Typing standing up

(Parts of this were written at different times over the last month and a half...)

Hola from Puerto Puyuguapi! So I am officially in the middle of nowhere, and it looks strikingly like my home state... Pto Puyuguapi is about 500km of bumpy road south west of my last blog in El Bolson. The town is a sleepy salmon fishing village of several hundred inhabitants. Initially the people are somewhat closed but thaw quickly when you speak to them in their language, as the vast majority of tourists on this road are hitching Israelies who seem to rarely make the effort (according to my hostel owner).

The road south of El Bolso quickly dropped out of the mountains into a sweeping dessert landscape complete with burning sunsets and morning headwinds. After a long day in the sun route 40 again took a turn to the West and within just a few kilometers we found ourselves on the border between the highlands and Mordor. Annie and I spend a day eating, lounging, and more eating before parting ways for a couple weeks to reattach our heads to our thoraxes.

Now, up until this moment we had felt nary a raindrop since mouting our bikes in Bariloche. Within five minutes of switching from pavement to dirt and riding towards Chile last Saturday the heavens collectively flushed their toilets and the rain did come. The 100% deet replaced the Banana Boat 30spf in its place of seniority and the raingear is out in full force. That first night I had about three and a half hours to race to the border (I feel like there should be a Journey-esque guitar solo every time this is said) before it closed and made it with minutes to spare. The change in landscape at the border was truely amazing; Chile is lush! And I am a lush in Chile (el vino!), but that is a story for another venue. While finding water had been a problem in Argentina, crystalline rivers abound here, and I have been lucky enough to camp next to one just about every night so far. The only exception to this is the night after Villa Santa Lucia where I sought shelter from the rain at a rancher´s door and he let me post up in his chainsaw shed... I know, this sets the better scene for a bad horror movie than for a night of sound rest, but after about an hour of shared yerba mate in his small comfortable cabin, I felt pretty good about the arrangement.

I have learned a few things so far on this trip. For one, this whole biking though the Andes thing is hilly business. While this may seem intuitive, and in fact is, sometimes your mind can predict to its cerebral content but still leave your quads in the dark. Another thing I have learned is that your ass complains more the second 70 km on washboard than the first and the third and fourth it absolutely screams. Hence the title. I think finally the numbness is setting in though.

The third interesting tidbit you may not have guessed: it involves the workings of a bovine sexometer. I came across a rather frisky couple with a spring calf in trot a couple days ago standing smack in the middle of the road (the favorite meeting place of Chilean cows). Pop hopped on top as I rounded the bend but dismounted when he saw me, and the poor little dude ran immediately into the woods, apparently to preempt years of expensive psychotherapy. I was, of course, narrating all of this in my best Latino Mickey Mouse voice. (Dude, at least tell me if you guys are going to do that! I swear to God I´m going to go stay with Uncle Roberto...) Something about the screaching pitch of my narration resonated Barry White in the male´s bovine temporal lobe as he reinitiated, leaving me to watch feet away until they had scooted far enough out of the road for me to to eek by. I include this little bit of nonsense only to convey my state of mind-lessness; not a lot going on in the old cabeza on the road. This, I have found, can be a very, very good thing.




After a rest day in Puyuguapi I rejoined the Carretera for the last 450 km or so to Chile Chico, where I would cross back into Argentina. Day two I was met with the most delicious surprise: pavement! A stretch of about 40km (don´t remember now) of pavement, followed by a short break and another 70km to Coyhiaque. This was completely unexpected. The feeling of all that smoothness after so many hundreds of kilometers rattling my beaten frame on that ultrastiff aluminum frame can only be described with gutteral murmurs of relief.

Now a note on the Chilean people. The people I have met in the Chilean patagonia have redifined the word hospitality for me. One night I met a three generation family fishing at a lakeside rest stop. Then, after an hour of chatting it up over coffee and galletas, Jose-Manuel and his wife Sandra offered their house in Coyhaique, 120km away. The next morning in the same rest stop, a different three generation family extended the same offer, and even offered to drive me. I politely told them I would rather ride and thanked them. The next morning, 90 km down the road, I met the same family at another stop before the mountain pass I would have to climb before Coyhaique. The whole family was there, a packed van, and again offered a ride. I was really enjoying myself and again politely refused and said I had a place to stay. It wasn´t until later that I realized they had all piled in the minivan and driven out to pick me up. Oh, did I mention it was Easter morning? Later that day I went into a cafe to inquire on the cost of coffee and was leaving after hearing the price when two elderly ladies insisted on buying me coffee as well as a huge plate of shellfish. Then there is Jose-Manuel and Sandra, who put me up for a night, fed me, gave me my first hot shower in weeks, and send me packing with some fresh peaches and a scarf.



I will always remember my first windblasted night back in Argentina. The sun liquified and the sky turned to tomato soup and poured over my camp behind a leafed barrier at the Eastern-most point of Lago Buenos Aires. The waves, I found upon taking the plunge, were much bigger than they appeared from shore. But, I was running out of time as I had a plane to catch 600km south in El Calafate. I awoke early to have one more day with the road and biked through Perito Moreno and as far South as I could get by 1300. Then, with the wind at my back and a flat road ahead, I stopped peddling. One and a half km later I laid down my bike and stuck out my thumb. However, after 7 hours, 2 rides and only 45km gained, I started to worry about the 500km I had to cover in two days. Just as the sun dropped behind the biggest horizon I had ever seen, I flagged down a bus heading for Calafate, and that was the end of my trip.

As soon as I got on I regretted it. Overstimulation! and me without my music. That place was so raw I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. But ultimately it was the right thing to do. Not much to say about El Calafate except that it is expensive, touristy, and has access to the southern icefield, which is as impressive as it sounds. The flight to Buenos Aires went smoothly and I met Annie at the airport tired and with a mounting fever, but happy.



(Ok, so that ended about a month ago. Now I´m only two blogs behind! I am now in Quito about to take a bus to Quinindé and then ride the 40km to La Y, where I will be working the next 6 months in a small rural clinic. The plan was to go the 25th as I have a million things to take care of and direly need to review some medicine and Spanish, but I got a call last night saying the rural doctor at the clinic checked out early for a vacation... Entonces, me voy.)

If anyone wants to send me anything (no pressure), my address for the next 6 months will be:

Andrew Seaman
MettiPro
12 de Octubre y Ramón Roca
Edificio Mariona Jesus
7 piso, Oficina 709
Quito, Ecuador

Letters will be delivered to my by staff on a weekly basis. Anything over 2kg (about 4.4lbs) is a PAIN IN A ASS to pick up and I need to be in Quito to do it... Also, claim something like 10 dollars, no more, and the contents are always libros (books), otherwise taxes can be upwards of $100. )

Love you guys,
Andy

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