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?
Showing posts with label patagonia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label patagonia. Show all posts
2.21.2011
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.
2.18.2011
LAND OF FIRE
To live for just a moment
Alongside the gods
I shall be satisfied
I shall long for nothing.
2.13.2011
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.
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.
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.
1.24.2011
Unsteady Thoughts
These are the unedited thoughts of a man dehydrated, under-nourished, and reflecting upon his decisions and life from a tent on the roadside, the night before a momentous ride into the heat and wind of the Patagone. They are not particularly well-written, but well reflect the state of the man and how the heat and wind and sun have changed his body and affected his thinking.
They will say it makes no sense and they will not understand and they will not want to try to understand it. To choose difficulty above all else, insecurity, poverty, loneliness, hunger, debasement, and to wander ever closer to death’s threshold they can understand, but only in the context of the experience being sold. But to have no profit motive for this dangerous decision--to refuse to sell this experience at any price, this remains incomprehensible to them.
Because everything they do is for sale and it is foremost their time that they are selling. They will trade years of their life for an amount of money. They will give up their youth and their strongest years in the service of another. They will buy insurance and plan for a retirement. And so they will not be able to understand a man who chooses not to sell his youth but to live it out dangerously, and to keep this experience for himself and to refuse to sell it.
It becomes a self-less act finally, and it only concerns himself. He does it to show himself that it can be done. Because he cannot make clear to them who sit and stay in their homes and trade their time for money; he cannot make it clear with the language they also use of the pain of the road late in the day and how it overwhelms him; the sun is low in the west and in his eyes and how it has burned his skin because he has run out of sunscreen; how his water supply is dangerously low and he is only drinking a sip every 10 km to conserve it; and how the wind torments him and slows his cycling to a crawl.
Yet he does not curse the wind. The wind is his companion. He will not ride through Patagonia alone because the wind will be with him or against him, the wind will be present. The wind stops at night as he does, and the wind and he awaken in the morning. They will go together, some days as combatants, some days as comrades, to the south.
A writer writes to publish and to sell books. A painter paints to hang his work in galleries and to sell it. A trader trades to amass dollars. Another man moves freight in the night for a large corporation. The accountant does another man’s debits and credits. To do something for money, whatever it is, is careerism. It is all the same. A man sells himself, his time, and the best of his talent for an idea of security.
You will have to pay incredible amounts (or nothing) to see these works and to read them. And this money will be given to my mother, who will hoard the money and not spend it and she will not give it back to me until she dies. Then the State will give it back after taking its cut. The careerist will say this is a stupid plan, that I should keep the money and avoid the tax. But I say this is the only plan when it comes to money. For an excess of money is a poverty of the spirit. An excess of money will insulate my life so that nothing happens and no adventures are possible and I will be able to buy my way out of any difficulty and danger.
Things stop happening to the man with money.
He will no longer take the risks poverty and hunger and insecurity forced upon him and he will think this new, predictable life superior and his fellows will congratulate him on his success and women will tell him how responsible and respectable he is and some will encourage him to make her a child.
If you have it and cannot get rid of it to your mother, then go where money does not work. In Patagonia you will find such a place and you will find yourself with little water, a deep uncertainty about which way the wind will blow tomorrow and how strong your legs will be. You are on the Patagonian plain, a desert-like area of scrub and thorn bushes and there is no shade from the sun.
You are still many kilometers east of San Antonio Oeste. You rode hard today into a terrible headwind and stupidly believed the map which said there were three towns along Ruta 3 where you could purchase food and water. But those towns existed once and exist no more and now you have dwindling food supplies and only enough water for 45 km and you have at least 70 km to the city. You remember the long shower you took with the water bladder the night before, and now you think of all that potable water wasted and how you need it now.
But these are the days you have chosen and asked for and now you have them. These are the challenges you knew were possible and now you will see what your body can do. You will test your spirit and you will look even deeper than you looked today if tomorrow the wind blows harder and all the water is gone.
They will say then that I have risked everything for nothing. But is it not the other way around? They who sell their strongest years for a wage--is it not they who have risked everything for nothing? For it is I, and not they, who understand exactly what I risk and exactly what for.
They will say it makes no sense and they will not understand and they will not want to try to understand it. To choose difficulty above all else, insecurity, poverty, loneliness, hunger, debasement, and to wander ever closer to death’s threshold they can understand, but only in the context of the experience being sold. But to have no profit motive for this dangerous decision--to refuse to sell this experience at any price, this remains incomprehensible to them.
Because everything they do is for sale and it is foremost their time that they are selling. They will trade years of their life for an amount of money. They will give up their youth and their strongest years in the service of another. They will buy insurance and plan for a retirement. And so they will not be able to understand a man who chooses not to sell his youth but to live it out dangerously, and to keep this experience for himself and to refuse to sell it.
It becomes a self-less act finally, and it only concerns himself. He does it to show himself that it can be done. Because he cannot make clear to them who sit and stay in their homes and trade their time for money; he cannot make it clear with the language they also use of the pain of the road late in the day and how it overwhelms him; the sun is low in the west and in his eyes and how it has burned his skin because he has run out of sunscreen; how his water supply is dangerously low and he is only drinking a sip every 10 km to conserve it; and how the wind torments him and slows his cycling to a crawl.
Yet he does not curse the wind. The wind is his companion. He will not ride through Patagonia alone because the wind will be with him or against him, the wind will be present. The wind stops at night as he does, and the wind and he awaken in the morning. They will go together, some days as combatants, some days as comrades, to the south.
A writer writes to publish and to sell books. A painter paints to hang his work in galleries and to sell it. A trader trades to amass dollars. Another man moves freight in the night for a large corporation. The accountant does another man’s debits and credits. To do something for money, whatever it is, is careerism. It is all the same. A man sells himself, his time, and the best of his talent for an idea of security.
You will have to pay incredible amounts (or nothing) to see these works and to read them. And this money will be given to my mother, who will hoard the money and not spend it and she will not give it back to me until she dies. Then the State will give it back after taking its cut. The careerist will say this is a stupid plan, that I should keep the money and avoid the tax. But I say this is the only plan when it comes to money. For an excess of money is a poverty of the spirit. An excess of money will insulate my life so that nothing happens and no adventures are possible and I will be able to buy my way out of any difficulty and danger.
Things stop happening to the man with money.
He will no longer take the risks poverty and hunger and insecurity forced upon him and he will think this new, predictable life superior and his fellows will congratulate him on his success and women will tell him how responsible and respectable he is and some will encourage him to make her a child.
If you have it and cannot get rid of it to your mother, then go where money does not work. In Patagonia you will find such a place and you will find yourself with little water, a deep uncertainty about which way the wind will blow tomorrow and how strong your legs will be. You are on the Patagonian plain, a desert-like area of scrub and thorn bushes and there is no shade from the sun.
You are still many kilometers east of San Antonio Oeste. You rode hard today into a terrible headwind and stupidly believed the map which said there were three towns along Ruta 3 where you could purchase food and water. But those towns existed once and exist no more and now you have dwindling food supplies and only enough water for 45 km and you have at least 70 km to the city. You remember the long shower you took with the water bladder the night before, and now you think of all that potable water wasted and how you need it now.
But these are the days you have chosen and asked for and now you have them. These are the challenges you knew were possible and now you will see what your body can do. You will test your spirit and you will look even deeper than you looked today if tomorrow the wind blows harder and all the water is gone.
They will say then that I have risked everything for nothing. But is it not the other way around? They who sell their strongest years for a wage--is it not they who have risked everything for nothing? For it is I, and not they, who understand exactly what I risk and exactly what for.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)