Paso Sico, Chile

Sand, wind, and washboards wittled my will into a fragile twig that nearly snapped under the laterally battering currents of an unending ascent. Curiously, an iron-mongering enterprise found speculation in the impossibly inhabited terrain, salvaging my spirit from a reeking pile of emotional wreckage. The countercontextually vibrant gang of miners recognized, and at once, rectified my desperation by escorting my frail figure into a converted shipping container equipped with a stack of soiled mattresses. A presidential suite in my eyes.

Within minutes, I was thrown into a hot shower, pointed to a toilet, had my cholesterol measured, and seated at a smorgasboard. Food, of culinary notariety, filled my energy-oriface until my eyelids sunk into my sunburned cheeks. Shuffling to my allocated cage, I managed to scoff at the falling snow, knowing I´d be well sheltered. For now.

Early the next morning, I was bombarded by another eager-to-please man-mole. Apparently, the brotherhood values food over sleep, concurring with my long-held belief that nourishment happens during waking hours. Once again, hoovering measured in astronomical proportions as I shoveled loaves of warm bread into my shrunken stomach. Mixed with vats of tea, leavening commenced and bloating proceeded.

When sufficiently decompressed, I gathered Surely from the stable and saddled my surly steed. With a handful of firm shakes and a clapping of slaps on the back, I proceeded into the meagerly endowed, massively apportioned landscape. The few remaining kilometers of Chilean trail led me to the onslaught of Argentinian roads, maintained under the philosophy that evasion leads to disappearance. Not the case.

Metronomic blows from the carnal inclinations of an ill-kept highway drove my mind into a negative spiral long after my body failed to feel the beating. At that point, I delved into nihlistic transcendentalism. The cult committee, consisting of me and my waning spirit, coined the mantra ¨I am not here. That is not there.¨ to be repeated indefinitely in a rhymic, monotonous, utterance. This practice successfully distracted me from the abusive terrain but didn´t come without consequences. Thirst, numbness, and hunger dawned on me as soon as I snapped out of my trance. Perhaps an opinionated awareness clan would be a healthier option.

Wits barely about me, I approached the final (supposed) ascent, but as I struggled along the increasingly steep grade, I was apprehended by the concerned deaccelleration of a petrol-truck driver. Normally, I get no more than an aggressive air horn from these fellows, but this time, there seemed to be something that couldn´t be translated into shrill, shattering frequencies.

Peering down at my ill-equipped entourage, he suggested I take refuge in the little town that, evidently, I bypassed while blinking. Snow was rapidly accumulating ahead, and judging by the baldness of my exhausted tires, he didn´t think I´d make it. He mentioned something about dying. Convinced, I postponed.

As I wheeled around the village, which took no more than a few revolutions of a twenty-eight-inch wheel, I encountered what appeared to be a sunbeam materializing in the steaming molecules that emanated from the kitchen of a bright blue building. When I inquired about room and board, she hurriedly affirmed, but in doing so, I reminded myself that I had exhausted my stash in San Pedro de Atacama during the heat of Carnaval. The only machine capable of refueling my tank was equally as empty, hence my premature departure, penniless.

Desperately sifting through my documents to prove my incapacity, I found a hidden five-dollar bill, drunkenly inscribed with ¨Tonight, we ride! Coltan ´08¨ on the back. Days before leaving home, I was given this note during a heated ten-pin session in the smokey ambiance of Meadowood Lanes under the instruction that I was to do something special with it and deliver the resulting story. After seven months of unknowingly toting this ticket, it saved me from starvation. While it wasn´t quite enough to get me a warm bed, it bought me plenty of delicious cuisine. Once again, waking nourishment prevailed, enough to fuel my battered bones across the last (confirmed) pass of the treacherous international passage.