I blow a fuse and start shouting at the driver again. He shouts back, “Chile, no Alemania! Chile aqui, no Alemania!” He clarifies for me that here in Chile, the Chilean (not my German) rules apply. It makes no difference to me; I spit out the worst possible insults that my Spanish vocabulary allows for: “Hombre sin cara!” (“You’re a man without a brain!”) The driver turns around and shakes his fist at me while the old man sitting in the front passenger seat tries to calm him down and pulls him forward again. After that, it is silent again on the minibus. I get a hold of myself and think of what I should do. Disembarking in the middle of the Andes is a not a good option because I don’t know if any other car will take me along. Yet traveling another 500 miles to Buenos Aires with this guy is also not an option, as the risk of us either getting into an accident, me punching the driver, or both, are very high.
Sometime later we stop for a toilet break at a rest stop. I jump off with my luggage and tell the driver of another minibus parked there that I have just traveled with a madman and ask for him to take me along. The first driver notices what I am doing and starts screaming and threatening to hit me. The driver of the other minibus quickly comes between us and holds him back. The crazy driver yells that I should go back to Germany. I won’t accept that and throw it back at him by saying once again that he is a man without a brain.
In the meantime, numerous other passengers gather around us and start laughing. In my hurry, I mix up the nouns and call him “man without a face” instead of “man without a brain.” I hear a boy saying ironically that even he wouldn’t like to travel to Argentina with a man without a face. Others agree with him and chuckle. In any case, the seriousness of the situation becomes clear to the second driver. He disappears with the driver without a face, and shortly afterward comes back offering me a seat on his minibus. I can see him still putting away the money he got from the other driver. I am relieved that my commotion has resulted in something. In minibus number two, we travel at normal speed through the Andes to Argentina—the last country of the trip.
15
ÜMIT SAVES
THE DAY
Buenos Aires absolutely takes my breath away. I have always wanted to come here and all the good things I have read and heard about the city are confirmed at first glance. The magnificent house facades and the elaborate architecture of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries—which can easily compete with Paris, Madrid, or Rome—shape the overall image of the city; Paris, in particular, appears to have been a big influence on its appearance. The cemetery of the city district of Recoleta, with its tombs, mausoleums, and roads, reminds me of the famous Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris. The Argentinean legend and former first lady Evita Perón is buried here.
Both the Plaza de Mayo, with obelisks as landmarks in the middle, and the early twentieth-century colorful structures of Avenida 25 de Mayo resemble the boulevards of downtown Paris. However, there is also a whiff of New York; with its population of over ten million people, the city seems to be much bigger and more imposing than any of the European metropolitan cities.
During my five-day stay I don’t see any unplastered or unfinished houses. Even the poverty, which is certainly present here, is not outwardly visible. In the entire time I am there, I see only one beggar. In contrast, the porteños, as the locals are called, stroll along the avenidas and walk through parks and sit in the many cafes of the city. Street hawkers, who shape the streetscape in Peru and Bolivia, are nowhere to be seen. Buenos Aires seems to have money; in fact, a lot of it. I am only about 600 miles away from La Paz as the crow flies, and once again, appear to be in quite a different world.
That evening, my impression of the everyday culture being influenced by Italian and Spanish immigrants is confirmed. For the first time in many weeks, I become a couch surfer again. Noelia and her friend Roberto let me sleep at their place for three days. Both of them are thirty-one, work at an advertising agency, dress very smartly, and live in a well-designed apartment. They tell me that most of the ancestors of Argentineans come from Italy and Spain. The Italian influence can also be seen clearly in the language. Like most of Latin America, they speak Spanish here, but the pronunciation has an Italian touch. Their daily rhythm is even influenced by the Italians and the Spaniards.
Noelia and Roberto are at home quite often. They offer me dinner, which is always at eleven in the evening, and on weeknights they plunge into the nightlife of Buenos Aires. I am thankful for their hospitality and return the favor by cleaning their bathroom, which I had also done at the aunt’s place in Chile. However, I am not in any mood to go out. I am totally exhausted by the trip and have not even been able to enjoy Peru, Bolivia, or Chile properly. I would prefer to go to bed at ten, but they both insist that we go out together so that I can get to know the city, and so we go to bed on Tuesday at two in the morning, on Wednesday at three, and on Thursday at around midnight. I feel guilty the entire three days because I want to offer them something (or someone) more than just my tired-tourist-traveling-with-a-backpack-and-no-money self, but my energy is all used up.
This continues at my next couch-surfing station as well. Micaela, Raphaela, and Antonella (by the way, all typical Italian names) are all in their early thirties and live in the happening scenic district of Palermo. They offer me the sofa in their living room. I anticipate something bad, and not without good reason; it is the weekend and they want to throw a party at home. At midnight the whole living room shakes, because forty of their friends have gathered for alcohol and music. Almost all of them are drunk and are vociferously singing along with the karaoke machine. I can hardly keep myself awake and keep drinking Coke and yerba mate tea in huge quantities so that I don’t go to sleep on the floor in the middle of the action. None of it helps, and by two in the morning I feel physically drained.
I tell Micaela that I am going to just lie down on her bed and sleep. In disbelief, she roars with laughter. The next few hours I spend only dozing in the neighboring room; the bass is so loud that my whole body is vibrating. The dozing comes to a premature end after a group of drunken people crashes into the bedroom. I am probably a curiosity for them, and am besieged with offers of drinks while I try to straighten myself up. It finally comes to an end at six in the morning, and I can finally sleep in the living room. The next evening is a Saturday: party day, of course!
This Saturday is, in fact, quite a special party day because it is Halloween. Micaela and Raphaela make themselves up as monsters for the night. After an eleven o’clock dinner, we go to a party at a friend’s house. None of my arguments as to why it would be better if I stayed home are accepted as reasonable. Micaela and Raphaela definitely want to celebrate Halloween with their couch-surfing guest—no excuses! With a long beard and a pale white face, I stay at the Halloween party with 150 people until eight in the morning. Actually, to be completely honest, I pass out on the couch at four before being taken back home by Raphaela and Micaela at eight in the morning. Still, they cordially bid farewell to me the next day—and crack a few small jokes at my expense.
Along with the five nights in Buenos Aires, there are also the five days, which I spend collecting food and finding onward journey options toward Tierra del Fuego. For the third time on this trip I feel the urge to use my credit card: Oh come on, just this once! It’s not a big deal. You deserve a break! I am sitting in the city district of San Telmo on a bench, and when I take out my passport and my insurance papers from my chest pocket, my credit card falls out and into my hand. Maybe it’s a sign! It would make everything so easy. Presto! One swipe through the machine and I am off. But there is no shop near the bus station that accepts credit cards. This fact probably prevents me from giving into the temptation. I really don’t know what would have happened if someone had cried: “Fresh steaks and we accept credit cards!”
I had felt the first temptation in Los Angeles and Santa Monica, back when I was desperately trying to apply sunscreen on beach visitors to earn money for carpooling. The devil kept appearin
g on my shoulder, coaxing me: “Credit card, credit card, credit card!” But along with the devil there was also an angel who put up some resistance: “Don’t do it, you twerp!” Luckily, today, the angel is more forceful, and wins the battle.
I decide not to hitchhike to Tierra del Fuego, as I simply don’t have any more energy for that. For this reason, I unpack my friend from my backpack; he has been hibernating there since my departure from Berlin. He is known as Ümit and is a fluffy light blue hand puppet with big eyes and a big mouth. His long-lost twin brother is known as the Cookie Monster, and appears regularly on Sesame Street.
Ümit and I wander through Buenos Aires looking for passersby, especially tourists. I keep myself discreetly in the background while Ümit addresses the passersby politely in English: “Excuse me, I need to disturb you for a minute to tell you how my friend Michael and I have been traveling for more than four months around the world—without money!” Ümit cannot speak without my help, but I am a lousy ventriloquist, so I wear a fake beard. It is really long and thick and completely covers my mouth, so that any giveaway movements remain totally invisible to the passersby. There is a word for someone like me, and that word is desesperado. In any case, Ümit is the one being heard by the tourists, and many people first laugh and then listen as he iterates the trip. Mostly, the tourists give one peso (about thirty cents) after hearing the story of Ümit, and some even give five pesos.
The locals, though, struggle a little with Ümit because they can’t understand him properly. Some people go away without saying a word and simply leave Ümit standing there. But the majority of them are interested: “How has Ümit fared on the trip? Was it ever boring? Did he feel hungry? And is he looking forward to going back home?” Mainly they want to know more about his twin brother, the Cookie Monster. Ümit can help them with that. He tells them how they were often confused as kids and how they tried to look different to set them apart. Sesame Street then discovered his twin brother, who became world famous, travels a lot, and is known everywhere. But is he also happy? Ümit tells a French couple at the Plaza de San Telmo how his brother is often drunk and brings women home who are always after his money and his fame. The Cookie Monster had also once become addicted to gambling and needed to go to a psychotherapist for help.
The French couple does not understand all the details but can hardly stop their laughter. Financially, the story of our journey catches on better with the locals, while the stories of drugs, drinking, and action are more profitable with the Americans. A group of students from Ohio cannot get enough of the scandalous life of the Cookie Monster. They keep asking: “Did the Cookie Monster think about suicide? Was he depressed? How many girls did he sleep with? Did you ever meet his famous friends from the show?” Ümit doesn’t think much about discretion and thus tells all the private details of the Cookie Monster’s life, while I stand behind him with the flowing beard and look toward the ground. The students from Ohio give Ümit a total of fifty pesos as thanks for the indiscreet and rather scandalous details about his famous twin brother.
On the fifth day of my stay in Buenos Aires, the soccer team, La Boca, is playing against Chacarita. It’s a home game for La Boca. The passion for this team here in Argentina is like that for Real Madrid in Spain. Diego Maradona has even played here once.
Even though I show up early at the stadium, the queue is already curving around the corner. It amazes me that a stadium this size can be sold out on a Thursday afternoon, but it’s probably the norm here in Argentina. Ümit and I reach the ticket checker at the entrance and tell him that we have no money but would like to go inside. The ticket checker looks around several times thinking he must be on some candid camera show, or that this must be a joke. However, given that he is somewhat disappointed that he won’t be on TV, he still lets us in. I actually can’t believe that I’m going to watch the La Boca play, and for free!
The atmosphere in the stadium is overwhelming. Before the game, the fans of both teams take trash talking to a whole new level; there are a lot of references to mothers. This trash talking is interrupted again and again by loud advertisements from the loudspeakers. As soon as the ads take a break, the opposite rows continue with their screaming: “Tu madre es una perra, una puta!”
La Boca wins three to zero. The crowd roars and loud cheers break out all around; there are people dancing, jumping, and hugging each other. Gustavo, a man sitting next to me, leaps up. I had a brief conversation with him earlier about Ümit because he found it strange that someone would bring a puppet to a football match, particularly if that someone is a full-grown, seemingly functional man. Gustavo tells me that money to him is only a means to see his favorite football team, La Boca. He pays 1,000 pesos for the season tickets, but even if it cost 5,000 pesos, he says that he would still pay.
With the seventy dollars I earned with Ümit, I buy a bus ticket. The distance to Ushuaia is just 2,000 miles; the remaining money should suffice until then. I only have four days before the ship departs, but I want to visit Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego. I decide to take the risk: I will take a bus to El Calafate, which covers about 1,500 miles, and from then on I will hitchhike through Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego.
The next thirty hours on the bus basically consist of me sitting and sleeping. The food is included in the price of the ticket, which I hadn’t expected. We eventually reach El Calafate, a small mountain town that has been beautifully restored. It’s the closest town to the Perito Moreno Glacier, making it one of Patagonia’s favorite tourist destinations.
From here I need to hitchhike further. While just three days ago in Buenos Aires the weather was hot and humid at about 90°F, here it is just 41°F. El Calafate lies in the middle of the Andes Mountains, so even in the spring (beginning of November) it is bitingly cold. Majestic snow-covered mountains, large brown fields, and beautiful blue lakes surround me, but at the moment I couldn’t care less about the scenery. My hands are freezing from holding up my cardboard sign end of the world in this temperature, so I hang the sign around my neck and put my hands in my pockets. The sun is shining and in theory, the warmth from the sun is welcomed, but because I’m high up in the alpine countryside, UV rays are a concern due to the thinning ozone layer. For this reason, almost every tourist guide warns you not to stay in the sun for too long. Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice; I have to find a ride.
A bus driver sees my sign and stops. He takes me along on the six-hour trip to Rio Grande in Tierra del Fuego. The bus is brand new and is being transferred to a hotel in the city. So not only am I the only passenger on the bus but the very first one as well. Upon arriving in Rio Grande, the first thing to do is look for an inexpensive hostel with the last of Ümit’s earnings, which I find. The temperature is freezing outside. Despite my exhaustion, however, I can hardly sleep. The whole night I keep thinking that if I am able to cover the last leg tomorrow to Ushuaia, which is just 135 miles away, I will be at the harbor two days before expected and will certainly be able to catch the ship.
Quite fatigued but full of adrenaline, I get up the next morning and start early with my sign to Ushuaia. Two hours pass before Marcello stops in his pickup truck. He says the magic word: “USHUAIA!!” We travel past fields of fresh snow, quiet lakes nestled between mountains, and fir trees along the road. Marcello comes from Mendoza, a city in northwestern Argentina known for its vineyards and pleasant climate. Still, he ended up here in freezing Tierra del Fuego, about 1,800 miles south of his hometown, for work and higher salary. Tourism is partly the reason why there is more work in this city, but mostly it’s due to the large tax benefits the government offers in order to attract more companies. Tierra del Fuego is also Argentina’s center for electronic products.
Marcello has recently turned forty and is financially doing well for himself. Although he misses his relatives and friends in Mendoza, he knows that he would never earn as much there as he does here. However, there are always sacrifices. “There may be money here, but not many single women,” he inf
orms me, somewhat grimly.
It’s November 7, and I finally arrive in Ushuaia. I can hardly contain my happiness. Marcello is left in wonder when I get out of his truck and calls out behind me, “Say hi to the ladies in the strip clubs for me!” At this moment, though, naked ladies are the last thing on my mind. Ushuaia has a population of 60,000, and winters here are extremely cold with temperatures down to -4°F; even during the summertime, it only manages to get up to 59°F. I see a lot of tourists in Ushuaia who are probably stuck on the idea of seeing the southernmost city in the world. On most of the street corners, what with Antarctica less than 700 miles away, I see many promotional signs reading: Fin del Mundo. That is, of course, “The End of the World.”
After some time, I come to the office of Antarctic Dream. Sabina, the employee with whom I have been exchanging emails, welcomes me. I can tell that she is surprised that I have actually made it here. She takes me to a company-owned holiday apartment where I can stay for the next two days. With still one day left before the departure, I make use of my time by visiting one of the highlight attractions.
Near Ushuaia is a tourist train with the name El tren del fin del mundo! (Train to the end of the world!). It’s an old steam engine pulling three wagons through the beautiful landscape of Tierra del Fuego. The price of a ticket is twenty dollars; since I don’t have this, I decide to sneak onboard. An elderly couple sees me cowering below a seat hiding from the ticket agent. They smile and I know that they won’t blow my cover. After ten minutes, I am given the all-clear signal: tickets will no longer be checked on the train. I sit up and enjoy the beautiful journey through the national park. While looking out the window, it becomes clear to me how very near I am to the end of the world.
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How to Travel the World for Free Page 12
