GPS, I lost my mind
It happens again and again.
I’m driving down the road, down a highway, up a mountain, and I miss the turn. I get all worked up, blame Ignacia for looking at the phone, and wonder how and why Maps failed me. A quick fit of rage, I pull over to cool down and reassess my chosen route and ETA. Get back on the path and avoid getting lost. And apologize to the co-pilot. Such is traveling when you are beholden to GPS and a little blue dot on a digital map.
From behind the wheel of the van, you have a choice: you can allow Google to choose the fastest route between you and your destination, or you can navigate this planet by stopping for directions, fiddling with paper maps, or just by guessing and using a traveler’s intuition. Panamerican overlanders end up doing a bit of it all, but mostly stick to the GPS and follow the paths of those who have come before them. The Panamerican Highway is that kind of trail, one that the campervans, motorhomes, and motorcycles have done back and forth, up and down, until straight is the only direction. They leave their comments, their posts, their registries along the way, straightening even further the overlander stream, leaving it void of mystery and adventure. Eventually, the highway is nothing more than a enormously long commute from somewhere you were to somewhere you think you need to be.
To be sure, there are a lot of unknowns off to the sides, but for the majority, the next destination is already decided: Cali to Popayan; Popayan to Pasto; Pasto to Ipiales; Take a detour to see Catedral de las Lajas; Ecuador’s highway is waiting…
But those who walk the truest line might not make it to Ecuador. Venezuelan “caminantes” (walkers) ply Colombia’s Panamerican Highway, walking the exact same route as the gas-guzzling overlander. These refugees carry nothing, or a small bag, or a bigger bag bundled with a blanket, or a medium sized suitcase, or a baby stroller, all depending on the capacity and desire to carry the things they own. Anywhere along the highway, they are sleeping in the shade or shivering in the rain. On their march towards better opportunities in Ecuador and Peru, they ride long stretches of high mountains on the back of semi-trucks, wrapped in plastic sacks, and live off Colombia’s bounty of fruit.
With no iOverlander app to store and share information, Venezuelan refugees are on a lost highway. I’m sure many carry cell phones (often their most valuable possession) yet they estimate distances by asking truck drivers and farmers, and nobody knows how long it takes to walk the next kilometer.
The refugee and the overlander share the same path but have little in common. The overlander adheres to velocity and a calendar and allows GPS to bring his destination to him, while the refugee moves at unpredictable speeds, waiting for a passing truck to lift him or her towards the future, which is still only a figment of the imagination.
