The Dream
Post date: Apr 25, 2011 6:14:21 PM
I was wondering how I should feel after dreaming about this moment for so long. The biggest feeling I had was simply absence and peace with that absence. So this is how the story ends? The movies dramatize things so greatly. See Frodo after he throws the ring into the volcano. There is not jumping for joy. There is relief. After carrying such a burden for so long, it feels wonderful to simply be free from the burden. But the outsider feels awe, wonder, and inspiration. I have said it before, but it is worth saying again here: adventure is just another word for “pain in the ass.”
In moments of great beauty and finality of a great adventure, I am reminded of the most blunt and basic fact of all- that I am here, now, breathing. Then you turn from the tear-worthy heavenly scene, get on your motorcycle, and drive down the rocky road.
All things pass. Good ends. Bad ends. The universe is perfectly neutral, though as shiny and warm as our hearts make it out to be.
It’s simply a shock to be striving for something so long and then to suddenly stop. We have all been there for we have all seen things pass from our lives.
The feeling I had upon reaching Ushuaia was more shock that it was over than joy at my success.
I heard the motorcycle thumping, awaiting my direction to carry me to Chile and beyond. But this was the end. I had zero interest in going further, and I was pleased with my certainty.
I did not give up when I almost died in Mexico, lost my camera, and busted my motorcycle to bits. I did not give up in Guatemala when vibration from a chewed up balancer system had me worrying the motorcycle was going to strip my gears and render the bike inoperable. I did not turn back when Nicaraguan maliciously ran me off the road and ripped off the front end of the bike. Instead of crying and going home in Colombia, I got a job to pay for the repairs to the clutch and balancer system. When the Colombian government denied my right to leave the country with my motorcycle, I found a way to get to Brazil. When I found I couldn’t take my preferred route through Machu Picchu and the Amazon, I took an equally fantastic voyage on boats through jungle rivers. The carburetor failures in Brazil did not stop me. The near fatal accident in Brazil only showed me that I have nothing to fear in life. When the motorcycle deteriorated so far that I had to push start it, my heart spoke and inspired me to continue. When I was weary beyond words of traveling and had a committed buyer in Paraguay, I declined the offer and rode on. When the motorcycle refused to start cold in Patagonia, I woke up every 3 hours for 5 straight nights to keep it warm. Every time I felt the soul of another beautiful person, I said goodbye, and welcomed more life into mine. Every day I struggled with prejudice and an inability to communicate with others, leaving me feeling lost and alone, but I stuck to my course. Every day I was reminded of my shriveling accounts and mounting financial insecurity, but I did not let money fears interfere with my dream. As desperate longing for my family, my rivers and fishing, my hapkido school, my movies and music, and the organization and language and trustworthiness of U.S. culture taunted and tempted me, I pushed ahead from town to town, not knowing where I will sleep, what I will eat, what dangers I will find, or who I will meet. And most importantly, I did not listen to all the people who said, “No. It can’t be done. Don’t go there.”
I made it to Ushuaia. I made it alone, but I could not have made it without help. See a subsequent journal for my thank you. I did not always take the easy road, and I did not always take the hard one either. There could have been more adventure- but at greater costs. This trip was a lesson on the balance and limits of adventure and security. See yet another journal for the list of lessons learned.
I found my host’s home with little struggle. He, three other couchsurfers, and I went to an Irish pub and shared pizza and tales. I was alive and lively with tales; I felt no sleepiness as the result of the intoxication of my success. It was nice to meet some Americans whom felt inspired by my trip, and it was so generous of life to give me people to tell me, “Congratulations.” Great moments are often best shared with good company, and that night it was good company. After 10 days of empty lands, camping, and no English, it was so good to feel the warmth of people.
And the host’s house was even warmer. By Jove, it made me drunk. I slept right in front of the gas heater for 6 nights. Life for me is best with great, alternating contrasts: hot and cold, happy and sad, boring and exciting, rainy and sunny, etc. I was enjoying the heat a million fold over due to the torture of the elements since Rosario.
I caught up on some writing and photo and video uploading. I tidied up some email communications. I ate, watched tv, and laid on the mattress by the heater. I was still nervous out of habit, but I could feel it phasing out.
The buyer from Buta Ranquil never followed through, perhaps because his cousin said, “I don’t think so.” I don’t know. On Tuesday, I was ready to ride the town and find a buyer and a place to buy some oil. I figured I’d be driving north to sell, so I needed an oil change anyways, but I figured that mechanics would be the best bet since they know motorcycles and if they recognized one of the problems in the bike, of which there were numerous, they would feel less disconcerted about a purchase. With my price so low, $1500, I felt confident though. Every time I mentioned the price to someone, especially a mechanic, they drooled. Of course, they didn’t know that the valves were nearly shot, front sprocket needed replaced ASAP and had already started slipping on the chain, the front suspension was shaky and had a bent fork tube, the choke tube on the carb was broken, the clutch lever was loose, the clutch cable was squishy and low quality, the balancer system never felt quite right, the steering was a little out of alignment, the front brake disc was bent, the bike had lost 15% of its power from the Mexican accident, the battery was weak, there was a large knocking sound in the engine, the rear tire had only 1,000 miles left if lucky, high pressure tube for the oil filter was lost, the bike sucked down 1 liter of oil every 200 miles, the plastic was all cracked, fiberglassed, and stitched together, half the bolt threads were stripped, the aluminum boxes barely lock shut, there is a jerky hesitation at low speeds, the clutch plates are locking abnormally when cold, and the bike will not start if it sits for 4 hours.
So, despite the fact that my bike costs 2-3x as much down here, I did not feel bad giving it away at the price I did. It needed $2000 in repairs, probably.
The first shop I found sells new bikes. Asked if they buy used, the guy said, “Sometimes.” We walked outside, he glanced at it, said, “Big bike.” I told him the price, and he stopped looking at the bike. I mean, he stared at the bike, but he wasn’t inspecting it for oil leaks and he never even asked to hear it run. He went back inside, made a phone call, and 5 minutes later he said, “Come back in 2 hours. The buyer is going to collect the money right now!” Wow. I was elated, so elated I planned to change the oil for him anyways. He directed me to a shop where I could find the oil and filter, and although I never found that particular one, I found another shop to try.
MotoPablo is a good ‘ol boys kinda shop. It’s the kind where guys hang out, laugh, and work on bikes together. It’s dirty, piled with tools and parts that will never make it to a motorcycle, and lined with racing trophies. Never saw so many trophies. It felt nice there. Family-ish. Turned out the owner’s home is directly connected to the shop. The guy loves motorcycles. Loves them.
They didn’t have my filter, but I half heartedly asked if they wanted to buy my bike. I figured a plan B was good. I was right. He looked at it, I told him the price, the bike started right up, and the bike was sold in under 1 minute. They must buy dead bikes at the price. He asked me to come back the next day for the paperwork and money, and I said I was going to sell right then to someone else, but he said, “Ok, tonight, and you don’t have to do the oil change.” Deal!
I drove up into the mountains for the last ride. It was cold. The road was empty, but dry, well lit, and safe. I took some pics of the gorgeous mountains. I saw hawks soaring in a valley. I ripped up to 80mph. I cried.
I turned the keys, the gear, the bike over to Pablo on the 19th. They wrote me a receipt for no apparent reason.
The next morning I went with Pablo to Aduana, like the DMV, and they wrote up a permission for Pablo to be able to ride the motorcycle legally for one year. They insisted that the bike could not be sold, and Pablo insisted that it wasn’t a sale. I signed the paper. Pablo explained that I would not have any trouble leaving the country without the bike because Customs and Aduana are unaffiliated agencies. He was right. Not sure why I didn’t think of that.
The bike was sold in Ushuaia.
It’s A Secret got her name serendipitously. Someone asked me what the bike’s name was, and I replied jokingly, “It’s a secret.” Then, to humor myself, I made that the name. That way when people asked, I could respond with the true answer, but they would think I was telling them that the motorcycle’s name is known only to me, but in reality, I was telling them the name.
Amazing, the relief I felt at the release of my bike. I slept all through the night. But, habit had me thinking about her still. I looked out the window of the house to see the bike, but it was gone. It was as if I looked just to reconfirm the reality of its sale. When I walked by a motorcycle shop, I made note of its location just in case I needed something later on, but then I remembered that I have no motorcycle. As I was walking through the National Park near Ushuaia, before I crossed to the other side of the road, I looked to my left side mirror to check for traffic behind me, but I did not see a mirror. When I rode the airplane and bus to Rosario, I was stunned by the fact that I was travelling but not doing anything but sitting. I saw the cars pass by on the road outside. My heart jumped a little as we pulled into gas stations.
The National Park was nice. It wasn’t incredible, but I had a good hike through some trees along the coast, where I spotted lots of swimming sea lions, a friendly fox, and lots of birds. The scenery is similar to Alaska, but I think Alaska is much prettier, actually.
I didn’t do a whole lot of anything in Ushuaia. I walked downtown, bought a bag to pack all my things into, and broke down and bought souvenirs for family. I hate souvenirs, but, I reminded myself that it was for them, not me.
Against the encouragement of Yara, I decided to not hitchhike to Rosario. Just too sick of hardship. I bought a flight and bus to Rosario.
6 days after reaching Ushuaia, I was back in northern Argentina, holding my big Brazilian catch. And although Yara loves to swim, she isn’t slimy and whiskered like a great Piraiba or Pirarara catfish. The catfish will have to wait. I walk away from my adventure with a new love, new wisdom, new strength, new patriotism for my country, and a plan for my future.
The plan, you ask? After a couple weeks here in Rosario with Yara, during which I will examine the prospect of a life here going to school and fishing the Parana River and practicing hapkido, I will return to Fort Wayne, Indiana, the town of my birth. I will live with my mother for at least a month or two while I re-acclimate to the environment of the blessed United States of America, explore work opportunities, explore Indiana University’s graduate programs in social sciences, return to my beloved hapkido academy, nurture my familial relations, reflect on the meaning of this trip, integrate my new wisdom into my settled life, find a way for Yara to live and study with me in the U.S., catch lots and lots of fish, continue writing, explore the idea of publishing a book about this trip, and do lots and lots of NOTHING.
I crave boredom. I expect to binge on boredom over the next few weeks. In one year, I have not had a single day where I did not do something productive. The Bible advises one day per week. I’m past my limit, at this point!