Salon Wanderlust | Sex, death and beauty in South America

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

T A B L E_T A L K
Is it safe to travel solo if you're a woman? Share your experiences and worries in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y
Oh when the gays come dancing in
By Rebecca Bryant
The physical -- and emotional -- revelations of Amsterdam's Gay Games V
(08/21/98)
The view from Japan
By Dave McCombs
It's the economy, not the morality
(08/20/98)
Everest controversy
Weston DeWalt's latest response
The co-author of "The Climb" responds to Jon Krakauer's most recent comments in Salon about the Everest tragedy of May 10, 1996
(08/20/98)
The view from Europe
Clinton's Achilles penis and other reactions
(08/19/98)
The mother of all road trips
By Melanie D. Goldman
Bouncing, climbing and kayaking through Chile to win the Camel Trophy
(08/18/98)

Browse the
Wanderlust Feature archives

SEX, DEATH AND BEAUTY IN SOUTH AMERICA | PAGE 1, 2
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In both Chile and Argentina, local people are crazy about the Camel Trophy. Almost every car we pass on the road flashes its lights, and a stop at the Shell station is no less exciting than the circus coming to town. We must look like the circus, getting out of our yellow cars in what we think is practical, outdoor clothing. Actually, we're all wearing clunky, 30-below-zero-rated boots, khaki pants and big, bright blue coats with American flag patches and a dozen pockets. If we don't look like clowns, we look like astronauts. When we stop to fill up on gas we attract a small crowd of children in school uniforms and grown-ups in sombreros. We hand out Camel Trophy stickers and Team USA pins. When I stopped in a coffee shop in Pucon, Chile, to track down some news on the embassy bombings, the French-speaking owner only wanted to talk about Camel Trophy, which was featured on the local news and in the local paper. In another town, a road was closed for construction, and the workers -- who looked as if they were discussing the weather rather than working on the road -- offered to build a ramp for us so we could drive from the dirt section of road up to the concrete section two feet higher.
As we travel south, however, fewer people recognize our cars or know what Camel Trophy is. We pass farmers on the side of the road, and their sad eyes follow us, but they show little expression on their sun-worn faces. When our photographer jumped out of the car to snap a picture of a man walking his pig on a leash, the man scooted his pig along as if to get him away from the paparazzi. And in a perverse way, that's exactly what we are.
Rio Manso, Argentina; Aug. 14: Team morale is low. In the past couple days we have lost a few bags from the roof of the car, missed getting to several checkpoints, and yesterday, after I had switched seats and moved into the front seat of the Defender, the Freelander skidded off a wet snowy road to within three feet of the edge of a cliff with no guardrail. The damage was a flat tire and some spooked passengers, but we spent 20 minutes looking at the frightful tracks in the snow -- the scene of the near-accident. The scare has temporarily slowed the pace and sharpened the focus of Team USA. Those drives where Dean and Greg talked at length about their favorite Charlie's Angel are over; now it's all about coordinates, kilometers, time, strategy and safety.
The U.S. team is one of the strongest and most competitive, but there also is a sense of wanting to stop and smell the roses. The checkpoints are located at some of the most spectacular places in Patagonia: near a 160-foot waterfall, next to an open-air church and a 20-foot statue of the Virgin Mary, in the middle of a bamboo forest, in South America's longest tunnel, across a lake surrounded by a lava field surrounded by snow-capped mountains. This morning, we reached a point in front of Butch Cassidy's house in the Cholila Valley, but we couldn't see the house in the morning darkness, and no one questioned the team's decision to drive away before sunrise.
We have a 136-page book of 225 possible competition locations with rudimentary maps, coordinates and some hints: "The location marker is fixed to a rock on the north side of Antuco Volcano at an elevation of 1,950 meters above sea level." The book sends us to beautiful and striking parts of the region, but the surprise sights are the most fantastic, bar none. Yesterday, we drove in brutal winds around a huge, rich blue lake here in Argentina. The wind violently tossed the water around and lifted droplets high enough to catch the sun's rays and create a brilliant, 180-degree rainbow over the lake -- without a rain cloud in the sky.
Futaleufu, Chile; Aug. 15: We entered Chile again last night. This time, the tiny Argentine border crossing facility had a bronze crucifix above the man handwriting our passport numbers into a notebook. The Chilean facility had a ping-pong table.
Futaleufu, a farming town of 892 on the Rio Grande, is a mandatory meeting spot for all Camel Trophy teams. This morning, we rafted down the freezing river with a Chilean Chilly Willy as our river guide. We passed cows on the rocky banks and snowy peaks in the distance. The U.S. boat made it through the class IV-plus rapid called "Initiation" without anyone swimming, and we were finished by 10:30 a.m. with a day to relax by the campfire at the farm on the river.
Wet and cold, we went into the wide-open changing barn to put on warm, dry clothes. There was hot chocolate brewing in the rear of the barn and sunlight squeezing through the panels of wood onto the dirt floor. As I peeled off my wet suit and booties, one of the Portuguese team members -- Goncalo Pinheiro -- sat shirtless on the log bench toward the back of the barn, singing to himself in Portuguese and lacing his boots. And for the first time since the Camel Trophy began, I found something to be extremely sexy.
What surprised me the most is that I felt this feeling as if for the first time ever. For almost two weeks, I have been surrounded by confident, capable, handsome men, and the schedule has been too hectic, the car too smelly, the focus too intense for me to appreciate my situation. My only concerns have been sleeping, eating and writing. But Goncalo stopped me dead in my wet suit-peeling tracks.
Dean caught me ogling, and he humored me with a serenade of his own: "Melanie, my mantequilla ..." ("butter" is the only Spanish word he knows). I explained to him that it wasn't just the soft singing, or just the bare chest, or just the nice cheekbones and dark hair. It was the warm sunlight and the hot chocolate and the post-rafting exhilaration that completed the package to make it the sexiest scene in Patagonia. And with precious, non-driving time to daydream, I started to miss my man at home.
SALON | Aug. 24, 1998
Freelance writer Melanie D. Goldman is writing dispatches for Wanderlust from the Camel Trophy road.


	T A B L E_T A L K Is it safe to travel solo if you're a woman? Share your experiences and worries in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Oh when the gays come dancing in By Rebecca Bryant The physical -- and emotional -- revelations of Amsterdam's Gay Games V (08/21/98) The view from Japan By Dave McCombs It's the economy, not the morality (08/20/98) Everest controversy Weston DeWalt's latest response The co-author of "The Climb" responds to Jon Krakauer's most recent comments in Salon about the Everest tragedy of May 10, 1996 (08/20/98) The view from Europe Clinton's Achilles penis and other reactions (08/19/98) The mother of all road trips By Melanie D. Goldman Bouncing, climbing and kayaking through Chile to win the Camel Trophy (08/18/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		SEX, DEATH AND BEAUTY IN SOUTH AMERICA \| PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - In both Chile and Argentina, local people are crazy about the Camel Trophy. Almost every car we pass on the road flashes its lights, and a stop at the Shell station is no less exciting than the circus coming to town. We must look like the circus, getting out of our yellow cars in what we think is practical, outdoor clothing. Actually, we're all wearing clunky, 30-below-zero-rated boots, khaki pants and big, bright blue coats with American flag patches and a dozen pockets. If we don't look like clowns, we look like astronauts. When we stop to fill up on gas we attract a small crowd of children in school uniforms and grown-ups in sombreros. We hand out Camel Trophy stickers and Team USA pins. When I stopped in a coffee shop in Pucon, Chile, to track down some news on the embassy bombings, the French-speaking owner only wanted to talk about Camel Trophy, which was featured on the local news and in the local paper. In another town, a road was closed for construction, and the workers -- who looked as if they were discussing the weather rather than working on the road -- offered to build a ramp for us so we could drive from the dirt section of road up to the concrete section two feet higher. As we travel south, however, fewer people recognize our cars or know what Camel Trophy is. We pass farmers on the side of the road, and their sad eyes follow us, but they show little expression on their sun-worn faces. When our photographer jumped out of the car to snap a picture of a man walking his pig on a leash, the man scooted his pig along as if to get him away from the paparazzi. And in a perverse way, that's exactly what we are. Rio Manso, Argentina; Aug. 14: Team morale is low. In the past couple days we have lost a few bags from the roof of the car, missed getting to several checkpoints, and yesterday, after I had switched seats and moved into the front seat of the Defender, the Freelander skidded off a wet snowy road to within three feet of the edge of a cliff with no guardrail. The damage was a flat tire and some spooked passengers, but we spent 20 minutes looking at the frightful tracks in the snow -- the scene of the near-accident. The scare has temporarily slowed the pace and sharpened the focus of Team USA. Those drives where Dean and Greg talked at length about their favorite Charlie's Angel are over; now it's all about coordinates, kilometers, time, strategy and safety. The U.S. team is one of the strongest and most competitive, but there also is a sense of wanting to stop and smell the roses. The checkpoints are located at some of the most spectacular places in Patagonia: near a 160-foot waterfall, next to an open-air church and a 20-foot statue of the Virgin Mary, in the middle of a bamboo forest, in South America's longest tunnel, across a lake surrounded by a lava field surrounded by snow-capped mountains. This morning, we reached a point in front of Butch Cassidy's house in the Cholila Valley, but we couldn't see the house in the morning darkness, and no one questioned the team's decision to drive away before sunrise. We have a 136-page book of 225 possible competition locations with rudimentary maps, coordinates and some hints: "The location marker is fixed to a rock on the north side of Antuco Volcano at an elevation of 1,950 meters above sea level." The book sends us to beautiful and striking parts of the region, but the surprise sights are the most fantastic, bar none. Yesterday, we drove in brutal winds around a huge, rich blue lake here in Argentina. The wind violently tossed the water around and lifted droplets high enough to catch the sun's rays and create a brilliant, 180-degree rainbow over the lake -- without a rain cloud in the sky. Futaleufu, Chile; Aug. 15: We entered Chile again last night. This time, the tiny Argentine border crossing facility had a bronze crucifix above the man handwriting our passport numbers into a notebook. The Chilean facility had a ping-pong table. Futaleufu, a farming town of 892 on the Rio Grande, is a mandatory meeting spot for all Camel Trophy teams. This morning, we rafted down the freezing river with a Chilean Chilly Willy as our river guide. We passed cows on the rocky banks and snowy peaks in the distance. The U.S. boat made it through the class IV-plus rapid called "Initiation" without anyone swimming, and we were finished by 10:30 a.m. with a day to relax by the campfire at the farm on the river. Wet and cold, we went into the wide-open changing barn to put on warm, dry clothes. There was hot chocolate brewing in the rear of the barn and sunlight squeezing through the panels of wood onto the dirt floor. As I peeled off my wet suit and booties, one of the Portuguese team members -- Goncalo Pinheiro -- sat shirtless on the log bench toward the back of the barn, singing to himself in Portuguese and lacing his boots. And for the first time since the Camel Trophy began, I found something to be extremely sexy. What surprised me the most is that I felt this feeling as if for the first time ever. For almost two weeks, I have been surrounded by confident, capable, handsome men, and the schedule has been too hectic, the car too smelly, the focus too intense for me to appreciate my situation. My only concerns have been sleeping, eating and writing. But Goncalo stopped me dead in my wet suit-peeling tracks. Dean caught me ogling, and he humored me with a serenade of his own: "Melanie, my mantequilla ..." ("butter" is the only Spanish word he knows). I explained to him that it wasn't just the soft singing, or just the bare chest, or just the nice cheekbones and dark hair. It was the warm sunlight and the hot chocolate and the post-rafting exhilaration that completed the package to make it the sexiest scene in Patagonia. And with precious, non-driving time to daydream, I started to miss my man at home. SALON \| Aug. 24, 1998 Freelance writer Melanie D. Goldman is writing dispatches for Wanderlust from the Camel Trophy road.