I am not Che Guevara's reincarnation, but some people I met during my 18-month solo bicycle trip from South America to Alaska insisted on calling me "Che." It might be because I am Argentinean, an adventurer by nature and a dreamer at heart. It can also be because this trip changed my life and my worldview forever.
I was 17 years old when I traveled alone for the first time. Touring Patagonia (Argentina and Chile), I discovered my passion for traveling. Later, I accepted a job as a park warden that not only allowed me to save money, but also, most importantly, helped me to realize how much I love nature.
One day, when I had enough money to make a dream come true, I decided to bike to Alaska. My friends and family couldn't believe it. "Why Alaska?" they kept asking. I didn't have a clear answer, except that I wanted to go far and Alaska was the farthest landmark I could think of.
In Buenos Aires, I went to the embassies of all the countries I was planning to visit to find out as much information as possible before departing. I found out, for example, which were the best routes to bike and the high risks in each country, from health to social issues. So I sold my belongings, put money onto my credit card, took a bike and a 45-kilogram bag (which included a tent I hardly used, thanks to many people's hospitality) and left Mendoza in west central Argentina with my friend, Victor, on April 30th, 1999. We headed towards the Andes Mountain range further west. Another friend, Eric, joined us when we reached the north of the country. The adventure had started.
On the first leg, Victor, Eric and I biked from northern Argentina up to La Paz, Bolivia. At that point, Victor went back to Argentina, to continue with his studies. It was disappointing to lose one of the three biking pals, especially for me, because Victor and I were closer friends. But everyone had different reasons and goals, so I understood his decision. Eric and I went on together.
We started biking towards the mine city of Potosi, at 4,300 meters, the highest city in the world. I remember the alarm and sense of helplessness that took us over when we realized that we didn't really know where we were. The temperature started to get lower and the air got colder. It was minus 10 degrees Celsius and there was nobody to ask for directions. Not a sign on the road. We were going to Potosi or so we thought, but it seemed like we'd never get there. We kept biking without rest until, eventually, the altitude and the weather stopped us from riding our bikes and we had to continue the trip on foot.
It got progressively colder: minus 20 degrees Celsius. Our bodies were freezing, our water was frozen and we had no idea how far away Potosi was. We were tired, lost and anxious. Periodically, one of us would stop and say "I can't continue." We had to encourage each other to keep going. We knew we couldn't just stop there and freeze to death.
We walked all night and finally reached the city just before sunrise. We were in such bad condition that we went right to the local hospital and stayed there for a week. As well as exhaustion, exposure, and altitude sickness, I suffered from some kind of food poisoning and had to go under an antibiotics-based treatment before being able to continue the trip.
Yes, that was bad, but nothing comparing to the dreadful working conditions and poverty of Bolivian silver miners of Potosi. I've heard about their plight before, but when I saw it with my own eyes I felt ashamed that such peril still exists on earth. It was and still is one of the most profoundly moving experiences of my life. It felt like going back in time to a medieval vision of hell on earth - the primitive, basic working conditions, the heat, dust and fumes.
Witnessing people, many of them young children, forced to work with primitive means of protection and equipment was truly humbling. They toil with hammers and chisels in dark, dusty caverns for hours on end. To sustain energy and satiate hunger at an affordable cost, they usually forfeit meals and simply chew coca leaves. And to blunt the agony of their work, most miners smoke unfiltered cigarettes and drink nearly pure, 196 proof grain alcohol. If their lungs don't soon fail, their livers often do.
Seeking safety in the dangerous conditions, the minors honored the devil. They called him "Tio" or "Uncle" and fervently believed he was the sole ruler of the underworld with the power to protect and destroy. He was the true owner of the minerals. The miners have constructed hundreds of devil's chambers enshrining statues in his image complete with bullhorns, teeth made of shattered glass with some standing as high as ten feet. They made continuous offerings of alcohol, coca leaves and cigarettes to Tio, who if treated well, may reveal a silver vein of wealth and security.
I asked some miners if they really believed in Tio. "It depends whether you are down there in the mine or here," they replied. Later I learned that Potosi miners are devout Catholics and that there are over forty churches and convents surrounding the area. Inside the mines however, workers fear Christianity could cost them everything, including their lives, so they sever ties with God at the mine entrances. The local priests are frustrated, yet sympathetic, as the miners "double their armor" by praying to God on one day as they worship the devil the next.
It was hard to leave those people behind not feeling useless for not being able to do something to help them.
***
Bolivia was not the last obstacle I encountered during my pedal across the continent. Nature gave me a hard time more than once. In Ecuador, for example, I climbed beautiful but very active volcanoes, such as the 3,600 m high Reventador, located about 95 kilometers northeast of Quito, the capital of the country. Good timing: I climbed the Reventador just before it increased its activity, in March, 2000. Noises, incandescence and tremors would be part of my climbing experience. To top it all off, a constant rain developed mud flows that caused the closing of the main roads and the Chaco highway. I decided to stop climbing volcanoes and started down the road to Colombia.
I was happy to make it to Popayan uneventfully - I was just hours from the border with Ecuador. I would not have worried that the South American leg of the adventure was coming to an end if I'd known that in a matter of days, I'd be almost taken hostage by Colombian guerrillas.
I had no trouble entering Popayan, which is just north of the notorious Medallin, in southwest Columbia. Trying to leave was the problem. While I was there, everything was okay. I stayed with an amazing family who invited me to stay. They welcomed me, fed me and made me feel part of them. They made it difficult to leave, but I wanted to continue what I began more than a year ago. On the road out, I discovered Popayan was blocked by the FARC (guerrilla). Bus passengers had been taken hostage, TV crews were there, and the Colombian military forces were on their way. I tried to pass but they stopped me. I tried again, but an increasingly furious crowd surrounded me and took my bike. They kept asking me over and over again who I was and why was I there. They thought I might belong to a wealthy family. How else could I explain from where I was getting the money to travel all the way from Argentina without working? Luckily, my family from Popayan saw me on a TV news update, and came to rescue me.
It wasn't all volcanoes and guerrillas. The adventure had its softer side. In Peru, for example, I became a godfather to a one-year-old sick child. Peruvian natives believe that the godfather passes on his health to the child. Since they saw me young and strong, they decided I was the right guy to be the baby's godfather. So I stayed for two weeks, and even learned basic Quechua, the native language, in which I had to conduct the baptism ceremony.
My own family back in Argentina also provided me with one of those humane highlights. Just after I complete the Central America circuit (Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras and Guatemala), I headed off to Mexico and they decided to go there and surprise me for my birthday. Pablo, my elder brother, flew from Argentina to Mexico, bringing his own bike along and joining me on my tour. We biked together for six weeks. At the end of that period, my mother and youngest brother flew to Chiapas, Mexico, where we all celebrated my birthday together. Then I was on the road again-solo. It was already March 2000.
The next highlight, if you can call it that, was getting across the Sonora Desert in Arizona. The heat was driving me nuts. The south Sonora challenges Death Valley as the hottest and driest place in North America. Summer highs exceed 48.5 C, (120 F) but the temperature on the road can go as high as 82 C (180 F). I hadn't seen a single human being for several days and I was running out of water. I needed to keep going; what else could I do? But the heat -the penetrating, dry, killing heat. I didn't know how much longer I would be able to bike without collapsing from exhaustion.
Suddenly I saw it - a house in the middle of nowhere. Was it a mirage? I staggered up and knocked on the door. No one answered. I was desperate, so I broke the lock and entered. What I saw then is still hard to believe. I couldn't believe my own eyes. It was an abandoned bar. The fan was still running, the tables set, but nobody was there; only a dead cat. The cash machine was open, but there wasn't any cash. A much bigger problem for me: there was no water.
Despite suffering from serious dehydration, I decided to continue. My survival instincts were strong enough to keep me going. That and the fact that it was still a long way to Alaska.
All I had left for the next 18-hour stretch was a can of tomatoes, some granola bars and a piece of fruit, all of which I ate. Finally, I hit a gas station. I couldn't even talk; I was extremely tired and dehydrated. My mouth was so dry that my lips were glued together, my eyes smarted and I felt so weak that I could hardly move any more. Without saying a word, I threw myself at the refrigerator and grabbed an ice cream and a soft drink. I swallowed the ice cream and drank the soda almost at the same time. People were staring at me. They probably thought I wouldn't pay.
***
It took me at least four days to recover from the desert episode and continue my journey. The next three months took me to Montana, where I crossed into Alberta, Canada, then British Columbia's Okanagan Valley, back to the Rockies and finally up to Alaska. It was September 2000, a year and a half after I set out.
I still remember the day I completed my journey. I was struck by the beauty of the outskirts of Fairbanks. There, in the heart of Alaska, I remembered the day I set out from Mendoza, my city, and all the people I met while traveling through Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, Central America and then Mexico, Canada, the U.S.
Here, in Fairbanks, I had one last challenge; find my way to my friend Jennifer's house and be on time for her wedding. In the last couple of weeks I had been pedaling nonstop to get here on time. I met Jen and her husband-to-be in Panama City and I had promised I'd be there. After 19 hours of riding my bicycle on a wet and windy day, I started to feel anxious about finding Jen's place. I knew they would be waiting with a warm meal and good Argentine wine to celebrate the end of this long journey.
Finally, I saw two old trucks parked and two guys talking to each other from inside each truck. As I came up to them, I could see on their faces how surprised they were to see me. We were literally in the middle of nowhere.
As usual, the first question I was asked all along came up. "Where are you coming from?" they inquired. It was a long story; I was worried about missing the wedding, so I decided instead to ask them for directions and one of them gave me a look and said, "Follow me."
So I did. He drove his muddy truck on different dirty little roads and I followed until we got to a huge place that looked like a classic Alaskan cabin, with lots of the same old, muddy trucks parked outside - and live music coming from inside. He opened the door of this sort of pub in the middle of the rainforest and said: "I own this place, and you are my guest tonight."
I felt like I had stumbled onto another planet. In this warm and funky place people were dancing and drinking just to celebrate the end of another workday. I was there, with them, but at the same time I wasn't. I was somewhere else, back in the early days of my trip in Peru, when I became a godfather to the sick indigenous child. The connection to that family and culture fostered a change in me - one that made me rethink my goals for this trip. I realized that my bicycle adventure was inspiring people to follow their own dreams, and they were giving something to me in return. The scenery, the adventure, spectacular and life-changing as it was, was not the real highlight. To be able to connect in these amazing ways, and forge relationships with people from different cultures across the Americas, that was the highlight of the experience.
This journey opened my eyes on many levels and, by the time I reached Fairbanks, I was fully conscious of this transformation. This last day, which was the longest and most amazing of the entire journey, brought me great joy, as well as the ability to see the internal revolution that was taking place inside me.
At the end of the night, I finally got a hold of my friend Jennifer, not in time for the wedding ceremony, but the party was just getting started. She and her new husband were both happy and surprised to see me. We toasted this amazing day: commemorating the end of my journey and the beginning of their lives together.
****
Epilogue
Before flying home, I stopped in Vancouver, the beautiful Canadian coastal city I wanted to see, but it was too far from my cycle route. So I took the Alaska Airlines solution. I fell easily in love with Vancouver's nature and vast choice of outdoor activities. People here are almost as friendly as in Latin America. That was a nice surprise!
After this trip I went back to Argentina, to my family and friends, but not for long. I decided to return to Vancouver. Now I live in this city, where I have found a way to pursue what I've learned on my journey. I want to encourage people to see the world in a new way. I use slideshows of my trip to pass on an environmental and social message to the world, at the same time raising awareness about Latin America. But the slide show - as good as it is - isn't enough. I also enrolled in the UBC Global Resource Systems Program and I volunteer for non-profit organizations which develop cross-Canada cycling tours for kids. Through multi-media presentations, humorous skits, fun games and interactive workshops, we want to show young people the positive effects their everyday choices can have, empowering them to consume sustainably and ultimately to believe that they can change the world. Because they can.