After four months of traveling together, Julie and I have become like an old married couple. I often hear myself saying things to her like "have you taken your antibiotics?", "you look tired, maybe you should go have a lie down." In reality, I don´t care if she does either of these things, much like an old married couple might not care, but it has all just become habit. We´ve also become semi telepathic. I´ll look at something and then at her and we´ll both roll our eyes up to heaven or laugh, knowing exactly what the other one is thinking. To our horror, we´ve also noticed that because we are both in our 30´s and travelling together some people suspect that we might indeed actually BE a couple. When checking in to some hostels we have been offered "matrimonials" instead of "twins". I overcome this by being very quick to comment on how attractive I found a man I recently saw or by mentioning my ex boyfriend as soon as possible. "You sound kind of bitter mentioning your ex all the time to strangers" Julie told me. "Yes, I do, Bitter, but straight!"
The Happy Couple.
We flew to a place called El Chalten in Patagonia, a freezing cold barren "town" visited for its beautiful surrounding mountains, the town itself has nothing to offer. There is no phone signal there, roads are vacant except for crazed dogs who run around the streets chasing one another and any kind of decent food is in short supply. We lived off ham and cheese sandwiches for days. The local supermarket looked like something that might feature in a murder mystery film, a proper red neck place where the butcher, a large burley man with a blood stained apron eyeballs you and grins whilst he cuts the meat instead of looking down at it. I imagined that if he could speak English he would do so with a thick southern American drawl and say something like "Well hello there lil´ lady" as he locks the only door out the place and imagines what my severed head might look like impaled on a stick.
Local Butcher in El Chalten.
The town where the local butcher has his lair, bodies are buried under these houses.
Pretty place we trekked to where the local butcher can´t find you.
We did some great trekking there during the day and then returned to our hostel, which resembled a mental institution. The walls were made of ply board and weren´t tall enough to meet the ceiling, leaving a large gap in between the two rooms. I had a man peek over the wall into my room one night. I sat there in bed, reading a book, wearing a woolly hat, gloves, two jumpers, a jacket and with three blankets over me. Not sure what he was hoping to see, but doubt it was that. Julie had the misfortune of sleeping beside the excuse for a wall that separated the two rooms and was kept awake on the first night by a couple next door interfering with one another and on the second night by a man interfering with himself. Eww. Thank God for my ear plugs is all I can say.
Mental institution, where the action happens.
We shared a car to this town with a random man from Spain called Javier, the kind of name that when pronounced correctly sounds like a chain saw being started up. For three and a half hours Julie and I sat in the back of the jeep with our hands over our mouths trying not to breathe in. Javier had a breath that smelt like it could remove paint, I actually sat there retching for most of the journey. Each time he opened his mouth to talk the smell got worse and worse and god damn him, he had alot to say. I typed a message into my phone to show Julie, "I hate him, I hate him". She nodded and mouthed "me too" and quickly put her hand back over her mouth. Javier had a fondness for ducks and was in Patagonia to watch them. As if I didn´t hate him enough already this gave me all the more reason to do so.
A duck.....FASCINATING.We ran into Javier everywhere we went, on the street, there he was, up a mountain, there he was, in the shop, there he was, all too keen to linger and talk about ducks at us. We met him on a hike one morning, five seconds in and the ducks were mentioned. "I found one but it got away from me" he told us, disappointed. "Lucky duck" Julie told him. I laughed. When we bumped into him, I did what I usually do when I am in front of someone I don´t like, I pretend they aren´t there. When Javier made conversation with us I held back my usual onslaught of charm and instead gazed mutely at the ground and made dirt semi circles with my foot. I wondered if he thought I was perhaps just aloof or shy, a mysterious creature rather than someone who was irritated by his very existence. When he finally left, Julie told me how shit I am. "I hate you, you left all the talking to me!" "Yes, yes I did!" I told her with no remorse.
We traveled to a really cool place in Patagonia called El Calafate, which is where there is a massive glacier the size of Buenos Aires. We sat there happily looking at it as we ate yet more ham and cheese sandwiches. Before long, Julie and I were rudely disturbed by two French women who, clearly captivated by the back of our heads, chose to stand behind us rather than in any other spot in the entire National Park. They disrupted our peace and spoke very loudly practically bending purposely to shout in our ears. Julie and I rolled eyes at eachother, me reading her mind, "some people" I telepathically communicated to her. "I know" she telepathically communicated back to me, which was followed by a silent "you look great by the way". Following this French disruption we moved to a more isolated spot only to have a man stand right beside us and blow cigarette smoke in our direction. "Some people", again our eyes rolling. The feeling of irritation lead me to think of my friend Jason and the conversations about "some people" that we often have with one another. Back when I had a job and a normal life we would mail eachother statements about those that were irritating us....
"I don't know why SOME PEOPLE insist on eating their crisps so loudly".
"I don't know why SOME PEOPLE just HAVE to know whats in my sandwich".
"I don't know why SOME PEOPLE have to walk so close to my desk".
Ah, how I miss the office life!
The neuroticism would often extend to ourselves...
Me to Jason: "I think I sound like a leprechaun when I´m on the phone to English people".
Jason to me: "I hate my voice." "I hate my mouth and people looking at it". I stare at his mouth now every time I see him.
In this dysfunctional friendship of ours, we enjoy drawing pictures for one another of matchstick people representing us (not common behaviour for people in their thirties, I understand). I´ve drawn pictures of us at parties, Jason usually illustrated as being drunk out of his mind, unconscious and lying in a pool of his own vomit as I happily dance around him with drink in hand, enjoying myself. I´m always sure to have him wearing ladies high heels in these pictures to remind him that I think he should be taller. Another picture for him showed us in London, me pushing him in front of an oncoming train as he wobbled in his high heels.
Prior to my South American trip, it was Jason who joked the most about me potentially dying whilst away. "See your empty coffin at the funeral!" he told me with a laugh. He drew this picture of me being held up by a man with a gun as my travel partner gets herself out of danger and into a taxi, leaving me behind.
Might actually happen.
Unfortunately, Jason might not be too far off the mark. On my second day of travelling alone, I was mugged (again) two days ago and one of my bags was taken. It had pretty much everything valuable in it that I have, passport, camera, half a banana, credit cards etc. I was left standing on the street without a penny to my name. Luckily I wasn´t hurt, this is a statement I am growing tiresome of having to say. "I was in the earthquake, but luckily I wasn´t hurt." "I was mugged in Santiago, but luckily I wasn´t hurt, I was mugged in Buenos Aires, but luckily I wasn´t hurt" and it goes on and on. There is nothing lucky about being robbed three times in four months! The annoying thing is, I´m actually really careful with my stuff, but that doesn´t seem to matter.
What WAS lucky was that my passport was found. Some woman picked it up from the street and handed it into the police. The police station was utterly hilarious and the charming policemen helped me get over the shock of what had happened. They were a million times nicer than the policemen in Chile who were no help when I was mugged there. I wonder if I´m going to be able to compare treatment of me by the police in each country I visit! I walked into the police station here in Buenos Aires on Friday to be met by a round of applause by three policemen, one of whom was holding my passport. The look of sheer delight on their faces at being able to hand my passport back to me was hysterical. "She´s here, she´s here" they announced and waved my passport at me. I´d like this reception every time I enter a room, I thought. I was indeed ecstatic to get the passport back.
Things settled down and one of the policemen got down to business.
"I like your skin", he told me.
"Gracias" I replied, mortified but also thinking how hilariously inappropriate this was, I had just been mugged afterall!
"I like your hair, the blond, very nice".
"Gracias", thinking damn my hair brush was in that bag too.
"I can´t believe you are thirty, I thought you were maybe twenty".
"No, I am old" I replied.
"Do you have children?"
"No"
"A boyfriend?", he gave me a serious look.
"No. I had one but he´s gone". Damn, should have lied.
"Why he gone? Why, tell me, tell me everything!"
"Are we going to discuss the mugging?" I asked, grinning now.
"Tonight we go to dinner?"
"I can´t tonight." I lied, but started feeling upset again thinking that I actually had no money to buy anything to eat, so maybe I should have said yes.
Then, luckily another tourist came in, so Mr. Police man became all business and actually did some work.
My family heard about the mugging and kicked into action. "Who can we contact in Buenos Aires?" they thought. I´m not sure at what point they decided to contact the Ukrainian Mafia, but I´m grateful that they did. Later that night I got numerous phone calls to the hotel, one from a man with a thick Ukrainian accent, a deep gravelly voice telling me that he knew my brother, not to worry and that his friend would be calling to my hotel soon with cash for me. I was genuinely touched by their kindness even though I didn´t have a rats ass who they were. Then, I got another phone call from someone called Carlos with good English saying he was on his way with the money. About twenty minutes later an elderly Ukrainian couple called to the door of my hotel. They saw me and threw their arms around me, they had no English but I could tell they were lovely people, whoever the hell they were. I understood that we were to wait for something or someone, so wait we did. The woman every now and again would cup my face in her hands and kiss it followed by a long hug. Eventually a man arrived with his Russian girlfriend, I suspected that this was the man with the money, although it wasn´t obvious at first. He told me I could come and stay with them and wanted to know exactly what had happened. I explained it all to him in English and then he translated it to my audience of the two Ukrainians and one Russian.
Anyway, the nice people gave me money and my family managed to pre pay for me from Ireland to stay in a swanky hotel. So, I am living it up on room service for the moment, until my emergency card and more money arrives. Things could be worse, indeed I do feel very lucky to be okay and am grateful for the Ukrainians, whoever they are! Some people are good people.
