Seeking a Travel Buddy (Death Wish Preferred)
My old campervan is falling apart; I need help holding it together.
And I may need someone to help hold me together. After four years on the road solo, I think I need some human company.
So, while driving my creaky old campervan 1,200 miles to the US this last week from Mexico, I worked on a personal ad for a travel buddy. What should it say?
How about this?
Personal ad, Line 1:
“Do you have the urge to leave your safe, comfy home and drive across the US, Canada, and Mexico in a small camper, putting yourself in harm’s way?”
No? Don’t you think that will appeal to people?
I don’t, either. Most people prefer to stay home, where they are safe, so they can live a long life and reach a ripe old age.
But maybe my ad will speak to a few people.
People who want to roam across North America in a mini-campervan, see the sights, sleep in a cramped bed, in a dark, noisy, dangerous-looking parking lot.
People like me.
Does that puzzle you? I offer either the trip of a lifetime or an exhilarating brush with your own mortality.
Line 2:
“Would you like to come along?”
I want a travel buddy. Ideally, a female one, but in four years, I haven’t found a woman trusting enough to join me.
Women tend to be smart in matters of personal hygiene and comfort. When I invite them to join me, women detect a couple of small issues.
After a glance inside the van, they turn to me and say something rather cheeky:
“Your van has no toilet or shower. The sleeping platform is less than three feet wide, and it has about a foot and a half of headroom. Where would I sleep?”
How the heck should I know?
My dog fits himself next to me on the bed, but he is only two feet long and about 15 inches tall. It’s hard finding a grown woman who fits into those dimensions.
Either I need to find a very small woman or get a larger van, but those cost money.
When I talk about my exciting adventures, women often stop me and ask, “Wait, did you just say that you almost get yourself killed about once every six months?”
Guys usually nod along, saying something like, “So, you nearly died?! Awesome!”
Line 3:
“If you are interested in joining me, please get in touch. Further details below.”
The Rest of the Ad:
Requirements:
In the event of an unfortunate accident or your sudden, violent demise in a remote area, I suggest you get an emergency beacon to help your loved ones locate your remains, preferably before the coyotes and the vultures do.
Conversational ability would be nice, but total silence is OK, too. Brain damage is not necessarily a disqualifier. I mean, look at me!
You can’t bring anything with you. There isn’t any space. You’ll have to make do with what you have on, plus maybe one change of clothes. And bring deodorant.
You have to pay your own way. I need gas money, please.
We stop at Planet Fitness locations to shower. So, there is hygiene after all. And when we stop at laundromats to wash our clothes, we meet the nicest people.
Gas station bathrooms aren’t as bad as people say, once you get used to the filth.
Benefits: Let’s see. I’m sure there are some. Great scenery.
You will get to see North America, mile by mile, up close. We make regular pee stops, and most gas stations sell coffee. In lieu of coffee, we can confront danger.
If you survive, you’ll have great stories. Also, my dog will lick you every single day.
Doesn’t this sound like fun? I can’t wait to see who applies. Interviews begin soon.
Should I tell potential applicants about my trip back to the US from Mexico?
I spent six months in Mexico, but my temporary vehicle import permit was about to expire. If I had failed to leave before then, they could have confiscated my van.
We drove 1,200 miles to the border through several Mexican states: Michoacán, Guadalajara, Guanajuato, Aguascalientes, Zacatecas, Durango, and Chihuahua.
The US State Department says these states are too dangerous to visit or that we should reconsider travel plans, but I can’t get to the US without crossing them.
Plus, a Dutch buddy of mine, Arjen, did this same trip back in April, and he’s still alive. So, it must be safe, right!? If no one killed him, why should they kill me?
Besides, who are you going to believe, the US government or me? Nothing bad will happen. Or maybe it will. But we won’t actually die. (Or maybe we will.)
Think about it, but not too much. That’s why a death wish comes in handy.
As we drive along the long, lonely stretches of remote, two-lane highway through the high mountains of central Mexico, I wonder about each pickup truck that is coming towards us, and about each one that zooms up from behind to pass us.
Each time, I see dark eyes staring at me out of an angry face with heavy eyebrows, and those are just the women. (I’m too scared to look at the faces of the men.)
Will a truck full of bad guys from the cartel brandish pistols and force us off the road? Will they tell me to say my prayers and laugh as they pull the trigger?
My dog looks at me, “I think you’re being a bit melodramatic. They’re farmers or ranchers going about their routines. Why would the cartel be way out here?”
He has a point. The cartel guys would have to spend a long time waiting for someone to happen by.
“And how much money do you actually have on you?” my dog asks me.
A bit huffily, I say, “About a hundred dollars. To pay the tolls along the way.”
“And you think the cartel guys are going to wait all day out here for a hundred bucks?”
He has a good point. It does not look very profitable to hang around out here all day on the chance that a random tourist will happen by.
We stop at a dusty gas station on a lonely stretch of remote road to fill up. The attendant sidles up slowly. I ask him to check the tire pressure and clean the windshields. He asks where we are going; I give him a vague answer, just in case.
I buy a big jug of water. If we break down in the desert, dying of thirst sucks.
Then we skedaddle. Out here in the remote highlands of the Sierra Madre Occidental, “skedaddle” seems like a good word to describe what we are doing.
It’s not all fear and loneliness and desolation along the way. Mostly, but not all.
Our first stop on the way north was Guanajuato, the capital of the state of the same name. Curious readers may enjoy learning that it means “Frog Mountain.”
To the indigenous people, if you look at the mountains, you may see a frog. Then again, they used to get high on toad toxin, so they would have seen frogs, right?
My clever “plan” (I thought of it myself!) was for Google Maps to route us into the center (El Centro) of each major city along the way, so we could have a look-see.
A good travel writer would regale you with a highly evocative description of his first glimpse of a city like Guanajuato, such as:
“We approached Guanajuato through lush, green, highland plains, then, after rounding a curve in the road, we saw Guanajuato laid out before us, a sparkling tableau of vivid, tropical colors, slathered on the quaint historical homes that precariously line the steep slopes of the rugged mountains that ring the city.”
But I am not a good travel writer. Sorry about that.
As we drove on toward the city center on the narrow, winding, stone streets, it felt like we were in a carnival. Throngs of people promenaded happily along the narrow sidewalks, frequenting the charming shops and small restaurants.
Guanajuato is a magical place, and you should go visit it right now. Except for one thing. Do not enter the tunnels that run under the city, which are totally terrifying.
We entered a tunnel; the road above was restricted to pedestrians. Google Maps took us into the dark, foul mouth of a deep tunnel under a ravenous mountain.
The tunnel swallowed us.
The belly of the mountain was dark, menacing, and foul. A century ago, local silver miners had blasted these dark, dank tunnels out of the rough-hewn rock to divert floodwaters away from the city, but now, they divert surface traffic.
Overhead, every hundred yards, hung a single light bulb, which cast a pale, eerie illumination that only served to reveal deep, dark recesses in which monsters hid.
But I was not scared. Where did you get that idea?
As soon as you enter the dark tunnels, Google Maps announces that it has lost signal. Then the tunnels suddenly fork, and you have to decide where to go, while your dog whines, “Oh, no, we’re going to be lost in these dark tunnels forever.”
Maybe that wasn’t him; maybe that was me, thinking. But then a glimmer of light appeared ahead in the distance; it was either an exit, or else we were dying.
To our relief, instead of seeing loved ones who died long ago, we burst out into the blinding daylight, both relieved to be alive, but with no idea where we were.
It turned out we were still in Mexico, and about 1,000 miles from the border.
Anyway, tunnels or no, Guanajuato is awesome, so be sure to stop there.
End of Part One of Seeking Travel Buddy. (Be sure to read Part Two next week!)
In conclusion, my friends, apply soon. I will take the first qualified applicant.
Next week, in Part Two, you’ll hear about the rest of the trip to the US border:
• In Leon, an important part of my van fell off the back while we were driving
• In Durango, local police may have tried to shake me down for a bribe
• Outside Hidalgo del Parral, another important part of my van fell off the front
• From Nuevo Casas Grandes to the US, we accidentally took the Death Road
I will reveal how we made it to the US in spite of these hilarious mishaps. You will learn whether we got injured, and if so, how soon the hospital will release us.
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Sounds like a great adventure, looking forward to part II!
I hope you find a great travel buddy! Thanks for sharing the journey and you are a great travel writer!