Bienvenidos, Chile

Thankfully, the switchbacks went downhill for me. All 70 of them. I felt sorry for the two Germans pushing their bikes uphill, but I couldn't slow my momentum enough to express my sympathy. Tears flying horizontally from my temples, I gave them a heartfelt salute. But they probably only heard the "yee" part, faintly catching the Dopplerizing "haw" over the screaming friction of speeding tires.

Headwinds and traffic made the incline toward the border gruesome, but once on the road to see Jesus, the wind died and traffic slowed. It was Easter, coincidentally, and since Someone had just woken up for the 1985th time, blessings were plentiful. Favorable weather, the result of a tumultuous microclimate or a miraculous resurrection, is always welcome. From the Redentor, the route wound down 40 tight gravel turns leading to the 30 asphalt hairpins that crippled the Germans. One can imagine the hoots and hollers.

Once windward, only a few hundred kilometers separated me from Santiago. Most of those passed through the sprawling suburban fabric of Chile´s capital, gradually densifying into the vertically stacked glass piles that disappeared into the thick, brown smog that hovered over the city like Pigpen from Peanuts. Blankets could be seen dragging in the gutters. Charlie was depressed upon seeing this, but handfulls of kind people favorably offset any ill feelings induced by the polluted basin, recharging my batteries for the gruesomely trafficked superhighway to the south.

Harvest, Argentina

Dew droplets bulged meniscusly on the impeccably manicured grounds, reflecting the molten colors of an Andean sunrise like a lava lamp spilled across green shag carpet. Wispily stroked clouds and Falling poplars filled the middle hues of the color spectrum, prepping the vineyard with kaleidoscopic calisthenics for the pending pluck-fest. Droplets glowing, leaves yellowing, sky bluing, berries bursting: harvest loomed.

Coincidentally, our arrival at Casa Altamira fell on the eve of this year´s harvest. Not that we should be suprised at this fortune, given the nature of my first encounter with our hosts.

Years ago, while pedaling through the Rocky Mountains, I met a few folks roaming around in a Westfalia Volkswagen. Through conversation that only happens around campfires, I learned that the wine we drank that night came from one of their vineyards in Mendoza. Without the slightest knowledge of the present adventure, we exchanged contacts that would eventually lead to Casa Altamira. Once again, an open mind and an able body has led to an irreplaceable experience.

Anxiety grew on the first morning of scheduled picking when the truckload of laborers failed to show. The worry was that we´d miss the time slot in which the grapes must be plucked from their vines before they begin to shrivel and rot. This time of year, temperatures plummet at night, cooling the grapes into a bitter, acidic balance with the sun-sweetened juices that simmer inside by day. Too long on the vine and the balance would be upset. Nerves were rightly wrought when no one showed.

As we discovered, yesterday´s holiday marking the defeat in the Falkland Islands War left the crew haggard; spirits often accompany lamentations. When duty called, the truckdriver did his best to rally the troops, but an untimely (but not unprovoked) breakdown stalled the process until the following day; accidents often accompany hangovers.

Early the next morning, a heavily compensated crew came earlier than expected. By the time we arrived on scene, pickers were hustling through the narrow rows, hoisting forty kilos of raw crop with one hand, violently waving pruning scissors in the other. Sixty workers competed for a finite yield that paid quantitatively, economically explaining their hasty habits. Soren and I conjured our latent farming genes and helped a few lagging laborers, but our efficiency paled in comparison. In less than three hours, they plucked 1,300 baskets equaling 72 bins of 300 kilos each. Forget calculations, that´s a hellofalot of grapes. And that was only a fraction of the malbec.

Later, stained hands cupped last year´s yield as the sun balanced on the jagged horizon moments before disappearing, casting warm tones on the vineyard in an amber bath of therapeutic quality. Like the grapes, we felt ripened to a perfect balance. Pick us anytime, we´re ready.

Flash/Crack, Argentina

Vibrant colors, glowing in shades warmer than normal, drew me into a beautifully carved canyon at the end of a sweaty day. Slivers of shade soothed my salty skin as the sun projected a declining azimuth that embossed every nook and cranny into enhanced dimensional proportions. The few trees that found nourishment in the hot, dry sand exploded with greenery in sharp contrast with the red backdrop. Bones cooled while dinner simmered.

The intensely glowing, thinly trimmed fingernail from the previous night projected a new moon, and since the present setting showed no signs of habitation, the stars would be blinding. With that in mind, the tent took the night off. Bag in the sand, I slept with my glasses on. The stars twinkled rhythmically.

After a few hours of gazing, my periphery picked up some activity in sharp, blinding bursts of washed, white light. Clouds began bumping into one another, discharging their agitation in frequent blasts (flash/crack). I held onto the last visible strip of stars as the eye hovered directly above me, but soon, the cycloptic storm lost its vision and closed in with blind fury. Delirium prevented me from taking protective measures against the impending storm because logic detracted the chance of rain in such arid terrain. Nature proved itself, once again, as an unpredictable, viable force, worthy to be reckoned with.

Light rain began to fall, easily shed by my sleeping bag, but as the drops grew globular and cold, I began to feel seepage inside my cocoon. Like an anxious caterpillar halfway through metamorphasis, I poked my head outside to survey the situation. Spooked by what I saw, I burst from my wrap prematurely, naked and wingless. Small, muddy rivers had formed around me, growing more voluminous with each compounded drop shed from the mountains above. The island on which my stuff sat was slowly washing away, as was my bike, leaning on the rapidly eroding bank. Hindsight mocked my ignorance with bellowslike laughs (flash/crack), illuminating the brutal truth of camping in a dried-up riverbed in the middle of the desert. Flash flood, idiot.

Splashing knee-deep through the thick, bubbling river, I heaved my bike halfway up a solid embankment. Too low and I'd be washed away. Too high and I'd be lit up (flash/crack). Hurriedly wading back to the island, I rescued my marooned sleeping gear, totally soaked and useless, of course. A quick scan of the basin through wet, foggy glasses convinced me that I had gathered everything. Back at the bank, I had to find shelter. The coat of adrenaline that had dampened my shivers withered in the pouring rain as I crouched, fetally, next to some spiny bushes.

Scrambling through cold, muddy gear-stew, I tore out my tent and carefully assembled the tent poles with one eye on the sky (flash/crack). Hilariously pitched on an uncomfortable slope, I nestled into the sticky, crackling embrace of an emergency blanket. From inside, as the river lapped at the vestibule, I laughed, humbly acknowledging my error, gratefully realizing my fortune at having escaped the vomitous discharge of an overwatered landscape.

Roadside Distractions, Argentina

Civil engineers designed Route 150 with a single pen-stroke and a t-square. A total absence of features in the landscape of La Rioja allowed them to complete the scheme one-handed in a matter of minutes. From there, the contractor piled rocks, packed asphalt, and painted lines. After it dried, cyclists came and grew bored.

In such absence, the sight of something anomalous is captivating, no matter the circumstance. So, when from underneath the shade of a low-slung tent an eagerly gesturing woman in a slinky skirt emerged bearing a sweating bottle of water, I swerved, braked, and circled back, failing to check for oncoming traffic. Thankfully, motorists stalled for the siesta, so my maneuver went unchecked. But underneath the luring shade lurked another disaster waiting to happen.

At once, I was seated on a cool, hide-stretched chair and served a glistening glass of water. Usual conversation commenced, harmlessly, until she asked for my hands. Then, as if on cue, a crippled midget and two more women, scantily clad, emerged from a tent within the tent. Minutes later, palms showing signs of luck and love, more women, gangs of them, each in brilliantly colored, sparkling, strapless tops, approached. I had been lured into the realm of gypsies, fooled by their seductive trickery and tanned cleavage.

Sorcerous rituals requiring pocket change and foreign money produced a Brazilian nut and a small clove of garlic, mysteriously inserted into my pocket. When she insisted that someone named Maria in my family demanded that I cross the miniature crusafix that graced my precious leather book, I got spooked and tried to wiggle out of their slippery grasp. The unfavorable ratio of feminine juices to celibate cyclist unsettled me. Forgetting my stealth, I awkwardly stood up and made my escape, shaking gropes like a greasy runningback, fleeing like a cowardous calvaryman. Next time, sweat beads, whether on waterbottles or painted eyebrows, will be a clear indication of trickery.

Omens, Argentina

Water droplets fell in annoyingly infrequent intervals with infallible accuracy onto my eyelids that struggled to remain glued together in early-morning delerium. Heat from the sixth level of Hell ushered me through clutters of cacti the day before, so when the beginnings of a terrible storm reared its ghastly head in the late afternoon, I welcomed the heavenly extinguisher. The next morning, I cursed precipitation.

Retrospectively, I should have invested slightly more energy in pitching my tent while eyeing the storming schmoo, because the pool of water that collected directly above my head defied gear physics and breeched the impermeable skin. In a dreary attempt to dodge the aquatic globlets, I rolled over, expelling a frustrated groan at the tiresome trickle. Moments later, concurring with the unpredictable dispensation of dribbling liquid alarm clocks, the droplets fell into my ear. Understood, I awoke.

Slightly off-balance due to the inequilibreum of my auditory orifices, I scrambled through my food stuffs mumbling ¨fee, fi, fo, fum,¨ knowing that the blood of an Englishman surely wouldn´t do. Instead, drugs were on my mind, the sort that when pulverized and mixed with boiling water, initiate an artificial awareness that salvages mornings for millions of commuters around the world. Black gold be found, I staggered to the outlet that´s conveniently stocked in municipial campgrounds. Rather than fussing with the minute mechanics of a stove that requires honed motor skills, I resorted to the electric water heater common with most maté-gobbling Argentinians.

Cup in hand, prongs posed to release potential power, I inserted the plug. ZAP! 220 volts of agitated electrons went bolting through my system. Coils smoking, cup tumbling, I found the jolt I needed. Awake indeed.

With my wits about me, I realized the error. Metal mug, filled with water, through which an electric current passes. Any elementary electrician could have foreseen the resulting surge I felt pulse through my body, but with only a fraction of neurons firing, I fell victim to the painful results of learning by doing.

Later, still feeling a slight tingle in the point of conduction, I became excited at the prospect of improving my luck, seeing a bountiful crop of cactus fruit. Sifting through the overgrown barbwire, I plucked a plump speciman, still cool from the shade of a poplar grove. The thorny lobes were easily dodged, but what I didn´t expect were the microscopic spines that covered the fruit itself. The slivers dug into the crevices between my fingers and remained there for the remainder of the day. No matter how desperately I scoured my palms, scores of thorns evaded my extraction attempts. Even my tongue managed to get stuck, perhaps while licking the corner of my mouth that, apparently, had also been afflicted.

Omens have never held much water in my pool of thought. If they did, my plans would have led me into a comfortable living room long ago, where nothing but the glare from a window behind the blaring television could harm me. No, I interpret experiences with debateable logic, not interpretable mysticism. This way, I´m able to cruise through a series of seemingly dooming encounters with the knowledge that, at a certain point, circumstances will improve, just as sure as an uphill will eventually cease, opening the floodgates for a thrilling descent.

Salta, Argentina

Lean wrists dangled from noon on loose steering wheels that sloppily maneuvered forgotten models of European origin. Passengers hung halfway out windows with bare feet perched on the dashes next to piles of useful gadgets yet to be used for their intended purpose. Velocities never reached more than a pedestrian´s pace, leaving one to wonder why vehicles were used in the first place. It was Sunday, after all. Rest was of the utmost order.

The imperceptibly declining slope on which I coasted allowed me to engage in the slow-motion spectacles with like lethargy. Sitting semi-side-saddle on the toptube, I felt no compulsion to pedal. Moment elongation, atmospheric preservation.

Creatures that don´t normally fly found traction on the abnormally chewy air, gaining additional leverage from the charcoal smoke wafting from barbeques on the verge of readiness. Grasshoppers surfed on the strummed bars of a thoughtless string session emerging from the shade of a woven canopy next to the condiments and beverages. Less than fifty percent of all skin present was covered in clothing, exposed portions glistening with effortless sweat.

People went about their Sunday way as if there was no war, no poverty, no concern - not arrogantly or ignorantly, but self-indulgently aware. Their response to my presence was equally characterized by an unexpected understanding, like I was supposed to be doing whatever it was I was or am doing. It came as a fresh sense of belonging after the alienating gawks of most folks further north.

Belonging amplified with the unseasonable warmth felt at the Casa de Ciclistas in Salta. Unannounced, ungroomed, and unaccompanied, I washed up on the curb like a beached whale out a sea of refuse. Hesitantly, I inquired about temporary lodg - when I was interrupted by the creaking gate and ushered into the embrace of the Marín family. There, I had the fleeting feeling of familiarity for the few days I spent. More than any jaw-dropping panorama, the kindness of people astounds me.

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.