had begun working. The truck drank lots of oil -
3qts - from Arkansas to the Nebraska line; after which, we didn’t need
another drop.
A mile past
Potter, Nebraska, all the engine lights came on and there was an ear shattering
BANG. I radioed ahead “Mayday! No Power! Going down!” and pulled
over to the side of the road with the engine banging loudly. I turned off
the motor in order to breathe.
I was born
in Lincoln, Nebraska. I had almost made it through the state to Wyoming,
where I grew up. I tried to find a pattern in these facts as I waited for
the mechanic to come. I sat in the lee of a hill and listened to the prairie
wind blow.
The mechanic
came, and connected a lot of wires and charged the battery. We needed an
alternator. He didn’t have one - we would have to go on to Cheyenne for
that, and besides he had only three fingers on his left hand - ”put
my hand where I shouldn’t have” – so he couldn’t have changed the alternator.
“You’ll make it to Cheyenne, now” he promised.
We did make
it - rolling - to the “Port of entry”, 6 miles short of Cheyenne,
Wyoming. The mechanic had to come from Loveland, Colorado, but he did have
the alternator, and even figured out a way to solve the mystery of several
different size, metric and common bolts, to install it.
The next day
we made it to Provo, Utah before we broke down. I had found the battery
laying on the posts and tied it down with a couple of plastic bags - don’t
leave home, without one - but the entire wiring harness was a mass of shorts
and had to be extensively reworked by the mechanic over 2 visits.
We were feeling
very good to be entering Oregon, finally. A few more hours and we would
be in Portland and I promised myself - "No more driving". I was
planning to give up my license and leave the driving to others, who still
enjoy it.
The mountains
are pretty in this part of the country but the long upgrades and dancing
with 18 wheelers is no fun in an underpowered moving truck.
The “service
engine” light came on and blinked off. Sometimes after I hit a bump,
it would blink on and off for a few seconds or minutes. Going down hill,
trying to gain momentum for the uphill, the lights would all blink and
the engine would lose power, briefly. Then on the Looong downhill on Hiway
84 as I passed a slow truck, all the lights flickered and the RPMs began
to fall. No Power! I had a truck right behind me and another beside me.
The emergency lights wouldn’t come on. The truck beside me was going the
exact same speed. Headlights behind me were blinking. My service engine
light finally came on and stayed on as I put the truck into neutral and
hoped gravity and the skill of the other drivers would save me.
It was so quiet
in the cab - just the whistle of the wind...
From above,
the scene must have been very graceful as the trucks swooped around the
slow-rolling, moving van.
“Goin’ down...Again”
I radioed.
Then, all chance
of an accident past, the RPM’s climbed as the familiar tired roar of the
motor returned. My speed increased to 40 then 50mph.
I could have
just gone on to Portland, if it wasn’t for my knees.
We get to Mum’s,
hurriedly unpacked the truck, kissed cheeks, slept a couple of hours, kissed
cheeks again and drove to the airport. Our six hernia-inducing heavy boxes
are sent scurrying to the plane. We are stopped, however, because my very
fragile, classical guitar is a problem. The carefully negotiated deal with
the airline to ‘carry on’ my old friend has disappeared. Finally a 100usd
later, (holding 3 $50usd coupons good for a Flt I will never take)
we are escorted to the gate. I am wondering if our boxes and my guitar
will appear in Atlanta then Buenos Aires, but as we collapse into our seats,
all things are in the hands of Delta. We slowly sink into a fetal position:
the plane taxis for the runway.
But wait there
is a Problem!
With the engine!
Imagine...engine problems...
One begins
to seriously consider the condition of Karma at this point. Particularly
when “Goin Down” has an important new significance.
We must return
to the gate; perhaps to “de-board” or maybe to just wait in our
seats. Should one take this as a cosmic hint and wait for another flight
(on a functional airplane) or are the demands of schedule so much
that you just hope for the best...
Our one hour
connection window, for the Buenos Aires flight, is down to 15 minutes.
The International Terminal is more than a mile from the Domestic Terminal
where we will be disembarking. A flight attendant (who’s pension hopes
have been dashed that day) kindly adds “ You’ll never make it -
you have to go by train”
But a few minutes
later the guy waving the feathers and flowers by the wing is satisfied
that the plane will leave the ground to become someone else’s problem,
and we are cleared for takeoff. We are “Expedited” due to our late
departure. Less than 20 minutes later we are in the air. The aw-shucksy
captain announces “There is a tailwind - this is good news- we will
make up time”(And Thanks for ‘choosing’ Delta). A few minutes
later as the Steward is mopping the drink remnants that he spilled on my
shoulder and sleeve, he explains, “the tailwind has turned into a headwind
and we are going to be arriving a little bit later”. (And thanks for
choosing Delta???)
In Atlanta,
we run for the shuttle train and against all the predictions, we make the
plane. I doubt either the boxes or my guitar have made the connection (an
unusual number of guys named “Vern” work for Delta).
On United Airlines
there are small ‘seatback’ monitors and a choice of 6 movies to
get you through the 11 hour flight. On Delta, there are several semi-obscured
screens with a Jim Carrey movie, unless you don’t like him, in which case
there is a Steve Martin “Family” movie with a dog that talks.
Half awake
after no sleep, complete exhaustion, and Jim Carrey ‘overload’ we
deplane in Buenos Aires (finally, with all our boxes AND my guitar).
Customs is never fun when you are carrying boxes the size of small trucks
and you cannot remember a single word of Spanish. So, we are stopped in
customs for carrying a lot of “Illegal” stuff, like computers and
chef knives. My Mexican influenced Spanish and the Agent’s Extraterrestrial
flavored ‘Castellano’ will never meet in a single’s bar.
You don’t have
return tickets. What is that all about he seems to be saying. Suspicion
abounds. The Agent begins calling people over.
He is holding
our passports like they are now evidence.
“Where are
you going?” someone asks.
Bariloche is
not the answer they are looking for. Other passengers are now watching
our little human drama. When are you going back to the United States? I
knew that my answer of, “not for the foreseeable future (maybe never),”
was not going to fly.
Quite a crowd
of the tallest, most robust, customs fellows were now surrounding us. Passengers
from our flight and a few passer-bys stare with that pitying look reserved
for criminals, caught and about to be brought to justice.
“We will
continue on to Chile” I try to say. Silence...
Then, All the
agents break into Big smiles. Our passports are thrust into our hands as
the Agents turn to one another (no doubt remarking, how the Notoriously
Scrupulous Chilean Customs service will have us over a slow fire in minutes).
I notice several
hands ease away from holsters.
Welcome back
to Argentina.
A blur of a
night in Buenos Aires and we catch the “semi-cama” bus to Bariloche.
These double-decker buses are completely different from the ‘grey dog’
buses in the States. Seats are comfortable and lay down almost completely,
with a leg support panel that locks into your seat. You really don’t mind
being on a bus for a few hours (unless you are 6ft tall or more).
Meals and drinks are served, just like on a plane. ‘Two tray’ meals are
served. A cold first, then a hot tray. I was concerned about the sway of
the upper deck - but not to worry - it was very comfortable. Very “first
world.”
The on-board
bathroom was strictly 3rd world. There was a mysterious fluid splashing
about, that smelled terrible and stained everything it touched blue - if
you were a boy, green if you were female. I drank very little after my
first visit to cut down on my participation in bathroom use. I will be
forever haunted by the accusatory eyes of the passengers on the lower,
bathroom level, seating. Blankets (complimentary) pulled up over
the nose-and just those tortured eyes staring at me...
Around 3AM
- or as I say - the moment I fell asleep - there is the sound of someone
spilling an ice-chest. “Everyone lift your feet” I holler as I try
to figure out where the hell I am. As luck would have it a rock or stray
bullet has exploded a 4ft by 2ft window in the rear of the bus. The closest
passengers begin to complain about the sub-freezing temperatures, and our
20hr ‘excursion’ becomes a marathon 23 hrs, as cardboard boxes and tape
are used to effect a repair. With the dawn we depart from our route to
change busses.
Our six elephant-like
boxes make the exchange as we watch, and we are off.
My hopes of
being met in Bariloche, with a truck that can hold and transport our herd
of boxes and limp bodies are shattered as we run hours and hours late.
Stories were
circulating in Buenos Aires that a freak snow storm had dumped 60cm of
snow in Bariloche. Planes were not flying and we would probably find the
entire population in a state of panic and misery. We comforted ourselves
with the thought that we would NEVER make this trip again. The depressing
‘flat prairie to the horizon’ view began to change. We could see
a mountain, clearly, in the distance. Signs listed Neuquen - the Capital
of the state of Rio Negro. Finally there was a sign with Bariloche on it!
There was snow,
but it just made the mountains look more beautiful. So even though we were
speeding toward personal destruction, it was wonderful to have made it
back to the Andes again.
A sign announced
“21km Bariloche” and we turned from our reverie and began to wonder,
what in the hell we were going to do. It was freezing outside; we had several
boxes the size of musk-oxen, that needed to be transported to an address
we hadn’t gathered yet. This was serious! Blindfaith in our friends and
associates was not going to get us home warm and dry. The thought of carrying
the boxes even a few hundred feet left me staggered.
A cell phone
behind us rang and a young female began chatting with a concerned friend
about her late arrival. Suddenly she is at my side, thrusting her phone
at me saying “su amigo, Matias”. Our welcoming committee had tracked
us down- they looked through the passenger list for someone they knew,
who had a cell phone, with a number they knew, so that they could call
us and tell us everything was all right. A truck to carry the boxes, and
a warm car waiting for us at the station.
Less than an
hour later; while standing in front of my first home in Bariloche, I watched
Cerro Cathedral peeking out through curtains of mist.
The next day
as we rode the “urbano” bus into town the transmission failed. As
the driver pulled over to the side of the road, he looked up at the mirror,
to see our faces...
“Not your
fault” we said...
The following
are the previous articles that Doug wrote for the magazine:
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