We spotted a Dollar Rent-a-Car booth on the way out of the terminal in El Calafate. Tom and I looked at each other, simultaneously struck with the same stroke of genius, and smiled. In addition to the daunting drug policy and staunch laws against leaving the port country, Semester at Sea strictly forbids students from renting any sort of motorized vehicle while in port. The consequence for disobedience is expulsion. We had contemplated venturing into a coffee shop in Amsterdam and pondered the idea of going to Namibia while we were in Cape Town, but had managed to resist. However, the temptation for absolute freedom in Patagonia was impossible to turn down. We knew that the SAS crew was two days behind us, and if we took caution to avoid them, and kept our mouths shut, no one would ever know. They couldn’t hold us back. We were going for it.
We tiptoed into the booth, checking both ways beforehand even though there wasn’t a SAS faculty member within a thousand miles. A form was sitting on the desk next to a picture of a Subaru Forrester driving down Route 40 in front of Mt. Fitzroy—perhaps the most picturesque mountain on earth. I picked up the form, as anxious as an adolescent sneaking out of the house in the wee hours. I began to read.
Minimum age: 21… No problem. We are 23. Cost: $70 a day… We can afford that. Requirements: Driver’s license… Check.
I looked at the alluring picture of the Forrester driving down Route 40, the Andes rising majestically in the background, and felt a deep sense of internal satisfaction. I was born and raised in Texas. We Texans love private property, guns, trucks, and the open road. Though I’m not the quintessential Texan by any stretch, I was born on a ranch, I do drive a truck, and, above all, I love the open road.
I understand that from an environmental standpoint, public transportation is a much more sound way to travel. But deep down, I hate it. I hate the monotonous hours spent waiting in lines at bus stations. I hate abiding by the strict shuttle schedules that confine travel arrangements. I hate sitting next to stinky people who snore in your ear, and the cramps I get when my ass is hiked up in awkward position for hours. I’ll never forget the chicken bus in Guatemala when I was herded into the back row for the eight-hour journey from Lanquín to Flores. I had an unbearable charlie horse in my left buttcheek for the last six hours. Brutal.
I began to envision us in our silver Subaru Forrester, driving down Route 40. I would sit shotgun, pluck a mellow tune on the charango and gaze toward the rugged spine of the Andes. We would take any turn, any dirt path into the mountains. We would see remote glaciers nestled into the mountainsides. We would fly-fish desolate streams teaming with virgin trout. We would pass elegant guanacos grazing in serene valleys. Andean condors would soar above our sunroof. We would be free.
“´Quieres alquilarlo?” asked the Argentine girl behind the desk, curious as to why we were so troubled by the decision.
We looked at each other, terrorized by ambivalence.
“Si. Si. Estábien” I said.
She smiled, checking the boxes that needed to be filled out on the form and handing me a pen. I grabbed it, cautiously, as if handling a rattlesnake, and began to fill in the required boxes. By nature, I’m a bit paranoid, and subconsciously I was searching for a reason why we couldn’t do this. I remembered that automatics aren’t quite as prevalent in South America.
“Es manual?” I asked.
“Si.” She smiled. “Sabes como conducir manual?”
I turned to Tom, who was looking at me with a blank face as usual in Spanish-Speaking countries, trying to figure out what the hell she said.
“Do you know how to drive a stick-shift?” I asked.
“No, do you?”
I raised my eyebrows, half-smiling.
“Oh…fuck,” he said.
We apologized, and walked out, cursing ourselves.
Throughout the trip, we discussed what could have been if we had our own vehicle. We were constantly reminded of the pitfalls of public transportation. We were reminded of the bus driver who recklessly tossed our bags into the bottom of the bus, smashing our laptops against the metal. Of the two smelly dreadlocked girls from England who passed out and honked like geese for three hours on the way to Chaltén. We couldn’t even see the freaking mountains because the condensation on the window was so thick.
But this adversity only strengthened our resolve to return to Patagonia. Next time we’re doing it right. We won’t need to know how to drive stick shifts because we’ll be on bikes, driving down Route 40 like Che Guevara and Alberto Granado on their notorious Norton 500. The man won’t be sticking his fat, obnoxious finger in our faces and telling us what we can and can’t do. There will be no rules. No regulations. We’ll smoke a joint. We’ll go to Chile. We’ll be back. Just the two of us, our bikes, and the open road.
—Ryan Weaver
Around the Atlantic on SAS 