I switched my mp3 player off half way through the journey, realising that I was only spoiling the perfect setting with the borrowed sounds. The landscape raced across the window, mountains, grassland, clouds. The sun had just come out – we’d left before dawn – and the air was hazy. A couple of concentric rainbows jumped across the peaks.
On the fence-posts along the road, eagles sat waiting for an accident to happen. Feasting on road-kill to keep their lazy broods. A nervous herd of horses ran alongside the bus appearing and disappearing with every bend. Occasionally, roadrunners sprang out of nowhere and fled away just as quick.
I arrived in Chalten and left the old bus sighing with relief by the shack-station, glad to be rid of its burden.
Chalten was a criss-cross of roads surrounded by impossibly white peaks. Even in the high heat of the summer the snow refusing to melt.
I dumped my bags on the top bunk, bought some bread and cheese in the hostel’s shop and went straight out and up the nearest path. The path wound its way through a sparse forest, and signposts were dotted here and there marking the way.
The sun was beating down but the air got colder as the path went up the side of the mountain. I took my jumper off and felt the rays on my shoulders. My water bottle was almost empty and I was wearing very silly flip-flops, the most unprepared hiker in the history of the Andes.
Behind a big rock the path bifurcated. The signs were unclear. Which was not really a surprise. Life had been giving me little funny metaphorical descriptions of my mind since I’d left London. My new flat was in Broke Walk. My husband’s emails had started to go automatically to my Spam folder. The only way forward had been to fly away, literally.
A man stopped behind me and took out a map. He might give me some direction, I thought.
He seemed as confused as I was, so I spoke up. Let’s go this way, I said, and he said yes. We walked in line as the path narrowed. I let him walk ahead of me, setting the pace. He came from Israel, he said, he’d just finished military service. He was travelling in South America and trying to learn a little Spanish.
I didn’t tell him about me, but I told him about the history of my continent, about why some people didn’t like Israel, about the way I saw the world.
We walked on, up to a ridge. The view was breathtaking, a glacier lying motionless on top of a mirrored lake. I considered the fact that it was the perfect kissing spot. I considered the fact that I had a husband in Australia, a lover in London, a fling in Buenos Aires and a man walking beside me. I considered it all and took my camera and took a picture of this man. Who then took a picture of me.
We walked on, lighter. Unkissed. Uncomplicated.
Down the slope we found the lake. People sat round the edge gazing, grazing. I took my bread and cheese and made some sandwiches for us. He gave me some of his water. We sat with everybody else, quietly. You could almost see the collective thoughts rising in a haze towards the ice.
On the way back I set the pace. I apologized about the speed, self-deprecatingly comparing my fitness with his military trained legs. He encouraged me. We made it back before sunset.
In the hostel, he was in the room opposite mine. I watched through the semi-open door as he changed to have a shower. When he saw me I pretended to read my book.
Later he nodded hello as he walked past me in the kitchen.
And the whole thing fizzled out.
Much like this story.