19km of life part 2

Part II

 

The squishing of rubber against hardwood cast an audible vibration which rushed past hungry eyes, thirsty lips, expectant bellies. Drinks swayed threatening the confines of the frosty clear mugs. Salty droplets of sweat clung to near tan, tired looking cheeks. A conversation with another spilled past the bubble of privacy and into the peripheral ambient noise where it was soaked into wooden walls. “They were making bets on how old I was and where I was from” came words floating out of my mouth toward the bar.

“How old are you and where are you from?” came a sudden questioning reply from the table to my right. My eyes shifted past my right shoulder, studying the faces which awaited a response. They were the same faces I had seen move past my bar a few days ago. Then, I could not shake the feeling that I would once again study the contrasting features of each girl, or woman maybe, except now with the care of one who wants to see past the venire. “18 and Oregon” I said as I quickly spun backwards making sure not to spill the drinks, and disappeared out the door toward my table. I could hear the whispers, “What did he say?” “Oregon and 18.” I smiled, but just continued to rush from the bar to the assortment of tables in and outside, shorts swishing against the apron wrapped tightly around my waist. Night slid across the streets stealthily but with a welcomed presence. I stood outside, tray tucked under my arm relishing the now present peace. “Is it impressive we climbed the Volcano?” the words rushed into my brain and sat down, waiting for the nerve pulses to commence with response. I cast a studied glance at the five girls before me. Would it be impressive to them that they stood on the backdrop of Pucon, the fire spewing chain smoking monument of nature’s ever moving presence? Probably. “Yeah…it sorta is…” came a weak response of the affirmative. “How many people climb the volcano?” came a reply from the New York looking girl. “I get like two tables every couple days who say they have done it.” That answer seemed to taint their accomplishment. They gave me more reasons for which to be impressed. I was confused. Why would my approval mean anything? I agreed with them that it was impressive, my own opinion of the matter still locked in the jury room. Soon enough, as it always does, my kayaking experience came up. I got anxious, why? I still don’t know, but I suddenly didn’t really want to discuss the sole reason for my being in Chile. Halfway through a story, another table was filled by a Chilean family. I left, lost among the recesses of my brain, searching for answers. Answers to what? Only the night could know, and the day could interpret. With tables stacked, the labored addition of gates to windows and door, and the final rhythmic motion of cloth against polished hardwoods, work ended with a nervous signature.

The key turned with a familiar resistance, the thudding of feet against the narrow wooden stairs echoed among the multi roomed apartment. I stumbled into the living room and slung my bag off of my aching shoulders, my sore feet. Within moments my computer was illuminating my face. I knew what I was about to see. I had felt it coming like the warning of the red morning sky. I could see the storm. I could feel the impending thrashing of boats against moorings, the collapsing of piers, and the fury within. The message caught my attention. Every fiber of my being suddenly tensed. Breaths grew shallow and fast as the pulsating pump in the left of my chest succeeded in turning my face red. The words were an olive branch. One coated in pain, held out by the selfish hand of the bewildered. My eyes darted across the page, burning from the cold light of the computer screen. I read and re-read the message a few times, seeing the perceived hypocrisy, hearing the conflicting accounts. Whether she missed me or not, it was not her choice to speak to me. It should have been mine. It should have been me to delve back into the torments of the love, the insecurities fertilized by ill-timed words, ignorant actions. My fingers moved rapidly across the keys. They expressed the anger felt, the injustice which welled in my flesh. My hand moved in a blur slamming the screen shut, moving my landlord, and friend, suddenly into a sitting position. My calves strained as I shot upright, words of anger which can only come from perceived lost love spewing from my mouth shaking the house with their calm yet cold execution. “I am going out! And drinking and drinking!” I proclaimed seeking refuge from my mind, the memories of that night. Marco, my friend, noticed the sudden change in tone, the foreboding look in my eyes. “Buy me a beer” he said as he slipped quickly into a jacket. We rolled out of the house, two more roommates noticing the slammed door and following in hope of good time, a few beers. Rock and roll music akin to the 1950s blared with foreign words, as Marco and I sat outside at the bar, two beers fit snugly into our hands. “Jon!” I heard the words but did not look. “Jon!” it came again, and I knew who it was. The group of girls from before. I excused myself from the bar and went over to their table urged onward by their inviting hands. A beer down, and two Piscolas later I was staring into light blue captivating eyes, silhouetted by mid length blond hair. Her mouth moved and words tumbled from her lips, but I did not listen to the meaning, but instead fixed on the eyes. More drinks later, the conversation between the girls deteriorated with words were that seemed harsh between friends. I could feel the mood shift as a scene familiar to high school was acted out between two of the girls. The tables were being put away for the night as the moon moved low in the sky.

 We walked with them a block, parting ways as the alley that lead to our apartment appeared. I watched them walk away. People I would have like to spend more time with. People for which my studying gaze could wander taking in the subtle movement of the eyes, the hand as it grazes my arm, the sudden downward look of unsure emotions. I knew I should not look at the computer, I knew what it would say. A response from my swaying hands, clumsy fingers poured out on the screen, a visual representation of long harbored feelings. A response which turned into a fight. A fight which saw four in the morning turn to five, and another slamming of the computer screen. A day which I wished to never forget, full of beautiful whitewater, learning, and new friends now tarnished by the need for closure? Closure of what? I believed the door to be closed the night I hung up the phone. Sun saw my face, eyes popped open to the afternoon. The beach lent itself to a rolling session of hours. A manifestation of energy which needed to be expelled.

I stepped onto the bus then next day, paddle smashing into the seats, scraping the windows. The driver tried to tell me that it was not allowed, but I waved him off saying “esta bien” with the repetitions of a psychopath. Gear piled upon my lap, the bus sped toward the Palguin, as the confused looks of my fellow passengers allowed for no seat mates. With a flurry of smoke followed by an attack of sneezing, the bus rolled away from the turn off for the Palguin, and into the afternoon. I waited. Soon I was prone as heat boiled my skin. My lifejacket lent itself as a pillow. I checked my phone. They were very late. I contemplated catching the return bus back, and spend a few hours on the beach, but shoved the thought away hoping for their arrival, needing to kayak.

19km of Life Part 1

Cool droplets of salt, the draining of pores, slid down form a curly matt of golden hair into eyes, sending nerves reeling in stunned fiery pain. Feet burned, the canyons of toes tearing from the cheap rubber soles and ill placed straps. Muscles strained against the swaying pack, the clinging of broad straps to skin, the eternally forward fixated head. Deep in a valley, surrounded by granite peaks, familiar green pastures, and the mammoth volcano signifying an Argentinian presence, I was wandering into a place of peace. A place I now wished to be my home. A place where I had wandered down crystal clear streams, watched smoke slither from thatched houses while smells of carnivorous ecstasy stirred the primal nature within, and where I discovered the man I knew I could attempt to emulate. Now I walked. I walked with the purposeful nature akin to those who crossed the west, possibly I was subconsciously succumbing to my exploratory nature. The bus had smelt of sweat, tasted of freedom, and allowed for the studying of those on their way. Way to where? Homes, lives, families, the loving arms of the husband, the soft eyes of a wife, the honest eyes of a brother. The bus ended short of my destination, 19km to hitch hike. After a kilometer of casual strolling outside of town, thumb signaling the passing car, I realized the length I may have to walk. 5km later, and with no cars rushing by, casting a breeze against the back of my neck, my thoughts left the pain which was creeping from my feet to my legs, and found themselves among the last few days.

The word hit my ear. Muscles contracted and moved plastic against the friction of wooden ramp. I launched into the air, eyes focused on the candy cane colored first gate. Turquoise was split by the red nose of my kayak as hips tightened holding the line, shoulders burned, and biceps propelled the fiberglass blades toward the goal. First gate, aim high, turn, watch the paddle. Move to the right, catch gate 2, move right, catch gate 3, hard boof, keep speed, second boof, sprint, next gates easy, be on line for the last gate, move hard left, get a stroke. I missed the stroke sliding the 15 feet sideways into the recirculating torrent below. I braced, holding the blade with practice precision away from the hole and toward the finish. With the last final sprint, my second lap of the Upper Palguin slalom race was over. Faster, cleaner, and with more focus.

My body was thrashed, the race laps on the Palguin had torn my muscles to exhaustion. I had to work. I stood behind the bar, the heat of stagnate summer air rushing into my senses. Handle pulled, perfect pour, dishes washed, dinner devoured, the clock struggled toward midnight. I slogged back to my apartment. In the morning, the beach beckoned a midday breakfast with a good friend, the afternoon held tired bones to couches, and the evening once again saw the quickened movements of work. I saw the faces of five people, tourists I guessed. They passed by me at the intervals of full bladders, each time with a noticing look from me, a questioning look from them. What question? How old I was I guessed. The smooth features of my face betrayed the look of one much younger than my eighteen years. That night I found myself with the familiarly bitter taste of beer burning my lips, refreshing my mind, my hand wandering toward the girl to my left. Hours swirled by, the morning saw my feet rushing toward the local bar. They did not carry me fast enough.

I awoke, my head swirling with the dehydrated pain of the nights vices. The great debate began. Should I stay in the confines of Pucon, or accept an invitation to my old home of Camp Puesco. Nostalgia won, swayed by the need for the faces of friends. I walked to the bus station, “Don’t want this to become a 19km mission into the night” I said, the words of unnoticed foreshadowing.

As the night fell, the delirious vocalizations on the border between singing and shouting, came tumbling form my mouth. My shirt had been cast aside an hour ago, allowing for the setting of the sun to cool my sweat. 3 hours and 30 minutes later I came limping into Puesco, the familiar panting of dogs met my ears. My friends were nowhere to be seen. My heart sank. An image of sitting alone in a cabin, hungry and exhausted formed in my mind. Just as I started to let my heart sink drowning my positive nature, the headlights of a mid 90’s van came swinging into the drive way, five kayaks perched on top of the rig. My friends emerged from the van, surprised looks were cast upon my comically attired figure. Morning came. The sun burst through the clear windows, allowing for a view of the castle spires of the mountain across the river. Soreness had not yet found itself among my bones, but a kayak found itself around my body a couple hours later. Friends, whitewater, and a familiar passion coursed through my blood, forcing a smile from my lips.  I stepped onto the bus that afternoon, the sun draining my energy, and smiled, full from the day. I had no way of know the violent storm of contrasting emotions and experience that would meet me that night.

The haze of Pucon

His beard, gray, stretching out, creeping down, grasping for his chest, matched an exterior which to Oregon would have been common, here, it was foreign. “I am a hippie” had come his heavily accented words to me before. Now he stared into my eyes, his breath a mix of foul liquor and yeast. I did not notice. “Every person I meet makes my life better. Look at all these people, these womans, they here for my wife, my best friend, her birthday, and it makes my heart cry. These people are made from love, these people are made to always be happy….and they are here for her. Do not forget, you may, that every person, these womans, will always make your life better.” His words were true, though sometimes hard to see as so. To the philosopher, to the man, to the boy, in me truth is far from true, and far from right, far from wrong as well. He was a baker, making his bread to better the bellies of the hungry, to feed the wanting, to sustain the man. His words always of wisdom, brought from the recesses of his smoke filled brain, his dream filled eyes, his contented heart. He wandered away into the crowd, foreigners from the adjoining country, friends in my eyes, and I in theirs. Where had my friends gone? I no longer saw the familiar figures of the kayakers I knew well. A phone call later I headed to the club, they had fled, three in the morning signaling a change of scene. I walked down the dirt road, the cold not meeting my flesh, I not noticing. A car sat idling in the middle of the street. I opened the door. The faces of those surprised but not caring stared back at me. In broken Spanish I conveyed the need to go to town with the combination of the willingness to pay.  While they declined my money, they were inclined to drive. After a drive of me jabbering in Spanish, inducing smiles on their faces, they dropped me two blocks from the club. I walked into the pumping of music, the cluster of people, the smell of sweat, intoxication, and ego, looking for a cute face. None were found, as I stumbled out of the club hours later as the lights switch on, the music off, and the crowd dispersed outside.

Swirling, with a light airy feeling in my head, smile plastered to my face, eyes showing the longevity of the night, I spun around. Staring up at me were two beautifully dark eyes, and a surprisingly welcoming smile. The face, one of an expression I wished to hold onto, smile stretching the reaches of my heart, caught my spinning brain and slowed it down.  Words from a tongue familiar to my ears materialized in my head. She spoke English. My smile spread wider, eyes glimmered. It was infectious, her smile, and it stole into my brain, locking the image there in nostalgic perfection. I did not know how I got here, how the conversation started, but I knew I did not want her words to cease. The noise of the others, waiting for taxis, clinging to railings, making out in the bushes, evaporated into the ancient night. Memories now are hazy, faded by the deprivation of closed eyelids, the consumption of local flavors, but her eyes stay. The face smiling up at me, eyes begging for more. More what? Details I want to remember have vanished, details that mean little to me stay. She took my phone, her hands moving rapidly adding the number and name. “Call me now!” she said as hands dragged her into the full taxi. I sprang into action, thumbs clumsily finding the number, “Llamar” pressed. Spanish words of disconnection hit my ears, causing my heart to sway from the buzz felt.

I was alone.

The crowd had left the outskirts of the club, my friends had disappeared, my hostal felt hours away. With directions received after a worried few dials of my phone, I started up the block.  Just around the street corner, my friends had waited. We wandered slowly to the beach, with the speed of those with no motivation for the morning. In the horizon, the blackness of night was met with the groaning and labored light of the coming day. The lake came into view. Clouds met the lapping waves, lightly crested with ivory, giving the water a familiarity of an ocean. Artificial lights cast a glow only seen in soccer stadiums. Overturned wooden boats awaited the languid morning of a Sunday. I lay down, half my body underneath a boat, the other sprawled out toward the lake, a stray dog curled up next to me, black coarse sand clung to my hair. My phone buzzed, a txt. My hand slid to my pocket. “You can call now” it said. I dialed. Her voice answered, and I said something that is now lost among the waves. “I will txt you later, but now I am going to try to sleep” I said before ending the call, my words seeming profound among the reassuring calling of the waves. I drifted in and out of the stranglehold of sleep as the others around me continued to talk, staring at the approaching of the sun. Oranges, pinks, and gray contrasted each other as heat warmed our backs, blue escaped from the clouds, and the next day began. I woke for the last time, and headed toward the city. I walked with one purpose, the purpose of sleep. I caught a collectivo to my hostel and laid in the bed, the room lit brilliantly from the clear skies. Sleep did not come. I forced myself out of bed, paid, and caught another collectivo into town. I ate. It was now four in the afternoon, the day had blown by, mixing with the night. Once again I caught the collectivo, headed to meet up with the rest of my group. I sat in the van, kayaks adorning the roof. Inside the weariness of those around me spread like a virus which would soon deprive the host of the functions of life. Where were we headed? An asado I was told. Where? Up it seemed, up toward where? The van crept up the last incline and swung into a large grassy field situated on a large mountain top, guarded by a well built gray house. On the grass, the view extended for miles, the green of pastures nestled against the imposition of mountains, shrouded by plump gray clouds. I laid down on a blanket, the smell of cooking meet drifting past my face. The feats of that night pressed on my eyelids, and the warmth of the sun relaxed my body. Sleep. The sun raced for the horizon, an hour had passed by. I woke, ate, and watched the sun. Yoga someone suggested. Led in Yoga, on top of a mountain, as the sun cast its dying glow across the valley, I could not help but smile. Another weekend in Pucon, another night of haze, another time for learning. The next day would wake me, the next few months will age me.