[TRAVEL COMEDY] Something fishy about Sushi

Heeeyho Readers! Coming by to share a sushi story.

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I survived to tell the joke!

Shall we roll with this Sushi post without a fishy introduction? So, roll the drum and let's get started! Some of you already know this story, though that was the raw version. And for those Sushi a-fish-onados, this story will bring Vietnam flashbacks (if you were stupid like myself).

Here I am, hitchhiking southern Argentina — the most red meat consumer country in the world. I'm stuck outside El Chaltén after walking more than fifteen kilometers along the road. The weather is pitiful, as always in Patagonia, and I'm wet to the bone. After a day trying to hitch a ride, finally a van stops.

“Jump in amigo,” shouted the driver.

“I'm wet, ok?”

“No problemo. Jump in.”

Finally a ride!

“You are lucky we are empty,” said Hector, the driver.

“I never try to hitchhike mini buses. Guess I’m lucky indeed, eh?”

“You got caught in quite a weather, didn’t you? Where are you going?”

“Ruta 40, north. Perito Moreno, Chile Chico, then Chile.”

“Uff, long way, boludo. Look, we’ve dropped some Koreans in Chaltén. We are going south. I can leave you at the intersection ninety kilometers from here. Seguro?”

“Perfect. I just hope the rain stops. From there I find my way.”

“It'll stop,” interjected his companion, Valéria, “don't worry. It’s a cloud. I bet it’s sunny at the intersection. Patagonia… ...Want maté?”

She handled the maté and continued, “Are you hungry? We have this Sushi. The box is closed, untouched. Do you want?”

“Sushi?” I had never tried Sushi in my life. To be honest, I've had the opportunity to try it many times back at home, but it never caught my eyes. The moment was unpropitious for letting go of such a luxury, and my starving carcass would thank me later.

“If you're not going to eat…”, I said.

“Naw,” she responded, “the Korean left it here. If you don’t want we’ll discard.”

Hector and Valéria left me at the infamous intersection after wishing an effusive encouragement for the journey. The intersection linked route 23 with the famous inter-provincial route 40. From there, I aimed for new adventures northbound, in search of a mystical road Cyril had told me.

^{Where my body lays}

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Backpack on the road once again, box of Sushi for dinner. The Ruta 40 disappeared as a thin line on the horizon. I caught a glimpse of the jaw-dropping surroundings from the top of a slight bank by the road. Nothing. Nada on a radius of many, many, many kilometers. If it weren’t for the wind howling, I would be in profound silence and isolation. Just me and the vast Argentinean steppe, with no farmhouses, no cars, nothing. The only living organisms were the wild ostriches and my own degenerate thoughts.

^Quack

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I employed all the tricks to shake in search of warmth. Not even playing ‘rocks’ prevented my hands from paling. As the sunlight faded my shoulders began to drop, calves burned. It felt bootless to hitch a ride at that time. I'll try until 0800. If it fails, I call it a day. Seven… Seven-thirty… Seven forty-five… Eight. After a profound sigh, I grunted to lift the equipment. Balance almost failed me.

A shallow and dry ditch seemed safe to set camp. Scattered wine bottles and tuna cans were the leftovers of other vagabonds. I left a message inside a bottle together with an e-mail: “I’m stuck here. If you are reading this, good-luck. Send me an e-mail if you’ve survived. Arthur, Brazil, January 27th, 2017.”

Unpacking everything required a massive dose of dragging myself around to complete the simplest of the tasks. Lift the tent, kick pointy rocks away, peg the corners, throw the sleeping bag inside, hang the soaked jacket. A nauseating scent of putrid socks filled the air when I untied the shoes. Every muscle relaxed, the lumbar bones snapped back in place. Twelve hours to hitchhike ninety kilometers.

As soon as I pandiculated, the evocative aroma of sea algae and fish reached my nostrils, dispatching me in an automatic jump. Holy shit, the sushi. I pulled the sushi out of the backpack. Saliva drowned me when I distinguished the salmon. Two sachets accompanied the immaculate package: soy sauce and another one. I grabbed a sushi and squeezed a generous bunch of that green paste on top. Hm. Hmm. Hmmmm. Eyebrows went up, sweat poured down the forehead, lips went numb. My whole body felt like a tube TV without signal. Zzzzump. Bloody freaking holy mother of Christ. Tears ran down my cheeks as I fanned myself with both hands frenetically. I pulled off my blouse and unzipped the tent. Water, water. I need water. I was shirtless outside the tent at zero degrees.

“What the hell is this?!” I shouted.

I grabbed the Devil’s green past sachet, it said:

“Caution: Wasabi is spicy. Please use with caution!”

For Christ’s sake! Why putting the warning in these minuscule letters?

Lesson learned.

Never eat humongous amounts of green lava ever again. Sushi tasted delicious, just not when your whole mouth burns and senses are gone. The other day I wanted to continue farther north, but I certainly didn’t know if my belly would survive the punch. I didn’t want to end there.

I hope you've enjoyed this story, and please, be careful with Sushi.

Peace.

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Did you know that I have a book out? Check this!

Access Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/6500272773?

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~Love ya all,

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Disclaimer: The author of this post is a convict broke backpacker, who has travelled more than 10.000 km hitchhiking and more than 5.000 km cycling. Following him may cause severe problems of wanderlust and inquietud. You've been warned.

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I'm Arthur. I blog about Adventure Stories, Brazil, Travel, Camping, & Life Experiences.

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