Noah's Travel Journal - South America, Eighth Entry

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Road Trip

Landmines and flamingos; the Chilean-Bolivian border spanned the visual spectrum from the invisible to the unavoidable. As the baggage searching and daylight died out, our bus continued West-ward to the Chile-Peru border city of Arica. One day after the river crew rendezvous our van had received mechanical clearance and we were permitted to venture South-bound into the mountainous dunes of the Attacama desert. The layover and delayed arrival of the van were both due to vehicular vexes.

Our good-natured crew was captained by an international rafting pioneer by the name of Fico. Like any true pirate, his parrot Lorena, adorned his shoulder and left its greenish-white tokens of gratitude on every available surface. She had a lot to be thankful for after being freed from the shackles of a Peruvian street vendor and smuggled across the border in only the most humane of conditions. Isn't freedom all about having clipped wings in a wheeled caged that roars to a start each morning? The first mate and designated parrot handler was another kind rafting soul named Leo. My brother and I odd-jobbing cabin boys, just happy to be changing ports in the company of legends.

Putting up the first dune brought our trailer-toting van and hung-over captain nearly to the point of no return. Celebrating his native Peruvian soccer team's win over Chile the previous night had left him badly in need of a recharging nap. The breeze generated by driving had been all that kept the thermometer needle grounded. It was now losing its cool parked on the glistening desert asphalt. I made my absence of trailer training time and stolen license status known as I climbed behind the wheel. My only instructions were to pull over inconspicuously before the military checkpoint up the road.

Over the next week we acquired a quirky rhythm for the daily trials. Every day began and ended with car troubles, but there is no wake-up call as invigorating as push-starting a van that takes an average of three tries. Fico and I would then trade off the driving spells in-between every radiator-hydration effort. We would pull-over 400 meters before every military checkpoint to hide our bird and all consumed and excreted evidence of its existence. After every time Lorena was chased onto a stick and stuffed into a jacket pocket with a muffled squawk, escape attempts were more frequent and ferocious. A possible correlation, but probably just coincidence. I would stroke the pocket of the tortured creature until it was lulled into passive desperation.

Karma caught up in La Ligua when our van, after making the annual, two-way, 10,000 Km trip from Southern-most Chile to Peru, for 14 years in a row, refused to rouse itself from slumber. Three days of mechanic scams crushed morale and our captain's permanent state of jubilance. We threw a benefit fire dancing show in the plaza, but we couldn't compete with the popularity of the 500 Halloween-costumed children that had gathered earlier to advocate nonviolence.

Later that evening I became acquainted with an individual that exuded paranoid energy. The bulk of Patricio and my conversation was full of fragments and non-sequitors, but then the most profound insights would shine through the mire of incoherence. We met on the street by chance the following day and the same weird energy told me to run. I resisted and over the next hour he recounted the story of how the weight of the world and all its injustice finally broke his mind down and left him a parting gift of schizophrenia. It was depressing to see such a brilliant and ecologically passionate individual labeled and mocked by the mechanics in the background. Where is that grey line drawn between brilliance and the inky-darkness of insanity? Flamingos and landmines...

We arrived in Santiago with enough time for me to make a quick stop into the Fundación de Diabetes Juvenil (FDJ) to check up on my volunteer status for the largest Summer camp for South American youth. After a week of living in a van, not bathing, shaving, or changing clothes, I sauntered in to speak with the Camp Director. Thanks to a good word from the A.Y.U.D.A. (American Youth Understanding Diabetes Abroad) organization, my first impression was not all the Director had to go on. I told him I would return in six weeks for the camp, but my transport to the Futaleufu River was on the move. After seeing Lorena's bowel history for the last week on my Captain's hat and shirt, the Director offered the same clichŽd parting words as all my friends back home: "don't die." Good advice, but as soon as one's mind is preoccupied with Death, he's bound to come knocking.

We rolled into Pucon in time to entertain a full-moon barbeque party with songs of every nature. Car troubles forgotten, we had located real beds, real food, and Lorena was even enjoying herself in the expanded play-area in the bar that we were now roomed above. It was Leo's birthday and the journey plagued at every turn with car trouble, was finally over. If the dam broke loose the next day, it could be handled...

"Lorena! Come here when I call damn it! Lorena?"

It was 7:30 in the morning and we were roused by calls from down the hall. In a city where nobody leaves the house until 1:30 am, morning only comes after one has lost and regained consciousness. It was still party-o'clock for our Captain and hosts, but zero-hour for our mascot. A little detective work produced the following clues to the mystery:

1.) Clipped wings and a fat belly
2.) Open window with a crate beside it
3.) The neighbor's cat seen stalking something in the early morning

Escaping from close calls with traffic, dogs' jaws and careless mechanics, liberation finally came in the form of a white feline. Human dependency ignored, she had chosen freedom by any means. Closure to the voyage in the most absolute form. Our mates and vessel plugged on Southward with two new cabin boys and we took a term of shore leave to get our bearings.

The area around Pucon is a kayaker's playground and paradise. Fighting my deeply ingrained fear of returning to a hard-shell kayak, I found I was much better than when I entered the river during a flood in Ecuador. Following my brother's lines through the rapids, I gradually built my confidence back up with every successful combat roll until it reached the king-of-the-world tier. Funny how one slip on a steep, shallow rock slalom is all it takes to remove face pallor, fingerprints and all but a sliver of my recently acquired confidence. I couldn't tell if I had really soiled myself or if there had always been such a large quantity of liquid in my hull.

The best part of the United States found us in that small, lake-side tourist haven. Our parents had booked a month to come find us and unify the family circus. Initially there were minor doubts about the cohesiveness of the two separate lifestyles. They came from the land of ritzy-yet-incomplete guidebooks, and we had been living above a bar with no running water and buying cheap coffee down the street for customer status when nature called.

The apples don't fall far from this family tree. Within a few days my father was kayaking despite a recently broken ankle (he may hobble folks, but he can sure hurl himself down some big waves), rocking guitar and loosening his grip on the die-hard efficiency mentality he trains so hard for. While he learned to like just sitting and doing whatever he wanted (most of which wasn't in the guidebook), our mellow mother needed no practice. Many of our conversations revolved around our passion for helping underprivileged diabetics and the most effective means. The only time she showed angst was worrying if her patients were well-enough cared for in her absence.

Our route South from Pucon took us through the National parks of Southern Argentina and a Christmas day that brought sunburns, beaches and our best bar gig to date. We passed through the artisan market of El Bolsón which put all other countries' to shame, and finally made it to the legendary Futaleufu River in Chile. Our parents, both giving people, decided to share the joy of a South American gastrointestinal illness, and leave us to our own New Years Eve fun. Fico's van had somehow made it the last 1,000 Km to his riverside camp outside of town, so we grabbed minimal supplies and hiked in to the seasonal destination for many of the world's greatest kayakers. The sun took an unobstructed seat for the all-day spectacle as I hopped into a paddle raft and plowed through arguably two of the best stretches of river. Considering that the river is rated among the top three in the world, the mountains of neon-blue water ensured an epic trip. As daylight dwindled we watched the river run by as quickly as the year, and welcomed many more as they appeared upstream around the bend.

We awoke New Years Day and hiked out to the road that would take us back into town. We waited in vain for three-and-a-half hours trying to hitchhike, but benevolence hadn't made many peoples' resolution list. Hoping our parents' fun level wasn't contingent on our presence, we sheepishly slunk into our cabana at 6:30 that evening.

An eye for an eye. Our parents had pulled the same stunt we had only a day earlier, and ditched us for a rafting trip. As the hours passed and night approached, awful scenarios of emergencies involving a re-broken ankle and illness-induced fatigue played through my much-too-vivid imagination. When they did appear, my father was walking a foot taller and my mother was beaming as always. My shocked face demanding an explanation was met by my patented "mellow-out" stare, now worn by the seasoned river warrior in the doorway. The only emergency that day had ended with the humble cripple rowing a boat out to rescue the safety-guide who was swimming through the undercut rapid where the first-ever commercial trip death occurred.

My parents accompanied me back to Santiago and saw me off to the bus for diabetes camp. The teary eyes, packed lunch and school bus brought me back to another time. The bus ride left me time for a life reflection session with this central question: how, after years of wrong-doing, deceit and pain caused by yours-truly, could my parents still show me such unerring support and understanding? Their level of patience and forgiveness makes Buddha and Jesus look crabby. The debt incurred from unconditional love can never be repaid, but I can damn-well try. The commercialization of Chile that followed Pinochet's dictatorship has given the country more of a United States feel than any other South American country I've visited. The only place where that attribute seemed to be an advantage was the FDJ's Summer camp. The concept of live-in Summer camps like those in the U.S. model, just don't exist down South.

With the A.Y.U.D.A. organization's introduction and the Director's innocent-until-proven-guilty mentality, I took my place among the multi-national group of volunteers and awaited my initiation by body paint. Almost all of the nearly 100 youth volunteers were type-1 diabetics. With blue and yellow paint flecks still in my hair the following morning, the campers arrived and training time was over. It was time for some serious fun.

My first group of kids were 8 to 12 year-olds and nearly all administered their own insulin. The doses were only a problem occasionally when the kids saw what they had to eat after taking a shot...

"But Uncle Noah, I can't eat another butter and ham sandwich, I feel sick." [turning pale despite a sunburn]

"Now, now Cristobal, if you want to be a big, strong diabetic you need to eat that nutritionally balanced meal in front of you. OK, just eat the bread for the carbohydrates. See? I can separate the bread and it still has that same yummy, meat-butter flavor." [choking down my third of the day]

I pulled the same "responsibly balanced diet" bit involving a peach with mold spots cut out of it, and ended up grounded with stomach pains while campers endlessly reenacted the dialogue. They had the doubling-up and bathroom sprint down perfectly.

For being the largest diabetes camp in South America, the organization and implementation was astounding. The location forced kids to "rough it" for the duration of camp with a swimming pool, gymnasium, basketball and tennis courts, two soccer fields of sand and grass, private cabanas and bathrooms, and even a zoo. Needless to say, I observed no homesickness in either of my sessions of youngsters who were bombarded every waking hour with endless activities of exercise and education. I built up enough good rapport that I was allowed to teach a juggling workshop and even spin fire around the moderately-flammable and highly-impressionable campers.

The multi-national composition of the camp provided friends and experiences as unique as the insulin regimens. Never have I witnessed such raucous cheering by hundreds of campers for an eight year-old who admits that he's not currently dating anyone (a mandatory piece of information during the individual introductions), but hasn't ruled the option out. The 10 days screamed past like no others, but the knowledge would stay with me for a long time. With so many different perspectives on diabetes care, international assimilation is essential.