In Loving memory of my friend Ryan
Wixted
The Land Rover rolled over its last pothole as we
pulled into the dusty and barren town of Uyuni, causing both Ryan and I to
smash our heads against the thick windows; we should have known better than to
have our breath so close to glass on these archaic roads. Elin and Gills found
this exponentially funnier than the two idiots who just head-butted the window,
and made no attempt to hide their glee. We fell out of the air conditioning
into the heat of the desert town and Ryan was quick to flick open the lid of
his cigarette packet and pop one in his mouth, leaning on the car and lighting
his addiction with the kind of casual coolness only a smoker can truly know. He
blew smoke rings as he popped the pack back into his dirty grey track-pants and
for a moment he could have been James Dean.
My backpack was the last pulled down from the roof and
as I buckled the clips around my waist the wave of emotion that is a final
goodbye stated to fill me. What do you say to people who you have experienced
so much with, who have been your everything for some of the best weeks of your
life? I know the joy attributed to these memories that will last a lifetime is
directly credited to them, and yet all I can offer to try explain this at the
time is a tight embrace and the word goodbye, catching a moment in their eyes
as I release and being content that all these feelings I can’t describe are at
least mutual.
Elin and Gills round the corner and I take an extended
judgmental look at my chosen company that’s left behind, breathing out long and
slow, wondering what the hell I have got myself into. It’s just Ryan and me now I guess. He holds the burnt-out cigarette between his
lips using both hands to lift his backpack onto his back, making all the
necessary adjustments so it sits on his hips just right before nodding in my
direction and asking “how much Boliviano you got bro?” I only have about one
hundred (the equivalent of fifteen dollars) and it turns out Ryan has even less
so we decide to split up while I find a money machine and Ryan – with his far
superior Spanish – books the nine-hour bus ride south for the both of us. It’s
a dry and unrelenting heat in this wasteland and I’m grateful for the embrace
of long shadows as I walk towards the setting sun in the direction I guess is
the shantytown’s centre.
The confused looks on the faces of tourists leaving
the ATM in front of me was my first sign something might be wrong. I wasn’t
hopeful but I tried the machine anyway. It spat my card out with the kind of
distain normally reserved for someone’s first tequila shot. I followed the
perplexed faces to another machine but the result was the same for us all. I stood watching the others as they had a lengthy
conversation with a local official, then waited for a translation. It turns out
there are four ATM machines in this town and they are all out of money, it was
a Friday night and they wouldn’t be filled again until Monday; quite literally,
the town was out of money. I tried the last two machines in the town anyway,
but to no avail. I walked back to find Ryan and had to laugh at the situation.
Come on! What town doesn’t have money?
There were a lot of difficult things about Ryan, but
finding him on a crowded street was not one of them. It wasn’t his height, the
truth is Ryan was quiet short, but his exaggerated personality shone through
him and was hard to miss. And that walk, oh my God that walk, he was like Ace
Ventura when he strutted down a street, and seeing him was as if a real life cartoon
was playing out for you. I called out to
him and watched his little skip-hop as he approached. “Bro, all the busses are
full. I have tried five different agents and they are all telling me the same
story. Looks like we will have to check into a hotel after all, and leave in
the morning.” He popped another cigarette between his lips, dropped his bag,
and sat on the street leaning his back against the old bricks behind him as
though the decision was made. “That might be more of a problem than you think dude,
this whole town is out of money until Monday and we barely have enough for our
bus tickets let alone food and accommodation for two days.” Ryan doesn’t accept
my explanation and wants further clarification “What do you mean the town is
out of money?” “I mean I tried every ATM and so did every other tourist I can
see and they are out of money” I shrug my shoulders indicate that’s all I know.
“Why would they do that? Is that common here? How does the town even function
until Monday?” he fires off all three questions at once. “Do I look like the
leading expert on the economy of shitty desert towns? I have no idea Ryan but
we better sort out what we want to do. We both look at each other, searching for an
escape route out of this predicament but nothing immediate springs to mind.
It’s getting darker by the minute and we are in the middle of a dusty Bolivian
town sitting on broken bricks like two stray dogs.
“We are definitely going to get murdered if we stay
out on this street much longer” Ryan jokes, but we both know there might be some
truth behind the statement. We pick up our bags and walk into the closest
agent. It’s a small concrete room, a single wooden desk sits lonely to the left
and maps of Bolivia decorate the wall behind it. Ryan starts talking and I can
only assume he is trying to explain our situation to the elderly woman who sits
and patiently listens. I see her arm raise and point to the corner of the room.
I hear more Spanish between the two and try to figure out what’s happening.
Ryan ends the exchange with “muchisimas gracias” then turns to me. “We can stay
here on those if we want then get the first bus when they open.” I look to
where he is pointing and see two of the most primitive mattresses I have ever
seen, they are made from straw and look like they would scratch you to death if
you tried to roll in your sleep. I looked at Ryan and exchanged the humour in
our eyes so as not to offend the woman who had just extended a warm welcome to
two unknown gringos. “Should we try just one more and if we cant get a bus we
will come back and take up the offer?” I ask, and Ryan agrees.
The building next door was much the same. Ryan kicked
off the conversation and there was a lot more talking back and forth this time,
but this seemed to be repeated conversation. Ryan was obviously suggesting
something and the women was shacking her head and smiling at him as he would
repeat and nod his head to her. She finally gave in and started writing out two
tickets as I gave him what little money we had and the exchange was done. “Loco gringo” I hear her laugh at him as we
walk out of the store. “What the hell was that about dude?” I ask, as we leave.
He takes one look at me and says “good news and bad news. We got our tickets to
Tupiza on the next bus leaving in twenty minutes. The bad news is that we are
sitting in the aisle.” My expression changes from relief at the sight of the
tickets, to absolute dread at the thought of spending seven or more hours on
the floor of a Bolivian bus driving down roads that would be better described
as dirt tracks.
 |
| Two crazy gringos sitting in the aisle |
So the bus was full and Ryan was in full conversation
with the people we were sitting on the floor between. They were all shaking
their heads and all I could understand was the repeated phrase “loco gringo.”
What the fuck had Ryan got us into!? The next seven-and-a-half hours were by
far the worst transport experience of my life, and I’ve been everywhere from a
bus full of chickens in India to sharing a twelve seater minivan with fifteen
people in Laos – luggage included. I’ve spent three hours dry retching over a
rubbish bin on a boat in southern Thailand, but nothing tops this ride I
experienced with Ryan. It was like trying to sit on a jackhammer while squashed
between two enclosing walls through a night when we had not slept in twenty
hours.
We collapse in Tupiza at 3 a.m. and Ryan’s normal
hop-skip has been dissipated into a zombie-like crawl, and I’m sure I look no
better. The bus station is closed and doesn’t open until 8 a.m. so we have no
choice but to sit with our things and wait it out. We take a seat next to a
small bench in the vastly empty corridor inside the terminal. Ryan doesn’t pop
his smoke in between his lips with his usual pep this time – in fact he can
hardly get the pack out of his unwashed track-pants – but when the addiction
hits his lungs I close my eyes in peace, knowing Ryan will take first watch
over our things as he smokes.
I rise so quickly out of my sleep its like resurfacing
from underwater after having to hold your breath for an extended time. “Potosi!
Potosi! Potosi!” is being shouted aloud and the sound of corrugated roller doors
opening is signalling the beginning of a new day at the terminal. I’m in an
absolute panic searching around and cannot believe that not one of our bags was
taken; they are all sitting calmly and exactly as they were left. I look to
Ryan and see a pile of ash on his chest where his cigarette has burned out but
still attached to his lips. It’s nothing short of a miracle and I kick him
awake. “What the fuck happened?” he asks as he rubs his eyes and rises in a
daze. “You fell asleep is what fuckin’ happened you stupid I.D.I.O.T!” I help
him up and he brushes the ash off his shirt before looking around and noticing
nothing has been stolen. “How the fuck is all our stuff still here?” he asks,
and I’m still searching for the answer to that question today.
I spend seventy hours on a bus in the next four days
with Ryan, and it’s here that I really get to know the man so well. We have
nothing to do but talk for hours and hours on end. We talk politics, education,
religion, beliefs, morals, girls, love, life, death, family, friends, home,
growing up, school, work, and many other topics. This guy was honestly one of
the best conversationalists I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. He was so much
smarter than I had originally thought; he has an interest in absolutely everything
and a real thirst for knowledge. I’ve never met anyone else that can go from
talking about girls’ breasts to Leonardo da Vinci’s contribution to science
with such ease in transition. I didn’t always agree with Ryan’s opinions, but
that was the best part, the debate was always so enriching because his opinions
were always educated. He never thought something just because that’s what other
people think, he thought something because his research or experience or
ability to calculate things told him it was that way or should be that way.
I’m not going to lie about my first impressions of
Ryan; they weren’t good. I was sure he thought way too much about what people
think and tried far to hard to impress people. He would say the most stupid
things sometimes to try to impress people and I wasn’t a fan of that. But through
this seventy hours of conversation I learned something about Ryan and also
something about myself. Ryan tried to hard to impress people because he really
did genuinely love people, that’s the only reason. He loved them and he loved
to be around them. If there is one thing I can say to describe Ryan’s
personality more than anything else it’s this fact: he wanted to meet as many
people as he could and he wanted to be friends with all of them. That’s the
Ryan I got to know as the countryside of Argentina rolled past my window, and
it’s the Ryan I remember. He drove home so strong for me that old proverb
“don’t judge a book by its cover”.
I love you and I miss you!
