Oh Argentina! The land of mouthwatering empanadas, six dollar bottles of Malbec and sky piercing, story book worthy mountains.
I mean, really…could it get any better??
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I had a friend. Ugh. The past tense thrusts itself hard, into the deepest pit of my stomach. But I did. I had a friend. She wasn’t the kind of friend that I had spent my childhood with, or met for coffee on Sundays. In fact, I didn’t even know her all that well.
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I thought we would have gotten used to bus travel in southeast Asia. We had been on buses that broke down, had our seats given away in front of us, gotten shoved into isles jam-packed with cargo, and had things stolen from right underneath our seats. We have winced as bus drivers wedged, braked, and barreled through oncoming traffic.
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With cuts and scrapes still coloring my body from our first motorbike crash, I was hesitant at the thought of getting back on an unkept scooter to drive my wife on Laos’s crumbling backroads. However, I was even less interested in the alternative of experiencing the Bolaven Plateau from the back of a tuk tuk with exhaust fumes filtering our views of the passing countryside.
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The thing about climbing is…a lot of the time I really hate it. A lot of the time I’m muttering curse words under my breath wondering how in the hell I voluntarily got myself into a position hundreds of feet above the ground, desperately clinging to a quarter inch morsel of sharp rock with sweaty fingers and trembling toes praying to god I have enough strength in my puny little arms to pull myself up to the next hold without falling…
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