Oxygen support, dental fillings, lost luggage, and finding peace — my trip to Latin America

It’s been less than two months since I returned from one of the hardest places to get to from Singapore, and already it feels like a dream. Had I really gazed down upon the ruins of Machu Picchu from the Sun Gate, drenched in sweat, nursing a headache, yet feeling exuberant and triumphant? How had I survived the 10-hour bus ride to Huaraz, only to be brought down by unrelenting altitude sickness that landed me in a (surprisingly well-run) clinic where I was administered oxygen in a small blue room decorated with smiling animal stickers? What about the thunderous roar of Iguazu Falls, the endless ice-blue brilliance of Perito Moreno glacier, the smell of smoke and grilled lamb wafting over from the asado to imbibe itself in my hair and clothes?

I won’t pretend that the three-month trip was an Eat Pray Love type of experience. After I came down with altitude sickness — once in Huaraz, then again when we went to Cusco — I was miserable and homesick. We wasted money cancelling hikes and rebooking hotel rooms to convalesce. Then we went to Argentina, and my tooth started to hurt, and continued to hurt. I saw four dentists in four different locations over two months, did three fillings, then redid one (unnecessarily, as it turned out). I’m ashamed to say that I was incredibly grumpy, and asked if we could return to Singapore many (many) times.

Thank goodness we didn’t. Now I can’t wait to go back.

I used to feel incredibly blue when Sunday evenings rolled around. “I’m sad that the weekend’s over; now I have to go back to real life,” I’d say. You-know-who would invariably give me a look of consternation, and tell me, “But… this is real life too.”

What I’m trying to say is that, throughout my life, I’d been defined by what got done on the weekdays — my work, school grades, and some rather punishing expectations I held for myself. “Real life” was a path that was drawn on a map by someone else and handed to me before I even knew where I was. Everything else was a distraction, enjoyable but ultimately pointless fun that wouldn’t bring me closer to my #goals.

But I think Patagonia was the turning point for me. The day we set off at dawn for the Base Torres, I stepped out into the stingingly cold air and caught my first proper glimpse of the Cuernos del Paine. The horns were still covered with snow, and suffused with the warmth of sunrise. There wasn’t a single breath of wind; the morning’s silence seemed borne out of respect for the way those craggy peaks rose into the morning sky with a kind of grave, stately elegance.

How could real life be confined to the black and white of my laptop screen, when the world was awash with colour and beauty such as this? How could it be reduced to the opinion of others, to a grade, to a promotion, when the mountains have withheld their judgement of human folly for hundreds of thousands of years?

Here they will continue to stand and there I will continue to go, until I return to gaze upon them again, and again, if only to ask their forgiveness for burning the world.

Because they are real life too.

For me, at least, it’s easy to get mired in day-to-day worries about work and chores and relationships. But sometimes, when it all gets a bit too much, I try to remember that those things aren’t the be-all and end-all in life. Sometimes I remind myself about how big the world is beyond that narrow path, if only one dares to step away.

On those occasions I close my eyes, and hear Patagonia calling.