by Maggie Downs
“Sí!” the man nods with pride.
I don’t believe him, so I walk the streets some more and ask several other residents about the banks. Each person says the same thing: Bolivia.
“ATM?” I am grasping for anything. Any money. Anywhere. Any method. Again, I receive the same word of advice: Bolivia.
I trudge back to the border, back across the bridge, back through the lines of people with sacks of grain. Along the way I pass a white sign that says “Bolivia.” It’s the same size and shape as the Argentinian sign, but this one is weathered with chipped paint. I don’t take a photo.
I FIND A BUS OUT OF TOWN.
When I conjured Argentina in my mind, I saw tango dancers and crowded Buenos Aires streets and steaks as big as platters. I never imagined the landscape of the north, where I am right now: Teal skies that heave with puffy clouds. Arid desert that suddenly buckles and gives way to dramatic expanses of green. Sunlight that dapples the cliffs with pure gold.
I am headed toward Salta, the capital city of this province. For this seven-hour journey, I am pleased to discover Argentinian buses are the opposite of Bolivian buses. The vehicle is well maintained and comfortable, with squishy leather seats, drink holders, and spacious compartments at my feet. The seat reclines so far back, it nearly becomes a bed. Not only is it nicer than business class on a domestic airline, it is nicer than most hostels.
Outside the window, the mountain ranges are wind sculpted, the rock as red as roses, softly folding against each other like ribbon candy. The entire region looks like Sedona, Arizona, with a steroid injection. The roads are smooth, dotted with speed-limit signs and painted lane lines. At home this is standard, but here it feels new and fresh.
For the first time since I started this trip, I have a seat belt, and it makes me feel incredibly spoiled. Who knew a sash of nylon across my lap would bring me such a deep sense of safety? It is a small touch that reminds me of home, security, and protection. I remember the way my mother drove, how her arm instinctively snapped across my chest to squeeze me against the passenger seat every time she was forced to come to a quick stop.
“I have never been so happy for laws,” I write in my journal.
I FOLLOW A TRAIL OF WINERIES FROM SALTA TO CAFAYATE, where the sandy soil and mountain air work together to create torrontés, a magical white wine varietal that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the world.
I am traveling now with Barbara, a friend from home. We’re the same age, in the same place, both making treks around the world, but we’re at different places in our lives. The same month I got married, Barbara divorced a man with whom she spent eleven years, a man who also happens to be a good friend of mine. While I am hoping to do some soul-searching on this trip and to make some connections within myself, Barbara is connecting with other people. Specifically, men. But I don’t realize this until we begin traveling together.
I have this hypothesis about breakups: after a long-term relationship dissolves, a person regresses to the age they were when the relationship began. Barbara was with her husband for eleven years, ever since they met in college, which turns back her relationship clock to age eighteen.
That’s exactly how she appears to me now, and it’s nothing like the Barbara I knew before. Physically she has changed, letting her blonde bob grow long and unruly, and her body is thinner. But the most drastic changes are on an emotional level. She is more carefree, which is something I admire, though she’s becoming increasingly reckless.
She’s eager to hitchhike and collect wild stories. One night she follows a German backpacker to a seedy part of town that we’ve been warned about, just to flirt with him and score a free meal. Another night she has sex with a Kiwi on the floor of our hostel bathroom.
She’s also a thoughtful, intuitive friend, and I cling to her. Part of it is that she can speak a meager amount of Spanish, which is helpful. Part of it is that I have called home again, and my mother is more lost and confused than ever. Her body has developed infections, but she no longer has the ability to communicate her pain. The nurses discover that my mom has been suffering urinary tract problems and earaches, and it’s possible they have been blazing for weeks. Her body is breaking down one piece at a time, and I can’t do anything about it. Things seem to be crashing down, and I ache for the comfort of the known, even if it’s the remains of a friendship.
Together Barbara and I decide to head to Argentina’s wine country, a place that appears to offer both tranquility and a party scene.
After the harsh conditions of Bolivia, even the simplest pleasures in Argentina feel downright indulgent. In Cafayate, Barbara and I leisurely bike to local bodegas and stuff ourselves on pumpkin empanadas, creamy leek stews, and wine gelato. We walk a town square where women smile and old men tip their hats. After a few days of bliss, I am relaxed and ready for my first CouchSurfing experience.
CouchSurfing is a website that began in the early 2000s as a way to connect travelers all over the world with hosts, who volunteer lodging in their own home. Hosts cannot charge for their services, which means CouchSurfing is friendly to my meager backpacking budget—but it’s also part of a bigger, more lovey-dovey concept. The idea is to find new friends, personalize your travel experience, and learn about a culture from the people who live it. It’s about making connections worldwide.
To ensure that nobody is a serial killer, both the host and the traveler create profiles and leave public feedback about each other after a meet-up occurs. So a traveler can peruse host reviews, just like they would with a restaurant or hotel. Likewise, the hosts know that they’re not opening their doors for an ax murderer. Both parties agree to the meet-up before any detailed information is exchanged.
Barbara spends a week corresponding with one particular CouchSurfing host, a young American who schlepped her husband and three children through South America before settling in Argentina.
“Her name is Willow, and she is super awesome,” Barbara says. “She’s a writer, her husband is a film director, and they met when they were doing movie stunts in California. She’s into gymnastics, Hula-Hooping, and fire dancing, and she loves red wine, dark chocolate, and books by the Brontë sisters. And they’re both trapeze artists and vegetarians.”
“Wow. This chick sounds cool.”
“It gets better,” Barbara says. “They live in a huge, three-bedroom farmhouse that they renovated. And they have dogs and a pool. And bathtubs. The kicker is that they’re just outside of Mendoza, which is wine country. And, bonus: they said we can stay as long as we want. Who knows? This might actually be a vacation.”
Willow sends directions to her house, but she also asks for a few host gifts—chocolate, a bottle of wine, plus toys for her kids—in exchange for providing shelter. Barbara agrees and confirms our arrival date and time.
We arrive in Mendoza by bus several hours later, bags of gifts in tow, but there is no sign of Willow at the station.
“Weird,” Barbara says, rereading her email from Willow. “I didn’t notice this until now, but this says we need to get on another bus.”
“I thought you said she lives in Mendoza.”
“Well, outskirts of Mendoza. Same thing.”
I’m annoyed, but there’s no reason to vent right now. It’s not Barbara’s fault we’re zigzagging all over Argentina. We buy tickets for San Rafael, as instructed.
Three hours later, we are still on a bus, far outside of wine country. This ride is quiet. I just want to reach our destination, and I have nothing to say to Barbara.
From San Rafael, we catch another bus.
Since Willow isn’t around for me to blame, my frustration is unleashed on Barbara. “Where the hell does she live? Chile?” I snap.
“Next time you find the CouchSurfer!” she snaps back.
“I will,” I say. “If I’d found the CouchSurfer, we’d be in Mendoza drinking wine right now.”
The bus driver looks in the rear-view mirror and smiles. He must be used to taking foreigners
to this place, because he doesn’t even ask for our destination. He simply pulls to a stop in front of a ramshackle wooden building, then points to Barbara and me.
“Us?” I point to my chest.
“Sí,” he nods.
Barbara and I reluctantly step off the bus. The building looks less like a farmhouse than a crime scene. It is encircled by mud, withered crops, and rotting fence posts. And the bus that’s driving away is the last of the day.
“Well, it’s not exactly wine country … ,” Barbara says, letting her sentence trail off into the wasteland that surrounds us.
“More like swine country.”
Just then a pack of dogs jumps out the front window of the house and tears through the mud and into the gravel road. Their fur is thin, showing raw patches of pink skin. They surround out feet and nip at the air around us.
“Oh, good,” I say. “I haven’t had mange yet.”
Barbara grimaces and pulls away from the dogs. She has been battling ringworm, picked up a couple of countries ago from a stray kitten.
We walk to the house, because there is nowhere else to go. Along the way, we approach a scrap of brown grass where a woman is facedown on a towel. Barbara clears her throat, but the woman doesn’t move.
“Is she dead?” I nudge her with my foot.
The woman turns over, props herself on one elbow, and squints at us. “Oh, hey,” she says; then she turns back to her towel. Her bikini top slides off.
She is facedown again.
“Wait! Are you Willow?”
At this, she sits up and blinks. She’s not self-conscious about her toplessness at all. “No. Duh. I’m Ashley,” she says.
“Ashley? Who’s Ashley?” I ask.
“I’m … you know,” she sighs. This clearly requires a lot of effort. She sighs one more time for good measure. “The babysitter.”
Ashley the Babysitter sits all the way up and spreads her legs, then rubs at the spot where her bikini bottom meets her crotch.
“Look,” she says, tugging the bikini fabric from her skin. “I had a big cyst removed from my labia yesterday. And now it’s not lookin’ too good … Geez, what’s wrong with me?” Ashley abruptly jumps off the towel. “I’m so freaking rude!”
With that, she runs into the house. A few seconds later she returns. “Here,” she says and she shoves her fist toward me. “A joint.”
THE CHILDREN ARRIVE WITH AS MUCH SUBTLETY AS A gunshot. Evie, Reese, and Liam are a tiny barbaric threesome, like the lost boys in Peter Pan. I have no idea where they’ve been, but once they enter the property, they tumble, pinch, punch, yell, and yawp, kicking up dust, tufts of grass, and stray gum wrappers.
“I’m Reese!” shouts the middle child, who has branches sticking out of her blonde hair like antlers. She is nine years old. “But I demand you call me Saffron Moonblood!”
When I say I’d rather not, she kicks me in the knee.
Evie, age twelve, points to the living room drapes. Five-year-old Liam is already tangled in the fabric near the curtain rod.
“Are you allowed to be doing that?” I say.
All three children reply in unison, “Yes!”
Of course they are. They are allowed to do anything they want, because Willow isn’t there. Her husband isn’t there either. And we have no idea when either of them will return. Whenever Barbara and I ask Ashley about it, she waves her hand around and says, “Oh, you know.” Turns out she isn’t as much of a babysitter as a friend of a friend who showed up one day with a bag of weed.
Two hours later Barbara finds a note, written by Willow on a piece of cardboard. It says that she and her husband heard about a film shoot—the landscape surrounding Mendoza is often used as a low-budget Grand Canyon for movies and TV shows—and they will be gone for several days. But they have left us a couple of rules for running the household: Feed the kids. If they want to go to school, they can. If not, hey, don’t force them.
Feeding the children is a challenge. The house has little food, the propane tank for the stove is empty, we are many miles from town, and the final bus for the day has long gone. Plus Ashley the Babysitter is stoned and staring at her labia.
“It’s fine,” says Liam. “I know how to make a fire.”
“Seriously? Because I don’t,” I say.
The boy has clearly done this before. He heaves logs into a squat little stove in the living room. He plucks a match from a tattered cardboard book and gets the fire going. I set a pot of water on the surface. While we wait for it to boil, Liam uses a tiny ax and some fallen branches to build a small bonfire in the front yard. He surrounds it with a ring of stones.
“Hey, Liam, do you usually have more food around here?” I ask, while I help the boy pull together the pile of wood.
“Nah. Not really. Only when my mom asks CouchSurfers to bring some stuff,” he says. “Sometimes I go to the next farm, over there, and I ask them for food, and they give us stuff from their gardens. They’re real nice.”
My mind wanders back to my elementary school years in Ohio, when my parents struggled to put food on the table. My dad was too proud to let us accept any assistance, like food stamps or the free school-lunch program, so it was a burden to feed three kids. Meat was a novelty. But my dad planted a garden in our backyard, which gave us an abundance of vegetables. My mom bulked up our meals using this fresh produce, so our spaghetti was fat with zucchini and cauliflower, casseroles were layered with carrots and squash, and our salads overflowed with radishes, sugar snap peas, and tomatoes. In the winter we ate all the same things—just canned versions of them. It took many years for me to discover how poor we were back then, because I never went to bed hungry. My mom made sure of it.
Water comes to a boil on the stove. Barbara stirs a package of dry pasta into the pot, and I scrounge up a tin of tomatoes and enough condiments to combine for a decent sauce. I plop the pasta onto plates, and the kids tear into their food like lions descending on a fresh carcass.
“Look at my full belly!” Liam says, pulling up his shirt and pushing his stomach out as far as it will stretch.
“When you are in America, do you eat peanut butter?” Saffron Moonblood says.
“Of course! I love peanut butter,” I say. “That’s what I miss the most.” Evie nods.
“You know what I miss?” Liam says. “Toothbrushes.”
“Yeah, remember how in California we would brush our teeth? Every night?” says Saffron Moonblood, almost as if she didn’t believe it herself. All the children nod.
After dinner, we gather around the bonfire outside and look at the stars. Barbara shows the kids how to find the Southern Cross. When I shiver from the cold air, Liam uses a metal shovel to scoop hot embers and make a pile of them under my plastic lawn chair.
“Now you’re toasty warm,” he says. He scrunches his nose and gives me a crooked smile. It is sweet, if unsettling, to see such a young child playing with fire. I also feel slightly askew, then realize my seat is melting. I scootch the chair back until the plastic cools and becomes solid again.
Later Barbara and I sit on the couch in the living room with Evie and Liam in a pile on top of us. Ashley the Babysitter is passed out in the master bedroom, snoring loudly. Saffron Moonblood pulls boxes from the closet and finally emerges with a few pieces of old newspaper—a couple of advertisements and the obituary section.
“Can you read to us?” she says, climbing on top of my lap.
“Of course, sweetheart,” I say, using my hand to brush the leaves and sticks from her hair. Again, I feel like something is melting.
Back in California, Jason and I have often talked about having children, but I do so in abstract terms. He’d like a child. I am less sure.
I’ve told Jason that I want to wait because a baby will chain me to a life of sticky playdates and diaper duty.
“Someday,” I’ve said.
What I’ve never said out loud is that I’m afraid. Every time I misplace my keys or leave my purse in the car, I text my sist
er in a panic, believing I’m in the early stages of Alzheimer’s myself. Shortly after my mom’s diagnosis, my dad tried to comfort me on the phone: “By the time you’re old enough to worry about it, there will be a cure for this disease,” he said. “There might not be hope for your mom, but there’s hope for you.” Almost a decade later, we are no closer to a cure or a way to prevent this thing. But I am closer to an age where I need to make a decision.
I don’t want to be a parent if I can’t be fully present and mentally aware. I don’t want my child to watch me disintegrate the way I witnessed my mom’s decay. And I don’t want to pass the disease on. Parenthood is an enormous risk.
However, the choice feels simple in this living room, where the wallpaper peels and the roof sags with mold. I wonder what I am waiting for. I wonder if not taking a chance is, in fact, the bigger risk.
“BARBARA, IF WE DON’T LEAVE TOMORROW, WE CAN’T GET out until Monday because the bus doesn’t run on the weekend. So I think we should—”
“Why would we leave?” she interrupts.
“Uh, because this place is filthy. The toilet doesn’t work. There’s no food. We are far from civilization. And we’re stuck with one weirdo girl. This is like the beginning of a very scary movie.”
“It’s fun. Relax. You’re too high-maintenance.”
“I don’t think food is high-maintenance.”
“Our hosts have been kind enough to open their house to us—”
“What hosts? They didn’t even bother to stick around. Oh, and they left three kids here,” I say. “I am not a parent, Barbara. I have no idea what I’m doing, except trying to keep three kids fed and making sure the house doesn’t burn down.”
“We’re CouchSurfers. We can’t be picky.”
“Exactly. We’re CouchSurfers. Not babysitters.”
My heart breaks for the children. They need structure. They need books and toys. They need to go to school. At the very least, they need to have a responsible adult around to make sure Liam doesn’t fall off the roof.