Right now I am in our van parked next to a river with the kids in the back, being loud as usual, and Ben talking to some folks about our travel plans in the next few days. We are, once again, in Coyhaique de Chile and I haven't changed my clothes in, I don't know, a week maybe. Actually they were all already used (except my undies), and when I changed into them I had just returned from a 3 day backpack near Mount Fitz Roy in Argentina and it was snowing and therefore too cold to do a sponge bath.
I'm freaking dirty and stinky and am at that point where I don't even really care. That's the luxury of being an obvious traveller. No one cares that I've got greasy hair and dark smudges under my eyes from the eye makeup I put on 4 days ago. They ignore the breadcrumbs I forgot to flick off after lunch. That stuff is somewhat invisible as long as we have enough gas money. But, gawd, my head itches.
Now Ben is jacking up the rear, driver's side tire and is going to inspect the CV joint that, we think, has been making a clicky-thumpy noise off and on for a few days. This has caused a bit of stress. Not necessary directly for me, but for Ben. Whose stress I tend to absorb and personalize and that is never a good combination.
The road conditions have also been a little hard. Patagonia is famous for wind with good reason. That, combined with wash-board roads in the middle of nowhere, makes our Westy feel like a battered, puttering sailboat in the open ocean.
Ben won't let me drive. He doesn't really trust the car yet. Plus it's hard to drive the thing. It's heavy and handles weird. So he drives. His head, frequently, hanging out the window listening intently. He told me a few months ago that, from what he can tell by reading the Vanagon nerd-out forum, The Samba, Westy owners seem to have a form of hypochondria. Every click or noise is listened to with a straining ear, always preparing for the worst. I think Ben is experiencing this. With good reason, our van died and required a complete engine rebuild 6 hours into ownership.
(This is a frequent scene: Ben's head out the window listening.)
After driving around for a few minutes looking for a mechanic, we've discovered a skatepark. Our journey rules dictate that we must stop and let Wells and/or any other Crosby give it a go. It's getting dark, and Ben decides he'll leave us here, get Jules (our Westy) to make that clicking noise again, and find a mechanic to listen to it and give some sort of diagnosis. We need to do this here, in Coyhaique, because the nearest town of comparable size is a 28 hour boat-ride and 6+ hour drive north of here. I brought a little blanket with me. Who knows how long we'll wait. Long enough, hopefully, that Wells will burn some of his 12 year old energy off.
The kids have been far better behaved than I have on this trip, which isn't at all surprising if you know me at all. I don't have a strong urge towards "family time" and being 4 people in a van for 3 weeks (and counting) was, knowingly, going to be a weak point for me. I tend to use up all my good. But, I've got to give myself a nod and say that I'm doing well. No big tantrums to date, but I do seem to be swearing heavily. (I told the kids I got that from my mother, which is an absolute ridiculous idea, and that made them laugh.)
I can't decide if I should list some of the things I say on here, because out of context they seem a little wacky. But for those who actually know me and my kids and our family in person, my little outbursts of "creative expressionism" read as the light-hearted phrases they are. For example, when my 14 year old daughter Dylan asked me, "Did you ever even learn to share?" when I wouldn't give some of my food, and I replied, "I never even went to Kindergarten, so fuck off!" She laughed. She's keeping a journal and has a section called "Mom-isms." I don't know if she's planning on giving it to Child Protective Services when we get home or what.
Obviously, Ben is my better half. And,even when he's stressed, he has a good attitude about it. After 15 years of marriage I've learned something from him, but I'm still pretty immature. Which is tough when you're also supposed to be a role model. But, watching my kids play together on a cold night in Patagonia and hearing their laughter and silliness from across the skatepark, I think I'm doing a pretty good job. Omg, I'm gagging at this sentimentality. Time to quit.
(I look amazing in every photo, btw.)
