Traveling Wiseman

Written November 10
The airbrakes gave a sigh of relief, whoooossshhhh, as the 25-passenger bus barreled down the hill and around the curve, snow flying off the tires as we went. I looked every few minutes at the driver’s face in the reflection of his mirror just to make sure he was concentrating, awake. He drove as if there weren’t 30 centimeters of snow on the ground, as if it weren’t still snowing. The traveler next to me, a gentleman who’d lived about forty or fifty years (it’s hard to tell with locals, they often age more quickly than city folk), must have noted my concern. “He’s a good one,” he told me as I strained to see out the windshield. “You can tell.” I smiled and replied that I hoped so.
We had left Coyhaique at 9:30 a.m. amidst heavy rain. By the time we reached Balmaceda, the next town about forty minutes south, the rain had turned to snow and the forested landscape was a winter wonderland. The date was November 7, late spring in Chile. Our destination was Cochrane, the second-to-last city on the Careterra Austral, the southern highway. On a normal day, the trip takes approximately 8 hours. I’d never been that far south before and was happy to be “traveling” in Chile again, to be seeing things for the first time.
From Balmaceda the bus continued south and climbed slowly through the hills of Reserva Nacional Cerro Castillo. The prominent rock formation that gives the park its name was invisible, completely shrouded in a cloud of whiteness. Romantic Latino music poured from the bus speakers and wooed passengers. I caught myself mouthing the words:

El frio de mi cuerpo pregunta por ti
Y no sé donde estás

My body’s coldness asks for you
And I don’t know where you are

It’s like a cheesy Richard Marx song: one can’t help but learn the lyrics as the song proves to be everywhere. And besides, Chileans love this stuff: the more pining, passionate, and powerful the better.
I rubbed the back of my palm on the window to clear the condensation but my attempt is in vain. As I squinted to make shapes out of the whiteness, the male singer concluded:

Si no te hubieras ido sería tan feliz

If you hadn´t gone, I would be so happy

With no view to enjoy, I decided to make small talk with my neighbor. I commented on the unexpected snowfall. “This is Patagonia,” he said to me smiling, and for the first time I noticed the the softness of his voice. Maybe he is only forty. “But you like this, don’t you?” he asked rhetorically.
Although he used the singular form of “you” in Spanish –tú– I knew he was referring to “you gringos.” One doesn’t make such an assumption after speaking with someone for 30 seconds unless associating them with a larger group. After all, most gringos do come to Patagonia because of a passion for the outdoors, it’s true. I replied that yes, I like this. I showed him a few mountain photographs from the book I was reading, Yvon Choinard’s Let My People Go Surfing, and we talked a bit about Futaleufu and Chaiten. He told me his name is Ruben and he works on road construction when he’s not working on his farm.

About five hours into the journey, we entered another section of “highway” (it’s nearly all gravel) that has especially high elevation and substantial snowfall. “El paso Cofre,” Ruben told me. “Cars always get stuck here.” Soon enough we came to a complete standstill behind a line of 5 vehicles: trucks, vans, and buses. Most of the men got out to see the situation and have a smoke. The three female passengers, myself not included, stayed put, looking fretful. I got out, camera at the ready.
Hoping to get some nice pictures of the lenga forest coated in fluffy snow, I broke through the deep snow and bounded contentedly toward the back of the bus. I didn’t expect to find two men with their pants unzipped taking advantage of the bathroom break and judging from the looks on their faces, they didn’t expect to see me either. Head lowered, I mumbled an apology and just as quickly returned to the front of the bus. Small talk, cigarettes, and picture-taking occupied the better part of half an hour while we waited for things to move along. It appeared that opposing traffic was the problem and upon pulling over (there was only one set of tire tracks in the snow) a bus became stuck.

Finally the line of vehicles moved on and the driver motioned for us to get back on the bus. We waited while opposite traffic slowly passed, occupying one of the tire tracks and making a new one as they went. Now our turn: wheel to the left, gear set to first, light pressure to the gas pedal… and the bus slid slightly to the right. Reverse. Nothing. First gear again. Slide to the right more. Shit. I looked to the driver’s face in the mirror as had been my custom. He was chewing his gum nervously now, his actions a bit hurried. After a few more attempts, several men got down and cleared the tires, pushed from the right… and then help arrived from ahead, several men trotting, some with cigarettes hanging from their lips, most with voinas on their head, the traditional gaucho hat.
I was impressed with their efficiency and teamwork; the bus rocked forward, slid back, rocked forward, slid back, rocked forward… and slowly advanced over the rough spot and inched to the left, back onto the tracks. As the men got back on the bus I applauded them, not caring if my cheerleader antics were culturally out of place. They of course seemed to appreciate the stroking of their machista egos.

A few hours later (now in the eighth hour of the journey and with still a few hours to go, I have by this time read over 120 pages in Chouinard’s fascinating book) Ruben asked where I’m from in the United States. In his soft voice he continued to inquire about my family. He was curious to know if I have frequent contact with them and if they’ve come to visit me in Chile. I explained to Ruben that I talk on the phone with my family at least once every few weeks and that my mom came to visit in January. I told him that I spent a few meaningful months with them in June and July. He seemed all too relieved by this information.
“One can have many friends in this life, but they can’t replace your family,” he assured me. “Your family forms your roots; they know you and they care about you like no one else can.” He paused, adjusted his hat, thought for a minute. “And it’s important that you keep in touch in with them because many young people these days, they leave their homes… and they don’t look back.” Ruben presented this information not as a chiding lecture but as a sad fact of life.

“Claro,” I replied, and I looked out the window at the cold whiteness beyond.