Salta Snowfall

The following is a true story. It has not been hyperbolized or edited. In fact, it is taken WORD for WORD out of my hand-written journal mere days after the events occurred in January, 2004. This is the closest that I have ever come to death. This is a long story of my adventure over Abra Acay, but, in my humble opinion, definitely worth the read. My parents have only heard the abridged version of what happened, and with reason too, they would have pulled me home from Argentina if they only knew... at the risk of death by the hands of my mother, indulge.

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The day began later than we had expected, but earlier than our exhausted bodies could get out of bed. Our only goal wasnt to shower but rather to make it to a rent-a-car agency and try to begin a three day rental so we could explore the postcard shots of Salta and Jujuy at our own pace and exposure. Little were we to know what exposure we would have. Like any summer day in northwest Argentina, it was hot.

Think we should wear shoes? Ben asked, looking at our sandaled feet.

Yeah, youre right, I said, We just might have to walk a bit.

After calculating the prices, it was apparent that wed be saving money, while listening to music and being more comfortable at the same time in a rent-a-car. So, with no particular place to go, we headed towards the town center and by great luck found ourselves surrounded by rental car agencies with no less than three choices. Sudamerics and their friendly services struck Ben and within thirty minutes, we had ourselves a small silver Fiat, who we later called Arla. We filled Arla up and hit route 51 rolling, listening to music, with the windows down and basically just having a grandeur time.




I proclaimed; Im shocked that Fiat hasnt used the slogan, Just fiat that youll have an awesome time in a Fiat, meaning, hey look at the fun we were having, twisting around turns in a full tank of gas, its pretty much given that Arla will supply us with our fun. We smiled as we continued on. The first photo-op came when the pavement turned into a dirt road hugging the walls of a green mountain valley and Arla, at that point just our trusty Fiat, drove through a trickling stream. There, we took a picture of Ben behind the wheel rocking it in his Punta del Este t-shirt and Billabong board shorts. Clearly this road was everything a sunny day in California could throw at us.


Although as we traveled through the valley, the sun began to disappear behind the clouds, we were still supplied with awesome views of the, what seemed to be, painted canyon.




Zig zagging over the river Toro, the weather grew disappointingly cooler.





I followed along on the map both our route and our elevation. Arla had successfully managed to climb from 1,200 meter to 3,800 meters above sea level as we pulled into San Antonio de los Cobres, our destination.





It was roughly 3:30 and we hadnt eaten since the jamon crucido that morning. Ben drove around looking for somewhere to eat in this ghostly old mining town. If there was anyone else around, they were hidden from us. But that only seemed easy in this barren valley by the rows of identical homes constructed by the old mining company. Aged signs pointed us in the direction of El Rancho, a small corner building facing the dirt road we came in on above. It appeared closed as everything else, but out of starvation I knocked and a child popped out of the room in back and came to the door waiting for his mother to open it.

Are you serving food? Katie asked knowing from these valleys that it was all too possible that they werent.

Yes. Come in. They were excited to have guests and told us the two items on the verbal menu. Two of their six children, Milton and Ronaldo, thrived on our attention. They got tourists around every once in a while, but never American tourists. Where did we come from? Where were we going? We really should stay in San Antonio de los Cobres for the night; they could lodge us for much cheaper than the $3.50 we were paying for a night in Salta, it would be safer too. Were we going to the famous viaduct? Yes, we were. Wed enjoy it, and their food, they said. And after we were given the tour of their place, and the llama wool merchandise, the food came out. It was enjoyable; they had been true to their word, in more than one way. We ate our empanadas and our milanesa with salad, Katie did not have more than one e mpanada and coca tea because she had filled up on cookies. We humored their attention with digital photos and purchasing llama woven hats and scarves.





Sure, I thought Ill buy a stupid cap, theyre only five bucks. I grabbed one and would later stuff it into the glove compartment. As the flan was brought out Milton asked his father if he could show us the way to the viaduct and without hesitation his father conceded to his sons wishes and sent his two sons with complete strangers. With the two in the back seat with Katie, he headed towards the viaduct and laughed and talked about their isolation and otherwise enjoyed each others company.





An hour round trip ended as we drove through pools of water and mud and bragged about how much our friends back home would love the fact that we were roughing it and splashing in this fiat.






We returned Milton and Ronaldo safe and sound back to their home and we promised to send our photos to the address they gave us. It was growing late so we had to press on. Doubling back on our route into town is where the slowly growing climatic music would begin.

Go right here, right I told Ben to split off from our route home and to head towards the mountain pass that led to Cachi. We nearly missed the turn off because the road melted into the dirt fields on either side. Ben soon grew tired of swerving around the rocks in the middle of the road and asked to switch drivers. I volunteered seeing as how I wanted to have my third manual driving experience in the altiplanos of northwest Argentina. With the clouds growing darker and the road ahead growing higher I thought for the final time to myself to ask if this were a good idea or not. After taking photos of the sheep on the side of the road running towards their adobe pueblo I decided that it was a good idea, what better way was there to experience the valleys of Salta.




You do know how to change a flat tire, right? Ben asked me.

Ummm no. I laughed and shifted the car into gear and headed right for the grey hills. At first, a little scared of the poor conditions and the steep drop off without a railing, I took it slowly. Honking around every turn, its safe, I thought, but out loud I stated, Whats the point? We havent seen another car on this road. We probably wont even run across another either.





I took a sharp right and swerved from a rock. We entered the pass which was filled with empty wine bottles. I guess this was the place to get drunk, it was also the point in the melodramatic plot that the camera would scan out from the winding car and with the menacing clouds pushing down on the hill and the screen would grow dark. I stalled the car shifting gears down, and I got stuck in a rut. Ben took the wheel again and rolled back down and then back up the hill we went.

Hey, take some pictures of the snow, Ben said as Katie leaned forward to get a picture of the accumulating flurries ahead through the windshield.





Damn its cold, I said, and the snow only got stronger.

Yeah, and great, all we need is inclimate weather now, Ben sarcastically replied and we wound further up the road. It was when we couldnt see the mountains surrounding us that we were supposed to have the most amazing view crossing Abra Acay, the highest pass in the area* at just under 5,000 meters.





Arla pulled to the side of the road and we jumped out into the snow to take pictures to remember the cold and the height, shivering in our t-shirts and Katies sandals we didnt realize that we wouldnt need any help remembering these two elements later.




We were 45 km from San Antonio de los Cobres, 45 km from the next town, La Poma, where hopefully we would eat, and we were 5 km up in the sky.






As quickly as we could, we jumped into the car from outside, turned up the heat and began our decent. As Ben drove through the snow that now covered the entire road, he said, Good thing we switched drivers.

Yeah, I thought to myself or else wed probably now be stranded in the rain down before the pass. It became where we couldnt see the turns ahead, Damn wed better go down quickly, back to where we can see the road. I wanted Ben to hurry, but I wanted Ben to slow down too.




Around one downward angle we turned in the blizzard and Arla slid along the snow. Dave Matthews was singing to us from our speakers and I leaned forward trying to get some heat from the vents, and then we hit it. It wasnt a large rock, but the thump was felt as the back right side of Arla lifted, the car stalled and Ben slammed on his break around the sharp U turn ahead. We coasted and he stopped. Three times he attempted to restart Arla, three times she told him no. It was silent, really silent. A wind blew the dropping snow against our car, Katie began to freak out and then I followed along after the car wouldnt move again. It was not possible to believe this. We didnt know what happened, the engine was not dead as the wipers were still working, but they remained the only sound as we just stared ahead into white, and then down at Arla, mouths open, wondering what she did to us.

No way. No way! Ben said and we got out of the dead car. Alright, lets push it and try to start up the engine. Katie, in her sandals, was on one side of the car and I was on the other. A blue fluid leaked onto the snow. The engine made the worst sound we could hear at this point: nothing

I think its leaking gas, Katie screamed while looking at brown spots on the snow and as the car stopped on the side of the road.

No way Ben and I said in unison, looking at the snow, still in complete awe. I dont know much about cars. In fact, I know pretty much only that you need a key to start it, but I was sure that we were not leaking fuel. The snow collected on my hair and we stared at Arlas misdeed, none of us with a clue of what to do. Realizing there must be something useful in the trunk we opened it and pulled out a bag of items. It was getting way too cold and we jumped into the car. That is when I saw the flat tire. The tire wasnt just flat, it was squished, squished like or fates. This upsetting information made wiping the snow from our heads and feet in the car more enjoyable, we shivered and began to look through our goodie bag.

In times like these I recall its just as important to remain calm and optimistic and that I did. Inside, I was as scared as a little white boy in a t-shirt caught in a blizzard a marathon away from civilization and angry at myself for being completely naive, but outside I tried to remain as cool as it was outside of the car.

How much water do we have? was Bens first question making us realize we might actually have a larger problem than we had expected.

We all have a little Katie said and suddenly I felt embarrassed that I ate the last of the cookies, we had no food, and I saw the empty bag down by my numb feet. It was 7:25pm and the already darkened clouds grew opaque. Whilst contemplating aloud what to do, I took the first step by putting together the reflecting triangles. So that any car from either direction could see them we placed them on top of the car and in the middle of the road. But good luck, our best chance was to wait for someone to drive by and to take us to whatever the next town was. I remained very optimistic, but the truth remained, no one would be as stupid as us and drive up into a blizzard as the sun was setting. It stayed unsaid but we were all expecting very little. It was fear that kept us utterly silent and the harsh cold that had kept us from not moving. Katie suggested that we all move to the back seat and keep warm. After Ben tried to start the car one more time, we hopelessly relented and moved to the back and huddled. That hardly kept us warm. To remind myself of my llama hat in the glove compartment at that point would have been to be too smart. We shivered. We prayed. As I looked down at my watch I realized the first hour had passed quickly, and dark, but the rest would go by real slow. I promised myself to not look at my watch until morning.

While there was still just a little bit of light, Ben and Katie read aloud the latest psalms Ben had been reading, 9-16. This gave me a relief in a way it shouldnt have. Reading the Bible did not strike me with warmth of Gods salvation, the frigid air was still there leaking through the windows we cracked down to breathe. No, reading the Bible told me that God was with other people at that moment. But I realized that there were indeed others around the world that night in far worse positions than me. There were those who had to deal with this starvation every night, there were those who might be throwing up as Ben was, not because of extreme mountain sickness, but because their diseases were fatal and there were others in the world praying to God at that same moment we were. I prayed for them that night, I wanted God to be somewhere else, for others sakes

When I found my hat, it gave me a little chance for a smile. But with Ben having trouble breathing from the elevation and Katie taking my socks for her feet, there was little else to smile about.

How you doing, Ben? Katie asked.

He replied with both a blunt and pointed, Not good at all.

Neither am I, said Katie followed by a; Chris?

Im fine, I said and I rolled my cap over my eyes and tried to fall asleep. But it was way too hard, heavy breathing, snow falling and disappearing light led my mind in a hundred and six different directions. What are we going to do tomorrow? What are we going to do tonight? Are no cars passing? When will the snow stop? What if it doesnt stop? Should we go back where we came from? Should we head to a city weve never seen? Why cant I feel my lower back? And we all were thinking, how did we get so stupid? I wondered if Ben needed medical attention, if Katie needed to go to the bathroom in only socks. Of course we couldnt rest and as long as our eyes remained open we could see the snow piling up; maybe it was time to pray to God for myself.

Although we slept on and off, no one could sleep for more than minutes at a time, if we werent huddled it was too cold, if we huddled we were in such uncomfortable positions. But we didnt care, elbows jabbing each other, chins pressed on backs, body parts going numb, faces in bosoms, none of us had brushed our teeth.





My head throbbed with pain. If I wanted to breathe, I had to roll down the window. We all went through the same crazy and continuous dreams that night, they were the kinds that although interrupted, continued and felt so real even when you woke up. Ben kept seeing and hearing cars pass, Katie bought a coke from some guy and then realized that she forgot to ask him to help us out. Apparently for me there was a village down the road and they were real nice people, they didnt have a phone but they did have a tire shop. So we had that going for us.



The sun rose at 7:15, almost a full half day later, and it peaked out from some clouds. The good news was that it had stopped snowing during the night, I dont know if I dreamed that or if I saw it during the night, but the skies had cleared and we could see outside. Unfortunately there were no tire tracks along side of out car, only body liquids. There was about to be more as I had held myself in since the previous afternoon. The closest town was about 27 miles away I kept reminding myself, we were in shorts and there was snow outside and inside. Do we wait it out and risk no one coming by? No, I could not let that happen, we could not stay another night, with no food and only snow for water, it could not be, and then wed have to make the same decision the next day, only weaker. Unfortunately, Ben was too sick to move, let alone do a 9 hour walk. I dont even know if I would be fit to do that in top shape. And then what happens?





Our car is in the mountain, its 6pm and were in a town we know nothing about? We were a 5 hour drive from Salta and the car dealership. Needless to say we sat around for a bit to think it out. At 8am, we braved it out and went outside to change the tire.





Forget how cold it was, we were weak. Ben couldnt unscrew the bolts so we just kicked the hubcap off, then we finally got the tire off, it had a gash the size of a half dollar. There was no way to repair it. But when we finally got the spare on and tried the engine, it didnt work, again. So again we sat, helpless and afraid.

Instead of walking down 45 km we decided to put the car in neutral and roll it as far as we could.






That worked for about one fourth of a kilometer, and then we stopped. It was beautiful around us; I guess we could have picked an uglier place to get stranded. Huge glistening mountains reflected from the suns morning glows, rolling white fields and vicunas eating in a herd.





At least from pushing the car we warmed up a bit. Ben decided to collect snow in his nalgene for water and I did too. Then, with enough strength we managed to get the car up the slope and get it rolling. After a kilometer we were out of the snow, what out luck, we could have been there the night before. Arla rolled another four kilometer before we finally reached an uphill battle we couldnt win.





Although we had managed to push Arla into warmer weather and through streams and over rocks, we had to call it quits still forty kilometers from La Poma. We stopped outside of the adobe pueblo from my dream. They didnt have a phone, a car or even a horse for that matter and unfortunately they didnt have a tire repair shop either. With Arla dead on the side of the road all we could do was walk. So, towards La Poma we went. We didnt get yet two kilometers and I saw others!

There walking down the road, although I didnt know it at the time was a miracle, divine intervention, Ben's father's prayer for the safety of his son earlier that morning coming to life. Walking along the road were two tourists from Spain and seven locals walking down the road, clearing rocks, their vehicles parked behind them. We stopped to talk and found out that the Spaniards had taken the same route we had the previous night and had had to sleep farther down, because of the rain, there were rivers that couldnt be crossed. They recommended us to turn around. No way. No way! Not up hill I thought, not up another 1,000meters. Not only is that three sears towers but its an added 2 hour walk. But, when they said something of coming with them, my ears perked. The lo cals had room in their trunk. We jumped at the idea. I was incredibly grateful and walked ahead and helped move rocks. We hopped into their truck until we got back to our own car. They wanted to look and see what was wrong.





The car wouldnt start for them. They looked at the engine with confused looks. I heard one say, This is different, and they fiddled with.






One looked under the car and said that indeed we had bumped something; he wanted a closer look, so all the guys lifted the car onto two rocks and our local pal slid underneath on a tarp and pulled out the tools. While he was working diligently we sat and watched and talked. Minutes later he yanked off a broken cover and said we broke the fuel filter and had indeed been leaking fuel.





We had lost the hose and the tank was no longer connected. Just great, we wondered how much this would cost us. He continued to work, pulled out a few more things, put some others in, and sent his coworker up to the pueblo to get something. He frowned his face once or twice went to back of his truck, got masking tape and unbelievably to everyone pulled out a hard plastic straw, cut it and taped it to something under the car. We all cracked up, but when he told Ben to turn on the car and on the second try it started, we werent laughing anymore. In complete shock we hoped the car back off the rocks and although we only had about a quarter tank or less left we coasted back to San Antonio de los Cobres.








We drove past where we had stayed the night, it was bright and most of the snow had melted. We worked our little engine that could up to the top of the pass where we found out that the empty wine bottles wer e to pledge the mother earth to guarantee a safe journey, for Pancha Mamas protection. It was ironic that we passed right by them on our way up and made sure to double our pleas on the way down.



After gas and dinner in town we head towards Salta by way of the original route with the Spaniard couple following us back to make sure nothing went wrong.





We got in at about six at night, thanked the couple, bought soccer tickets, trashed the broken parts from our car and returned to our hostel where they didnt know we were gone. The whole way home we cussed Arla out, saying how much she sucked but not saying it loud enough for her to hear and crap out again. We didnt play music, we didnt speed, we just went home and as Ben and I pulled into the rent-a-car lot, a day early because we had enough of renting cars, I proclaimed; Just fiat youll have a shitty time in a Fiat. We paid $195 pesos for a new tire, cap and realignment. We didnt tell them about the tape and the straw and wire holding together the bottom of their car. But we did eat at McDonalds that night.
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Maybe we could sled down the hill.- Katie in absolute sincerity.

I brought my dad home a stuffed armadillo from Ecuador because for some reason I thought my dad like armadillos. But he doesnt.- Katie.
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*Abra Acay, I would later find out, is the HIGHEST PASS IN THE WORLD. At over 5,000 meters high, it is the world's highest point over a National Route.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 6 of 3

The Argentine bus that I rode had come to a sudden and complete stop, but my sojourn had not. No, I was sure that there were still surprises to come. I strained my neck to look to the front of the bus. Ahead lay fire and a group of men creating a roadblock. Pirates! Well, the men blocking the road weren't as much as pirates as they were radical political activists. But I'll continue to address them as pirates to add to the dramatic elements of my story.

The pirates boarded our bus and I slid my camera under the seat in front of me: "Attention, ladies and gentlemen, we represent Seu Andseu running for office here in Tucuman Provence."

'Wait', I thought, 'why on God's great big ball of mass were we still in Tucuman?' That was still ten hours from Buenos Aires.

"We demand a donation from every passenger to support his campaign," the men began walking down the aisle collecting coins from all the passengers. This was nuts! I was a little excited because I had never been held for ransom by pirates before. Now I can't say that. (Not only because of this bus ride, but also because of my weekend in Somaliland. (Which, of extreme importance to note, is NOT a family-friendly theme park but rather an autonomous region of Somalia with a literal ton of pirates*)) . On the bus, I wasn't nearly as fearful as I was satisfied that, again, more turmoil was added to my journey.

It appeared that God's plan lay right before me in the wrinkled countenance and bad breath of a Tucumani Pirate. I reached into my wallet, 'Oh crap!', I realized, "I don't have any money"[insert the incarnation of a frown-face emoticon here].

Enrique handed them another peso. "No," demanded a pirate who was scowling at me, "what have you got?"

"An empty wallet?" I tried to escape my quandary with humor. No, he didn't like that answer. Damn pirates never laugh at jokes about money, politics or Rabbis I would later find out.

"Fear?" I tried again. No, no empathy towards my situation. The tension rose like mercury on Mercury. In a sly movement, I shifted my seat and kicked my camera further hidden under the seat affront. I searched for anything else to give them. How about an action figure? No, he knew that it was dead. Notes from a friend back home? No, I left those behind. I wish I had brought my chest of golden medallions. I always seemed to forget that when I needed it the most (see: Somaliland mistake).

Finally, providently weighing consequences, I chose not to play with fire. I mean, these were pirates that I was interacting with, and I am no ninja. I unfortunately had to resort to my inference skills rather than my Ninjatō or Shuriken skills. This was a real shame because I can think of no better situation for the use of a ninja star. Notwithstanding this dilemma, I descried** from across the aisle that one of the most brute of pirates was not wearing socks with his alpargatas. A pirate without socks? What gives? Boat decks can get rather damp and slimy, especially to the wavefaring marauder. After an instant's pause, I looked up, shrugged and then carefully rose my foot to offer an unspoken barter: my socks for the toll.

A head nod closed the deal, and Seu Andseu's campaign had a new pair of white Reebok ankle-length gym socks that had been embrowned by the Altiplano dust. I had my life, a ten hour trip ahead of me, slight hunger and the newfound opportunity for athlete's foot. But this was the worst that it could get, right?

[[Right??? Come right back for part 7 of this emotional 3-part Argentine odyssey.]]
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*After a mild case of Stockholm Syndrome, I joined my captors in a rather short lived game of "Biggest Somali Pirate Loser" where we measured our collective weight to be exactly 2,002lbs.

**Do not attempt to use the word "descry" in a pickup line at a bar (or in a pickup line at a whale-watching conference***).

***Do not attempt pick up girls at whale-watching conferences (do not attempt to pick up the whales either, it usually takes a crew and a crane. Mere quixotism and the 'I can!' attitude will not suffice).

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 5 of 3

Given the precedent set by the previous events on this tour, my rest was better than I could have expected. I was only awoken a few times through the course of the night, and the person behind me was gracious enough to let the little hand hit the six before he started to shout.

"I'm dying. I'm dying. I'm dying," he pierced the general hum of the moving road with his shrieks, "I'm dying!"

My heart jumped up and so did I to turn behind my headrest. There sat a five-year-old boy banging two plastic men together.

"I'm dying. I'm dying," it was kind of cute, I thought. There were other verbs he could be using while banging the men together.

"I'm dying," he gave me a huge toothless grin while his mother, after years of practice, remained quietly asleep aside him.

"I'm dying. I'm dying, " he continued, dissipating all lingering forms of cuteness in his play.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." What a wonderful narrative surmise of my trip, I thought, and it's getting really annoying.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." How long does it take your plastic man to die? I turned around again and chided him.

"Shut up," I said. But this time his mother was awake and she gave me a look that could be read word for word as follows:

"My kid? Shut up? Listen, punk, you shut up! Ha! The guy who made the whole bus stop last night because he couldn't hold it in is telling my kid to shut up? Turn your honky-ass around!"

Well, maybe her look didn't scream that last part, but it was effective enough to make me turn and bear disgrace.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." We spoke in unison, "I'm dying."

Unable to return back to a semi-peaceful state, I stared out the window to watch the sunrise. Ah, yes! When one wakes before the sun rises, he can make the most of his day. He is blessed with opportunity. A sunrise provides both literal and figurative enlightenment. The entrance of the sun allows me to push yesterday's woes behind me and to bask in today's chance to make anew. Yes, the sunrise brightens spirits and fills each day with a spectrum of....wait! Why was the sun rising out of my window on the right of the bus? Even being in the southern hemisphere couldn't explain this anomaly.

"Take 'er really easy, Chris. You don't know what's going on." I thought. But that was the problem, I didn't know what was going on anymore. The best solution at this moment was to sigh and accept. This was a cursed trip from the outset. The realization should have made it more manageable, but it didn't. I stared out the window, I had nothing with which I could pass the time we were heading backwards except for my journal. (At this instant, I'd like to point out that my notebook was more of a Magellanesque tale of adventure than a pre-teenage girl's diary. Well, who am I kidding?)

"Dear Diary," I wrote. "I can't wait to finally get back to my room where I can rest peacefully and dream of all my crushes, omg!" I continued with seemingly endless similes for what my heart felt like. I think I was writing about the way Danny looked at me during third period when a sudden interruption shook my pen. The bus had slowed as a result of the sudden friction applied to it's wheels by the break pads, in other words: the driver slammed on the brakes when we came to an unexpected (yet unsurprising) obstacle in the road. What was surprising, however, was what happened next.

[[You'll unfortunately have to wait a short time for the shock and awe that follows this lingering suspense/angst. Part six of this three-part odyssey will be presented soonafter we complete contract negotiations with a certain Hollywood A-List celebrity who may be playing the role of the Bus Driver. We've already signed Danny DeVito on as the five-year-old boy in the forthcoming crag-laden movie.]]

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 4 of 3

Alone we sat in the darkest of the Altiplano steppes. My need for use of a bathroom had caused my entire bus to stop where there was nothing but an expansive lack of restrooms. The driver's frustration-fueled forceful stop was sure to have awoken those easily awoken by frustration-fueled forceful stops. The parallel structure of this moment was that while my entire bus was isolated from civilization, I was the lone maverick who was isolated from them. There I stood on the steps of the bus, a solitary bohemian*, segregated by my fellow Passenger, ready to take charge, unaccompanied, peering into the think black yonder. **

I slowly stepped from the bus, which as dark as it was outside, remained even darker on the inside. I was wise enough to know that this caused a problem of physics. I wouldn't be able to see in, but all who were on the window could easily see definition of figures out. I didn't care. Because even though there wasn't a shrub large enough for the Knights who say Ni!, I really, really had to go to the bathroom. So I took in a large breath, gathered myself and ran alongside of the bus. It was hopeless to try to run out of sight, so I analyzed that my best option was to hover as closely to the side of the bus as possible.

Well, I didn't have much time to think so I simply acted. And, picture it if you must, there I sat exposed to my greatest fears. I sure put the "Bare Ass" into embarrassing. But I was relieved! (Pun intended).

Then, like a brick face to the wall, the realization hit that, in my haste, I hadn't prepared myself with paper. I started to grow concerned and began to frantically search around me. Nothing. I patted myself down to find to my elation and/or discomfort that, in my pants' pockets remained the letters from my friend back home.

"Well," I settled the idea in my mind, "If there's ever been justification for this... now is the time." With a great sense of guilt amalgamated with my excessive embarrassment and half-nudity, a large and grotesque allegorical monster crawled inside my chest. My stomach felt better, but my heart rate was askew. Externalizing my palpitation, I jumped up, left my letters for the Alpaca, covered up the hole I dug and boarded the bus.***

Refreshed, yet head hung, I skulked back to my seat. If I had a tail, it would have been hiding between my legs. Enrique showed my a picture he took of me outside and then the bus stopped five miles later at a rest stop for gas and snacks. From what I heard, the toilets were nice...

[[Please stay tuned for part 5 of this knuckle-whitening, teeth-clenching, throat-gagging 3-part series of my adventures through the Argentine desert. Don't touch that dial, I'll be right back.]]

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*Note: I'm not Bohemian with a capital B, but rather a bohemian, with a lower case b. I'm American, duh.
**Wow, there are a lot of commas in that sentence.
***I wanted to ensure concerned readers that I did, indeed, dig a hole despite my stress. Also, in my first draft, I had written, "covered my hole", which really didn't sound how I intended it to.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 3 of 3

Because even highbrow humour needs a poop joke every once in a while:

As the night grew increasingly longer I became more entrenched in my hopelessness. I was stuck on an overnight bus journey from Jujuy, Argentina back to Buenos Aires. All would have been grand had it not been for the fact that nothing was grand. The first three hours of the trip had become excruciating. If my bowels could speak, they'd echo in angst; "SHIT!"

Enrique, my seatmate, wouldn't shut up, couldn't shut up. He was so jacked on maté that he couldn't sit still. Meanwhile, hands clenched to the armrests, I sat near vertically, at an angle of even less than 90 degrees with my insides writhing. The light above flickered at a rate mere fractions of seconds off consistent. This was just enough to further drive me berserk. The cosmos were surely playing an evil trick on me.

The chances that I would last like this much longer weren't slim to none. No, they were none. I thought it best to count, to take my mind off of every single little thing around me. It had gotten to the point where I felt that even the fabric on my seat was too rough on my skin and that I thought I could smell my feet; or someone's feet. Every sensation I experienced turned painful, and the counting did no good. It became a systematic countdown towards my breaking point.

Sixty-six, sixty-seven...Enrique was yapping.
One-oh-eight, one-oh-nine...I was sweating.
One-forty-two, one-forty-three...the lights were flickering.
Crap! What number was I on?...The bus was rocking.
One-twenty-two, one-twenty-three...I was sure that the driver has gone tangent on a goat-path.
One-ninety-nine, two-hundred....

I jumped up amid Enrique's rant about Whatever, I said no words and I RAN down to the driver below.

Now, it's rare that I'll ever ask someone to bend to my wishes. I am a firm believer in the utilitarian approach to moving commerce. A long line of cars should not wait for one person disobeying a crossing-signal to stroll lazily across the intersection, and certainly a bus-full of content passengers shouldn't be forced to pull off into a small town so that one guilty American can use the bathroom. (Although functions of utilitarianism would have ensured that the bus's toilet worked). It is, however, also true that I am of the firmest belief in some sort of consequentialism. This choice, to stop, would be much better for all on the bus than if I hadn't the opportunity. I promise.

"Excuse me, sir," I hesitantly gained the driver's attention, "I need to use the bathroom."

"We'll be stopping shortly," he retorted.

"Uh... we need to stop very soon, shortly won't suffice." ( I don't know how I managed to get this all across in Spanish). We then began to stare each other down. I really wished he would watch the road, but I also needed him to understand the gravity of my situation. One would assume that my gravity was the standard 9.8 m/s², however, the weight of all the burdens on my back pushed me towards the floor*. Hunched over, I engaged the driver in a very monumental staring contest, and I was so intent on winning that I didn't move to wipe the sweat dripping from my brow. We both stared as if it would never end. Then, from either my determination or the driver's necessity to return his attention back to the road, I emerged victor! I contently turned around after his nod and headed back to my seat when I suddenly flew backward. The bus came to a screeching halt.

"Here." the driver said concisely.

"Here?" I asked. I looked outside. The moonlit night shone only upon an empty field for as far as I could see. There were no lights, no signs of civilization and, sure as death, no toilets.

"Here?" I asked again. Maybe I wasn't victorious, after all.

[[Please hang tight for part four of this engaging three part series! This is certainly not the end.]]
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*Note: Yes, I am fully aware of the differences between force and gravitational pull. This device used purely literarily.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 2 of 3

"Hey, Dude," my seatmate spoke to me in Spanish, "you want some yerba maté?" I was told that it was not just impolite, but that, in fact, it was rather rude to refuse an offered share of Argentina's most potently caffeinated tea. Yerba maté has a similar caffeine content to the coffee bean, and its drank directly though the leaves, filtered through a straw in a hollowed out gourd. Resultingly, I was faced with a handful of problems:

1. I has just been abruptly awoken and I was NOT happy
2. The second to last thing I needed was caffeine through potent tea on the first hour of my overnight, uncomfortable-bus-seat-burdened voyage, and
3. The very last thing I needed was to burn the unspoken rapport between me and my bus-buddy that had already allowed me to claim over 2/3 of the shared arm rest
   

Also, I suppose that the ultimate-last thing I needed at this point was to have the bus stormed by pirates, but that was the least of my worries considering all my other woes. I didn't need the next 17 hours and 25 minutes to be spent in a constant battle for claim over the bordering land. It was at this point that I came up with a final decision, a decision which I had never used theretofore. I chose to pretend that I didn't speak Spanish.

"What?" I said in English. He motioned toward his tea. "Very nice." I said and turned to look out the window. He tapped my shoulder. Dammit, he was persistent.

"Querés?" He asked.

I needed to be persistent, too; "No sir, I would not like to caress your gourd," I mumbled in case anyone around us did speak English. He shoved the straw in my face. I surrender! This was to be a painfully long journey if I continued to surrender that easily, but I was clearly fighting a strategic war-master. I took gourd and a sip. My stomach grumbled. The dulce de leche desert from earlier had already not been sitting perfectly. I sighed.

"Great, thanks." I said to Eisenhower and handed it back. I found out that his name was less-fittingly Enrique, and we continued to engage in general discourse. I slowly began to turn my one word, curt, Spanish responses into lengthy Spanish monologues as the caffeine kicked in. My cover was blown. Enrique refilled his gourd with thermos and I refilled my vigor. We drank, talked and shared. Funny was when Enrique asked me some rather uncomfortable questions about American girls. Not funny was how much more uncomfortable my stomach felt than trying to answer his questions.

I had to excuse myself, "Pardon me, I'm going to go find the bathroom."

"It's not working."

Hoping he was talking about our newfound friendship I asked, "What's not working?"

Enrique neither assuaged my fears when he replied, "The bathroom," nor when he informed me that "we'll be stopping in only a couple hours for gas." I buried my head in hands and sighed again. Okay, I thought, I'll take a break, lean back and hopefully dream about a porcelain land with hills of toilet paper and rivers of hand soap. I pushed against my chair. It didn't move. I pushed harder. It didn't move harder.

"I'm glad you're here, friend, welcome to South America," Enrique said as he handed me some more maté.

[[Part three to follow. The horses, all the beautiful horses... hold on to them]]

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 1 of 3

Traveling through Northwest Argentina had hitherto been enjoyable and relaxing. The clean and welcoming cities of the Salta and Jujuy provinces brought few feelings of insecurity. Yes, shockingly, the cities on the Argentine Altiplano were kempt. Overcome by a waitress’s congeniality I spent my last pesos on a recommended dulce de leche dessert and on a gracious tip. With empty pockets and a full stomach I quickly searched through town to find an accessible ATM before I boarded my bus back to Buenos Aires, but my labors ended fruitlessly and I raced back to the terminal to load my bag and squeeze into my seat just in time to begin the 26 hour haul back to the capital. Of course, at that particular moment, I was only expecting an 18 hour trip.

I sifted through my bag. My camera’s battery had died the night before but I pulled out my notebook to jot down memories from the past day. I was sure as lief to forget had I not taken the time to write down my experiences. It was customary and very easy for me to supplement writing with photography as each picture was worth, as the saying goes, at least sixty-five words.

My hand got tired as it often would. I had written about just the breakfast I ate the day before and I gave up. To pass the time before light ran out, I pulled out a few letters from my friend back home in Chicago. They served to remind me both of the luxuries I had left in the United States and of the reasons I wanted so badly to escape the country for a year. Overall, the letters, as I best recall, were humorous and helpful to pass the time on an uncomfortable South American bus commencing its overnight journey. I’d take this discomfort, though, anytime over the monotony of the Chicago Suburbs. This was new and exciting. In my haste boarding the bus I had forgotten to grab any CDs from my suitcase which was now secured under the cabin. We wouldn’t be stopping until morning, so I was without entertainment for the night. Thankfully, I am completely diurnal during long travel. As soon as the sun set, I expected to fall asleep. I rested my head on the window where I watched the diver-sun, slow-dived from noon, meld into the horizon creating a splash of golden light.*

My consciousness swept away with the daylight. There was to be no need for CDs or camera batteries where I was going, and darkness paved way to slumber. Ah, yes, sleep! I can write about its beauty incessantly. Sleep is the brilliant state where all possibilities became probabilities. Only, unfortunately for me, the probability of being awoken was near certainty. My lucid dreams were startled back into lurid visions of the man sitting next to me.

[[Parts 2 and 3 to follow.]]
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*Note: Thank you Herman Melville.

Purchasing Tickets at a Premium

Now, I consider myself adept in the art of buying and selling hard-to-get tickets. I have even had my share of successes in the art of selling easy-to-get tickets. I have bought and sold Cubs and concert tickets for profit on many occasions in the past. One of my funniest memories comes from when our international study group in Buenos Aires were issued 50 tickets to a World Championship Polo match in 2003. Because not all 50 American students wanted to go and see a Polo match, the few who did were left with a handful of extra tickets.

I have to note that I actually loved watching this Polo match and found it truly a window into the Argentine culture. I suppose that it would be like taking a foreigner to a baseball game of ours. They wouldn't completely understand it, but they would enjoy atmosphere and beer. (As polo is to baseball, so is soccer to American football). At the Polo Grounds, there are two stands. One is for the rich people and the other is for American Students. The Rich people rattled their jewelry when they cheered and to enjoy the match they drank wine or champagne. Everyone on our side hooted and smashed our beers together. I think we had more fun. Regardless, the most fun we had was in selling our 35 extra tickets before the match. We were a little hesitant at first. Foremost, because we had received the tickets a gift from the Sales Director of Argentina Polo himself. While we soon pushed past that moral road block, we found that we were a little nervous scalping tickets in a foreign country using a foreign language for, a quite literally, foreign event about which we knew nothing. What we did know, however, was how to sell tickets. So, after pushing past my initial hesitation, I took the stack of tickets and made my way to the end of the patron line.

"Se Vende!" I quietly exclaimed. "Se Vende." A police officer was standing on the street. No bites. No problem, I reeled in. I considered myself a professional. I cast another line,"Se VENDE! Boletos... Muy baratos." A man came up to me. "Cuanto salen estos boletos?" How much do these tickets go for, he asked. I hesitated, SHOOT, I didn't know. The tickets didn't have prices on them, they were gifts. I looked at my friends, they didn't know either. My friend Ryan Adcock thought he had overheard someone saying $50 pesos each (which was the rough equivalent of U$15). I told the man in Castellano, "Forty Pesos for each ticket. They go for fifty at the ticket office." He pulled out four notes and paid for two. Then almost immediately, another man walked up. He was followed by yet another man, who was followed by two others. Soon, a very large and out of place crowd was gathered on our section of the street. "Shoot, guys, here take some tickets." I tried to pass a dozen tickets over the mob of people surrounding us. I began to sell Polo match tickets for forty pesos each. There was such chaos on the streets that I was forgetting who had paid and who I had already given their tickets. Among a mob of reaching arms and money I noticed that the police officer had come over. I panicked. For a brief moment I thought about stuffing my last couple of tickets into my mouth and running. I thought better of it. "Good day, sir." I nodded. He returned my greeting with a chuckle and walked away. Good grief! I sighed. In what can only be visually described as a storm of dust and disorder somewhat similar to a Warner Brothers' character scuffle, I sold my last ticket. Ryan and Blaine were all out of theirs as well. Good. We were done. We struggled away from the crowd and toward the entrance gate. We offered each other nods to signify a job well done. We laughed as we approached the entrance gate. Then, in a very comical and ironical realization we harmonized in our exclamation aloud; "OH NO!" Although our exclamation probably had at least one more unprintable word in it. What idiots we were! We had sold our own tickets!

We ran to the line we had just left, and very awkwardly waited until we ended closely enough to read the sign that had the prices on them. It read: "Polo Match Tickets still available- $30 pesos ea." What fortune!

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The reason that I printed this story is simply therapeutic. You see, I have just been very recently defeated in my own game. I am forced to pay a large premium to attend the final Wilco show for their Riviera residency. I am hoping that this homeopathic recollection of one of my victories will let me forget that I will be without an arm and a leg tomorrow. But at least I will have seen Wilco play live for 3 hours. Eh, consider this a victory too.