The Travel Auction

by Mark Green

  “We’re only a few blocks from the hotels mentioned in the Lonely Planet. Shall we walk or cab it?”

  “I’ll always walk given the choice!” I said, pushing myself up. “Give me a hand with my pack.”

  “You sure? It’s pretty heavy…”

  “C’mon Sinbad, load me up.”

  There was a pause, then I heard a grunt as he lifted the straps over my shoulders. I adjusted my footing, then held out my hands for my day pack.

  “I’m ready. Which way Captain?”

  * *

  Me

  It was a beautiful early morning, around seven thirty I think and I was only too happy to describe the small brick houses we were passing as we followed the narrow dusty lane from the bus station. There was more greenery here than in most of the barren towns we’d passed through, but it was still pretty desolate. Several dogs opened a sleepy eye as we walked past, enjoying a Sunday morning lie-in in the sun.

  We’d taken to holding hands because being linked arm in arm with big packs meant we kept bumping into each other. I couldn’t help comparing KT2 with Kate Thornly the 1st, who would have been moaning her head off if she’d had to carry her backpack more than a few steps. I really did admire KT2’s determination to lead as ordinary a life as possible.

  Extraordinary, I corrected myself.

  “You’ve gone quiet Jonny. What can you see?” said KT2, not annoyed, just inquisitive.

  “As you can probably hear, it’s pretty deserted. We’re walking along a track behind the back gardens to a row of weathered terraced houses. There are wispy plants being blown across the dusty road. It wouldn’t surprise me if a leathery old gunslinger walked out of a pair of saloon doors, spurs chinking, chewing a manky cigar. It feels... empty. Ah, here we are at the main high street. It’s getting more built up now. To the left looks like the town square, Platha, I think in Spanish. There’s a bandstand with intricate wrought iron handrails in the middle. Along one side of the square is an impressive gothic looking building standing tall and proud. There are also a few trees dotted around. The surrounding buildings are mostly rendered concrete with faded red or blue window shutters. They have an old style colonial feel and look a bit tatty. I’m guessing the weather here in winter is pretty unforgiving. I reckon some buildings were probably quite elegant once.”

  We walked on for a moment, KT2 seemed to be digesting my descriptions, placing the layout and surroundings in her mind.

  “Sorry about forgetting the commentary. You’re quite…”

  “Independent?” she said, a playful tone in her voice.

  “Yes, despite… you know.”

  “Once you get past all the negative thoughts, you just learn to get on with it.”

  “How hard was it to accept, in the beginning?”

  KT2 slowed, turning her head towards me.

  “It was hell Jonny,” she said, a dull edge to her voice.

  I squeezed her hand, waiting a respectful moment or two before I spoke again.

  “Nearly there. The first hotel is to the right, probably another hundred metres. You okay with your pack?”

  KT2 nodded, walking on in silence. I hoped I hadn’t overstepped the mark, or been insensitive.

  “Okay. It should be right… here. Oh. That’s odd. The numbers jump up. Yet logically eleven forty should be here…”

  “Logic probably goes out the window in South America. What year is your guide book?”

  “Two thousand and three,” I said, checking the inside cover.

  “Perhaps it’s out of date. The hotel may have shut down or moved. Remember the bus station ticket booths?”

  KT2 had a point. Instead we set off for Hotel Percaz, which according to the guide book had ‘less musty rooms’ so it was probably a better bet anyway.

  The once grand building was on a corner, giving it a presence over the other terraced buildings.

  We were lucky to find anyone on the reception desk this early, but fortunately a family was leaving, so out came the phrase book.

  It didn’t go well. I made a reasonably good effort at asking for a room, but I couldn’t understand the lady’s reply. I was left wondering whether they actually had any rooms, because she seemed to be trying to tell me the time. Fortunately the travel gods were smiling on us. Another lady approached the desk and translated in perfect English. It seemed there was a room available, but it needed cleaning and the sheets changing (it was only just after eight on a Sunday morning, after all…) so if we could come back in a couple of hours or so, it would be ready. I assumed she was part of the hotel’s management, but it turned out the lady, her husband and young daughter, were guests at the hotel. She introduced herself as Linda and told us that before her daughter was born she’d studied at university to be a translator. I introduced her to KT2, who smiled and offered her hand. Linda registered straightaway that KT2 was different. I was wondering whether I should explain or point to my eyes or something, but KT2 beat me to it.

  “Hi Linda, my friends call me Angel. I can’t see very well, but I sense you are a nice person. Thank you so much for helping us.”

  Wow, what a perfect introduction. I watched them shake hands, aware that some sort of unspoken understanding had taken place. With Linda’s help, we were able to leave our packs with the hotel. This done, we thanked her and made our way out into the morning sunshine to explore.

  * *

  KT2

  We found our way to the Platha, which was only a couple of blocks away. The stone and grassy area was apparently neat and minimalist, with perimeter benches and the bandstand a central feature. Most of the benches were still in shadow, so Jonathan guided us to the steps of an impressive building that I think was the town hall, or church.

  We sat down on towels and soaked up the warmth of the morning sun as Jonny described the rest of our surroundings. The river was half a mile or so down a steep hill, wide and fast flowing, across which was the larger, richer town of Viedma.

  I heard a car draw up near to the foot of the steps and recognised Linda’s voice calling from the road, asking us if we wanted a tour of the town.

  “What do you think? Could be a bit dodgy,” Jonny whispered to me. I sensed he was going to politely decline their kind offer, so I reached out and touched his arm.

  “I think it’s very sweet. It’s not like we’ve got anything to do for a while.”

  “Are you sure? I’m not that street-wise so perhaps we should be cautious…”

  “My instinct says its fine. And I’ve learnt to trust it over the years. Thank you Linda, we’d love to,” I said, offering my hand so I could be guided down the steps to the car, a hazy blob that sharpened up only slightly as we got closer.

  The little fiat was a snug fit! After a quick bit of rearranging, we climbed in behind the front seats and sat squashed together. Linda started to tell us the town’s history, making a particular effort to describe the relevant buildings or locations in great detail. I wondered if this impromptu kindness and hospitality would ever happen back home. Probably not, I decided.

  Being blind can make you invisible. Perhaps the reason is embarrassment or awkwardness, so people often say nothing. It can make for a lonely existence. Perhaps that’s why I sometimes play for a reaction. That way any attention you draw to yourself, positive or negative is a good thing, because it punctures that invisibility bubble.

  As the little car trundled through Carmen de Patagones, Linda’s passionate descriptions of growing up there brought the sleepy town to life. All I ever seemed to hear at home was people moaning.

  We drove to a viewing area on top of hill with a large monument overlooking the town, which had an impressive history. A couple of hundred years ago, the neighbouring town of Viedma assembled forces to attack the smaller town of Carmen de Patagones. With only seven men on horses, the town stood little chance of protecting their homes and families against a force of over a hundred. So a bit of improvisation and ingenuity was called for. The seven men from Carmen de Patag
ones rode their horses round in a big circle on the top of the hill we were now standing on. The longer they did this, the more dust the horses kicked up. This gave the illusion that a far greater force had gathered to defend the town. The brilliant, audacious scam worked and the invaders called off their attack. The seven horsemen were hailed as heroes and immortalised by the monument.

  “It just shows what can be achieved with a bit of lateral thinking and plenty of bullshit,” I said without thinking, quite overwhelmed with the sheer brilliance of the ruse.

  “Bullshit?” said Linda.

  “It means, erm a clever lie,” said Jonny, squeezing my hand to tick me off for landing him with an awkward explanation.

  We drove over the river via a disused railway bridge which had been tarmaced over, but the heat had distorted the surface, making for a bumpy ride into Viedma.

  “We go for mate now. Please, we will not be disappointed if you do not like,” said Linda.

  I vaguely recalled hearing something about this popular ‘ritual,’ not unlike our own national obsession with drinking tea. So we sat on the grass in the sunshine next to the river while the mate was prepared. Jonathan described what was happening.

  “There’s a kind of large egg-cup shaped mug that’s been carved out of wood. Inside it has a silver straw, with a wire filter at one end to prevent the mate herbs travelling up the spout when you drink from it. Linda’s husband is pouring what looks like a coarse concoction of chopped leaves, twigs and bark into the cup. He’s adding liquid sugar and some hot water from a flask.”

  The concoction was passed around for us to drink and each time the hot water was topped up. The flavour was so strong that it made me cough, no wonder Linda suggested we line our stomachs with some small cakes. Although we didn’t realise it at the time, Jonathan has since read in the Lonely Planet, that being invited to share mate is a great honour in South America.

  * *

  After we’d finished the tea break, we squeezed back into the Fiat and headed back over the bumpy railway line to Carmen de Patagones. Back at the hotel, I offered to buy our hosts a cup of coffee, but Linda gracefully declined. So we exchanged addresses and promised to send them a postcard from each of the other countries we hoped to visit on our trip. Waving goodbye to our new friends, I started to realise what travelling was all about. But why had it taken me so many long years in a city job I’d hated to find out?

  Eight

  Me

  The guidebook was right, Hotel Percaz’s rooms were a bit musty smelling. We joked it was probably the town’s best hotel and was unlikely to be the worst room we’d stay in during the trip.

  “How many days do you think we’ll be here for?” KT2 asked as she sat down on the bed.

  “Probably a couple, enough time to look around.”

  “Cool. And the river that we drove over, was there a path alongside it?”

  I frowned, not sure of the relevance.

  “Think so. Why?”

  When she told me, I thought she had to be winding me up.

  “A run? You mean as in jogging, for fun?!”

  KT2 was nodding vigorously as she felt her way around her rucksack and started unclipping buckles and opening compartments.

  “The very same,” she said, producing a very smart pair of trainers. I was stunned. I remembered seeing them on the table during the customs check, but hadn’t thought much about it. Never in a million years would I have thought she actually intended going running in them.

  “You’ve got to be kidding?!”

  She wasn’t.

  “How the hell are you going to manage not to break your neck…”

  She was grinning at me, then winked, quite an odd mannerism given that she couldn’t see me.

  The penny started to drop.

  “No. Not me. I can’t run, I’m hopeless…”

  “We’re a team, remember. Just think of it as training for the Inca Trail.”

  KT2 started rummaging in her pack for a pair of shorts and tee shirt. Up until this point I’d been convinced she was teasing me.

  “I don’t have any trainers.”

  “Then wear boots.”

  “They’re too heavy.”

  “Good resistance training.”

  “I’ll look stupid.”

  “Then shut your eyes. It’s amazing how much vanity it takes away.”

  “You have an answer for everything!”

  “Aye. You’ve got two minutes to get ready, then I’m going on my own. And I’m sure you don’t want that on your conscience…”

  I sighed deeply, cursed, then reluctantly unzipped the legs of my travel trousers to make them into shorts.

  “You’re certifiable.”

  “No, I just refuse to be beaten by something I can do nothing about.”

  “What about just accepting that’s the way things are and…”

  KT2 leaned forwards and held her face close to mine. There was a glimmer of anger in her deadpan eyes.

  “That would be defeatist.”

  KT2 handed me what looked like a dog’s lead, a two metre long webbing with a clasp on each end.

  “Screw lying down to die.”

  “Okay,” I said meekly.

  * *

  She’s bloody crazy!

  I struggled along beside KT2, clumping along awkwardly in my walking boots, trying to keep up. Oh, did I mention that whilst struggling for breath, close to my first heart attack, I was also supposed to be directing her around lamp posts, trees, curbs and other pedestrians? We had a few close calls I can tell you! Oh, mustn’t forget dodging dogs being walked — ten at a time — aarhh!

  I would have laughed at the irony, if I’d had the energy. Tied to KT2 with a lead, I was her bitch.

  I wouldn’t have believed it possible that a blind woman had the confidence to run, let alone the faith in me to guide her at this breakneck speed. Was she completely out of her mind?!

  Finally she started to slow down, allowing me a moment to catch my breath, or rather allowing me to double up on the pavement, gasping for air.

  “How are you getting on with those lightweight boots?” she asked.

  I’m sure she was laughing at me, but I couldn’t physically raise my head to look at her.

  “Ready to run back now?”

  I shook my head vigorously, you can be sure I found the energy for that.

  “Let’s go, I’m getting hungry,” she said, and started jogging back the way we’d come, tugging on the lead. I cursed through gritted teeth.

  “Language like that will mean we go for longer next time.”

  “Next time?!” I spluttered, as I tried to control my erratic breathing.

  “Of course. Three months is far too long to not work out. I get grouchy if I don’t exercise.”

  If I could have caught up with her to strangle her, I would have. As it was, all I could do was struggle along behind. But it wasn’t just my aching limbs and raw chest that was painful, my pride was badly bruised. How could I have let myself go to such an extent that a blind woman was running me ragged? It wasn’t right, I was supposed to be the strong one. I gritted my teeth and held on. If I stopped now, I’d never forgive myself. I might die trying, but she wasn’t going to humiliate me like this. No way.

  We finally got back to the hotel after a long hard slog up the steep hill. I slumped down onto my hands and knees, exhausted, gasping for air, my eyes screwed tightly shut, blanking out the pain in my lungs.

  “Thanks Jonny, I needed that. Same time tomorrow?”

  If she had a playful tone to her voice, it was completely lost on me.

  “Sod off!” was all I could manage, spitting the words out. It was hardly my finest hour.

  * *

  KT2

  I think Jonny enjoyed our little run, although I was a bit concerned at how long it took him to recover. I must have stood next to him on the pavement for at least fifteen minutes before he stood up. He didn’t sound good. What was he going to be like at altit
ude? I have to confess to a wicked smile at this thought. Who had the condition now?!

  * *

  Me

  It’s been several days since my first run with KT2 and I ache in just about every muscle in my wretched body. We’re only exercising every other day at the moment to ‘allow the body to recover.’ Wonderful.

  I even have a pair of proper running shoes, bought in our next port of call, the small city of Puerto Madryn, half way down the east coast of Argentina. I wasn’t given much choice, KT2 had been adamant that she was (a) going running regularly and (b) actually thought she was doing me a favour taking me along with her. Even stepping off the coach was painful — I feel like I’ve aged thirty years!

  The first thing I noticed as we arrived in Puerto Madryn, was how much colder it was now we were another six hours further south thanks to a pleasant bus ride. We were around nine hundred kilometres from Buenos Aires, which explained the cooler climate. I dithered a bit over selecting a hotel when we arrived at the bus station, there were so many tourist touts. One advertising sign declared “we speak English fluently” which was a blatant lie! But the official tourist office lady was very helpful and issued us with a map, approximate hotel prices and locations.

  * *

  KT2

  After an amusing half an hour fending off offers for various hotels, we set off on foot, with Jonny providing a mix of his usual commentary and snippets from the guide book.

  “Puerta Madryn is located on Peninsula Valdes, a spit of land on the East Atlantic coast which is a haven for sea life. The town is a mixture of industrial fishing port and a relatively new tourist resort. The old town centre was probably in the fish processing factory area, but it’s now shifted along the coast where there’s a sandy bay, promenade and hotels and restaurants. The concave shaped beach has a long concrete pier at the end nearest us, which actually serves as a neat dividing line between industry and tourism.”

  There was apparently a big difference between our 2003 Lonely Planet Guide and the up-to-date tourist map that showed a rapid expansion of tourist hotels, shops and restaurants. This was matched by the changing smell of Puerta Madryn as we walked from the bus station, through the fishing industry part of town to our hostel in the newer, glitzy tourist district. Metallic fish processing plant fumes subsided, leaving a fresh, salty, damp sea smell, which was carried on a bone chilling wind. Time to layer up with more fleeces, hat and gloves!