| Buddies on the Brink |
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Travel is often more memorable with your pals—if you can resist the urge to pummel them 
“It’s pronounced YYYYAHHH-no, not YAH-no,” Bill repeated with relentless certitude. I leaned back in my chair, resisting this meaningless debate on the correct pronunciation of llano, the Spanish word for “plain” (as in “the rain on the...”). The argument had been going on long enough for us to finish our líquidos at the little café on Oaxaca’s main plaza—and for every Spanish speaker seated around us to conclude we were a couple of gringo pendejos. That’s pen-DAY-hos, Bill. I abandoned the argument not out of public embarrassment nor because I was conceding. No, my intention was to save our friendship, which had already survived time, distance, and even an exchange of girlfriends. I wasn’t so sure, however, that it was going to survive this petty debate over Spanish pronunciation. And as I leaned back in my chair, I clenched my fist in preparation for delivering a right hook that I hoped would flatten Bill’s nose completely against his face until his nostrils touched his earlobes. I believed the blow would be therapeutic for both of us: an exclamation point to the month we’d already been on the road together, and an emotional deck-clearing before continuing with our journey. We wouldn’t speak for two or three days afterward—but hell, that’d be a bonus. In the end, we’d pass around a mezcal bottle, get sentimentally drunk, wake up with matching hangovers, and get on with the business of our trip. That business was to write and shoot as many stories as we could between Mexico and Chile over the course of three months. I was the writer and Bill the photographer. Among our assignments was a profile of a modern-day gold prospector in the Sierra del Cuale, northeast of Puerto Vallarta; a Mexican wrestling story in Mexico City; a profile of a female ethno-botanist working in the Ecuadorean Amazon; and an expedition to a lake in Peru at 16,000 feet to find and catch the largest brown trout in South America. It was a dream trip—if we could only survive the nightmare of each other. It all went to hell in Oaxaca. A woman was involved. Our competitive natures emerged. Tempers flared. Stupidity erupted. So, you ask, why not just talk it out? Right. Two guys are traveling together and one is going to sit the other down and say, “Listen, Bill, your unwillingness to rinse the sink out after shaving… man, we really gotta talk.” Guys don’t talk things out; they get enough of that when traveling with their wives and girlfriends. We’ve all had those arguments, which can last an hour or half the vacation. And all guys know that such discussions inevitably lead to their throwing in the towel—it’s the only way to get things back on a romantic track. With your buddy, however, there’s no reward for talking things out. I let temptation pass that afternoon in Oaxaca—neither slugging Bill nor starting a dialogue—and so we continued the trip, muddling along, nursing our various grievances, alternately loathing each other and having a blast. By the time we reached Lima a month later, we were done. Bill’s girlfriend had arrived, and now they headed off to Cuzco while I caught a plane for Santiago. Within 24 hours, I was joyously soloing in a sea kayak south of Chaitén, Chile. The first couple of days were amazing: paddling among seals and sea lions, hiking to and fishing pristine rivers and lakes, bartering for fresh-caught seafood from local fishermen, and camping next to hot springs. At night, around the campfire, I listened to raucous stories from other travelers. When my turn came, I reached into my bag of fresh adventures, including the story of the jaguar that almost made lunch of Bill and me in the Amazon, and the old lady we’d encountered in Lake Juacocha who caught monster trout using butterflies. Don’t worry: I didn’t go all maudlin or wish Bill were there to share the laughs. But it did get me thinking about how much more vivid travel memories are when they involve a companion. On a previous trip to South America, I went on a week’s hike around Illampu, a mountain near Lake Titicaca in Bolivia, with an Israeli army officer and an Austrian guide. As we trekked, I found out that the Israeli’s grandparents had died in the Holocaust and the Austrian’s father had fallen serving in the Wehrmacht. Suffice it to say, the conversation was intense. A few years later, when I met the Israeli in New York, he reminded me of the day we’d trekked to an abandoned mining camp at nearly 17,000 feet. As he talked, I was transported back to that cold, foggy morning. The amazement I’d felt that anyone could live at that altitude was almost palpable, as was the sense of camaraderie that finally bound us together. It’s almost as if having a witness not only provided more detail to the adventure, but also gave it more weight. I imagine the same thing will happen if and when Bill and I get together and discuss our Latin American travels. I fully expect a multitude of layers added to our experiences. But if he brings up the pronunciation of llano, I swear, this time I’m going to deck him. |
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