Homesick

It's Christmas eve 2009, my first Christmas spent overseas. I sit alone in my dormitory room in El Chalten, Argentina. The hostel in which I am staying is called Rancho Grande (Big Ranch), number one on the list in the Lonely Planet guide book. It’s the kind of place I would later learn to avoid – complete with everything a backpacker needs, but lacking the sense of homeliness you find in smaller, less popular places. I am  listening to Paul Simon‘s album Graceland on my ipod, trying to drown out the noise of the horrible christmas party taking place down stairs - cheesy pop music, artificial smiles and forced conversations - you call this Christmas? Bah humbug, I turn up the volume.

I close my eyes and let the music transport me back in time, over the Pacific. I am a kid again sitting in the back seat of our rattly red ford cortina, my two older bothers are on either side of me. Dad is driving, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, his curly black hair brushes the roof of the car. Mum sits beside him gazing out the window, no doubt conjuring some poem or other in her mind. We are driving the windy road which cuts through the Dunstan Gorge headed for Queenstown to spend Christmas with Dad‘s side of the family. Steve tries telling me the land on the other side of the lake is Australia, but I‘m too old to fall for that, Mike daws cartoon pictures in his breath on the window. Graceland is playing through the tape deck, the African inspired rhythms coupled with the sun baked brown land around us make it easy for me to imagine we are on safari in the heart of Africa. Even at a young age I longed for adventures in foreign lands.

And now, almost 20 years later, here I am - 10,000 miles away from my family, alone on Christmas Eve. I feel the novelty of adventure wearing thin. What am I doing here? I could have flown home for Christmas, the company would have paid, but no – I decided to go off by myself on some crazy solo Patagonian adventure, and to what end? Self discovery? Stories? Masochism? Right now the reasons seem unclear.

I check the time, 8 oclock, that would make it mid-christmas-day in New Zealand, I should ring Mum and Dad soon but I almost can’t bear to do it. I can imagine the scene at Granny and Grandad’s house - the sweet smell of the Christmas tree mixing with the rich aromas from the roast lamb and pork in the oven, there‘s new potatoes and snowball turnips bubbling on the stove. A burst of laughter from my aunties helping Grandad in the kitchen, my younger cousins with cherry stained fingers play with their new presents, the men sip beer and watch the cricket on the telly, the older cousins are outside in the sun kicking a rugby ball around, stomachs grumbling in anticipation for Christmas dinner. That is where I long to be, lazing in the comfort and shade of my family tree, surrounded by familiarity, predictability and people who love me without question. That is Christmas.

 

Mt Fitzroy

The next morning Christmas day arrives wrapped in a fresh blue sky. Leaving the hostel early I head into the hills behind El Chalten, where the bare granite peak of Mt Fitzroy plunges into the sky, defying the horizon like a raised fist. I walk fast along the forested trails leading towards the mountain, stretching out my legs and sucking back lungfuls of crisp mountain air. On my back I carry all the food and gear I need for three days tramping. I recall my phone conversation with Mum and Dad from the night before, I expected to feel sad after we talked, but instead I felt stronger. I realised that I should be thankful that a place exists where I will always fit, with people I can always trust and the truth is, even if it is a million miles away, the connection I have with this place and these people cannot be broken. I catch another glimpse of Fitzroy through a gap in the canopy, each time I do it looms a little larger.

A small bird darts across my vision snapping me back to the moment, the morning sunlight falls around me like confetti through the trees. I realise that I did receive a gift this Christmas – the real present is the here and the now, and that is what I have to focus on. I am in Patagonia, I am healthy and I have two years of amazing experiences and adventure ahead of me. I hear that I am approaching a river crossing. There’s a lot lying between me and the end of my trip, and there will be plenty of hard times like last night, and probably some which are a lot harder - but to give up early and go home would be to miss an opportunity of a life time. I reach the river bank and watch the water sliding like crystal silk over the shimmering rounded rocks. I pause for a second, and take a breath, “One step at a time.” I say to myself, and plough into the ice cold water.