The Exodus

The city was beckoning. It was already the first of March and school started for Haukur and myself on the ninth. Four months of travel were coming to an end.

1600 kilometers lay between us and Buenos Aires. Hitching as a team of three would take time. Time, we didn’t have. A brainstorming session of our options left us with the resolution to split up. We were going solo, but with a little flair.

We would race. A no holds barred hitchhiking race. No public transportation. No paying, or offering to pay for rides. Thumbs only. It was a mission, as Pétur would say.

Haukur:
Haukur never waited for more than fifteen minutes. He wasn’t even trying when he got his first ride. A car simply saw him walking out of Bariloche and pulled over.

Halfway into the first day a sedan pulled over. A middle-aged Argentine man offered to take him to Tres Arroyos, a few hours from Buenos Aires. A long ride. Night came. They pulled into a small town for some rest. They dined together, and afterwards the Argentine offered to buy Haukur a drink before bed. One drink became many. With alcohol in his veins the Argentine couldn’t suppress his desires. There was a transvestite prostitute in the bar that had struck his fancy, and, promising to get Haukur in the morning; the driver went off with him/her to a local motel. Haukur was drunk and alone. He had nowhere to go, and found the ground behind the bar to be a suitable bed.

He was awoken with a stir early the next morning. His chauffer was ready to get as far away from that town and his own shame as quickly as possible. They never talked about what happened.

From Tres Arroyos it was a massive, pot-bellied trucker that took him the rest of the way to the Capital Federal. A father of four, the trucker loved his children, hookers, and heroin. Stopping for food, the trucker bought half of a roasted pig, and ate the entire thing whole while flying down the highway, the grease dripping on his belly.

Haukur arrived in less than two days, covering 1600 kilometers in an unprecedented 42 ½ hours.

Christopher Brendan:
The morning was chilly when I started off, with clouds in the distance threatening rain. I walked several kilometers to the border of the Rio Negro and Neuquen provinces. I would spend eight hours at that border. No one stopped. By mid-afternoon the rain came. I had no jacket. I stood by the road soaked and cold, the wind chilling me to the bone. Evening arrived, bringing at last the sun and more hitchhikers.

Natalia and her seven-year-old sister, Antonia, were on their way home after spending a weekend volunteering, building natural and self-sustaining houses for the less fortunate living outside of Bariloche. We teamed up. Between us we had enough gear and food to survive the night. Our worries were needless. Twenty minutes after meeting, the three of us were in the back of a pickup truck, heading 400 kilometers to the capital of Neuquen.

Huddled under sleeping bags in the truck bed, we talked of consumer society and how we were going to change the world with a certain romanticism that only people our age have. Antonia slept cuddled between us as we watched the sun go down and the stars come out one by one.

I hopped out of the cab at the bus terminal in the town of Cipolletti. Feverish from the rain and cold, the ground outside the terminal was where I laid my head for the night.

The next day was hours of walking along the highway until a couple of short rides left me in Villa Regina, essentially nothing more than a truck stop. Forty kilometers outside of town, in the direction I was going, the highway workers were on strike, shutting down the highway between four and eight P.M. everyday. I arrived at three P.M.

At seven that evening a VW hatchback pulled over with two young guys in it. They were on their way to Buenos Aires, but had to finish working and would be heading out around midnight. I was welcome to come along; I just had to meet them in front of their hotel before they left.

Ecstatic, and thinking there was no chance of anyone beating me; I celebrated with a hearty dinner and a beer.

I decided to catch up on some sleep. So not to miss my ride; I lay down in front of the hotel where I was to meet my new friends. I was awoken to blue flashing lights. Apparently, the “homeless man” sleeping outside was making the guests uncomfortable.

The guys showed up on time as promised. It was a nineteen-hour ride in the back seat between two suitcases and my backpack. I slept for fourteen hours straight. We pumped reggae and maté the rest of the way until the smell of exhaust and dog shit led us back into the city.

Walking into Plaza de Mayo around 8:30 P.M. I arrived with a time of 56 and ½ hours.

Pétur:
Pétur is good with the ladies. Pétur is horrible at hitchhiking. He had no phone, no map, no Spanish, and two months without shaving left him looking like a 40-year-old-rapist. Haukur and I heard nothing from him for five days. When the weekend came, we assumed he was dead, or in Bolivia.

His first day he only got 50 kilometers and was left once again in Confluencia, the wonderful little town that had already called the police on us (Bariloche, The Valley). We don’t have a good reputation there, so he spent the night in a cave off the main road.

He slept under trees and bridges, hitched two motorcycles, shared coco leaves with a trucker, and got picked up by a family who not only made him dinner, but let him sleep at their home, and drove him back to the highway the next morning.

After five days on the road he was let off on the side of the highway 60 kilometers from Buenos Aires. The cars flew by at 150 kilometers and hour. “Fuck it,” he thought, “I’ll just walk.” A family driving past saw him stranded on the road and, like Haukur, pulled over for him. Their van had no seats in the back and Pétur enjoyed the final part of the trip on the floor with four kids, playing with them in broken Spanish.

109 hours. Pétur didn’t even come close.


























































We were finished. I cannot sum all this up with some profound conclusion, so I leave you with the words of a friend.

“Travel is such a funny thing. It’s a wonderful idea filled with adventure and romance- romantic ideas of places and all the wonderful things to do there with all the people to meet and all the people to be.

The truth is that a place isn’t anything until you invest something into it and live and walk and feel it. Be in it. Until then, it is all just a romance story written by some sleazy novelist for widows and housewives. Or small kids with big plans and even bigger ideas about big places where big things happen to big people.

Travel is bigger than the places, bigger than stories and certainly bigger than I can re-tell or summarize- it is the act of being lost mentally and physically without regard or worry to find a destination.”

-Robert Bottomley

In Patagonia

The whole time we were down in the South, Pétur was lugging around his camera with the intention of making a documentary about the trip. He is a talented filmmaker and already has a couple of short films available on his website for Trailer Park Studios, (I posted a link on the side of the blog a couple of weeks ago.) We filmed everything we did and are now in the painstaking process of putting a film together. Recently, we completed a couple of trailers that you can view here. They are available for download in High Definition and there are links for viewing on YouTube. We hope you enjoy them!

Also, there is one final story left to be posted that I am working on currently. I expect to have it up by the end of the week.

-Chris

Bariloche, The Lake

Lago Correntoso. One of the many bodies of water that span Argentina’s famous Lake District. Famous not only for being beautiful, but expensive. Full of quasi towns that popped up like weeds for the sole purpose of accommodating the hordes of tourists that visit year after year, we had a hard time finding a place without any human presence. Lago Correntoso served us well.

We set up our temporary homes a stone’s throw from the shore. We had a forest to keep us out of the sun and our own private beach. Picturesque, one could say.

Few days were left before our lives in the city were to begin again. We took advantage of every moment. The sauna that we failed to construct in the valley was up and ready to cleanse our dirty pores by early afternoon on our first day. Rocks were heated in the fire for hours as we eagerly awaited the steam bath. When they were finally good and hot, we dragged them into the sauna along with a kettle full of water to pour over them. Unfortunately for Haukur, one of the rocks had landed outside of the hole we had dug for them in the center, and his tiny, white little buns found their way on top of it. The fist-sized third degree burn that resulted made his sauna experience slightly less than pleasant.

We fished, unsuccessfully. Everyday we took an afternoon dip in the lake. Haukur baked fresh bread in the fire, and Pétur even made a harpoon out of the crossbow we had bought. Still, no fish. The evenings were spent in silence by the fire, until slowly we dozed off in the open night air.

It was our last time spent in the wilderness. Four wonderful days without a human in sight.

Bariloche, The Valley

Fifty kilometers from Bariloche, on the border of Parque Nacional Nahuel Haupi, lies Valle Encantado. It’s a climber’s paradise, filled with rocky spires that sprout out of the ground like the fingers of God. It’s also private property.

It was to be our most ambitious mission. The goals were as such:
1) Build a raft.
2) Float down the river on the raft, camping as we travel. A modern Huck Finn tale.
3) Build a sauna in which to relax after a day of raft construction.
4) Don’t get arrested.
We failed to realize any of them.

To get to Valle Encantado we first got a ride to the ‘town’ of Confluencia, two kilometers north of the valley. Confluencia consists of a gas station, a bridge, and, on the other side of the bridge, a hotel. We left the gas station on foot.

Immediately upon arriving we met some of the climbers.
“What are you guys doing here?” they asked, with skeptic looks at our packs.
“We’re gonna camp in the valley and build a raft so we can float down the river,” I replied proudly.
“Oh…” and with that he walked off.
In fact, none of the climbers would give us a second glance. We didn’t know why, but they hated us. It turns out that, unbeknownst to us, the cops had come to the area the previous week to kick campers off of the property. The owners didn’t mind the climbers, as long as they enjoyed the rocks during the day and slept somewhere else. Now, due to the amount of people that camped there regardless, like us, there was talk of threats to close the property to everyone.

We crossed the river in little plastic boats. The loathing that the climbers had for us went so far that, as some of them were crossing the river at the same time as us, I offered my hand to assist them as they docked. They refused to take it. At that point we decided it best to get out of their territory and headed into the woods in search of a place to camp.

After hours of hiking, our packs weighing us down with tools and a week's worth of food, we finally settled on a site that would serve for our labors. It was right by the river, and hidden enough that we wouldn’t have to worry about being noticed by the police. The problem was, the highway was right on the other side of the river, and it killed the wilderness ambiance that we were looking for.

A hearty dinner with rice and whiskey led us to our sleeping bags.

















The next day we had to prioritize our goals. The day before, as we hiked through hours of thicket and thorns, I had lost my rain jacket that had been strapped to the back of my pack. Luckily, Pétur had another thing in mind, which required him to backtrack as well. During our search the previous day we had come upon a rocky cliff that dropped off into the river. Pétur wanted to jump off it. After months without snow our adrenaline addict had to do something to get his blood pumping. Ryan, a guy from New Jersey with whom I had crossed paths with numerous times, had joined us for the week and he was feeling man enough to take the leap as well. Haukur and I decided to watch.

The cliff was 32 meters high, over 100 feet. We didn’t know this until afterwards.

It was all set. We had checked the water to make sure there was a good landing, Haukur was set up to get it all on film, and I was at the bottom of the cliff to serve as medic in case anything happened, all they had to do was jump.

Pétur, of course, was the first to go. I didn’t actually see him jump, but the gunshot like sound he made when hitting the water was hard to miss. The impact had knocked all of the air out of his lungs and when he came up to breathe the noise that came from him was similar to that of a death rattle. I was shaking, not having any idea if he was okay, but he swam to shore and brushed it off like nothing had happened. He just wanted a high-five.

Ryan was still building up the courage. Two or three times he signaled to us that he was ready, and two or three times he stepped back to think it over again. The fourth time he jumped.

“Oh my Goooooood!”
Boom.
“HELP!”
I looked back and screamed at Haukur and Pétur on the nearby cliff where they were filming, “FUCKING HELP!”
I stripped off my clothes and was in the water faster than David Hasselhoff. The impact had taken everything that Ryan had and he couldn’t swim. I dragged him to shore and laid him on the beach where Haukur and Pétur where waiting. He was alive, but hurting. You could see the worry on his face.

By late afternoon Ryan was still in pain. It was best that he sought medical attention. The team comes first, so we abandoned all plans and Haukur swam across the river to get help while we packed up camp. An hour later, sitting on the shore with all our gear, we saw Haukur get into a raft, using a shovel as an oar.
“Well, we’re in trouble,” he said as he floated towards us.
“What kind of trouble?”
“The police are waiting for us on the other side.”

Haukur had arrived at the opposite shore and went to the gas station in Confluencia. They told him they had no phone, nor raft and couldn't help him. He ran across the bridge to the hotel. They refused to help as well. They did call the police though. Of course, once the police were there the gas station was more than willing to help and offered Haukur the raft that they didn't have before.

After a brief interview with Neuquen's finest, Ryan and I got in the back of the squad car and we headed into town.

Everything, like always, worked out fine. The cops were hilarious. We listened to Manu Chao in the car and they just laughed when Ryan told them what happened. The Argentines think we're crazy. A quick X-Ray at the hospital showed that all of Ryan's bones were in the right place. We returned to Jorge and Ivan's place.

Haukur and Pétur were already there, Jorge and Ivan had come to rescue them. They thought we were crazy too.

Bariloche, The Beginning

Go to Bariloche, get a good night sleep in a bed, and head to the lakes for a couple weeks of camping. That was the plan.

We found a hostel as we walked into town. Cheap, small, and cozy, the owners were two brothers from Bariloche, Jorge and Ivan. Over the next couple of weeks Jorge and Ivan's place became less of a hostel and more of a friend's house. The circumstances of our travels were ever changing, as I will soon relate, and we passed through their establishment quite a bit during our time in Bariloche.

It looked as if rain was to come. We couldn't cross the river where we intented to set up camp in bad weather, and a couple of nights in a proper bed was a tempting offer. We would have to wait until the weekend to head back into the wilderness.

Bariloche is the tourist trap that we had expected. With the exception of going into town for supplies, we spent the days in the hostel. There was a small backyard with a cabin where the four week old puppy, Coco, lived. Every night after dinner we retired to the cabin, us, the brothers, and the multitude of Israelis that came and went. Alcohol filled our bellies and music filled our ears until sleep called us to our beds.

El Bolsón

El Bolsón is dangerous. You can be trapped there if you're not too careful. We thought we would pass through for a day or two. We stayed a week.

The story goes that back in the 70's El Bolsón became a haven for the hippies of Argentina and Chile. It still is today. Every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday there is a fair in the main plaza. Part farmer's market, part handicrafts, the fair packs the plaza with people the whole day, strolling through the stands, watching the preforming clowns, or listening to the various bands that play throughout the day. For our part we spent the week there in the plaza, laying in the grass and watching the people pass by. The mood was light and everybody was friends. People came and went, we would share a beer and talk about how wonderful life is.

El Camping de Mario was our home for the week. Essentially someone's large backyard in the poor part of town that had become a campground, our companions were many of the people who came for the summer to sell their wares. They came from all sides and for the summer they became a makeshift family. Every night was spent by the bonfire together, singing, passing around a jug of wine, or listening to Haukur explain what Iceland is like.

There was Mare, the Chilean girl who taught us how to make the delicious, and warm, Vino Navegado. There was Negro and Javiera, whom I spent a rainy afternoon with, cooking pasta for them in their tent so they could relax as the mushrooms kicked in. There was Lapa, the clown who had a presence in any room he was in. There was Flor from Bariloche who, with the assistance of others, spent endless hours one night doing my dreadlocks while we all sat in the community hut, avoiding the rain and telling riddles until dawn.

El Bolsón rejuvinated us.

Haukur Sigurðsson

A quick interlude...

A lot of people have been sending me compliments about the photos I post on here. It should be known that I did not take these photos, I just do the writing. 99% of the pictures you see on this blog are taken by Haukur Sigurðsson, our little blonde photographer. Haukur is truly gifted with his lens and has the eye of a professional. If you want to check out more of his stuff go to his Flickr site. It´s amazing work.

-Chris

El Bolsón

Pétur?

Pétur didn´t arrive to El Bolsón until the next night.

He, like us, had no luck in Tecka, only he got tired of waiting and left the town on foot. By the time Haukur and I passed him he had already walked several kilometers.

Eight hours of walking and still nothing. Frustrated and exausted, he saw some Ostrich-like birds in the distance and gave up trying to get a ride to chase them down for a shot.

Night came. He had a tent, food, and a camp stove. Haukur had the pot. For Pétur this was only a minor problem. He found a rusty tin can on the side of the road and cooked his dinner in it. A hearty hobo meal and a day in the sun had left him wiped out. He slept like a baby amongst the desert brush.

It was another five hours of walking the next day. Finally, a Chilean traveling from Punta Arenas to Santiago stopped. There was already two hitchhikers, also from Chile, in the cab who played bongos and made bracelts for Pétur as they made their way down the road. They were obviously heading for El Bolsón as well.

Haukur and I, while Pétur was stuck in the desert, were laying in the grass in El Bolsón eating waffles, drinking artesenal beer, and talking to beautiful hippie girls. We had to arrainged to meet in the plaza and when the sun started to go down we began to worry. We were heading back to camp when a band preforming on the street caught our eye. We stopped to listen when, walking in front of the band, Pétur appeared. High-fives, stories, and bed. We did it.

The 40 Day Seven

I hate Tecka. If there exists a Heaven and a Hell, Tecka would be Purgatory.

We were set up opposite of the gas station. It´s not like there wasn´t traffic, there was more than we had come across the whole trip, but no one would stop for us. We decided to split up to increase our chances. We sent Pétur, who knew about five and a half words in Spanish, to the edge of town on his own.

Haukur and I waited another two hours. Finally, I walked across the Route to the gas station, sat down, put the Ruta 40 Norte sign at my feet and pulled out my guitar. Still nothing.

At 4 p.m. another hitcher was dropped off, heading the same direction as us. Lucas was from La Plata and came to El Bolsón during the summer to sell hats he made in the fair. Haukur and I talked. No luck and now more people. We decided to check if we could get a bus. Thankfully, at that moment, a pickup stopped. Lucas hopped in the back with us and we left that god-forsaken town.

There was no sign of Pétur as we entered the open road so we assumed he had been picked up. We were relieved. Fifteen minutes later we flew past a figure on the Route. ¨Pétur!¨ By the time we realized it was him it was too late, he was gone. He would have to take care of himself.

The pickup dropped us off at an intersection. 10 kilometers to our west was Esquel and 151 kilometers north was our goal, El Bolsón. The sun was starting to go down. Lucas got tired of waiting, he had friends in Esquel and figured it best to walk into the city for the night. He invited us along but Haukur and I wanted to stay and stick out the evening, we were too close to backtrack.

I had started to gather wood to make a fire for the night when I heard a screeching and saw a little Toyota Yaris pull off the road. Before we knew it the trunk was popped open and a very exited European was throwing our packs into the back.

"Hold on man, are you going to El Bolsón?"

"Yes, yes," in heavily accented English, "El Bolsón, Bariloche, all of it! Let´s go, let´s go, let´s go!"

The driver, a Belgian, was accompanied by his lover, the erection inducing Suzanne from Switzerland. They had met the previous week on the road. The car they had rented from a Chilean police officer. In three days Suzanne had to catch a flight out of Santiago, Chile, and if they aren´t dead, then I guarentee she made her flight.

There were two empty beer cans in the cupholders up front. Suzanne turned around, "I´m sorry, we have a bottle of wine but no bottle opener."

"I have one," I blurted. Thinking before I speak is sometimes a foreign concept to me.

"Ah, bueno!" replied our driver, "it´s warm but it will do!"

Wait. Our driver wanted to drink it too? Thankfully as that realization came to me the cork broke. They would have to wait till later for the wine.

The Belgian flew down the road. 160, 180, 190, 200 kilometers an hour. He exceeded the spedometer. I looked at Haukur, "I´m seriously scared right now, dude." He didn´t even look at me, he simply wiped his palm on the back of my hand. It was soaked.

I now have scientific proof that hot girls love dangerous guys. Everytime the Belgian would weave in and out of traffic, barely missing the cars, Suzanne would squeeze his leg and smile. We stopped at a gas station. They got out of the car and ate each others faces. If they could´ve, the probably would have fucked right then and there. The gas station had no gas. It did have beer though. They bought two liters. Brilliant.

Our captain chugged the beer as we sped through the mountain pass. When the bottle came back to Haukur and I we pounded as much as possible. The more we drank, the less the Belgian could.

We made it to El Bolsón, 151 kilometers, in less than an hour. I kissed the ground at my feet. Hakur and I celebrated our survival with a dinner of salami sandwiches and beer that we ate on the ground next to the supermarket. We were exausted. We didn´t even bother looking for a campsite, behind the store would do. At the back of the building we we got in our sleeping bags and passed out.

7 days and 1500 kilometers. Mission complete.

Almost.

The 40 Day Six

To our utter dismay, horses were completely our of our budget range. The dream was crushed, we had to move on.

All of the luck we had in the beginning of our trip was gone. We set up at the edge of town, taking turns between extending our thumbs and hiding from the Patagonian wind. Eight hours later, an old beat up sedan stopped in from of us. Horacio, 60, had spend the weekend drinking at the festival. His eyes were glazed over and there were empty bottles of Quilmes on the floor. He was hammered. At this point we didn´t care, we had to get out of that town.

We chugged along at 40 kilometers and hour, other cars honked as they blew by us. Horacio told us why Brazilian and Paraguayan women are better than ¨those Argentine bitches¨while he tried to keep his car on the road. He only took us 10 kilometers, but progress is progress.

Shortly thereafter we, as always, hopped in the back of a pickup and went onto the next town.

Tecka is essentially the gas station that everyone stops at on their way through. The sun went down without a ride. We unrolled our sleeping bags on the side of the Route and slept in the dirt under a clear sky.