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Date: December 05, 2002
The Gran Chaco is a giant desert shared by Bolivia, Paraguay, and
Argentina. When it rains in the Chaco, the paved roads are chewed apart
and swallowed by the quagmire while the gravel and dirt roads turn into
mud that either sticks to everything or melts into the desert. During
the rainy season it is impenetrable.
Mist and mud spatter my face as I churn my bicycle wheels through the
puddles and slime. I plow into a section of the road where feet,
hooves, shovels and wheels have churned the earth searching for
traction. The gluey mud spins up with my wheels, gets caught under the
racks and in the brakes, coats my legs, frame and panniers, and
submerses my drive train. My bike seizes and I slide to a halt,
squishing one foot into the muck for balance. I try pushing my bike
towards more stable ground. The thick mud gathers on my feet, cementing
them to the ground, and it gathers on my bicycle, increasing the weight
until my arms are limp and burn. The Chaco's muddy grip has reached to
the top of my head and glued me to the earth.
I am averaging about a kilometer every hour. Even at that rate, I won't
reach the next village before I run out of food and water. My bicycling
buddy, Dennis, camouflaged in mud, disappeared into the mist hours ago.
Only one truck has passed me all day. The driver was too busy fighting
the Chaco to notice me attempting to blaze a trail through the fresh,
greasy mud and thorn bushes alongside the road. I suspect he was also
caught in the rain and struggling to return home. Certainly, no vehicle
would intentionally venture into this quagmire. That may have been my
last chance to hitch a ride.
We have ridden our bicycles 19,500 kilometers through the Americas. By
most peopleęs reckonings we should have perished long ago: succumbing
to microscopic monsters, thirsting or starving in the wilderness,
stoned by religious fanatics, beaten by overzealous bandits, or, most
likely, crushed underneath a truck -- there are a million ways to die.
A million to one odds, yet we survive. I believe we owe our fortune in
part to the grace of God and in part to the goodwill of mankind.
Paradoxically, I donęt believe it is wise to sit on the side of the
road and wait for my guardian angel to flutter out of the heavens.
Riding a bicycle around the world is amazing when the sun is shining
but -- to be honest -- when conditions become miserable it doesnęt take
long for my mind to sink into the figurative quagmire where –the grace
of God” and the –goodwill of mankind” sound like namby-pamby hogwash. I
had entered Argentina dreaming of civilization: a cold beer, a hot
shower, a comfy bed, a beautiful woman and, especially, the
world-famous beef, giant steaks that hang over the edge of the plate,
buried in a mound of french fries and onion rings with a fresh salad on
the side and a bottle of local red wine to rinse down the grease.
Instead, I find that civilization has taken a step backwards. The past
few villages were full of dilapidated buildings, a manifestation of the
spirit of the locals -- the young males stumbling about in a rum or
coca-leaf stupor, several pregnant teenagers and the elders just
sitting and staring. Only the children are curious and envious, but
most will never have the money or the support from their community to
attend college or travel the world or fulfill any dream. I am told that
the indigenous population has not adapted their nomadic lifestyle to
the sedentary lifestyle of farms and industry and the arbitrary borders
set by greedy politicians. Traditionally, these people worked hard to
earn their food -- hunting, gathering, trading. Contrary to my image of
starving Third World countries, food is everywhere in Latin America.
Food is piled high on street vendoręs tables; itęs being farmed or
growing semi-wild alongside the road; or itęs running around the
streets. Likewise, shelter and clothing are readily available, handed
down through the generations or provided by international aid. In the
modern world thereęs little people need to do to survive especially if
they have no ambition; and I am also told that the natives have had the
ambition crushed out of them, first by the conquistadors, second by the
Western World, now by their own greedy and corrupt governments.
I try to clear my mind by focusing on the moment: Mist dampens the
sounds of the distant desert. Except for the occasional flock of
squawking, green parrots, only my breathing and dripping vibrates the
atmosphere. The waves of mud have splashed a raw and pungent odor into
the air, a smell ripe with life only matched by a briny sea breeze.
Judging by the footprints of birds, lizards and cats that dance among
the sopping thorn trees and cacti, I am surrounded by creatures alien
to my intellect. The Chaco is a beautiful and peaceful land when I am
not struggling to tame it.
Despite exhaustion, I trudge forward, pinning my hopes of salvation on
Dennis. Every ten meters, I stop to scrap the mud off my shoes and
wheels. After an hour, I round a bend. Ahead of me, askew in the ditch,
is the last truck that passed. With renewed vigor, I drag my bicycle
towards the strangers. They appear to be a family of three. Many
families live and work in their truck.
"Nice weather. No?" I say in broken Spanish. The burly yet roly-poly
father laughs, spewing coca leaves.
We introduce ourselves and I answer the usual questions: The United
States; Yes, on a bicycle; Single; No children; Strong legs; 19,500
kilometers; 50 flats; eight tires; 14 months; Very tired; For my
education; Salmonella poisoning and Montezumaęs Revenge.
Romiro, the father, with his slight mustache, cherubic and charming
face, reminds me of a Buddha doll. On cue he rubs his tummy as if for
good luck. "Muy loco biciclista."
Realizing my plight, Romiro doesnęt just offer me a ride -- he begins
throwing my panniers into the back of his truck and easily lifts my mud
coated bicycle over his head, into the truck; simultaneously his son,
Davy, throws down gifts of fruit and soda. Before we can continue we
must unglue the truck. First, Romiro shovels the mud from in front of
the wheels, creating a semi-dry track to follow. Then, with Romiro in
the driver's seat, the rest of us push the truck back onto the road and
we keep pushing -- the Chaco sucking on our feet -- until the truck
reaches a section where it can stop without becoming bogged in the
mire. All aboard: Romiro builds momentum slowly, spinning the oversized
steering wheel one way, then the other, his legs breaking accelerating
and shifting gears, his jaw chomping coca leaves and his breath
fumigating the cabin. All his frantic motions keep the truck cruising
straight and steady through the slushy mud.
A few kilometers down the road, we find Dennis, "mi amigo," and another
truck stuck in the mud. We slide to a halt and without words Romiro and
Davy grab the shovel and pick-axe and free the first truck while
Romiroęs wife, Yolanda, cleans the mud off Dennis and his bicycle. Ięm
relegated to watching. Romiro returns laughing, rubbing his tummy.
"Another crazy bicyclist," he says, and introduces himself to Dennis.
The two trucks combine their efforts for the rest of the afternoon in a
tribal instinct to survive. Because the road is elevated above the
desert, the surface is convex, so the trucks tend to slide off
sideways. The other truck is empty and spins into the ditch frequently.
For several hours, we shovel and push and build bridges of branches for
traction over small streams and slippery mud until we reach the nearest
village.
Dennis and I offer to pay for lunch in gratitude but Romiro closes the
debate: "You are my guests."
Currently, Argentina's economy is crashing. According to the news on
our shortwave radio, the government has borrowed too much money and
squandered it on poorly planned social programs meant to buy votes and
make politicians rich. Argentina is considering defaulting on its loans
and the international community is losing faith in the Peso. Two other
factors have contributed to the crash -- the price of local commodities
and the political stability of the surrounding countries. The South
American economies are more like dominoes than the building blocks of
humanity. Romiroęs pesos are only worth a third of their value three
months ago and still dropping.
Having gathered the local gossip, Romiro announces that the road to
Juarez, where the pavement begins, is impassable. We must detour down
sandier roads -- wet sand makes a hard, smooth riding surface because
the water drains easily through the large grains and into the ditches
-- to Romiroęs house and try a different route tomorrow. For the next
11 hours we drive a few kilometers until we get stuck then we shovel
the mud from underneath the tires, or put chains on the wheels, or take
the chains off the wheels, and mostly, we push, either running from
behind until the truck gains momentum or running alongside to prevent
the truck from fishtailing. "You must think it was easier to bicycle,"
Romiro jokes during a tea break.
We arrive at Romiro's house on an –aboriginal community” at one o'clock
in the morning. We have an early morning dinner with the rest of the
family -- the sons Matrias, Franko, Davy and Pablo, the daughter,
Patricia, and her son. Romiro tells us not to worry. We will try to
reach Juarez tomorrow. He even offers to drive us to the bank in
Corrientes, several hundred kilometers east. The banks have been shut
down for a week because all the locals are emptying their bank accounts
and converting their currency into the stable US dollar. Romiro,
Dennis, and I each have very little cash.
"You are like my sons. Eat. Drink. No problem." Romiro speaks slowly
and pantomimes because this conversation is beyond our understanding of
Spanish. In every country we must relearn the basics because the accent
changes and the most common words, especially names of foods, people
and places, are mixed with the indigenous languages. In Argentina the
locals refer to their language as Castellano, the official dialect of
Spain, though the Argentinian pronunciation has some quirks. "Stay as
long as you need to or longer if you want to," Romiro says.
I resort to a cliche to make sure I understand: "Mi casa, su casa."
Romiro smiles and opens his arms wide, "Mi casa, su casa."
Everyone owns the land on the aboriginal reserve, or rather no one owns
it. Romiro and Yolanda, however, do own the house. They built it with
their own hands. It is a ramshackle house typical of the Third World.
The walls are constructed of cement, brick or wood depending on the
materials available when it was built. The floor is cement, an
improvement over the more common dirt floors. And the roof is
corrugated tin. In the backyard, live fat, corn-fed pigs and chickens
(normally pigs and chickens must root through the garbage and weeds),
three dogs and two cats. There are no doors in the back of the house,
yet the pigs and chickens never venture inside looking for food; the
cats and dogs, meanwhile, are always sneaking inside and then dashing
back outside when Yolanda reaches for the broom. The front section of
the house is a small store and storage space. This is Romiro's primary
business. He transports staple products (meat, dairy, flour, rice,
fruits, vegetables, toiletries and cleaning products) and some luxury
items (candy, wine and soda) from the distant cities and sells them to
the aborigines. Alongside the main structure is Romiroęs secondary
business, a repair shop. In this building is Romiro and Yolanda's
bedroom. There are two more bedrooms inside the main structure for
everyone else. Franko and Matrias have given their beds to Dennis and
myself. They will sleep outside in the truck.
Romiro built his life in a similar ramshackle manner to his house.
During his first few years he lived on the streets and owned nothing,
not even clothes. At this young age, Romiro decided he wanted a better
life. From three years of age until he was fourteen, he owned only one
set of clothes and one pair of shoes and worked in his uncle's garage
as an unpaid apprentice, watching and learning everything. At fifteen,
he began to earn small tips and wages. Romiro now owns two businesses,
two houses, four trucks, and provides for his wife, five children --
two with plans to attend college in the big city -- one grandchild and
two ravenous bicyclists.
Romiro and Yolanda are very proud of the life they have built, although
they are concerned about the community. According to them, too many
neighbors are content to drink mate tea, chew coca leaves and watch
life pass their doorstep. Going against the trend of drugs and social
welfare, Romiro and Yolanda continue to build a life for themselves,
their family and their community.
There doesn't seem to be anything Romiro can't do: He can shovel tons
of mud, whereas I can barely sink the spade into the ground. With the
charisma of Tom Sawyer he enrolls the local to children to wash our
bicycles. He fixes my front rack, which three other mechanics couldnęt
fix. He studies English with his children. And, one afternoon, we go
fishing in a small stream. In one motion, Romiro hooks a tiny piranha
and sends it flying over his shoulder to land in or near the bucket. I
have a few nibbles but rather than jerk them out of the water I nearly
jerk myself off the embankment into the waters chummed with raw beef.
For a while, I think weęre going to eat a bucket of piranha for dinner.
Soon, though, we switch fishing holes to a raging, muddy river a few
kilometers away from Paraguay and use the piranhas for bait. Romiro
hooks two, large, feisty catfish, enough to feed the whole family. I
desperately want to contribute a fish to the family, but I only succeed
in losing my bait and hooking sunken branches. Romiro pats me on the
shoulder, "Don't worry. Next time."
That night, as during every meal, Yolanda serves Dennis and myself
first -- in this case, a pile of steaming, fried catfish, french fries
and a salad. We are honored guests. Mate tea and long conversations
follow every candlelit meal. (At this time of day, the power is rotated
to another aboriginal community a few kilometers away.) If the family
doesnęt ask us about our bicycle trip, Romiro jokes about how pathetic
we looked drenched in mud. He also enjoys telling stories about the
wild animals in the Chaco: pumas, piranhas, spiders and snakes so big
that a truck could run over them and they wouldn't even wake. According
to Romiro, all the wild critters prefer white meat, meaning the crazy
gringos that camped several nights in the Chaco.
Dennis and myself have many groups of visitors: community elders,
teachers, priests, students, single women. Those too shy to venture
inside the house wait outside for a glimpse of us. We also have many
appointments: running errands with Patricia to meet the community;
participating in bicycle races with the kids; watching the local
football game; giving a two hour lecture for the high school students
where they questioned us about our trip, politics, and life in America
versus Argentina; and a visit to a charity organization that is
building houses for the aborigines. This is one of those poorly planned
social programs I mentioned, funded by the Argentinian government and
the European Union. The problem, as explained to me, is that the houses
are poorly designed -- not taking advantage of local labor and
materials -- and cost too much money to build. Therefore, they won't be
able to build a house for everyone. Furthermore, the aborigines don't
have jobs or money -- some do not understand the concept of money -- to
maintain the buildings. So the main goal of the organization at the
base level, unknown to the superiors, is simply to spread the money
around the community by hiring four times as many workers as needed and
paying them a quarter of the salary.
On the morning of the fourth day, the roads are dry enough to risk
taking a bus to Juarez, though Romiro wonęt be joining us because the
banks are still closed. I thank Romiro profusely. Romiro, grinning as
usual, says, "No, thank you for bringing the world to my village and to
my children." I rub his stomach for good luck. Romiro chuckles, "Muy
loco biciclistas."
Obviously, I have returned to civilization, the land of convenience,
where money can buy anything and solve any problem, a land where people
have the luxury to be fat, eccentric, bohemian and beautiful without
jeopardizing their survival. I have found my steak that hangs over the
edge of the plate, bought some new clothes and got a haircut. I know
this is what I wished for but now in a land where everyone is dying to
be loved, I find very few people doing any loving.
I will never forget taking the bus out of Romiro's village and seeing his
youngest son, Pablo leading the charge out of the classroom. The
class must have been waiting for hours to smash themselves against
the fence and chase us down the street to wave goodbye one last
time.
* * * Special thanks to Dennis Snader
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