Human Side Podcast 18: Corporate Slavery

To relinquish a hard-gained freedom and happiness for the stability and certainty of making money. But to discover the only certainty is misery. How is it that two men who learned this truth years earlier have returned to the West and gone back to work for it?

Dialogue on Wind

Maximin

new essay on leggings8:11 PM

Moraline

I will read it8:11 PM

I have written aphorisms to the gods8:11 PM

Maximin

remember the famous essay on moraline free about the letter from the editor8:12 PM

Moraline

Which one? There were 28:12 PM

Of chestnuts or iraqis8:12 PM

Maximin

ah, yes, the gods, i glanced over it and realized i needed to sit down with it. it is on my to-do list tonight.8:12 PM

iraqis. You wrote that no one knows why a man writes what he writes8:13 PM

Moraline

i had very clear thoughts atop my forklift but i lost them a little after I sat to write those aphorisms.8:13 PM

Maximin

i too don't know why i had to write an essay on leggings. i was worried afterwards that people would think it is important to write about women's fashion, that i set the wrong example.8:13 PM

Moraline

ah yes the mystery of why a man writes something. only an academically trained man would ask that why8:13 PM

Maximin

i was perplexed by the leggings--or what was once called hooker pants.8:14 PM

so many beautiful women in hooker pants8:14 PM

Las Chinches

Like the mosquito the bed bug is awakened by the carbon dioxide of a potential host. As I spend much time in my room at the hospedaje at Piura, Peru, which I realized rather recently is home to these creatures, my carbon dioxide has invited these tiny parasites to feed. Like the mosquito they prefer to feed in the evening and night hours and leaving one's light on does not deter them. They have a certain fearlessness when hungry and remarkable ability to sneak through small spaces and cracks. Like the mosquito, they are parasites that feed upon the host’s blood.

I have always hated the mosquito. The variety of mid-western North American mosquito I grew up with tortured me before biting with a buzzing in my ears in the darkness as I tried to sleep. The Argentine variety I have also encountered and it did none of the buzzing in the ear but instead a direct and fearless assault. Never have I encountered a faster more aerially agile mosquito than in Argentina. There they came in hoards, with thousands of them appearing from the fields upon you.

 

In Colombia and other northern parts of South American the mosquitoes are fast and do not alert you to their presence with the ear-humming. But they are fearful, anxious insects and only stop to bite for a moment before flying and landing again to bite. The North American and Argentine mosquito, in contrast, alights on the skin and stays until it has finished feeding, giving one the opportunity to smack and destroy it.

But the bed bug should bother me less. The bed bug does not carry any diseases such as the mosquito with its West Nile and malaria and river blindness. It also does none of the buzzing in one's ears before feeding. You are not aware of the bed bug’s presence until you begin to scratch yourself after it has fed.

 

But it is the wide red welts from their feeding that bother me. The bed bug takes in such a great deal of blood, particularly the mature bed bug, and swells to so large size that if you were to kill it after feeding you would explode it into a vast red, bloody smear upon your bed sheets. That amount of blood taken can be disconcerting. It is for me.

While the immature bed bug is crushed easily, turned into a tiny dark smudge, the mature bed bug when he has not filled himself with blood is difficult to destroy. His thin body is not easily crushed under a thumb or napkin or shoe and I have often seen them play dead waiting for me to leave. Still I should be less troubled by the bed bug as, before, unlike the mosquito he carries no disease. Also the welts though wide and unsightly stop itching and heal faster than the mosquito's bite.

 

Nonetheless, I am convinced that the idea of being assaulted by parasites from the air is much preferable to a ground assault. There is something about the slow, plodding, hesitant-less attack of the bed bug parasite that troubles me. The mosquito at least recognizes that it can be killed and at times will fly defensively. This recognition of its own possible death from feeding makes it a less disgusting parasite. The bed bug though is without fear or mercy. And it is this characteristic that can be most troubling for the human host.

About the Road

Why you ride & Why you stop

 

He goes on the road with his bicycle because he needs to work something out for himself. He needs to rid himself of something through solitude and suffering, and then through solitude and suffering begin to put something else in its place. He goes on the road when he is spent, has nothing more to write or to say. When there is nothing left to write or to think there is no risk on the road. To die is nothing to this man with nothing.

But when he begins to develop new ideas, when the gods have been generous with him, then to continue on the road is to risk everything. He must stop and protect himself and take the time to develop these ideas without interference. He must surround himself with security, for when there are ideas to be worked out everything is at stake. When his projects are completed and there is no more work to do, he may again go on the road and make himself worthy of new gifts from the gods.

 

But he also goes on the road to find the good place. He finds good people, and if he is lucky he finds a good woman, and he stops at the good place and he stays there. The good woman is just as much a divine gift as any idea and he will learn much from her. The road led him to her and to the other good people and in the village he will get his work done. His work and the woman and the good people who are of the good place was why he went on the road. Now that he has found them to go further on the road would be a mistake.

Fish Bone: A Dialogue

12:33 AM
Moraline: i remember this all you can eat buffet in ushuaia at the end of the world. it was a touring cyclists dream. i went in there and ate for nearly 2 hours. there was meat, fish, salads, asado, barbecued everyhing. great buffet. but then, i ate this smoked fish, and i realized i had a bone stuck in my throat
i kept trying to swallow it.
i felt i was going to choke and die
right there dead in ushuaia in this buffet.
12:34 AM
i could feel myself about to choke and die. it bothered me but then it didnt
then i realized i had to live. i had to get this bone out of my throat.
i had to stop trying to swallow it.
i went in the bathroom and stuck my finger down my throat until i threw up. huge fucking bone. incredible size. thick and very long
problem was i threw up 2 hours worth of eating. i was fucking hungry all over again!!
12:35 AM
so i started all over on the buffet and sat there another 2 hours eating. the owner couldnt believe it. guy was pissed off at me. but it was all you can eat.
how could this fucking skinny motherfucker sit in my restyaurant and eat for 4 fucking hours?
Saint-Maximin: coughing in uncontrollable laugter
laughter
12:36 AM
have you published a short story on this?
Moraline: its funny now, but i really could have died. the bone was as long as my pinky finger
Saint-Maximin: it is a good story--choking on a fish bone at the end of the world
Moraline: funny thing is in my throat it didnt feel that big. i thought it was only a small bone and i could perhaps swallow it. i tried very hard to swallow it too
12:37 AM
Saint-Maximin: choking is a terrible feeling. jesus, bulemia
12:38 AM
Moraline: what is worse puking up all that good food you spent 2 hrs eating. what a pain to have to do it all over again when youre hungry
12:39 AM
Saint-Maximin: yes, they are "livre" which is all you can eat--typically 9 reis for a down to earth joint and then 15 reis for a more well to do joint. they also have "por kilo" or by the kilo but it's a rip-off
jesus, 4 hours of eating a 15 minutes of vomiting.
yeah, you can still drink the hot chocolate though.
Moraline: this place in ushuaia was actually kinda expensive. 70 pesos i think. about
30 dollars
12:40 AM
but i ate a ton of food
yeah, i dont mind the hot chocolate
Saint-Maximin: yes but at the end of the world, and especiaally when you get to recharge in the toilet, that's a good deal
12:41 AM
Moraline: it was high quality food. and i ate a ton. worth it. and that fish too i had avoided all day until the end. i saw those bones. stupidly i tried it and nearly died from it.

You Can´t Put Your Arms Around A Memory

Argentina 2011

Security Notes for Bicycle Touring

[This list was originally written for Maximin and is by no means complete]

1. Make copies of your passport. A photocopy to carry with you as well as a picture on your netbook and emailed to yourself in your email. (Also note that US passports sell on the black market for 10k, so should you be really hard up for money it can be sold.)

2. Power of attorney. You can give it to someone you trust in the USA. Can be useful for any banking issues as well as tax problems and medical issues if you are incapacitated. Simple power of attorney forms can be gotten at your local library. Also very easy to terminate.

3. Your bank card is essential to survival. Always carry it in your secret pocket and have the international phone number of your bank emailed to yourself and on your netbook so you can cancel the card if stolen. You also need a USA address on file with the bank that your new card can be sent to. A person at this address can then send the new card to you in S America. This is easier if you have given power of attorney to this person. Also tell your bank of your travel plans. This way they can monitor your card use and put a hold on it if used irregularly. Additionally, many banks if not notified of a S American trip will immediately put a hold on your card or cancel it. Set daily withdrawal limits and credit card daily limits. No doubt the default daily limits on the card are much too high for S American bicycle touring.

4. Adaptor connector for camping stove. This allows you to use the needle-headed butane canisters that are sold in hardware stores. The adaptor screws into the stove and then twist-locks onto the top of the butane canister. Essential when traveling by bike as camping stores are often hard to find to purchase the specially designed screw-on camping butane canisters. Also, hardware store butane canisters are cheaper than the camping canisters. I lost my adaptor and don’t think I’ll see another one outside of Argentina, a country of people who enjoy camping. I consider this my most serious loss of gear. 

5. Another well known security precaution in hotels is to leave your TV on while out of your room. Make sure its loud enough that someone putting their ear up to your door can hear it.

6. A knife is a good weapon. A switchblade is best since it only takes one hand to pop it. You can slowly bring out money from your left-hand pocket with your left hand--getting the thief to watch that hand--while bringing out the switchblade in your right from your right-hand pocket, popping the blade and keeping it hidden by your thigh, and then, as you slowly hand the money towards the thief, handing it to thief’s hand holding the knife, you stab the fucker in the throat, while pushing his knife away from you with your left hand. But only do this shit if you feel you must. Switchblades are also good for cutting things when camping and for cooking too, as well as cutting your cardboard boxes for transporting your Bike Friday. Switchblades are illegal in all states except for New Hampshire. It may be something you purchase when arriving in S America.

7. A better weapon for defense is a sort of heavy stick that unfolds and you can whip people with it. I don’t know the name of it and I wish I had one. Perhaps they make them to fit in pockets. With this you can whip it out and keep a knife-wielding attacker at a distance while you fuck him up. You should strike for his knees or shins first, bringing him to the ground, then you can hit him some more or begin to stomp on his face and kick him. Then, later, if you’ve taken a particular dislike to him, you can get out your switchblade and cut into the bitch. But keep in mind that if you should bring out your knife you had better be prepared to kill with it. This is true especially in Colombia where letting a guy live is certain to mean a life-threatening future problem. He’ll be coming back for you with all his friends and well armed.

8. Carry a bit of money in your regular pockets to give to a mugger. A wallet with a few bills in it is even better. Its always best to avoid violent confrontations. Most of these guys are professionals.

9. A good pair of shit-kicking stomping boots. These may be heavy and you would only wear them when off your bike, but they are great for fighting. Just kick a motherfucker in the knee and he’s going down. The groin is a good spot too but can be hard to kick just right, so go for the knees or shins (shins are very sensitive). He’ll go down (or at minimum be unable to walk towards you) and then you can stomp the shit out of him. You should always attempt to get a guy on the ground first, especially the big guys. Got to take out their legs. A good pair of shit-kickers does that easily. Then stomp until he’s no longer a threat. You can also kick further than you can punch, meaning a kick is an offensive move that also keeps you protected, while a punch always leaves a man open to the counter. Perhaps you can purchase these boots when you find a place you want to stay after touring for awhile. Obviously its really a luxury to carry these things in panniers while touring.

10. In any violent encounter in S America be prepared to fight 7 guys. Miguel the Ninja of Buga told me this and I believe it is a good rule to follow. So get the lead guy down and then be quickly turning to take on the next guy. You need to work quickly, and that is why getting a guy in the knees and getting him down is important so you can turn and fight the next one.

11. Be aware that the thieves with knives and guns often look for couples. Its an easier robbery to grab the girl and then rob the both of you. Be aware of this when walking with a girl. You’re actually safer without her.

12. If the thief has a gun give him what he wants. Don’t fight.

13. Some robberies may involve them stealing your clothing, including your pants. This means your secret pocket and its contents is being taken too. You may indeed choose to resist depending upon what you’re carrying and your assessment of the attackers and situation.

14. Walk on sidewalks at the edge of the street, not against walls or buildings. That way if someone comes at you from in front or behind or from an alley they’ll have a harder time pushing you against a building or into an alley to rob you. You also have an opportunity for escape by being able to run into the street. Also, a cop in a car has a better chance of seeing the robbery.

15. When walking at night back from the bar or club or walking in a bad area I have often put a good-sized rock in my back pocket. If you can throw hard and accurate it makes a great weapon against a guy with a knife. Hit him good, then run.

As Happiness Pursues Him

La Felicidad

Saturday Night in Salta

I drank 2 liters of Salta Stout while watching the Peña dancers. The little ruddy man at the door had told me that I could ask of him anything, anything, and he would do it for me. I motioned him to the table. I have something for you, I said. I would like a bag of coca leaves. They are legal here and I wanted to chew the coca. He smiled and said he would get them for me and returned minutes later with two green plastic bags of the leaves. 8 for one and both for 15 pesos. I bought them both and stuffed a few leaves in my cheek and went back to the drinking and watching the Peña dancers.

There was a stimulative effect though mostly at the level of a weak cup of coffee. I started taking bigger wads of leaves and squeezing the juices out with my teeth. Where the leaves were balled in my cheek my gums and tongue now tingled. When the dancers stopped and the musicians returned I got up, paid my bill and left.

On Calle Balcarce a little further were clubs and bars and I walked up and saw one with girls inside and I heard rock music and went in. I took a beer at the bar and very soon the place was full. It was past 2am. I drank another beer and stuffed some more leaves in my mouth and spit out the used up ones. Then I started approaching. The girl next to me was first and she hardly paid me any attention. Then I realized the barman was her boyfriend.

I got up and sat down with two girls I had seen in the back near the bathroom. I didn’t say hi or even look at them, but sat down and started eating from the dish of peanuts on their table. I finally look up at the tall, very good-looking, black-haired one and start to talk to her. Her ugly friend I ignore. She said she was married and a volleyball player and she wore no ring because she had been practicing today. I challenged her story but in fact it worked out. She was married and she may very well have been a volleyball player. The ugly one was single but there wasn’t enough coca leaves and beer in the world to make her acceptable.

I tried a table of 3 ugly girls on the way out. Despite being unattractive they were tough and I finally just smiled and insulted them in english they didn’t understand. Next door was a place called Wasabi which was the big club on the block. 20 pesos to get in and a paper ticket that you show to receive a glass for drinks, but if the ticket is lost you must pay 5 pesos when you leave. S American clubs are often complicated in this way.

I use the ticket, which was actually confusing me, to talk up 2 girls in line. The one is cute but with an ugly little friend (many cute girls with ugly friends). They help me get a drink, a vodka with a Red Bull sort of energy drink. Now I'm all wired up on coca leaves and energy drink cocktails. I've by now finished off the first bag of leaves and am working on the second. I’ve had two liter bottles of beer, 3 mediano beers and am now drinking vodka cocktails and I feel pretty good for having a touring cyclists tolerance. Clearly the leaves are working.

The girls and I do some dancing and the cute one is asking many questions and touching but its tough with the little ugly one hanging around to do anything. Then the cute one comments on my hair. She says its dirty. I tell her I haven’t washed it in almost 2 months. This shocks her. Does it smell, I ask, fully expecting she will say it doesn’t and then I can lecture her on cleanliness. But she smiles weakly and says that actually it does smell. This shocks me. I had no idea I smelled. Maybe it had come on recently. I would have to wash it. I felt like leaving right then and going back to wash.

We dance some more and drink another but the ugly one won’t go and now I’m getting tired. The drunkenness is starting to come on heavy. I’m out of leaves now too. The girls turn to go across the dance floor and I turn the other way and push my way for the door. I just want to get out of there.

Outside I talk to couple of girls with a guy. They don’t want to talk to me either. Maybe it’s the long (smelly) hair and beard I have. So I start playfully insulting them, sometimes in English, just giving myself a good laugh. They want nothing to do with me. They’re trying to get a cab and finally hail one and I jump in the front seat with the driver. This scares them and they jump out. Where we going? I ask, chasing after them up the street. I was having a laugh.

Then I felt the urge to piss. The plaza is ahead with all those fine palm trees for pissing. When I get there policeman are patrolling on each corner. Damn. People are walking on the streets. So I sit down on the curb partially hidden behind a parked car and unzip and piss while sitting there.

It’s a long walk back to the hostel and as I go past this one building that is spotted with little areas chipped out of the white wash, I get the urge to sleep outside. It’s a cool night, but I’m wearing my wool sweater and I feel good. At this building the grasses have been uncut for some time and I walk up the stone steps and see that along the building, just a few feet from the street but on a raised area, I can lay down in the high grass and go to sleep. No one can see me.

Its past 4 am so I figure I’ll sleep a few hours and then go back to the hostel. The hostel is only about 3 blocks away but I really miss sleeping outside and I’ve never tried it without a tent or a sleeping bag, and it would be a fun thing to do right in the middle of a city. So I climb over the stone railing and lay down in the high grass next to the building and go to sleep.

I wake up four hours later and sit up in the grass. There are a few people walking on the street. Its Sunday morning. The sun is out and I can see it will be a warmer day than yesterday. My head hurts. I hop over the railing and down the stone steps and I am back on the street. It was a fine night to have slept outside.

On Hoarding and Hunger

The generosity of the Argentines is remarkable. The poorest will share of their food even if you are able to buy your own. Someone with a small sized portion on his plate will not hesitate to offer half of it to you. If nearby at a campground someone is cooking they will often approach you and bringing food. The Argentines wish a “Buon Provecho!” to any stranger they see eating. If you are eating outside at a café nearly every passerby will wish you a good meal.

In Colombia I watched the street vendors give food to the poor and it was not small sized portions but full plates of food. People would line up at a food stand and some would pay and the very poor would receive free plates of food. My thought then was why give to these scoundrels? They don't work at all and will just be back tomorrow. But even a scoundrel is hungry.

I believe this sharing I have observed is derivative of ancient attitudes regarding hoarding. A man should never have an abundance relative to another man, particularly when it comes to food. In tribal times a man who hoarded was often murdered by the other tribesman. There is a deeply physical morality to hunger and the Argentines and Colombians are more in tune with it than the Americans. Giving food to the hungry has nothing at all to do with whether they will work for it one day in the future. They may never work again, but that does not mean they are not hungry.

Of course, the idea of hoarding applies to things other than food, and I have not observed Colombians or Argentines giving away their clothing or providing shelter to the homeless. I have heard stories of very poor Argentine families inviting touring cyclists into their homes and giving up their bedroom and bed to the cyclists and sleeping outside. The cyclists had tents and the money to sleep in a hostel or hotel but that was not relevant to the family. This is perhaps a variant of the anti-hoarding idea.

Last week it pleased me to share my pasta and wine with Jorge at the hostel in Catamarca. He was a rather poor fellow who worked soup kitchens to help the even poorer. It was work he believed in strongly and we talked long about it. I saw he was not eating supper and, following the Argentine way, I offered my pasta to him and he took it. I offered bread and cheese after dinner and then coffee and he took that too. I was very hungry, being a touring cyclist, and I did not go to sleep with a full stomach that night. Yet it gave me pleasure to act in this way as I remembered the many times others had offered food to me. They had probably forgone going to bed with full stomachs as well.

It was a good feeling to know I had resisted the very American urge to fill myself and to tell myself that the other guy beside me who might be hungry had that as his own problem. Because hunger is my problem when the man next to me is hungry and I have food. Should he become too hungry he may one day take my food and injure me or murder me to do it. This is the root morality of hunger and hoarding.

Cambio

December 2010 Cali, Colombia

April 2011 Cafayate, Argentina

Cooking

Monteros, Argentina

Dancing

Monteros, Argentina

Monthly Totals

1. Showers: 3


2. Longest streak without bathing: 9 days (a current streak and probably my lifetime longest)


3. Nights slept in tent: 27


4. Mosquito bites (approximate): 25


5. Spider bites: 3 (he was living inside my tent until I assassinated him)


6. Fly bites: 7


7. Flea bites (approximate): 125 (25 from a hostel in San Juan and the rest one bad night on the desert)


8. Speared by cactus: 2 times


9. Speared by thorn trees: 4 times

It was a good month.

Despues

I rolled out of bed and pulled on my jeans and sat on the edge of the bed and laced up my shoes. I didn’t look back yet. I didn’t want to. Not yet. I pulled my shirt over my head and sat a moment. I turned around and she was awake looking at me. She started to smile and I tossed the decorative pillow into her face.

“Tu vas?”

“Si.”

I reached over and took a handful of her tit and squeezed it. I reached under the sheet and grabbed her ass and she giggled. She was so young.

I winked at her for the last time and started for the door. I felt her watching me the whole way. Downstairs the doorman let me out onto the bright street. It was afternoon. My head hurt and everything felt in slow motion. I felt empty and unsure of myself. I did not know what I wanted. The fountain was on in the plaza. Water was flowing in the irrigation ditches along the streets. Maybe I liked Mendoza after all.

The Journey Back

Ruta 3 is the only road to Ushuaia and out of it. The ride in is wonderful through the big mountains and everything is new and you have come so far on brittle knees and a broken bike and that last 105km from Tolhuin is truly joyful. The road has ended at the last city on earth.

But that is also a problem and you think about it in your tent the next morning. In what way do I leave Ushuaia? How does one leave the end of the world? Do I pack the bike into a box and leave on a airplane or a bus or a ferry with all others--all the others that the bicycle was used to avoid?

The idea was given to me by a Dutchman to ship out on a freighter which had some extra shipping space. But there are no freighters at this port. I would need to go to Puerto Williams or to Punta Arenas. At Puerto Williams if it was not possible I would have to return to Ushuaia and it would be an expensive trip there and back if there was no freighter and it would also involve a ferry and a bus. Puerto Williams is on an island of protected land across the Beagle Channel and cannot be ridden.

To get to Punta Arenas and ship out on a freighter I could take a bus, a plane, or a boat to the port, but I could also ride there. This would mean riding Ruta 3 the way I had come. At least three days of riding would be back along the way I had come to Ushuaia--back over the mountains outside the city, back through the hills and smaller mountains covered with twisted trees and past Tolhuin, back across the windblown sea-side at Rio Grande, and back up onto the higher plain along the Bay of San Sebastian and to the frontier with Chile. From there I would ride straight into the wind west across 150km of Chilean ripio to Porvenir where the ferry runs to Punta Arenas. That part of the riding would be new but would be of the highest difficulty on bad ripio and into the strongest wind.

It is a journey that could be done in 5 days but could take 7. The weather is supposed to deteriorate badly in a few days time, right when I would begin riding. I could stay a few days at the bakery in Tolhuin and wait out the big storms, or even stay an extra day in Rio Grande at the Club Nautico and drink “Fernandos” with Claudio. The woman who runs that place was awfully nice to me. There were so many good people along the way that I could see again. And at the border crossing with Chile I could sleep inside the customs house. Both the Italians and the Canadians had done it while I had camped wild on the Bahia San Sebastian.

The wind would be completely against me, and maybe I would pass Matthias who was pushing his bike into it. Maybe I would see the Dutch couple who were no doubt riding into it. Maybe they were on the ripio today. They were going to Punta Arenas and even the woman did not fear the wind. They were good people. The best sort. I have always liked Dutch people. Ian rode Ruta 3 back the way he had come. Ian did it and he was already destroyed. His knee had made him nearly a cripple. Of course it could be done. Going back was possible. Maybe going back in Tierra del Fuego was the challenge? Maybe that was the journey? To see it all again a few days later from the other side of the road, with the wind blowing harder, with worse weather?

The vendimia of Mendoza would begin on the 25th of February and go into March. Maybe I would get there but probably not if I took the freighter from Punta Arenas to Valparaiso. Marco the Italian said the high Andes crossing from Santiago was very high and very hard but very beautiful. The wind that blows on the Argentine side is a hot, dry wind that will blow with you as you descend and they call it the Zonda. It is also a little of a cross-wind but the Zonda will greet you and guide you down from the high mountains and into Mendoza.

I am too weak to come to a decision. It is sunny and clear today in Ushuaia and I have food and water and I look at the snow-capped mountains behind the city and the still waters of the harbor and the dark mountains that shield it and I feel very good here. It feels very good at the end of the world and today was so pleasant I do not really believe the talk of the coming bad weather. Maybe in another day I will have the courage and the strength to ride the way back but I do not have it today. I may not have it the next day either. And when I do have it I will also need more courage and strength for the wind and the rain and the cold. But I have had that strength before and I will summon it again. I will take a long, hot shower before I leave. I will shave. I will even wash my hair. I will leave fresh upon a new journey. The journey back.

LAND OF FIRE

To live for just a moment
Alongside the gods
I shall be satisfied
I shall long for nothing.

A Book Wrapped In Plastic

There was a table of three young men behind me at the YPF. First they were eating and then they were doing something on a laptop. It was something secretive because they turned the screen away so that I would not accidentally turn and see it.

Later the blond-haired one got up and bought a snack and as he came back he put his hand on my shoulder and he greeted me, smiling. We spoke and I noticed he laughed a little too quickly and easily. He asked me the usual questions I am asked in Argentina, but he did not seem especially interested in my answers.

I went back to my writing and it was going well and I was in the middle of something that I thought might still be good tomorrow when the young blond-haired again put his hand on my shoulder. He was smiling and handed me a thin paperback book wrapped in plastic. There was some poorly rendered image on the cover and I could see it was a religious book and I did not read the title but saw the subtitle. It translated as a book to solve your life problems.

“I cannot accept this gift,” I said to him.

He smiled at me knowingly. “No. It is for you. It will be the answer to your questions.”

“And if I am without questions?”

He smiled more broadly. “All have questions. The book shall answer them. The book shall solve your problems.”

“And if I am without problems either?”

“That cannot be,” he said most certainly.

I pointed to my fully loaded bicycle leaned up outside against the glass.

“Do you see the bicycle?” I asked him.

He nodded and continued to smile knowingly.

“Each day I ride from a place to another place. I sleep the night in a tent. I have food and water. I have money. My map is good. The wind is not a problem and nor is the rain, nor the cold. My body is strong and without malady.”

I paused. I wanted these words to have an effect upon him.

He was looking at me. I could see the smile had weakened just a little.

“I am without problems,” I said. “I do not understand the problems of others.”

I tried to hand the book back to him but he was not ready to take it.

“Then you must be unhappy in a way?” He said hopefully.

“Not at all. To ride a bike each day makes me more happy than I have ever been.”

“Then there is nothing wrong?” He was disappointed. The smile had gone.

“Everything is good.”

“Then you believe in God?” He smiled weakly.

“I do not.”

I handed the book wrapped in plastic to him and he took it this time. He wasn’t angry but I could see that my happiness had troubled him. He walked back to his table and sat down with the other two. Later the other two left and the blond-haired was alone.

I was readying to leave and thought I might try to talk to him. I felt a little bad about refusing his gift. I wanted to tell him about the time I had been unhappy because of a girl. I was sure that would please him. But that had not lasted long and girls did not trouble me at all now, and if they left me before I wanted them to go I was only pleasantly surprised. I could not tell him that. He would want to hear about continuing troubles and continuing unhappiness. But I did not have any of that. I looked in his direction, at the back of his blond-haired head. There was nothing to say to him. As I left the YPF I realized I was smiling.

THE RIDER AND HIS SHADOW

It was good to be alive then,
And that is all
To say or write about it.

Argentina, 2011









Its not sad, you don’t have to agree,
But I cannot make it any more clear
To me or to you:
The pain of the rides into wind,
Wind descending, wind ascending,
Just words--
So many things the pictures and poems.
The sweat the dust the last push around the turn
But the climb continued and my heart sunk.
You cannot know that
And already I cannot remember.

Because there is no record, there is no way to keep this,
To collect it as so many things.

She will age and be gone, the dog will die before you do,
You wanted to conserve it and you tried.
But there will be new days.
The sun will make them.
And if the rider rides,
There will be a shadow.