Detour

Act I

It was an easy decision: stay in Santiago until at least Friday and hope the weather on the pass would clear, or leave right away and go south to a different pass. We had already been to the station two straight miserable mornings to have the trip cancelled and even were an hour into the journey once before turning around. We were ready to move on from Chile. It had rained on us, poured on us, for the entire time we were in Santiago and Valparaiso, we were wet, mugged, and tired, we were leaving. Dave and I signed up for the trip on two different lists with two different companies and then rounded up Zach from the hostel and got set to go.

After slogging through the rain back to the terminal at the set time, we were informed that both of the companies had combined their lists together for a bigger minibus and we didn’t make the cut. We would have to wait another day. I went into angry customer mode and demanded answers. Dave and Zach, having the ability to actually speak Spanish had better results at communication our unhappiness, but I like to think loud harsh noises and big gestures are universal. Several other options materialized and vanished over the course of the next hour as we bounced from office window to office window. Finally we were again promised a ride from a sleazy looking paunchy guy with an office full of cheap furniture and out of focus pictures of minibuses. We agreed to go for the horribly gouged price and began the waiting game. Time of departure was to be 7.

The trip would be a ridiculous exercise in detour. Imagine taking a road trip from Los Angeles to Las Vegas by way of Seattle on poorly maintained two lane country roads. We prepared ourselves for the journey by visiting the food court at the bus station and eating whatever greasy goodness fit our particular dietary needs and then at 7 were out in the rain and cold at the appointed gate of departure. But the bus was not there… We waited and waited and waited.

Finally a minimally equipped bus pulled in and we began to load up. There were 10 narrow seats that didn’t recline and little else. It would be a long 22 hours for sure. To make matters worse at the last minute a crazy looking woman showed up with enough luggage for a family of 5, 6 or 7 purses and about 25 coats and jackets, while there should have been ample room for stretching out, the 3 or us were stuffed together in a single row while the lady packed in bag after bag after bag. She then hopped up front and at around 7:30 we pushed off and began to go to Mendoza.

Actually, the woman was directing the driver to what appeared to be her house where she ran in to get something. The driver looked like a combination of The Count from Sesame Street, Grandpa Munster, and Gargamel from the Smurfs: ugly, old, and angry. He was not happy to have to take such an out of the way trip before beginning a much longer out of the way trip. The woman got back into the bus and began to guide us back to the highway, only she got a bit lost and it was well over 90 minutes before we were again moving.

We were concerned about there being only a single driver for such a long trip, but fortunately we picked up another driver at the edge of the city who looked fresh, young, and awake. As we moved south, it became very clear that the bus was not really heated as we had been promised (actually I believe the interaction went something like this… Dave: “Is the bus heated?” Fat Sleazy Guy: ” Of Course!”) nor was it really insulated. We heard a loud clatter at one point and Zach informed me that the rear-view mirror had fallen off the windshield. That didn’t make it any easier to sleep as we shook and shivered in the cramped metal box, but somehow time trudged past and we arrived at the border to Argentina.

Once we had gotten across with ease, the sun came up and the scenery was beautiful. Mountains and lakes were dotted with bizarre trees and the road wound from valley to valley. We were feeling pretty good about ourselves having slipped into Argentina against the odds and from the looks of it Mendoza was not too far away. By the evening we would be at the epicenter of South American wine country surrounded by beautiful women. Life was good.

Act II

Then I looked up and realized that the landscape had changed. We had been transported to the Texas panhandle. Gone were the vistas of snow-capped peaks and deep blue lakes. Taking there place was…nothing. The road sign said we were still over 100 kilometers from Neuquen and the guide books told us it would be another 10 or 12 hours from there to Mendoza. It was already 3 p.m. and the sun had started to droop toward the horizon. We finally pulled into a gas station and the younger driver assured us we would arrive in “7, 8, 9 hours max.” As we stocked up on chips and yogurt we joked: “7, 8, 15 hours max.” If only we knew then what was in store for us.

We got a taste of what was to come when we pulled out of Neuquen, then reentered it, then tried to leave a different way stopping every few blocks to ask which way to go. It didn’t matter if they were tarring a roof, riding a bicycle, or waiting for a bus, they were experts in the eyes of our two bumbling drivers. Dave pulled out his map and we passed it forward. They waved it off at first but then had to admit that they were totally lost. I also offered my compass and when we made yet another u-turn I had lost my faith in their ability to get us to Mendoza. They were lost. The Count got real mad and his partner gently tried to quiet him down with a calm voice and reassuring words. It was like watching an old married couple.

At about 5 p.m. Dave and I jokingly discussed how long they would be able to go before losing all energy. They had already been going for the better part of 20 hours and I doubt they were able to sleep much in that little passenger seat. At about 7 I noticed that The Count, who had been driving for a good while, was tired. His eyes were drooping and his blinking would slowly morph into half-second naps. Occasionally he would get real focused on driving and wring his hands on the wheel, leaning up real close to the windshield, but it was to no avail. Within 30 seconds he was playing the bobbing head game. I nudged Sleepy and he quickly became aware of the situation.

I couldn’t understand everything they said, but I imagine it went something like this:

Sleepy: “Are you tired?”

The Count “No.”

S: “You look tired.” He reached out a hand to touch The Count’s shoulder tenderly.

C: “I’m not.”

S: “You´ve got rings under your eyes.”

C: “Do not.” He then took the rear-view mirror in his hand and began to study his eyes skeptically.

The Count, who had just been falling asleep at the wheel wasn’t convinced but seemed more awake and they put on a CD and chatted until we reached the dinner stop. The other van, the one that we should have been on, pulled up at the same place and we chatted with a guy we had met in Valpo about his experience. “It sucks, the heating isn’t all that great, they don’t tell us if a stop is for food or the bathroom, and if the guy in front of you leans his chair back you have to lean yours back to, but at least there are a lot of movies on the big T.V. screen so it isn’t all bad.”

At least Sleepy was rested and taking the wheel so that The Count could sleep and it wasn’t nearly as cold as the night before. It was looking like we would be on the road until about 2:30 a.m. but at least the driver would be awake and aware. I began to write in my journal and read and let my mind wander away from the present. When I looked up about an hour later we were in the wrong lane and Sleepy, true our name for him, had begun to drift off. I clapped and his head shot back up but he was still in the wrong lane. The Count woke up and as we slowly inched back to the right side of the road he asked Sleepy if he was tired. “Nah.” Again I was alert and watched Sleepy’s sleepy eyes losing there light and glossing over. The road was an arrow heading straight for the horizon, but we bobbed around the lane nonetheless.

An Intervention:

Dave told the bag woman and the other remaining passenger that the driver needed sleep and the other guy came up to the front to see for himself. They began to talk a bit and the driver perked up a bit, but the other passenger became concerned. He stayed up there watching as the guy fell asleep whenever he blinked and then woke again with a start. He turned on the radio, changed the station, put on a CD, still a sleepy Sleepy.

The Last Desperate Act of a Tired Man:

He leaned in to the windshield as if to say “Huh!? What was that? Oh, nothing…” then leaned back into his warm soft comfy chair. So tired. He slowed down to 60 kmph then sped back up to 90 kmph. He looked over at the sleeping Count and the alarmed passenger. He looked back at the road and returned to his lane. He reached over to roll down the window. Ah, fresh air, nice, so awake, so very alert and able to…”I’m done.”

Act III

The Count took the wheel again angrily and Sleepy retired to the back seat with his tail between his legs to sleep. Dave and Zach and I were wide awake and watching the road. The other passenger moved to shotgun and kept watch from the front. Within a couple minutes we heard the chattering snores of Sleepy from the back seat and laughed to ourselves. The Count was very awake, but his eyes were still tired.

Things moved along smoothly for a while and Dave and Zach decided to try to catch some winks. An hour later Sleepy woke with a chortle and returned to the front seat refreshed so the other guy could sleep. When Sleepy again nodded off, The Count jerked the wheel to wake him back up but it didn’t last. I woke up Dave and we both watched the road and laughed, delirious with exhaustion.

The Count mumbled to himself angrily. We had hit a junction and might have gone the wrong way. Sleepy was dead to the world. A long time passed before we saw a mileage sign with Mendoza on it.

Mendoza – 240km

I think it was our laughter that kept The Count awake. We would joke that the trucks parked on the side of the road were turning into big comfy beds beckoning The Count in. “Pssst…Over here. It’s snuggles the bed. Turn out the light and come to bed!” We imagined the long shot of our van accelerating, lights out, into a parked semi. We laughed.

We imagined The Count being pulled over by a police officer. “Count, how many hours have you been awake?” “One…two…” and then bleary eyed mumbling “wendyweight…wendywine…fwurty…furtywun……..wendywine.” “Alright Count, out of the car I’ve seen enough. Do you know how many years we’re putting you away?” We laughed. The Count mumbled.

We began to tickle the ear of Sleepy who was in a deep sleep. We laughed. Zach though we had cracked.

Finally Mendoza climbed over the horizon and we pulled into the bus terminal, 32 hours after departing. The fourth place that we went to in town had vacancy and we went to bed.

City of the Dead

In Santiago we wandered over to the cemetery and meandered through the avenues lined by mausoleums and graves before finding the section with bodies stacked 10 high where we paused to take this lovely photograph.  It will likely be the cover to our new EP “The Hunka-Hunka Promise” in stores this summer.

A Night in Valpo

Well…it happened. After a nice long night of dancing with beautiful Chilean women Dave and I were mugged while walking back to our hostel. Twice. The scant amount of change in my wallet and a nearly expired driver’s license were the only losses and I can now say that I’ve had a knife in my face. All’s well though and they didn’t get the camera.

Salar de Uyuni

A while back Zach and I crossed into Chile from Bolivia through the amazing Salt Flats of Uyuni.  More words to come…