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Monday, April 13, The Exodus. The city was beckoning. It was already the first of March and school started for Haukur and myself on the ninth.
Four months of travel were coming to an end. Hitching as a team of three would take time. A brainstorming session of our options left us with the resolution to split up.
We were going solo, but with a little flair. A no holds barred hitchhiking race. No paying, or offering to pay for rides. Haukur never waited for more than fifteen minutes. A car simply saw him walking out of Bariloche and pulled over. Halfway into the first day a sedan pulled over. They pulled into a small town for some rest. They dined together, and afterwards the Argentine offered to buy Haukur a drink before bed. One drink became many. Haukur was drunk and alone.
He had nowhere to go, and found the ground behind the bar to be a suitable bed. He was awoken with a stir early the next morning. His chauffer was ready to get as far away from that town and his own shame as quickly as possible. They never talked about what happened. From Tres Arroyos it was a massive, pot-bellied trucker that took him the rest of the way to the Capital Federal.
A father of four, the trucker loved his children, hookers, and heroin. Stopping for food, the trucker bought half of a roasted pig, and ate the entire thing whole while flying down the highway, the grease dripping on his belly. The morning was chilly when I started off, with clouds in the distance threatening rain. I walked several kilometers to the border of the Rio Negro and Neuquen provinces. I would spend eight hours at that border. By mid-afternoon the rain came. I had no jacket. I stood by the road soaked and cold, the wind chilling me to the bone.