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.
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