The first day with the car by Hans

Monday morning, I eased awake, aware of how long it would be before I could again linger in an actual bed/ The sun was coming up when I at last heaved myself free of the covers, and Aaron and I began to consolidate supplies for the trip.

We ran late, ferrying backpacks, shopping bags and buckets down the elevator, out past the startled security guards and down to the parking lot. Aaron had unlocked the noble beast, and when I came down the second time, I anticipated the car to be mostly packed, and running cheerfully. The car was mostly packed. Neither cheerfully, nor otherwise, was the engine running. When Aaron turned the key, it would give a sort of hopeful snort, and then relapse into silence.

We made a brief attempt to push-start it, but the job was beyond the two of us. So we traipsed fifteen grim minutes to the hostel and rallied the rest of the lads. We tried to break it to them gently, but like taping a pillow on a sledgehammer, the blow still stung.

With five able bodies, though, we pushed the car to life, and went whooping and rejoicing on our way, amazed maintenance staff staring at our dust cloud. We rattled out onto the highway, and headed south.

Our first intimation that trouble still pursued came at one of the toll booths that punctuate the Chilean highway. As Aaron slowed to get in line and get out the money, the loose nature of fourth gear made Aaron think he was in neutral, and with lurch and a shudder, the car went limp, and moved no more.

When the car refused to Act, we stepped in. Logan, Weber, Josh and I clambered out onto the highway, and pushed the car up to the booth. Aaron tossed a mound of cash at the operator, and we pushed the car out onto the open road. The push-start worked, and all of us dove and/or scrambled back into the moving car.

An uneventful twenty minutes followed. Followed by a loud shredding, grinding, clanking flapping noise as the left rear tire succumbed to the rigors of its long life in messy fashion.

Armed with sketchy spare, we pulled onto the shoulder and worked together to change the tire, buses, taxis and semi-trucks whistling past our ears, all the while. We prayed for safety, and dialed the nearest mechanic shop into our GPS.

We followed the GPS, ignoring three other mechanical operations along the same street, because Weber thought it might be worthwhile to see the GPS’ choice. Weber was right. There in the dust, the scrubgrass and the skeletons of expired autos, a bouncy little man with a big beard, big smile and hearty laugh told us we were “locos gringos’ and that for $340 dollars and a fifty-minute wait, we could get four new tires and a brand new battery. So we waited, thinking in awe of what a blessing it is to have things go wrong at the proper times, near the proper solutions. As we rolled on our way, and eventually found our way to a grubby little roadside campground, and ate our simple dinner, we couldn’t help but believe, leastwise, I couldn’t help but believe, that whether by His intentional leading, or perhaps extra grace for the foolhardy and the people who care for them at home, God is interested in our travels, and is taking care of us.

Which is not to say that when the car breaks and stays broken for more than a day that the blessing is gone, but just that a precedent has been set, so that when Grim Events rear their heads, and ready solution s don’t come springing out of the GPS with a grin and a beard, that we can face those moments with the confidence that we are not forgotten, that our prayers and the prayers of our mothers, girlfriends, friends, friends-of-friends and acquaintances are heard, and we are being looked after. One way or another.