We leave the hostel Very early, with Jana. We part ways with her (sadly, she is really the best friend we have met on the road) and hop on a bus up to San Martin De Los Andes. The bus ride is spectacular, gliding in sunshine through incredible countryside, with views of dozens of surreally blue lakes and the distant Volcan Lanin, a picture perfect cone that stands along, magnificently covered in snow. We arrive in San Martin, which is a perfectly beautiful, quaint, lakeside town in the mountain forest, and go exploring. It is one of the loveliest places we have seen, and Casey in fact makes definite plans to retire here. I am more in favor of a remote estancia in the lake district from which I can access the impressive Bariloche and the charming San Martin. We have a lunch of chicken sandwiches and strawberry milkshakes down on the beach, in blazing sunlight but constant brisk wind. We wander through the sweet town, rent bikes for the next day, and return eventually to the hostel which is almost empty but where (surprise) we find (in our dorm room) our two French buddies from the ride up to Bolson. It's a small world when you are traveling around the end of the earth, we are beginning to find. We go out for pizza and choripan (argentine favorite, chorizo sandwich) and great artisanal beer, another local specialty. Wandering back through town we witness and eerie, extremely vicious dog-fight, but otherwise the town is silent, although there are occasional choruses of dogs barking all through the night.
The next day we pack up our things and step out into bright sunshine with a spring in our step. It is still cold and windy, but the sun is brilliant. We pickup our bikes (which are barely worthy of the name mountain bike, tiny, with now handle bar grips, or suspension, or anything, but we're not complaining) and hit the trail. The day just happens to be the day of a huge local marathon, so the first mile or so up Very steep hills down which runners are speeding to the end of their race. It is a big event and very cool to witness, although peddling up endless hills takes most of our focus. We make our way up dirt roads to the top of a ridge above town, where rough paths guide us through flickering sunlight with the sounds of the town below (primarily dogs barking and the announcer telling the runners times). We are in beautiful national park Lanin, in ancient forest, and although the biking is hard work, it is well worth it. Eventually we make it to an incredible viewpoint at the too of a spit of land, and look out over the vast, magnificent Lago Lacar. It is one of the most stunning panoramas either of us has ever seen, and we spend a couple hours at the top, nestled out of the wind with our backs to a cozy, moss covered bank, drinking it all in. We read and relax in the sunshine, in another one of those perfect spots. Suddenly a small wisp of cloud covers the sun, and I look up to see a vast bank of clouds speeding across the lake towards us. Within ten minutes the mountain weather has changed utterly, from bright sunshine to the darkness of heavy clouds. As it begins to rain we retreat a little ways down the hill to a cottage that serves food. We sit in a beautiful little cabin of carved wood while a cheerful hostess makes us delicious and much needed burgers. The rain clears a bit and with energy restored, we attempt to speed back down to the town. But the trail we are following down becomes impossibly steep and narrow, as well as covered in slippery leaves, so we make our way fairly slowly. Finally we arrive at the town, were we make our way out along a road that wraps around the lake (amazingly smooth and paved after a morning of steep gravel and mud). But suddenly the weather comes crashing down for real and we find ourselves speeding along through a fierce rainstorm. We glide downhill back into town, with rain flying into eyes and face and chilling our hands
until they are fairly stuck to the handlebars. We drop the bikes at the shop and retreat into a fantastically
Cozy chocolate shop called Abuela Goye where we huddle at a wooden table by a crackling wood stove. The place is bathed in golden light and exudes cheerfulness and relaxation, especially with the rain outside. After a milkshake and a waffle (an incredible mountain of waffle, homemade raspberry jam, blackberries, raspberries, calafate berries, walnuts, almonds, fresh cream, chocolate flakes, chocolate sauce, and gourmet chocolate rope, we are lounging in decadent splendor. Eventually we reluctantly leave and board a bus back to Bariloche , where we nap heavily and wake to watch more lovely, albeit stormy, Lake District panoramas sweep by in shades of green and blue and turquoise. Back at our beloved hostel, we feast on a pile of empanadas and hang out with Pepe. The crowd is fairly obnoxious (unusual, but definitely possible, in a hostel) and so it is an early night, but we sleep splendidly. I rise for a brisk walk through gorgeous, sunny, cool, Bariloche. I run some errands (replenishing my vast but constantly disappearing supply of optical antibiotics) and then meet Casey at the hostel and we return to the station. Our bus this time heads back to Buenos Aires (20 hrs) and beyond that more adventure. For now, however, we are on the bus, luxuriating in 1st class (or coche super cama, sleeper class) with great food, champagne in plastic champagne flutes, great service, movies, and fully (seriously, Fully) reclining seats. And all for about 10 dollars more than normal class. We are treating ourselves as we roll onward through the splendid mountains, forests, plains, rock formations, and gorgeous lakes.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The big day begins far too early, but the excitement of what is in store pulls the four of us out of bed and we dress and descend in the silent hostel (as partying epicenters, hostels rarely have anyone rising before noon, unless they are off on an expedition, like us) and eat some breakfast and coffee. We are carrying bags full of layers of clothes, unsure of weather and whether we will get wet. There is slight tension stemming from the fact that Casey and I basically begged the charming Jana to come with us, forcing her to spend money, forfeit a bus ticket, and do something she has never done before. We are confident she will love it, but equally sure that our reputations are on the line. Finally the van arrives and we pile in. The four of us make quite a troop, and to our ranks is added the immediately amiable and charismatic Will, a quintessential Brit and resident of Clapham, the London neighborhood where I lived in december. We share stories, sign ominous liability release forms, listen to lectures from the cheerful and amusing river guides, and eat complimentary chocolates from one of the fancy chocolate stores in town. The weather is neither good nor bad, but simply grey, when we arrive at the riverside estancia that will serve as our base. We eat a second breakfast of medialunas and coffee and explore the little farm, with it's grungy kittens and chickens, as the boats are inflated. Then we don various layers of gear, wet suits, life jackets, helmets, and paddles, and head down to the river. Our crew of 5 leaps into one boat while a larger but older group of Argentines amble into the other. Guides leap in and, after a short lecture on safety and rowing commands, we are swirling away down the frigid mountain river Manso, through National Park Nahuel Huapi, east towards Chile. Casey and I are sitting in the front of the boat, coordinating the rowing and taking the brunt of any incoming water. Surprisingly our experience (rivers in California and Washington with T Stubbs, Oregon and others with School) kicks in and we find ourselves exceedingly coordinated and effective. The coordination may have something to do with the fact that 7 months of near constant companionship has made us very nearly telepathic. Will is a powerhouse, sitting behind me, never breaking rhythm or
faltering. Jana squeals a bit too often with fright and cold, but is otherwise a decent team member. Pepe is a disaster of weak, out of time, and more than once casey delivers a viciously condescending, well-timed comment about Pepes ineffectiveness. Our guide is a brilliant comedy routine. He instigates a misplaced flirtation between Jana and another river guide, and calls Pepe Pepe Le Piu (a smelly Disney character, a bit horrific as a joke since Pepes feet really are abominable). We stroke admirably and in perfect time, and we stream down the river. We hit some
hard rapids, and the boat is all but overturned, with 4 of us floating rapidly away through the frigid ice melt. We pull each other back in and power onwards. We try to "surf" on a big hole in the waves, and after four traumatic attempts, give up, and continue down the river. The surfing requires nerves of steel, as Casey and I have to paddle ferociously until the final moment, and then keep paddling as water pours into the boat. Then we all have to leap to the left to avoid flipping. It was the nerves of steel that got me, as I always leapt a millisecond too early. We go swimming down the easier rapids, and the water is chilling but thrilling. The team work is fun, always the most unique aspect of a rafting trip. At one point we come around a corner and find a vast pile of rocks filling the entire river. The guide freaks out (Very convincingly) "oh my god, there's been a rockslide, we are gonna have to abandon the boats and swim. Everybody out!! Jana, go!!!" we are all in a panic until e reveals the joke, and we give him credit for the deadpan acting. We make it through various "rock and a hard place" moments, past jagged boulders and high imposing rock walls. Throughout it all, humor flies through the boat in various colors, absurd puns from Casey, dry British wit from Will, and morbid jokes from me. Other than the light humor, the whole thing is characteristically thrilling, albeit very exciting. Adrenaline keeps us warm as it occasionally showers with cold rain, before returning to broken sunshine. And if the rafting itself is extraordinary, the scenery we pass through defies description. By the river banks of carved granite (forming strange shapes, forms, and tunnels of black smooth rock) the forest is lush and verdant and dense, almost jungle like. But higher up the forest seems to become alpine, with surreal snowy jagged peaks visible high above. When we come around corners to see glittering waterfalls pouring diamond drops of sun-refracted water into the river. Natural perfection. Mist rising over the trees evokes undiscovered jungle, and truly we are some of the only people to see this stretch of the river and the national park, which is only accessible by raft. Finally, with a solid heave, we paddle into a sheltered cove where the adventure ends. A grizzled gaucho (argentine cowboy) awaits on horseback, in incredible garb of furry animal-skin chaps and spurred boots. He is like something out of the history of Argentina. He deflates the boats and throws the big bundles on the horses spindly back.
We climb up, sopping wet and freezing, through the steep dense forest. When we get to the top of the rise, we find that we are in Chile, that we have crossed the border while rafting. Though strangely similar to Argentina (which is only about ten feet away), it is funny that we have ended up here, since we spent the previous evening convincing Jana Not to go to Chile and instead to come rafting. We change into dry clothes and leap back in the van, still buzzing with adrenaline. We speed back to the estancia, everyone including the driver eager for asado. The feast that awaits us there is beyond compare. It is not our first asado, but we have probably never been so hungry for anything. We eat heaps of salad and potatoes gorgeous sourdough. But of course it is all about the meat, bife de lomo and chorizo, which come out in unstoppable waves from a seemingly endless supply in the kitchen. We feast, ravenous and exhausted and exhilarated, drinking good red wine and reminiscing about our recent adventure as if we were lifelong friends. When we literally cannot consume another bite of beef, out comes a gorgeous raspberry tart with fresh cream and delicious coffee (the best we have had in Argentina). Basking in the sublime nature of such a perfect day, and full to bursting with great food, we climb into the car, laughing, and fall into deep sleep. We arrive back in Bariloche and, not ye totally sated, Casey and Jana and I walk into town and go to the incredible chocolate shop Rapa Nui, where we order vast heaping piles of ice cream (three huge scoops of various flavors with incoherent names in a vast, bowl-like cone, slathered with chocolate sauce), too good to be true, and recline in a colorful little booth in the kids play area of the cafe. We eat until the ice cream is gone and our stomachs are, again full to bursting (what a day of indulgence) and then lounge in a near-comatose state, as Casey translates (or more accurately, repeats from memory) the words of Aladin, which has just begun to show on the kids area TV screen. We slowly meander home, collapsing into a relaxed stupor in our cozy hostel. For a while we read and catch up on admin, then Will shows up (he is staying in a hostel down the street but by now we are all inseparable) and we all gather round in the hang out room for a long, wonderful, utterly memorable evening of drinks, travel stories, plans for the future, favorite Argentina tales, and various other warm, joking "banter" as Will (a gap yah-like Londoner) would probably say. That night, as we pack our things to head out the next morning, leaving seems again like a horrible prospect, as it always seems to be.
faltering. Jana squeals a bit too often with fright and cold, but is otherwise a decent team member. Pepe is a disaster of weak, out of time, and more than once casey delivers a viciously condescending, well-timed comment about Pepes ineffectiveness. Our guide is a brilliant comedy routine. He instigates a misplaced flirtation between Jana and another river guide, and calls Pepe Pepe Le Piu (a smelly Disney character, a bit horrific as a joke since Pepes feet really are abominable). We stroke admirably and in perfect time, and we stream down the river. We hit some
hard rapids, and the boat is all but overturned, with 4 of us floating rapidly away through the frigid ice melt. We pull each other back in and power onwards. We try to "surf" on a big hole in the waves, and after four traumatic attempts, give up, and continue down the river. The surfing requires nerves of steel, as Casey and I have to paddle ferociously until the final moment, and then keep paddling as water pours into the boat. Then we all have to leap to the left to avoid flipping. It was the nerves of steel that got me, as I always leapt a millisecond too early. We go swimming down the easier rapids, and the water is chilling but thrilling. The team work is fun, always the most unique aspect of a rafting trip. At one point we come around a corner and find a vast pile of rocks filling the entire river. The guide freaks out (Very convincingly) "oh my god, there's been a rockslide, we are gonna have to abandon the boats and swim. Everybody out!! Jana, go!!!" we are all in a panic until e reveals the joke, and we give him credit for the deadpan acting. We make it through various "rock and a hard place" moments, past jagged boulders and high imposing rock walls. Throughout it all, humor flies through the boat in various colors, absurd puns from Casey, dry British wit from Will, and morbid jokes from me. Other than the light humor, the whole thing is characteristically thrilling, albeit very exciting. Adrenaline keeps us warm as it occasionally showers with cold rain, before returning to broken sunshine. And if the rafting itself is extraordinary, the scenery we pass through defies description. By the river banks of carved granite (forming strange shapes, forms, and tunnels of black smooth rock) the forest is lush and verdant and dense, almost jungle like. But higher up the forest seems to become alpine, with surreal snowy jagged peaks visible high above. When we come around corners to see glittering waterfalls pouring diamond drops of sun-refracted water into the river. Natural perfection. Mist rising over the trees evokes undiscovered jungle, and truly we are some of the only people to see this stretch of the river and the national park, which is only accessible by raft. Finally, with a solid heave, we paddle into a sheltered cove where the adventure ends. A grizzled gaucho (argentine cowboy) awaits on horseback, in incredible garb of furry animal-skin chaps and spurred boots. He is like something out of the history of Argentina. He deflates the boats and throws the big bundles on the horses spindly back.
We climb up, sopping wet and freezing, through the steep dense forest. When we get to the top of the rise, we find that we are in Chile, that we have crossed the border while rafting. Though strangely similar to Argentina (which is only about ten feet away), it is funny that we have ended up here, since we spent the previous evening convincing Jana Not to go to Chile and instead to come rafting. We change into dry clothes and leap back in the van, still buzzing with adrenaline. We speed back to the estancia, everyone including the driver eager for asado. The feast that awaits us there is beyond compare. It is not our first asado, but we have probably never been so hungry for anything. We eat heaps of salad and potatoes gorgeous sourdough. But of course it is all about the meat, bife de lomo and chorizo, which come out in unstoppable waves from a seemingly endless supply in the kitchen. We feast, ravenous and exhausted and exhilarated, drinking good red wine and reminiscing about our recent adventure as if we were lifelong friends. When we literally cannot consume another bite of beef, out comes a gorgeous raspberry tart with fresh cream and delicious coffee (the best we have had in Argentina). Basking in the sublime nature of such a perfect day, and full to bursting with great food, we climb into the car, laughing, and fall into deep sleep. We arrive back in Bariloche and, not ye totally sated, Casey and Jana and I walk into town and go to the incredible chocolate shop Rapa Nui, where we order vast heaping piles of ice cream (three huge scoops of various flavors with incoherent names in a vast, bowl-like cone, slathered with chocolate sauce), too good to be true, and recline in a colorful little booth in the kids play area of the cafe. We eat until the ice cream is gone and our stomachs are, again full to bursting (what a day of indulgence) and then lounge in a near-comatose state, as Casey translates (or more accurately, repeats from memory) the words of Aladin, which has just begun to show on the kids area TV screen. We slowly meander home, collapsing into a relaxed stupor in our cozy hostel. For a while we read and catch up on admin, then Will shows up (he is staying in a hostel down the street but by now we are all inseparable) and we all gather round in the hang out room for a long, wonderful, utterly memorable evening of drinks, travel stories, plans for the future, favorite Argentina tales, and various other warm, joking "banter" as Will (a gap yah-like Londoner) would probably say. That night, as we pack our things to head out the next morning, leaving seems again like a horrible prospect, as it always seems to be.
We pull into a dark and rainy town called El Bolson at midnight. For some reason we haven't booked a hostel, and the town, which is a small one, seems entirely shut down. We follow some friends from the bus through the rain and the cold in an attempt to find a hostel. Hostels, for all their benefits, are extremely hard to find, but eventually we do run into one, nice enough, (although the stairway up to the dorm is made of rickety, random pieces of wood haphazardly nailed together, bit scary). We settle down, make friends with an American from DC named Dave, and before long have fallen into an exhausted sleep.
Bolson, as it turns out, is the Argentine version of Sebastapol. It calls itself a non-nuclear ecological collective as opposed to a town, and is famous for it's hippie identity, beautiful artisan crafts, and marijuana. It lives up to it's reputation on all counts. Great hippie spirit, multiple people trying to sell us vast amounts of "special flower", and totally incredible crafts. We are there luckily on the day of an artisans market, and so we stroll through a beautiful park with impressive wood carved sculptures, passing stands selling every possible incarnation of Argentine silver, Patagonian hardwoods, Alpaca (an lustrous alloy of silver and nickel for which the region is famous), Chilean lapis lazuli, and rodacrosita, a lovely pink stone found only in this stretch of the Andes. The craftsmanship is truly stunning, and the artisans are charming rather than aggressive in their attempts to sell. We buy very little but make friends with a few of the artisans. With bellies full of market empanadas, we lounge in the sun and continue wandering around the eclectic town. Eventually the beautiful morning transitions into a dreary drizzling afternoon, and we head back to the cheerful hostel, a place unusually much more Argentine than gringo. We talk for a couple hours with Mathias, the friendly and loquacious guy at the front desk, drinking mate and discussing everything from indigenous populations (he is full blood Mapuche) to world politics (he has been unconditionally denied entry to the US). The hostel fills up with interesting people, an we have a fantastic asado (barbecue), in the rain, with mathias cooking, us playing music, and everything wildly, contagiously happy. We meet a girl from BA who makes up a song about potatoes (as she slices them) as Casey and I play accompaniment and supply backup vocals. We chat with Dave (who knows and loves Sublime, first person abroad we have met) and another American, Pepe, who is going to Stanford (first American we have met on a gap year) and plays the violin (my violin) beautifully. It's a night packed with excitement, music, laughter, and red, red wine. Eventually around 11 the asado is done, and we feast on chorizo and a questionable (but satisfying) cut of beef. Dave wipes out (bit too much wine) making a huge scene and adding to the hilarity, and we all fall asleep in the wee hours in good spirits.
The following morning starts grey and drizzly and we decide that Bolson can no longer hold our attention. So we hop on a short bus north to Bariloche, the capital of the Lake District, which is the most scenic and beloved region of Patagonia and in fact Argentina. Incredibly, as we approach, the clouds clear, and dazzling sunlight illuminates a land of green forests (with interspersed trees of brilliant gold), snow-capped mountains (there is good skiing here in July), and stunningly blue lakes. We spend our afternoon in Bariloche, which is windy but beautiful, immaculate, friendly, and a bit too touristy. We get some lunch with Dave and then wander through the town to the plaza, which is beautifully designed (sort of a Patagonian version of Alpine architecture) and finally get to the chocolate shops. Bariloche is renowned for it's chocolate and ice cream, which is apparently the best in the country. We end up at a shop that is somewhere in between Hogwarts and Willy Wonka in terms of magnificence. Gorgeous chocolate fountains, splendid displays, chocolate Easter eggs and bunnies as big as a small child. There is even chocolate beer, which we try (it is surprisingly delicious). The decadence is wonderful.
Eventually we wander back to our hostel (called hostel 41 below, very gringo-y but one of the best hostels we have stayed in) to make a much needed laundromat run. Who should be in our dorm room but Jana, the wonderful Australian that I befriended on a cold morning in Chalten. The coincidence is wonderful, but even more so is the chance to hang out with her. Dave (who as it turns out is a great cook) makes us all a gorgeous dish of bolognese, and we all settle around red wine, in the coziest of hostels, and hang out. It is a warm wonderful evening. Casey and I decide to go river rafting the next day (we don't really have the budget for tours etc but we make an exception because we love rafting and this area is apparently world class), and we convince Pepe and Jana (who actually is so won over by our persuasion that she abandons a bus ticket and a rendezvous with friends in Chile to come with us). The cheerful night ends with us all rushing to get some much needed sleep before and early start for rafting
Bolson, as it turns out, is the Argentine version of Sebastapol. It calls itself a non-nuclear ecological collective as opposed to a town, and is famous for it's hippie identity, beautiful artisan crafts, and marijuana. It lives up to it's reputation on all counts. Great hippie spirit, multiple people trying to sell us vast amounts of "special flower", and totally incredible crafts. We are there luckily on the day of an artisans market, and so we stroll through a beautiful park with impressive wood carved sculptures, passing stands selling every possible incarnation of Argentine silver, Patagonian hardwoods, Alpaca (an lustrous alloy of silver and nickel for which the region is famous), Chilean lapis lazuli, and rodacrosita, a lovely pink stone found only in this stretch of the Andes. The craftsmanship is truly stunning, and the artisans are charming rather than aggressive in their attempts to sell. We buy very little but make friends with a few of the artisans. With bellies full of market empanadas, we lounge in the sun and continue wandering around the eclectic town. Eventually the beautiful morning transitions into a dreary drizzling afternoon, and we head back to the cheerful hostel, a place unusually much more Argentine than gringo. We talk for a couple hours with Mathias, the friendly and loquacious guy at the front desk, drinking mate and discussing everything from indigenous populations (he is full blood Mapuche) to world politics (he has been unconditionally denied entry to the US). The hostel fills up with interesting people, an we have a fantastic asado (barbecue), in the rain, with mathias cooking, us playing music, and everything wildly, contagiously happy. We meet a girl from BA who makes up a song about potatoes (as she slices them) as Casey and I play accompaniment and supply backup vocals. We chat with Dave (who knows and loves Sublime, first person abroad we have met) and another American, Pepe, who is going to Stanford (first American we have met on a gap year) and plays the violin (my violin) beautifully. It's a night packed with excitement, music, laughter, and red, red wine. Eventually around 11 the asado is done, and we feast on chorizo and a questionable (but satisfying) cut of beef. Dave wipes out (bit too much wine) making a huge scene and adding to the hilarity, and we all fall asleep in the wee hours in good spirits.
The following morning starts grey and drizzly and we decide that Bolson can no longer hold our attention. So we hop on a short bus north to Bariloche, the capital of the Lake District, which is the most scenic and beloved region of Patagonia and in fact Argentina. Incredibly, as we approach, the clouds clear, and dazzling sunlight illuminates a land of green forests (with interspersed trees of brilliant gold), snow-capped mountains (there is good skiing here in July), and stunningly blue lakes. We spend our afternoon in Bariloche, which is windy but beautiful, immaculate, friendly, and a bit too touristy. We get some lunch with Dave and then wander through the town to the plaza, which is beautifully designed (sort of a Patagonian version of Alpine architecture) and finally get to the chocolate shops. Bariloche is renowned for it's chocolate and ice cream, which is apparently the best in the country. We end up at a shop that is somewhere in between Hogwarts and Willy Wonka in terms of magnificence. Gorgeous chocolate fountains, splendid displays, chocolate Easter eggs and bunnies as big as a small child. There is even chocolate beer, which we try (it is surprisingly delicious). The decadence is wonderful.
Eventually we wander back to our hostel (called hostel 41 below, very gringo-y but one of the best hostels we have stayed in) to make a much needed laundromat run. Who should be in our dorm room but Jana, the wonderful Australian that I befriended on a cold morning in Chalten. The coincidence is wonderful, but even more so is the chance to hang out with her. Dave (who as it turns out is a great cook) makes us all a gorgeous dish of bolognese, and we all settle around red wine, in the coziest of hostels, and hang out. It is a warm wonderful evening. Casey and I decide to go river rafting the next day (we don't really have the budget for tours etc but we make an exception because we love rafting and this area is apparently world class), and we convince Pepe and Jana (who actually is so won over by our persuasion that she abandons a bus ticket and a rendezvous with friends in Chile to come with us). The cheerful night ends with us all rushing to get some much needed sleep before and early start for rafting
Monday, April 11, 2011
Our days in Chalten and the surrounding Fitzroy Mountains are certainly some of the most wonderful I can ever remember. The town, as I mentioned on our first visit, is small and quaint and charming, but has an edge given to it by the universal passion for adventure. We stay (in between camping on the mountain) at fairly gritty but comfortable enough hostels, where we meet some entertaining people from Canada and Australia. One girl who has just bought a little puppy (interesting choice while backpacking) and another guy from
an unspecified location who is of such an extremist branch of religion (really not sure which) that he can't drive, read, buy groceries, or use a light switch OR (and this led to some
Confusion) ask someone to do any of these things for him. He would come into our room and say I can't turn on the light In the bathroom.
Would you like me to do it? Casey responded.
I didn't say that. He snapped. And we eventually figured out what was going on.
There was also an Israeli guy who insisted that traveling solo was better, and persistently tried to convince Casey to start traveling alone. Casey responded that he had travelled
alone and he did in fact really like traveling with his companion. The guy then tried to convince us to travel with him, which seemed a bit hypocritical. Other than that it was your fairly standard mix of upbeat and interesting hostellers.
One morning I rose early and thoroughly explored Chalten. A beautiful rainbow (a full arc, so rare!!) crossed the cloudy tempestuous sky, and I wandered through the sleepy village. It had by now (mid April) mostly shut down for the season, but there were some interesting nooks and crannies. I bought a copy of as you like it (amusingly one of the only books in English, but more than adequate for a shakespearophile like me) because I had run out of books. I ended up at the service station (only place with wifi in town, and the satellite was broken) drinking pear juice with a really cool girl from Australia.
She had come from where we were going to, and vice versa, so we got to exchange advice, recommendations, etc.
As far as food went, we rewarded ourselves with massive meals after long days of hiking with huge feasts at the Cerveceria (honestly one of the best meals I can remember, due to great beer and food and utter exhaustion) and at a little pizza joint in town, where we consumed enough food to feed about 7 people (we had walked about 15 miles that day to be fair). When we were in the mountains, we traveled light, eating mostly pasta and powdered soup and coffee, and the occasional pastry from La Panaderia Nieve (our favorite pastry shop, and makers of the best alfajores so far).
But these are all side notes when it comes to Chalten, because 90% of our time there was spent hiking and exploring the mountains, valleys, and lakes of the national park. The first day we hiked up to Laguna Torre, at the foot of Cerro Torre, an incredible toothy crag, which is very hard to spot due to constant cloud cover. The peak was stunning to see, and even more so knowing that it is one of the hardest to scale in the world. The lake at its foot was a windswept icy steel grey mass, and the wind blew directly off the glacier at the opposite end. We camped in a little riverbank glade on the borderline between the wooded valley and the barren rocky mountainside. The campsite was idyllic, and almost deserted, and a glacier fed river swept by loudly and comfortingly at all hours. We ate well despite the fact that i spilled our first attempt at boiling water, and scurried into our tent while it was still light, due to the biting cold. But as we lay in bed that night, our minds flickered with images of the forest we had walked through that morning. It is on of the most beautiful I have ever seen in my life. Along with the alpine woods of ehrwald and the terrain on Stubbs Ranch it is literally the loveliest forest I have known. It is autumn in Argentina now, and the trees have transformed rapidly into blazing reds, oranges, and golds. Really brilliant colors, an aided by the sunshine, and the fact that the small leaves allowed plenty of light to filter through. The trees range in size from tiny dense little clusters of saplings to vast strands that feel as old as time. The only description that seemed to fit was JRR Tolkein's description of the magical wood of Lothlorien. I won't misquote it here, but the essence, of timeless youth and beauty, of still serene perfection broken only by the rustle of a breeze or the gurgle of a stream, and the fierce flames that seemed to burn in the incendiary colors of the leaves as one walked, sun dappled, through soft green grass, was hard not to feel. It was a place of such utter exquisite perfection that we couldn't help but be inspired by it. We wanted to paint, write poetry, compose symphonies, odes, homages to this place. And the light, relentlessly divine, endlessly pleasing to the eye. Taking photos felt futile because once the camera was out everything needed to be captured, everything was photogenic. It was dreamlike, ethereal, something that couldn't possibly be, but was.
When I woke in the morning I was filled with excitement to be where I was (a good feeling to have in the morning). I climbed up to a rocky overlook just above the campsite and looked up at the mountains and down over the valley. Casey eventually joined me and we enjoyed the sunshine, the panoramas, and the relentless wind (which we have come to recognize as Patagonia's defining feature). After a breakfast of soup and coffee we set off. We dunked our heads in the first stream we came to, then dunked them
again and again, the bitter coldness irresistible. We walked on in sunshine, shirtless, glacial water a respite from the heat, our bags almost weightless as we seemed to glide through the woods "over hill and through dale" taking a different path back to Chalten (where we would recharge our batteries before being drawn relentlessly back into the mountains). The endless amounts of fallen trees occasionally brought to mind an elephant graveyard, but other than that this was, to us, still pure Lorien. We eventually arrived at a pair of lakes Lagos Madre y Hija, and, drawn by still blazing sun, blue water, and a soft pebbly beach, we threw down our packs and ran into the water, tumbling off a steep dropoff that sent instantly from ankle depth to about 10 feet deep. The swim, and the sun basking which followed it, were delightful, and then we were back on our way, through the loveliest woodland we had yet seen. We paused by another lake as the day started to wind down, rolled up our jeans and waded around. We ran into a few girls who had been "following" us, or rather had stayed at the same hostel and been on the same trails repeatedly and so we introduced ourselves and made more new friends (Australians, again). Then we sat by the lake in the fading light, almost unable to understand, or come to terms with, the incomparable beauty of our surroundings.
Our second expedition into the Fitzroys brought us back to Lago Capri (site of my infamous nude snow swim) where there was a nice deserted campsite. We arrived early in the afternoon and then climbed to the top of the hill to have lunch. We settled in a glade, sheltered from wind and bathed in sun that wad so utterly idyllic that we did not move from it, even when the empanadas and pastries were finished, even after mate and a snack of green tea, even after a sweet sunny nap, we did not leave that perfect glen, but sat there, our backs to a tree, writing and reading and talking and basking in the moment. The moment lasted until the sun went down and we retreated to make dinner. The glade, I should add (and I'm not embarrassed by the multiple lord of the rings references) was, if anything, comparable to the spot where frodo sits reading in the heart of the Shire at the very beginning of the story. Yes, that perfect.
Before making dinner we walked to a lookout rock and watch the sun set of Cerro Fitzroy, famous symbol of the Glacial mountains and another famous conquest for mountain climbers. Fitzroy is incredible difficult to see (always covered by clouds) so we were extremely lucky. Dinner was again, simple and again, delicious. Afterwards we wandered though pitch darkness, letting our eyes adjust, to the edge of the lake, and sat their looking at brilliant stars and the moon-bathed silhouette of Fitzroy, by now like an old friend. Though Casey tried to scare us both with imitations of old Greg coming out of the lake, the whole thing was utterly still and peaceful, and more calming and sleep-inducing than anything I can imagine.
The next morning we rose late and ate the rest of our supplies, packed up and left our packs hidden in our glade, and hiked (traveling light and quick) to Lago de Los Tres. This is the nearest point to the might Fitz, and the toughest hiking in the park. The first couple hours were standard trekking but the final hour was a steep uphill climb, almost hand over hand over slippery uneven rocks. Signs along the way warned not to attempt unless you were a very experienced hiker with very good equipment. And definitely not to attempt in snow or high wind. Well it wasn't snowing but for wind, well, I can't imagine it getting much higher. But we braved the treacherous climb and finally, after a long slog, found ourselves at the strangely still lake surrounded by looming glaciers, with the mighty mountain rising ominously and powerfully above us. By now it was late afternoon and, after relishing the spot for half an hour, we descended, and returned to lago Capri at forced march pace. And that, considering how fast our normal hiking pace is, is extremely fast. We descended into Chalten that evening utterly exhausted, having hiked what the park estimated to be 8 hours of hiking in a mere 4 and a half. Which is not half bad, in our humble opinion, and certainly deserving of a large feast as a reward. After dinner we hung out at the service station (definitely Not the nicest part of town, but not unbearable) and then got our things together and boarded a late night bus north. As I write this we are on thar bus bumping along slowly on the famous Patagonian Route 40 (which is, for a large part, unlaced). We are making our way north to the cheerful hippie town of El Bolson and from their to the lakeside tourist city of Bariloche. The bus is supremely comfortable and packed with all manner of interesting people, but the long hours are uncomfortably reminiscent of that greyhound trip all those months ago...
an unspecified location who is of such an extremist branch of religion (really not sure which) that he can't drive, read, buy groceries, or use a light switch OR (and this led to some
Confusion) ask someone to do any of these things for him. He would come into our room and say I can't turn on the light In the bathroom.
Would you like me to do it? Casey responded.
I didn't say that. He snapped. And we eventually figured out what was going on.
There was also an Israeli guy who insisted that traveling solo was better, and persistently tried to convince Casey to start traveling alone. Casey responded that he had travelled
alone and he did in fact really like traveling with his companion. The guy then tried to convince us to travel with him, which seemed a bit hypocritical. Other than that it was your fairly standard mix of upbeat and interesting hostellers.
One morning I rose early and thoroughly explored Chalten. A beautiful rainbow (a full arc, so rare!!) crossed the cloudy tempestuous sky, and I wandered through the sleepy village. It had by now (mid April) mostly shut down for the season, but there were some interesting nooks and crannies. I bought a copy of as you like it (amusingly one of the only books in English, but more than adequate for a shakespearophile like me) because I had run out of books. I ended up at the service station (only place with wifi in town, and the satellite was broken) drinking pear juice with a really cool girl from Australia.
She had come from where we were going to, and vice versa, so we got to exchange advice, recommendations, etc.
As far as food went, we rewarded ourselves with massive meals after long days of hiking with huge feasts at the Cerveceria (honestly one of the best meals I can remember, due to great beer and food and utter exhaustion) and at a little pizza joint in town, where we consumed enough food to feed about 7 people (we had walked about 15 miles that day to be fair). When we were in the mountains, we traveled light, eating mostly pasta and powdered soup and coffee, and the occasional pastry from La Panaderia Nieve (our favorite pastry shop, and makers of the best alfajores so far).
But these are all side notes when it comes to Chalten, because 90% of our time there was spent hiking and exploring the mountains, valleys, and lakes of the national park. The first day we hiked up to Laguna Torre, at the foot of Cerro Torre, an incredible toothy crag, which is very hard to spot due to constant cloud cover. The peak was stunning to see, and even more so knowing that it is one of the hardest to scale in the world. The lake at its foot was a windswept icy steel grey mass, and the wind blew directly off the glacier at the opposite end. We camped in a little riverbank glade on the borderline between the wooded valley and the barren rocky mountainside. The campsite was idyllic, and almost deserted, and a glacier fed river swept by loudly and comfortingly at all hours. We ate well despite the fact that i spilled our first attempt at boiling water, and scurried into our tent while it was still light, due to the biting cold. But as we lay in bed that night, our minds flickered with images of the forest we had walked through that morning. It is on of the most beautiful I have ever seen in my life. Along with the alpine woods of ehrwald and the terrain on Stubbs Ranch it is literally the loveliest forest I have known. It is autumn in Argentina now, and the trees have transformed rapidly into blazing reds, oranges, and golds. Really brilliant colors, an aided by the sunshine, and the fact that the small leaves allowed plenty of light to filter through. The trees range in size from tiny dense little clusters of saplings to vast strands that feel as old as time. The only description that seemed to fit was JRR Tolkein's description of the magical wood of Lothlorien. I won't misquote it here, but the essence, of timeless youth and beauty, of still serene perfection broken only by the rustle of a breeze or the gurgle of a stream, and the fierce flames that seemed to burn in the incendiary colors of the leaves as one walked, sun dappled, through soft green grass, was hard not to feel. It was a place of such utter exquisite perfection that we couldn't help but be inspired by it. We wanted to paint, write poetry, compose symphonies, odes, homages to this place. And the light, relentlessly divine, endlessly pleasing to the eye. Taking photos felt futile because once the camera was out everything needed to be captured, everything was photogenic. It was dreamlike, ethereal, something that couldn't possibly be, but was.
When I woke in the morning I was filled with excitement to be where I was (a good feeling to have in the morning). I climbed up to a rocky overlook just above the campsite and looked up at the mountains and down over the valley. Casey eventually joined me and we enjoyed the sunshine, the panoramas, and the relentless wind (which we have come to recognize as Patagonia's defining feature). After a breakfast of soup and coffee we set off. We dunked our heads in the first stream we came to, then dunked them
again and again, the bitter coldness irresistible. We walked on in sunshine, shirtless, glacial water a respite from the heat, our bags almost weightless as we seemed to glide through the woods "over hill and through dale" taking a different path back to Chalten (where we would recharge our batteries before being drawn relentlessly back into the mountains). The endless amounts of fallen trees occasionally brought to mind an elephant graveyard, but other than that this was, to us, still pure Lorien. We eventually arrived at a pair of lakes Lagos Madre y Hija, and, drawn by still blazing sun, blue water, and a soft pebbly beach, we threw down our packs and ran into the water, tumbling off a steep dropoff that sent instantly from ankle depth to about 10 feet deep. The swim, and the sun basking which followed it, were delightful, and then we were back on our way, through the loveliest woodland we had yet seen. We paused by another lake as the day started to wind down, rolled up our jeans and waded around. We ran into a few girls who had been "following" us, or rather had stayed at the same hostel and been on the same trails repeatedly and so we introduced ourselves and made more new friends (Australians, again). Then we sat by the lake in the fading light, almost unable to understand, or come to terms with, the incomparable beauty of our surroundings.
Our second expedition into the Fitzroys brought us back to Lago Capri (site of my infamous nude snow swim) where there was a nice deserted campsite. We arrived early in the afternoon and then climbed to the top of the hill to have lunch. We settled in a glade, sheltered from wind and bathed in sun that wad so utterly idyllic that we did not move from it, even when the empanadas and pastries were finished, even after mate and a snack of green tea, even after a sweet sunny nap, we did not leave that perfect glen, but sat there, our backs to a tree, writing and reading and talking and basking in the moment. The moment lasted until the sun went down and we retreated to make dinner. The glade, I should add (and I'm not embarrassed by the multiple lord of the rings references) was, if anything, comparable to the spot where frodo sits reading in the heart of the Shire at the very beginning of the story. Yes, that perfect.
Before making dinner we walked to a lookout rock and watch the sun set of Cerro Fitzroy, famous symbol of the Glacial mountains and another famous conquest for mountain climbers. Fitzroy is incredible difficult to see (always covered by clouds) so we were extremely lucky. Dinner was again, simple and again, delicious. Afterwards we wandered though pitch darkness, letting our eyes adjust, to the edge of the lake, and sat their looking at brilliant stars and the moon-bathed silhouette of Fitzroy, by now like an old friend. Though Casey tried to scare us both with imitations of old Greg coming out of the lake, the whole thing was utterly still and peaceful, and more calming and sleep-inducing than anything I can imagine.
The next morning we rose late and ate the rest of our supplies, packed up and left our packs hidden in our glade, and hiked (traveling light and quick) to Lago de Los Tres. This is the nearest point to the might Fitz, and the toughest hiking in the park. The first couple hours were standard trekking but the final hour was a steep uphill climb, almost hand over hand over slippery uneven rocks. Signs along the way warned not to attempt unless you were a very experienced hiker with very good equipment. And definitely not to attempt in snow or high wind. Well it wasn't snowing but for wind, well, I can't imagine it getting much higher. But we braved the treacherous climb and finally, after a long slog, found ourselves at the strangely still lake surrounded by looming glaciers, with the mighty mountain rising ominously and powerfully above us. By now it was late afternoon and, after relishing the spot for half an hour, we descended, and returned to lago Capri at forced march pace. And that, considering how fast our normal hiking pace is, is extremely fast. We descended into Chalten that evening utterly exhausted, having hiked what the park estimated to be 8 hours of hiking in a mere 4 and a half. Which is not half bad, in our humble opinion, and certainly deserving of a large feast as a reward. After dinner we hung out at the service station (definitely Not the nicest part of town, but not unbearable) and then got our things together and boarded a late night bus north. As I write this we are on thar bus bumping along slowly on the famous Patagonian Route 40 (which is, for a large part, unlaced). We are making our way north to the cheerful hippie town of El Bolson and from their to the lakeside tourist city of Bariloche. The bus is supremely comfortable and packed with all manner of interesting people, but the long hours are uncomfortably reminiscent of that greyhound trip all those months ago...
We spend a week in El Calafate, waiting for my eye to heal. I visit the doctor at the public hospital (a very different experience from the fancy private clinics in Buenos Aires and Comodoro Rivadavia) and he knows his trade and helps me improve, but it takes time and we stay ear the doctor to play it safe. If we have to be stuck somewhere for a week, Calafate is by no means a bad place. After another night at the cozy Hostel de Los Manos, where we meet and play music for a few new friends from Holland, France, and Germany, we leave the hostel in favor of a campground. We find a nice little spot by a gurgling river and, though not an absolute oasis, and a bit exposed to traffic, it is secluded and there is a great fire pit. We cook ourselves vast dinners there using our gas camping stove and the roaring fire. We make spagetti and sausages and cucumber and cream-cheese sandwiches and drink wine (not San Felicien on our budget, sadly) and play music (it is a good place for music actually, and actually write some quite good stuff while were camping, adding to our repertoire of original songs (most of which begin with some variation on the line I'm traveling around the world). We enjoy our feasts, and spend long hours at the campsite reading (Secret history for me, Silmarillion for Casey), playing cards, drinking Lots of Mate, lounging in the sun, and sleeping in our cozy tent under the trees. It is simple and relaxing and fulfilling, very much the gratifying indulgence that we had often visualized when thinking about Argentina. We go out once or twice a day. Our bigger expeditions include a wonderful windswept hike around the Lago Argentina, where we watch wild flamingos (another first) and take a shady nap in a paddock where nearby horses munch on grass. We also do an incredible hike up Cerro Calafate, a massive plateau that rises above the town. Abandoning paths, we cut through a deserted part of town where dozens of wild dogs roam. One is attracted to us, and follows meekly along, he attracts another, and another, until by the time we leave town and get into open scrubland at the foot of the mountain we have no less than 11 wild but very friendly stray dogs roaming around us in a disorganized pack. They range from big shaggy beasts to little, well groomed pets (there must be an owner somewhere) to really mangy creatures. We give them no reason to like us, but also no reason to dislike us, so they trail along happily as we trek to the Mountain. We pick a ravine and scramble up it, through rocky fields and dusty barren patches with small growths of scraggly weeds. It is steep and hard work, and the wind harasses us relentlessly until we reach the crest. There we can finally look out, dogs panting all around us, at our ascent, which seems massive after about three hours of steady trekking, and at the view beyond. It does seem, as we sit on top of a difficult to scale, dog free boulder, eating our simple lunch, that we can see all of Patagonia from here. The view is spectacular. The town below us, then the huge multicolored lake shining radiantly in the noon sun, then the vast expanse of desert to the west and snowy mountain crags to the east. We breath it in, with big mouthfuls of sandwich, apples, and alfajores (another argentine specialty consisting of two cookies sandwiching a layer of dulche de leche, and the whole thing dipped in chocolate, I am Addicted) and big lungfuls of fresh, gusty mountain air. Utterly, totally, wow. It is here that we realize, really, where we are, and why. What we are doing here.
But for the week in Calafate, we spend more time meandering than we do on these ambitious expeditions. We occasionally get lunch (hamburgers!!) at a friendly terrace cafe with rock and roll posters and great music and staff who seem to like us. Sometimes we go for a milkshake in the afternoon or a beer in the evening and the incredible fun comfortable Librobar (which also has great music and is one of the best hang out spots either of us have come across ever). Every day we go for ice cream at a place called ovejitos (which translates as little sheeps or as I prefer, lambies). The ice-cream is unbeatable, from chocolate to walnut to passion fruit, blueberry, and calafate berry (of which, legend has it, a taste will guarantee your return to Patagonia). We linger over this ice-cream, which they serve is giant heaps almost impossible to consume. Almost, but not quite. We get amazing pizza and good wine for dinner one night at a fun place called Cambalache. There are only, in fact two bad thing to mar our otherwise total enjoyment of Calafate. One is a dreadful morning when I go at 7am to the eye doctor for an appointment. It's raining, the ATM only dispenses 10 peso bills and tries to eat my hand, the doctor won't see me till I register, the registration nurse is too busy chatting with her friend about last nights party to register anyone, let alone me, and the doctor won't see anyone until his two hour coffee break is over (even though my appointment is marked Urgent). Then the bad news about the eye not healing, more prescriptions, then at the pharmacy the lady in front of me has such a long chat with the pharmacist about local gossip that 7 people cue up behind me in the time it take her to finish her story. All this in fairly (well, very) excruciating pain. I was not a happy camper, and then to top it off a REALLY nasty mangy dog followed me home (and I have see some mangy ones so I'm serious here). So that was a
Lousy morning, but otherwise, all was well and two days later my eyes were healed, doctor gave the thumbs up, and we boarded a bus back to El Chalten. but first we had to say farewell to our dog (who we never named to avoid affectionate bonds). Here is the story of the dogs. We hiked the mountain with 11 strays in tow, and they hunted rabbits all the way down. We expected them to disperse when we passed back through their home neighborhood but 4 of them clung stubbornly to us. 4 big, disobedient dogs, who trailed us persistently. We couldn't return to our campsite as that offered no escape and we didn't want them becoming permanent fixtures. So we walked into the center of town. Imagine us, two teenage backpackers with 4 huge mangy dogs in tow, smiling apologetically and saying " not my dog" when the creatures would knock into old ladies and terrify small children, block the sidewalk and barge
into spotless tourist shops. It was impossible to disassociate ourselves from them, and people assumed we were the shamefully inadequate owners of these destructive beasts. We ducked into shops in attempts to lose them but they always found us. Having at first been very fond of our pack of loyal followers, we were starting to get supremely frustrated and embarrassed. Finally, we escaped upstairs to Librobar, lingered long enough for the dogs to wander off after ice cream carrying kids (hate to imagine how that turned out) and then slipped out Librobar's back door and ran, I kid you not, ran across the street and down a back alley where we slyly picked our way home to the campsite without ever being seen. We were fugitives. But we had to eventually get food, and when we did we had two very close calls with one of the persistent followers. We slipped past him (downwind so he wouldn't catch our scent) silent as wraiths and escaped him. But eventually this particular dog found us, led to us by the VMD (Very Mangy Dog) I mentioned earlier. Once this old feller (a black lab type thing) had found the campsite, he was ours for good, and he defended us from other strays an followed us faithfully for 3 days. When we left Calafate he looked very forlorn. And so, in a way, were we.
But for the week in Calafate, we spend more time meandering than we do on these ambitious expeditions. We occasionally get lunch (hamburgers!!) at a friendly terrace cafe with rock and roll posters and great music and staff who seem to like us. Sometimes we go for a milkshake in the afternoon or a beer in the evening and the incredible fun comfortable Librobar (which also has great music and is one of the best hang out spots either of us have come across ever). Every day we go for ice cream at a place called ovejitos (which translates as little sheeps or as I prefer, lambies). The ice-cream is unbeatable, from chocolate to walnut to passion fruit, blueberry, and calafate berry (of which, legend has it, a taste will guarantee your return to Patagonia). We linger over this ice-cream, which they serve is giant heaps almost impossible to consume. Almost, but not quite. We get amazing pizza and good wine for dinner one night at a fun place called Cambalache. There are only, in fact two bad thing to mar our otherwise total enjoyment of Calafate. One is a dreadful morning when I go at 7am to the eye doctor for an appointment. It's raining, the ATM only dispenses 10 peso bills and tries to eat my hand, the doctor won't see me till I register, the registration nurse is too busy chatting with her friend about last nights party to register anyone, let alone me, and the doctor won't see anyone until his two hour coffee break is over (even though my appointment is marked Urgent). Then the bad news about the eye not healing, more prescriptions, then at the pharmacy the lady in front of me has such a long chat with the pharmacist about local gossip that 7 people cue up behind me in the time it take her to finish her story. All this in fairly (well, very) excruciating pain. I was not a happy camper, and then to top it off a REALLY nasty mangy dog followed me home (and I have see some mangy ones so I'm serious here). So that was a
Lousy morning, but otherwise, all was well and two days later my eyes were healed, doctor gave the thumbs up, and we boarded a bus back to El Chalten. but first we had to say farewell to our dog (who we never named to avoid affectionate bonds). Here is the story of the dogs. We hiked the mountain with 11 strays in tow, and they hunted rabbits all the way down. We expected them to disperse when we passed back through their home neighborhood but 4 of them clung stubbornly to us. 4 big, disobedient dogs, who trailed us persistently. We couldn't return to our campsite as that offered no escape and we didn't want them becoming permanent fixtures. So we walked into the center of town. Imagine us, two teenage backpackers with 4 huge mangy dogs in tow, smiling apologetically and saying " not my dog" when the creatures would knock into old ladies and terrify small children, block the sidewalk and barge
into spotless tourist shops. It was impossible to disassociate ourselves from them, and people assumed we were the shamefully inadequate owners of these destructive beasts. We ducked into shops in attempts to lose them but they always found us. Having at first been very fond of our pack of loyal followers, we were starting to get supremely frustrated and embarrassed. Finally, we escaped upstairs to Librobar, lingered long enough for the dogs to wander off after ice cream carrying kids (hate to imagine how that turned out) and then slipped out Librobar's back door and ran, I kid you not, ran across the street and down a back alley where we slyly picked our way home to the campsite without ever being seen. We were fugitives. But we had to eventually get food, and when we did we had two very close calls with one of the persistent followers. We slipped past him (downwind so he wouldn't catch our scent) silent as wraiths and escaped him. But eventually this particular dog found us, led to us by the VMD (Very Mangy Dog) I mentioned earlier. Once this old feller (a black lab type thing) had found the campsite, he was ours for good, and he defended us from other strays an followed us faithfully for 3 days. When we left Calafate he looked very forlorn. And so, in a way, were we.
The desert wind rises in the night ruining the sleep and sending dust into the tent and tragically into my healing eye. But we sleep more or less soundly all the same, and rise at dawn for steaming cups of instant coffee as we watch the desert sunrise unfold in simple silent splendor. In the growing light we pack up camp (with astonishing fluidity, as my dad always said, practice makes perfect) and hit the road, the grumbling gravel crunching slowly beneath the wheels. Within a couple hours we are back on paved roads, speeding into the mountains to the incredible little mountaineers town of El Chalten. Nestled right on the edge of the national park Las Glaciares, it is the youngest town in the country, and is tiny, yet energized and full of Trekkers and mountain climbers. Two very famous peaks, Torres and Fitzroy, are in the nearby park, but when we arrive they are swathed in snowy clouds. Undeterred, we swing by the ranger station and drop bags at a great hostel, then grab a bowl of squash soup at a little cafe and, within an hour of arrival, are starting up a winding ascent into the glacial national park. The hike leads us to panoramic vistas, and through prehistoric looking woods. We climb steeply and it begins to snow, the wind whirling it down into our eyes. It is wild and natural and pure. The paths are almost deserted, save for a few souls unashamedly fleeing the mountain storm for the warm village. But we trek on, through weather and wilderness, till we reach a lake called Lago Capri. We stand on a small cliff overlooking the crystalline blue water of the glacier fed lake, snow speeding down in angry torrents. Casey dares me to jump in the lake, and my dad seconds it with something ridiculous about my reputation as a real swimmer. But as absurd as it is, the idea appeals to me, blue water, glacier, snow, it's all very exotic in it's own way. So without allowing myself too much time to consider, I scramble down the cliff, strip down to nothing (really and truly, we are talking blinding white au natural here) and leap in o the lake. When I surface, (very soon I will admit after entering) I feel exhilarated and so awake, so alive. The adrenaline keeps me warm as I rapidly throw my clothes back on, giggling with the ludicrousness of it. Casey is laughing as well on the cliff above, but for a different reason, a family of Argentines are standing on a nearby lake shore, mouths agape and cameras flashing. If you look up "dumb American swimming las glaciares" on you tube, well, actually don't look that up.
The whole this was hilarious and fueled another couple of hours of hard trekking (I was warm in no time, don't worry when you read this mom). Eventually, as wind whistled over us in a snow covered swamp and the trail was indicated as getting much more dangerous and exposed, we decided to turn back. The descent was quick and nimble, though our energy was flagging rapidly. The exposure to the elements and the hard physical work out (keep in mind we did what was estimated by the national park as 7 hours of hiking in about 4) felt incredible after long hours in the car, but after a sleepless night we were seriously drained. We still had energy, however, for a few beers and a steaming bowl of locro (an argentine stew and local specialty) at the local Cerveceria. The place was brilliant, a log cabin, with a warm glow and world-class microbrewed rubia (blond) beer. The meal, the place, the cold outside, and the warm flush in snow-burned cheeks were ideal. We ate with gusto, and slept with even more.
The next day we set out on an expedition with a local adventure company. After loading up on sack lunches and fresh coffee and fresh pastries from the panaderia, we set out to the dock on the nearby Lago Viedma. We board a boat with a couple dozen others (all significantly better dressed for the biting cold than we are ourselves; where they wear matching sets of Patagonia and North Face weather proof gear, Casey has his ubiquitous blue Jean jacket). We cross the lake, which is an eerie milky turquoise due to glacial sediment (so fine that it is permanently suspended) and arrive at the unbelievable Glaciar Viedma. It is the largest glacier in Patagonia, rising some 150 feet above the water, and extending maybe 400
feet beneath it. It moves about 3 feet a day, and has been melting and retreating steadily, summer and winter, global warming or no, since the last ice age. It is a vast, shocking, monolith of white and grey and deep royal blue (the color it turns when it is so compacted that air cannot reach it). As the boat approaches, we stare in awe. No photograph or description can do it justice, but we snap pictures and struggle or words all the same. It is otherworldly. Disembarking precariously from the boat, which rocks against the rocky bank in the high winds, we meet our guides, charming, and expert mountaineers. We hike behind them for about an hour over rain coated slippery, windswept rocks, until we arrive at the edge of the glacier. Here we strap on crampons and are taught how to most effectively and safely walk on ice. Then we are up, on the rolling hills of the glacier, trekking along in single file, sometimes sheltered, sometimes wind-whipped. The guides leap like mountain goats, expertly cutting trails for us with ice picks. Our little group is alone on the glacier, and it feels huge and bewildering. Occasionally we turn back and look over the ice, rock, and water, and the panoramas really are staggering. It is easy to imagine getting lost in this massive land of ice and rock and ravines and crevasses. The crevasses, which we peer down one a a time with guides gripping fiercely onto both arms, are eerie and unreal, deep blue cracks to the center of the earth. The whole thing seems impossible. But there we are, walking on it. After hours of walking which is anything but monotonous, the guides stop us for a rest, and present a surprise. We come around a corner to find two bottles of Baileys set into a crack in the ice. Everyone cheerfully grabs a glass (filled with five hundred year old glacial ice, definitely something new) and a toast is raised to the trek. Surreal, but delightful. Eventually, we return to the boat, a luxury catamaran this time, and enjoy our box lunches and a nap (much needed after a 7am start) as we glide across the strange waters to the waiting dock. Back on the road, we glide a few hours along the mountain roads, arriving, in early evening, at another Patagonia mountain town called El Calafate. This one is bigger and more touristy and developed than the younger Chalten, mostly because of the famous Moreno Glacier nearby. Glaciered out for the day, we settle into a cozy hostel on the outskirts of town (interestingly, everything off of the main drag feels like outskirts here, woodsy and deserted). We walk up and down the street, enjoying the impressive shops (all hand crafted wood, silver, horn, and local stones), the evening, and our last few hours with dad. We grab a couple beers at a great bar called Librobar, perched on an enclosed terrace above a beautifully laid out shopping village (incredible, says real estate developer Tom Stubbs, this is one of the best developments I have seen in years, they even have a living roof!! Just wait till my colleagues in San Francisco hear about this!). He takes copious notes, blueprints etc, and we eventually leave the bar to go to dinner. We end up in the most unlikely of places, a vast tenedor libre (all you can eat buffet) packed with locals and serving roast lamb, which lures us in from the street. The lamb, a Patagonian staple, is absolutely delicious, and the trimmings are absurdly good and absurdly filling. We eat to the point of bursting, then eat some more, then eat dessert (I win the dessert competition, consuming in total, 6, although to be honest I lost count). We are unsurprised to have landed in such a surprising place, as that seems to be the trademark of the trip. We talk late into the night and when dad slips away in the pre-dawn to drive to the airport it is sad but, considering how incredible the trip with him has been, bearable. Barely.
The whole this was hilarious and fueled another couple of hours of hard trekking (I was warm in no time, don't worry when you read this mom). Eventually, as wind whistled over us in a snow covered swamp and the trail was indicated as getting much more dangerous and exposed, we decided to turn back. The descent was quick and nimble, though our energy was flagging rapidly. The exposure to the elements and the hard physical work out (keep in mind we did what was estimated by the national park as 7 hours of hiking in about 4) felt incredible after long hours in the car, but after a sleepless night we were seriously drained. We still had energy, however, for a few beers and a steaming bowl of locro (an argentine stew and local specialty) at the local Cerveceria. The place was brilliant, a log cabin, with a warm glow and world-class microbrewed rubia (blond) beer. The meal, the place, the cold outside, and the warm flush in snow-burned cheeks were ideal. We ate with gusto, and slept with even more.
The next day we set out on an expedition with a local adventure company. After loading up on sack lunches and fresh coffee and fresh pastries from the panaderia, we set out to the dock on the nearby Lago Viedma. We board a boat with a couple dozen others (all significantly better dressed for the biting cold than we are ourselves; where they wear matching sets of Patagonia and North Face weather proof gear, Casey has his ubiquitous blue Jean jacket). We cross the lake, which is an eerie milky turquoise due to glacial sediment (so fine that it is permanently suspended) and arrive at the unbelievable Glaciar Viedma. It is the largest glacier in Patagonia, rising some 150 feet above the water, and extending maybe 400
feet beneath it. It moves about 3 feet a day, and has been melting and retreating steadily, summer and winter, global warming or no, since the last ice age. It is a vast, shocking, monolith of white and grey and deep royal blue (the color it turns when it is so compacted that air cannot reach it). As the boat approaches, we stare in awe. No photograph or description can do it justice, but we snap pictures and struggle or words all the same. It is otherworldly. Disembarking precariously from the boat, which rocks against the rocky bank in the high winds, we meet our guides, charming, and expert mountaineers. We hike behind them for about an hour over rain coated slippery, windswept rocks, until we arrive at the edge of the glacier. Here we strap on crampons and are taught how to most effectively and safely walk on ice. Then we are up, on the rolling hills of the glacier, trekking along in single file, sometimes sheltered, sometimes wind-whipped. The guides leap like mountain goats, expertly cutting trails for us with ice picks. Our little group is alone on the glacier, and it feels huge and bewildering. Occasionally we turn back and look over the ice, rock, and water, and the panoramas really are staggering. It is easy to imagine getting lost in this massive land of ice and rock and ravines and crevasses. The crevasses, which we peer down one a a time with guides gripping fiercely onto both arms, are eerie and unreal, deep blue cracks to the center of the earth. The whole thing seems impossible. But there we are, walking on it. After hours of walking which is anything but monotonous, the guides stop us for a rest, and present a surprise. We come around a corner to find two bottles of Baileys set into a crack in the ice. Everyone cheerfully grabs a glass (filled with five hundred year old glacial ice, definitely something new) and a toast is raised to the trek. Surreal, but delightful. Eventually, we return to the boat, a luxury catamaran this time, and enjoy our box lunches and a nap (much needed after a 7am start) as we glide across the strange waters to the waiting dock. Back on the road, we glide a few hours along the mountain roads, arriving, in early evening, at another Patagonia mountain town called El Calafate. This one is bigger and more touristy and developed than the younger Chalten, mostly because of the famous Moreno Glacier nearby. Glaciered out for the day, we settle into a cozy hostel on the outskirts of town (interestingly, everything off of the main drag feels like outskirts here, woodsy and deserted). We walk up and down the street, enjoying the impressive shops (all hand crafted wood, silver, horn, and local stones), the evening, and our last few hours with dad. We grab a couple beers at a great bar called Librobar, perched on an enclosed terrace above a beautifully laid out shopping village (incredible, says real estate developer Tom Stubbs, this is one of the best developments I have seen in years, they even have a living roof!! Just wait till my colleagues in San Francisco hear about this!). He takes copious notes, blueprints etc, and we eventually leave the bar to go to dinner. We end up in the most unlikely of places, a vast tenedor libre (all you can eat buffet) packed with locals and serving roast lamb, which lures us in from the street. The lamb, a Patagonian staple, is absolutely delicious, and the trimmings are absurdly good and absurdly filling. We eat to the point of bursting, then eat some more, then eat dessert (I win the dessert competition, consuming in total, 6, although to be honest I lost count). We are unsurprised to have landed in such a surprising place, as that seems to be the trademark of the trip. We talk late into the night and when dad slips away in the pre-dawn to drive to the airport it is sad but, considering how incredible the trip with him has been, bearable. Barely.
We leave Bahia Bustamante in the predawn light. It is heartbreaking to leave a place where we were so extraordinarily welcomed and entertained by strangers, but it is good to get on the road again. After getting hopelessly lost on the one road out of Bustamante we finally arrive at route 3. Though our intention is really to cut across the desert to the Patagonian Andes, my eyes have now gotten seriously bad again, so we drive to the nearest town that might have a doctor. The town, a once gritty place that is now swimming in money, owes it's prosperity to oil. We spend 24 hours there, on a variety of mundane wild goose chases, looking first for a doctor, then camping supplies, a tire pressure gauge (try translating that), eye glasses, and finally the day has more or less worn away. We stay in a nice enough hotel and eat a good meal at a cheerful bar. We actually stay in quite good spirits, despite the fact that we are not in the most sought after of Patagonia's wildernesses. The comedic highlight of our stroll around town that evening is when Casey ducks into a store to buy a new mate gourd (his is cracked!). Me and dad wait outside as the store is fairly uninteresting. Suddenly we hear a vast crash and a shower of breaking glass. Casey, I say forlornly, and sure enough we look inside and there he is standing over a shattered tray of no less than 12 large glass beer mugs. He looks bashful and the owner is not pleased. Dad and I are cracking up. Although Casey invents some story about his jacket getting caught on the shelf, it is pretty clear that he just wanted to be the center of attention after a long day worrying about percy's eye. On the way back to the hotel Casey predicts that the only person on TV will be Bruce Willis and, sure enough, we end up watching Lucky Number Slevin. Ultimately, we snatch victory from the jaws of defeat in our visit to Comodoro Rivadavia, and next morning are back on the open road with my eyes much improved.
We drive all day, in the same relentless style that had served us well on many a trip. Speeding through the vast desert with huge open skies above us, good music and good conversation. We make one stop, our last junction for now with the ocean, at a little dusty port town called Puerto San Julian (whose tourism slogan is "redefining desolate"). There were very cool crumbling wooden boats washed up on shore and forming art/climbing structures. We climb around on the decaying but impressive old fishing boats and i go for a swim in a bay of questionable cleanliness, never one to miss and opportunity to swim, especially in the ocean. Eventually we turn off the main paved highway onto a road that crosses Patagonia to the Andes. Night begins to fall as we grind slowly along an extremely bumpy dirt road so we pull forlornly to the side and set up camp for the night. We are forlorn simply because of the brutal wind that has been threatening to overturn our little rental car and now threatens to make for a ruinous evening of camping. But we manage to find the one withered shrub of a tree in all of Patagonia and amazingly the wind drops as evening falls. Like a well oiled machine, we spring into action. Not one boy scout among us, and yet you have never seen such a rapid and flawlessly efficient setup as ours, alone for a thousand miles in any direction. Tent up, firewood collected, sleeping bags laid out, fire blazing merrily, water boiling. We are, in truth, I'll prepared for camping, and we fashion wine glasses out of sawed in half water bottles and make cutlery out of splintered bits of wood and caseys deconstructed electric haircutting kit. And then, with wine (San Felicien, our universally agreed favorite malbec) flowing, steak sizzling, and pasta boiling, Casey and I whip out instruments, tune roughly in the still desert air, and improvise a desert jam in the crackling firelight the likes of which has not been heard before or since. Not that our musicianship was especially refined at that moment, bur rather that circumstance, the vast expanse of desert, the makeshift camp, the companionship of long travel and the excitement of stories told and others yet untold, the warmth of fire and wine, feed the music a life that is sought after in many a concert hall as recording studio. Passion and adventure, key ingredients of life, were present in that moment, and they fueled the song that sprung from 7 strings of steel and three of nylon. But passion and adventure had been there before. The new addition, secret ingredient, was the spontaneity, the impossibility of us being there at that moment, under a sky of glittering stars both reminiscent of home and yet, in their southern hemisphere incarnations, utterly different and foreign. You could not make this up, this moment. You could not write this song, tell this story, if it weren't true.
We drive all day, in the same relentless style that had served us well on many a trip. Speeding through the vast desert with huge open skies above us, good music and good conversation. We make one stop, our last junction for now with the ocean, at a little dusty port town called Puerto San Julian (whose tourism slogan is "redefining desolate"). There were very cool crumbling wooden boats washed up on shore and forming art/climbing structures. We climb around on the decaying but impressive old fishing boats and i go for a swim in a bay of questionable cleanliness, never one to miss and opportunity to swim, especially in the ocean. Eventually we turn off the main paved highway onto a road that crosses Patagonia to the Andes. Night begins to fall as we grind slowly along an extremely bumpy dirt road so we pull forlornly to the side and set up camp for the night. We are forlorn simply because of the brutal wind that has been threatening to overturn our little rental car and now threatens to make for a ruinous evening of camping. But we manage to find the one withered shrub of a tree in all of Patagonia and amazingly the wind drops as evening falls. Like a well oiled machine, we spring into action. Not one boy scout among us, and yet you have never seen such a rapid and flawlessly efficient setup as ours, alone for a thousand miles in any direction. Tent up, firewood collected, sleeping bags laid out, fire blazing merrily, water boiling. We are, in truth, I'll prepared for camping, and we fashion wine glasses out of sawed in half water bottles and make cutlery out of splintered bits of wood and caseys deconstructed electric haircutting kit. And then, with wine (San Felicien, our universally agreed favorite malbec) flowing, steak sizzling, and pasta boiling, Casey and I whip out instruments, tune roughly in the still desert air, and improvise a desert jam in the crackling firelight the likes of which has not been heard before or since. Not that our musicianship was especially refined at that moment, bur rather that circumstance, the vast expanse of desert, the makeshift camp, the companionship of long travel and the excitement of stories told and others yet untold, the warmth of fire and wine, feed the music a life that is sought after in many a concert hall as recording studio. Passion and adventure, key ingredients of life, were present in that moment, and they fueled the song that sprung from 7 strings of steel and three of nylon. But passion and adventure had been there before. The new addition, secret ingredient, was the spontaneity, the impossibility of us being there at that moment, under a sky of glittering stars both reminiscent of home and yet, in their southern hemisphere incarnations, utterly different and foreign. You could not make this up, this moment. You could not write this song, tell this story, if it weren't true.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Every moment at Bustamante is packed with sublime adventure and serene relaxation. We wake in time for a simple breakfast and then leap onto excellent complimentary mountain bikes and pedal fiercely out to the end of the spit. We have been told that it is an undertaking of several hours but we speed there, against tearing wind and over deep gravel, and back in an hour and a bit. The wind and the sunshine and the ocean spray at the end of the spit are wild and exhilarating, as are the panoramic views of Bustamante and the surroundings. Arriving back at the cabin sweating, we strip down and sprint into the water, which is brilliant and refreshing and cold. Then we put ourselves back in order rapidly in time for the days first organized activity. We tour the farm and village, and are told all the history that I related earlier by a funny old woman who has been around since almost the beginning of the operation 60 years ago. When dad tried to touch a piece of seaweed she smacked his arm viciously and mercilessly, and he retreated, ashamed. After the tour we played music on the lovely windswept veranda in front of our cabin, and attracted a few of the staff, including Kelly from California and a musician turned tour guide from Buenos Aires. Made friends and made music. Lunch of onion empanadas and guanaco stew followed by traditional dessert of cheese and quince jam was too good to be true. After a fulfilling nap we were back on the road, bouncing along to a distant cape in two impressive land rover defenders. Oohing and aahing at sea lions, armadillos (never seen one of those before ever), foxes, crabs and fish. Our guide was an amusing Serbian dude who was very friendly, but extremely cautious about getting too near the deadly sea lions (they can apparently get extremely aggressive). Afterwards we picked our way back to the landrovers through gorgeous tidepools and, arriving at one with crystalline turquoise water and a perfect hot tub size, could not resist another swim. Leaping into the icy clear water and floating on my back beneath a blue blue sky was one of the most sublime moments I can ever remember experiencing. The swim was one in a million, or maybe ten. That evening we had a great talk (over lovely frosty pints of Quilmes) with the owner Mathis (grandson of the entrepreneurial Soriano) and his wife Astrid (who bizarrely enough went to Marin Academy on an exchange from Buenos Aires) two of the friendliest, most charming people you could ever meet on the road. Another splendid dinner of seafood risotto and chocolate mousse. Dad very cavalierly dismissed the wine as mediocre, flourishing loudly the fact that he was a California vintner, and demanding another bottle. Afterwards, we watched Oceans, a beautifully filmed and narrated nature movie that should be on every nature lovers top ten list. Though riveting, the swirling images of blue and green gently lulled us into sleep.
This was the Greatest Day, so action packed and wonderful that it will henceforth be a national holiday. We woke early and went for a long sunrise hike along the beach. At that early hour, the hour about which hardy writes so exquisitely in Tess of the durbevilles, language is set aside for silent camaraderie and the simple but incomparable enjoyment of sunrise. We trudged back to the dining hall for breakfast, over which we gradually awakened into life. In the dim morning we piled into the defender, and from thence embarked into a boat with Mathis, Astrid, Tibor (not, as it turns out, the best boat driver) and a cheerful group of italian tourists. We sped along the coast through ominous weather until we arrived at a Magellenic Penguin Colony!! I had never imagined that I would see penguins in the wild, and it was a revelation. The cute little fellas hopped and flapped cheerfully as we learned all about them. Easily some of the most bizarre animals ever. Not to be outdone, the sea lions showed off their adorable little crowds of offspring and their strange noises. Swinging past a vast cormorant colony (the area was first industrialized for cormorant guano, fun fact) we returned to the beautiful estuary and disembarked, as the weather took a dramatic turn for the better, with winds dropping and blue skies opening up above. Back in the defender (soooo reminiscent of Toby Stubbs epic drive to Badminton) this time just us and Tibor. We bumped over miles and miles of deserted Soriano property until we arrived at an unusual landscape of rolling hills and massive rocks. After a much needed lunch of torta (like a huge hot quiche)
and Quilmes, we set out to explore the Petrified Forest. At first our expectations were low (big deal, stone trees) but we were stunned by what we saw. Vast trees, as big as sequoias (the same prehistoric species in fact) entirely frozen and preserved by the flow of mud. These trees had been washed all the way from the Andes millions of years ago, and had metamorphosed to various degrees. Some looked exactly like perfectly frozen trees, others vast sculptures of crystal and obsidian, others of red crystal, and every incarnation of stone that one could imagine. Breathtakingly beautiful and geologically astounding surrounded by rolling hill that we could climb to the top of for panoramic views. It was baking hot in the windless desert and felt like we were walking on some distant planet. After some cheerful mate, we bumped back to camp in the defender. Somehow we all managed to nap in the rolling and leaping vehicle, quite the feat. A quick swim in the cold ocean and then back into salty dusty clothes and soon we were pulling ourselves up onto horseback. The three of us and Mathis rode slowly around the property, to beautiful beaches and coves as yet undiscovered, as he talked in a low rasping voice about the estancia and it's story. Being on horseback for the first time in years (for Casey the first time Ever) was wonderful and relaxing. They were sweet friendly creatures and allowed the perfect way to see the idyllic land. But even when we returned from this epic exploration our day was not yet done. We grabbed our instruments and headed to the villages little chapel, where we had been asked (or rather demanded) by the owners of the estancia to play. So we played, in the thrilling acoustics of a church lit only by three candles, filled with all the staff of the estancia who were interested. They were an adoring audience and we pleased them with renditions of everything from Bach and Wilco to Sublime and Jon Swift. The improvisations, fed by the beautiful acoustics and the perfect circumstances, were the highlight. The parallels to our playing in the church in Grimault were eerie, bur we were glad to add to our resume. It was a fun "show" and we had heartily earned our dinner. After a farewell drink with Mathis and Astrid who gave and open invitation to return and work (added to the Gap Year number 2 file) we went to another sublime dinner and, after prolonged farewells to all our new friends, we fell again into the soft feather beds (which I forgot to mention are the best beds I have slept in since leaving home).
This was the Greatest Day, so action packed and wonderful that it will henceforth be a national holiday. We woke early and went for a long sunrise hike along the beach. At that early hour, the hour about which hardy writes so exquisitely in Tess of the durbevilles, language is set aside for silent camaraderie and the simple but incomparable enjoyment of sunrise. We trudged back to the dining hall for breakfast, over which we gradually awakened into life. In the dim morning we piled into the defender, and from thence embarked into a boat with Mathis, Astrid, Tibor (not, as it turns out, the best boat driver) and a cheerful group of italian tourists. We sped along the coast through ominous weather until we arrived at a Magellenic Penguin Colony!! I had never imagined that I would see penguins in the wild, and it was a revelation. The cute little fellas hopped and flapped cheerfully as we learned all about them. Easily some of the most bizarre animals ever. Not to be outdone, the sea lions showed off their adorable little crowds of offspring and their strange noises. Swinging past a vast cormorant colony (the area was first industrialized for cormorant guano, fun fact) we returned to the beautiful estuary and disembarked, as the weather took a dramatic turn for the better, with winds dropping and blue skies opening up above. Back in the defender (soooo reminiscent of Toby Stubbs epic drive to Badminton) this time just us and Tibor. We bumped over miles and miles of deserted Soriano property until we arrived at an unusual landscape of rolling hills and massive rocks. After a much needed lunch of torta (like a huge hot quiche)
and Quilmes, we set out to explore the Petrified Forest. At first our expectations were low (big deal, stone trees) but we were stunned by what we saw. Vast trees, as big as sequoias (the same prehistoric species in fact) entirely frozen and preserved by the flow of mud. These trees had been washed all the way from the Andes millions of years ago, and had metamorphosed to various degrees. Some looked exactly like perfectly frozen trees, others vast sculptures of crystal and obsidian, others of red crystal, and every incarnation of stone that one could imagine. Breathtakingly beautiful and geologically astounding surrounded by rolling hill that we could climb to the top of for panoramic views. It was baking hot in the windless desert and felt like we were walking on some distant planet. After some cheerful mate, we bumped back to camp in the defender. Somehow we all managed to nap in the rolling and leaping vehicle, quite the feat. A quick swim in the cold ocean and then back into salty dusty clothes and soon we were pulling ourselves up onto horseback. The three of us and Mathis rode slowly around the property, to beautiful beaches and coves as yet undiscovered, as he talked in a low rasping voice about the estancia and it's story. Being on horseback for the first time in years (for Casey the first time Ever) was wonderful and relaxing. They were sweet friendly creatures and allowed the perfect way to see the idyllic land. But even when we returned from this epic exploration our day was not yet done. We grabbed our instruments and headed to the villages little chapel, where we had been asked (or rather demanded) by the owners of the estancia to play. So we played, in the thrilling acoustics of a church lit only by three candles, filled with all the staff of the estancia who were interested. They were an adoring audience and we pleased them with renditions of everything from Bach and Wilco to Sublime and Jon Swift. The improvisations, fed by the beautiful acoustics and the perfect circumstances, were the highlight. The parallels to our playing in the church in Grimault were eerie, bur we were glad to add to our resume. It was a fun "show" and we had heartily earned our dinner. After a farewell drink with Mathis and Astrid who gave and open invitation to return and work (added to the Gap Year number 2 file) we went to another sublime dinner and, after prolonged farewells to all our new friends, we fell again into the soft feather beds (which I forgot to mention are the best beds I have slept in since leaving home).
The flight is nightmarish, as we sit right next to the incredibly loud engines, which sputter and stumble menacingly and then roar continuously, putting sleep out of the question. But sleep is important, because the challenge ahead of us is huge. We have arrived in Rio Gallegos, an unpleasant city but one of the southernmost point of Argentina, and have no plans or sense of orientation except to head directly to a famed estancia (ranch) that we have read about. But Patagonia is huge, and it is only when we are all piled into the little rental car speeding out of Rio Gallegos at 4am that it begins to dawn on us what we have gotten ourselves into. But when I say dawn I mean it in a purely poetic sense, as the real dawn is still four hours distant. The arrival is made a bit unpleasant by the fact that Casey discovers that his computer has been taken from his bag on the plane. A casualty of travel, but still supremely annoying. It also explains my bad spelling etc on the last dozen blog posts as I have been writing them on my IPhone. If you have ever written even a short text on one of these monsters you know how terrible it can be, and writing long passages gets harder not easier. So when I write ib ecyemku siege please know that i am trying to write I'm extremely sorry. RIP caseys computer (which apparently right now is in Mexico, according to Caseys Facebook). Back to the epic Patagonian roadtrip: We pick up coffee and 3 CDs in a bleary eyed stupor at a gas station. We had sworn not to sleep (since its a rental car dad unfortunately for him is the only driver and we want to at least keep him company) but sleep is hard to resist. But then the skies start to lighten, and we put on our first CD. Strange perhaps, to find in a gas station, but this selection if Gregorian Chants seems utterly appropriate as we sail across the Patagonian waste. The eerily harmonic voices of divinity twist and twine perfectly, giving the whole experience an even more surreal aspect than it already has. The sun slowly rises over the ocean that lies to the east, and illuminates the strange land around us as we barrel on on smooth paved road (the only on in Patagonia this condition, simply because of oil business). In retrospect it's hard to say quite what we expected from
Patagonia. The name evokes wilderness, certainly, and a certain harshness. But though these are both present perhaps a better defining characteristic is simply the hugeness. Endless flat and stepped land rolling away from us, empty and unspoiled and desolate. Truly empty, for there are only a few towns in it's whole vast expanse, a couple for oil, a few for tourism, a few that fell off the map. But the place pulsates with a sort of strange alien life, made more so when flocks of nandus (ostrich-like birds) and crowds of guanacos (small wild llamas) appear silhouetted on the horizon or, more often, crossing the road. Other than their brief wild spark, the land that we roll across for hours and hours is sparse brush and rock, never a tree, never a mountain. Inside the car things are by no means desolate. We have good food that we brought from Buenos Aires, and we listen to our second CD, 50s and 60s hits. Blue suede shoes, stand by me, rock around the clock, even la bamba float merrily out of the speakers and we sing along, half loving and half dreading each ridiculously cheery song. We stop for about 8 five minute power naps by the side of the road, all my dad needs to continue, but significantly less than I would like. Casey also prepares Mate to go, and extremely unusual occurrence since the ritual of boiling water and camaraderie is normally a very sedentary one. We occasionally see wildlife, like foxes, rabbits, huge deer, and carrion birds. The towns we drive through are bizarre in their tininess and desolation, quite unlike anything we have seen even in middle America. And after 12 long hours of road tripping up Patagonia Route 3, we approach our destination, a small ranch in a bay called Bahia Bustamante, which has recently opened a few small cabins for tourism. The place, as it turns out, was discovered by a man named Alejandro Soriano, a Spaniard in the cosmetic business who needed a bay with lots of seaweed that he could harvest for gel for hair products. This was the perfect bay, so he set up camp. But the seaweed had many uses, from gelatin for milkshakes and ice-cream to shampoo to fertilizer and pet food. Mr. Soriano's business became wildly successful, and the little farm grew into a village of 500, with police, a market, bars, a bakery, etc. The farm expanded to sheep farming as well as seaweed harvesting. But through demand for seaweed stayed strong, and it is still harvested today, the village slowly disintegrated after Soriano's death, and is now a surreal collection of simple whitewashed houses surrounded by trees and flowers and huge barns full of seaweed bales. The whole thing lies in the nook of a bay whose clear blue water laps on a rocky, seaweed strewn shore. Behind the village is the endless Patagonian plain. Bahia Bustamante opened to tourists (with four little cabins and a modest, but lovely dining hall) in 2006, and since then has gained a reputation as an idyllic estancia experience. There are ranches to stay at all over Argentina but, it would seem, few quite like this. Back to our arrival. We slide in on the gravel at 4pm, exactly 12 hours and 1000 kilometers from where we began at Rio Gallegos. We are welcomed in an given a cup of tea and after this, and a restorative shower, we begin to realize what an unusual paradise we have found. The cabins are simple but extremely comfortable with excellent beds and seaweed shampoo. And the beach, though in no way reminiscent of the Caribbean, has a peculiar charm. While dad takes a well earned nap, Casey and I take mate and instruments and go sit on the pebbly shore and play. The mate is sublimely refreshing, and, together with the landscape, feeds the music and otherworldly fuel. Our fingers and the strings are chilled by the evening wind, but the music doesn't stumble, but rather billows out in waves with no obstacle for a thousand miles that could send back an echo. The sky is too big to fill with our little sound, but the sound is bold and clear and true, and is absorbed continually into the vast wilderness. The sun sets in glorious oranges and pinks and creates strange silhouettes as dad comes out to join us and we skip not very flat rocks. We head in to dinner as the light dwindles. As it turns out, the cook here is phenomenal, world class. This first meal consists of excellent malbec, vegetable tempura, and seaweed crepes in cream sauce. The cheerful girl that serves us turns out to be, strangely enough, from Petaluma. Small world it us. After dinner we return to our little cabin and serenade dad with a variety of tunes, ranging from somewhat polished to totally improvised. But he is an excellent audience and it is the perfect end to the day. A day where once again we have made road-trip history
Patagonia. The name evokes wilderness, certainly, and a certain harshness. But though these are both present perhaps a better defining characteristic is simply the hugeness. Endless flat and stepped land rolling away from us, empty and unspoiled and desolate. Truly empty, for there are only a few towns in it's whole vast expanse, a couple for oil, a few for tourism, a few that fell off the map. But the place pulsates with a sort of strange alien life, made more so when flocks of nandus (ostrich-like birds) and crowds of guanacos (small wild llamas) appear silhouetted on the horizon or, more often, crossing the road. Other than their brief wild spark, the land that we roll across for hours and hours is sparse brush and rock, never a tree, never a mountain. Inside the car things are by no means desolate. We have good food that we brought from Buenos Aires, and we listen to our second CD, 50s and 60s hits. Blue suede shoes, stand by me, rock around the clock, even la bamba float merrily out of the speakers and we sing along, half loving and half dreading each ridiculously cheery song. We stop for about 8 five minute power naps by the side of the road, all my dad needs to continue, but significantly less than I would like. Casey also prepares Mate to go, and extremely unusual occurrence since the ritual of boiling water and camaraderie is normally a very sedentary one. We occasionally see wildlife, like foxes, rabbits, huge deer, and carrion birds. The towns we drive through are bizarre in their tininess and desolation, quite unlike anything we have seen even in middle America. And after 12 long hours of road tripping up Patagonia Route 3, we approach our destination, a small ranch in a bay called Bahia Bustamante, which has recently opened a few small cabins for tourism. The place, as it turns out, was discovered by a man named Alejandro Soriano, a Spaniard in the cosmetic business who needed a bay with lots of seaweed that he could harvest for gel for hair products. This was the perfect bay, so he set up camp. But the seaweed had many uses, from gelatin for milkshakes and ice-cream to shampoo to fertilizer and pet food. Mr. Soriano's business became wildly successful, and the little farm grew into a village of 500, with police, a market, bars, a bakery, etc. The farm expanded to sheep farming as well as seaweed harvesting. But through demand for seaweed stayed strong, and it is still harvested today, the village slowly disintegrated after Soriano's death, and is now a surreal collection of simple whitewashed houses surrounded by trees and flowers and huge barns full of seaweed bales. The whole thing lies in the nook of a bay whose clear blue water laps on a rocky, seaweed strewn shore. Behind the village is the endless Patagonian plain. Bahia Bustamante opened to tourists (with four little cabins and a modest, but lovely dining hall) in 2006, and since then has gained a reputation as an idyllic estancia experience. There are ranches to stay at all over Argentina but, it would seem, few quite like this. Back to our arrival. We slide in on the gravel at 4pm, exactly 12 hours and 1000 kilometers from where we began at Rio Gallegos. We are welcomed in an given a cup of tea and after this, and a restorative shower, we begin to realize what an unusual paradise we have found. The cabins are simple but extremely comfortable with excellent beds and seaweed shampoo. And the beach, though in no way reminiscent of the Caribbean, has a peculiar charm. While dad takes a well earned nap, Casey and I take mate and instruments and go sit on the pebbly shore and play. The mate is sublimely refreshing, and, together with the landscape, feeds the music and otherworldly fuel. Our fingers and the strings are chilled by the evening wind, but the music doesn't stumble, but rather billows out in waves with no obstacle for a thousand miles that could send back an echo. The sky is too big to fill with our little sound, but the sound is bold and clear and true, and is absorbed continually into the vast wilderness. The sun sets in glorious oranges and pinks and creates strange silhouettes as dad comes out to join us and we skip not very flat rocks. We head in to dinner as the light dwindles. As it turns out, the cook here is phenomenal, world class. This first meal consists of excellent malbec, vegetable tempura, and seaweed crepes in cream sauce. The cheerful girl that serves us turns out to be, strangely enough, from Petaluma. Small world it us. After dinner we return to our little cabin and serenade dad with a variety of tunes, ranging from somewhat polished to totally improvised. But he is an excellent audience and it is the perfect end to the day. A day where once again we have made road-trip history
The next day was spent trying to get our newcomer up to speed on the incredible cities, of which we ourselves had only begun to scratch the surface. After a coffee and submarine at the supremely elegant cafe Biela in Recoleta, we explored the Recoleta Cemetary, an incredibly beautiful burial
ground for all of Argentina's rich and famous, including the saintly Eva Peron, whose grave is surprisingly simple and unglamorous. The cemetery, though, is staggeringly beautiful, long corridors of mausoleums and great trees shading constructions of stone, iron, and glass. The sculptures of angels, owls, dragons, and fair maidens are worthy of a museum and the whole places seems like a palace of homage and less like a place of death. It is stunning, a new world pere lachez.
After a lunch of spectacular homemade pasta (ravioli especially) and massive ice cream (they don't mess around here but give you heaping piles of gelato). Staggering after this crippling lunch, we make our way down to the center of town, via an avenue of shockingly gaudy jewelry and watch stores. We stop for a quick nap and read in a park (not as pretty as the BG but fewer evil security guards). After another tour of the center, casa rosada, and agenda florida, we ride the sweaty subway back to Palermo. After a charming bartender lures us into a dark, jazz filled bar to serve us 15 year old whiskey on ice, we continue for the thing most present on our minds, dinner. The meal that evening was one of the finest we have known. Back (of course) to Las Cabras, where we snag the last table under the trees and then watch portenos queue around the block as we greedily order malbec (the best I have ever tasted, or any of us in fact) and three beautifully adorned steaks. Somehow this place manages to outdo the fancier restaurant in food quality and after that the battle is won, lovely decor, lighting, ambience, and the three of us, really and simply three of the very best old friends, long time traveling companions and veterans of adventures and escapades in Mexico, Canada, and every corner of the US, not to mention family members, laughing and telling tales and feasting and enjoying the life craved by so many, in this sweet city of runaways and metamorphoses and wilderness and culture, in circumstances none of us would even be bold enough to dream into being, and yet into which we have somehow stumbled, anticipating the coming days and reveling in adventures ranging from years ago to hours ago, savoring the Alegria de Argentina, y la Alegria de Amistad.
The next morning, exhausted by the various demands of the city, we make our way out to a nearby rivertown. We travel by train, bumping along through endless suburbs, and arrive in the estuary of the Rio Parana, the vast river that combines with the Rio Uruguay to form the vast Rio de la Plata which eventually flows to the sea. On the banks of the estuaries main vein is the small, quiet, and (after BA) heavenly tranquil town of Tigre. It is by now means a resort town, or even much of a tourist town, but is in fact a getaway for locals who get driven out of the city by heat and the intensity of the metropolis. The weather closes in as we arrive and, after checking into a sweet little hotel and having a lunch of piping hot freshly made empanadas de carne, we arrive at the river banks as rain begins to trickle down. We had expected a wash of tourism, trekking and boating, but it is midweek and the town is quiet (not necessarily such a tragedy). We hop into a water taxi and take a long loop through the delta, up and down various arms of the endlessly interconnected river. The river is lined with everything from the crumbling mansions of portenos with failed plans and the slyly hidden cottages of runaways (hard not to imagine Nazis and on the run criminals in a place as secluded as this), to adventure camps and run down trash-heaps, the whole this is in the tangle of sub tropical river delta jungle. The rain streams down, lending the whole thing a hard, unfriendly gleam of grey, but it is a fascinating exploration none the less. Disembarking, we make our way to the conspicuously huge and splendid museum of white colonnades. The art is enjoyable, the solitude lovely, and the respite from the rain a huge relief. We stumble across one truly brilliant painting. A masterpiece of the usage of light and focus, it depicts a retreat of defeated cavalry running from a ruinous battlefield. There are also a series of excellent ship paintings in the early (and thrilling) historical days of Buenos Aires.
As evening falls and we head home, we are sidetracked by an understated Naval Museum, which turns out to be one of the greatest historical museums any of us has ever seen. With an incomparable collection of huge, intricate model ships (ranging from Egyptian crafts to Viking longboard, Spanish galleons, English frigates, WWI battleships and even some unrealized designs) and a vast history of Argentinas naval exploits (summed up cruelly. if accurately, by Tom Stubbs, "One ship, and oh look, it was sunk by the English") and an incredible collection of huge tanks, anti aircraft guns, ordnance, and even huge aircraft in an otherwise very abandoned warehouse. It is staggeringly well presented, excellently laid out, and, most enjoyably, totally empty save ourselves.
Dinner that night is an interesting affair. The food (porkchops and brochettes) and wine (duh, malbec) is great, though not world class like the previous night, and the restaurant and in fact the whole town, is totally deserted (it really is off-season in Tigre today it seems, eerily reminiscent of the deserted Valencian coast). But we need little ambience as we create most of it ourselves, and we do not want for laughter or good cheer. That night we begin a tradition which we all relish in. After dinner, very much on the edge of sleep but still reeling with warmth and wine, we make our way to the nearest ice cream parlor (which for some reason stay open till past midnight, they know me too well) and savor a few more laughs over a sumptuous gelato before speeding back to the hotel for sweet repose. (sorry for the language, evidence of a strange diet of Thomas Hardy, Donna Tart, and speaking Spanish).
The next day dawns with coffee and croissants and all of us sitting at a caf by the river (all right it doesn't quite dawn that way but it eventually ends up that way). We head out in brilliant sunshine (which totally transforms Tigre) to a spot on the river where we are met by an amiable guide named Rodrigo in a beautiful wooden canoe. With him at the helm and the three of us paddling with impressive strength and militaristic precision, we cross the wide Tigre river and make our way into the narrow watery lanes of the inner delta. Four hours we paddle in relative quiet, through this strange water jungle. It is tranquil, with the sunlight filtering down through the vines and other locals speeding by in their own self-propelled boats (ranging from kayaks and canoes to one man rowboats). Occasionally we make out way up a deserted side river into what feels very much like unexplored territory. In the delta there are no roads, so the only mechanical sound
is the infrequent sound of a boat engine quietly chugging past. We stop at the boat house for welcome tea and a snack and admire the handiwork or the master craftsman who makes the beautifully worked and painted Indian canoes. Slowly we make our way back but as we pass through a sun filled open glade we ask if we can swim. The water is brown but, in the sun is not particularly ominous. We have already been repeatedly informed that there are no piranhas (despite the name of the river, the unrelated parana) or crocodiles or anacondas. We ask to swim and rodrigo responds "I love to swim here." great, I respond, and strip off my life jacket and tshirts. Suddenly he is uneasy. What are you doing? he asks. And I realize he did not expect us to actually follow through. It is only once me and my dad are floating on our backs in the still cool water that he informs Casey that no one on his boat trips has Ever gone swimming in the river. It remains unclear, as we bid Rodrigo farewell half an hour later, whether he was withholding information about some dangerous river creature or whether he is simply afraid of water, which would certainly be odd for a river guide.
Lunch is more fresh hot empanadas, this time enjoyed on a sunny riverbank, surrounded by other Argentines. With the sun out, and the weekend nearing, Tigre has transformed from a slightly grim suburb to an idyllic paradise. After lunch we swing by an amusing, but slightly ridiculous museum (think ten minute info video and the LOTS of gourds on display) where we are finally able to complete our own mate setup (consisting of the ground herb itself, a thermos for the hot water which has to be constantly replenished, a gourd and a bombilla, or intricate silver straw) so that we can now enjoy the life giving beverage wherever there is hot water (which, in this country of mate drinkers is Everywhere). Then we are back on the train, clattering drowsily towards Buenos Aires. After another divine afternoon in the Botanical Gardens (where we cleverly ensconce ourselves in a security guard free napping zone corner), we get a beer at Plaza Serrano and then go to dinner at the place Casey and I ate at when we first arrived. Another deserted restaurant but, with a funny waiter and great food, another wonderful meal. Then, in a fluster of exhaustion and anticipation we speed back to the hostel, throw our bags together and get in a taxi to the airport, in full anticipation of the fact that things are about to escalate seriously in terms of adventurosity (yes that's a word). After exhausting delays, as the warmth of food and wine wear off, we groggily board a midnight plane from this wild metropolis to the much wilder reaches of this land. We are going to Patagonia.
ground for all of Argentina's rich and famous, including the saintly Eva Peron, whose grave is surprisingly simple and unglamorous. The cemetery, though, is staggeringly beautiful, long corridors of mausoleums and great trees shading constructions of stone, iron, and glass. The sculptures of angels, owls, dragons, and fair maidens are worthy of a museum and the whole places seems like a palace of homage and less like a place of death. It is stunning, a new world pere lachez.
After a lunch of spectacular homemade pasta (ravioli especially) and massive ice cream (they don't mess around here but give you heaping piles of gelato). Staggering after this crippling lunch, we make our way down to the center of town, via an avenue of shockingly gaudy jewelry and watch stores. We stop for a quick nap and read in a park (not as pretty as the BG but fewer evil security guards). After another tour of the center, casa rosada, and agenda florida, we ride the sweaty subway back to Palermo. After a charming bartender lures us into a dark, jazz filled bar to serve us 15 year old whiskey on ice, we continue for the thing most present on our minds, dinner. The meal that evening was one of the finest we have known. Back (of course) to Las Cabras, where we snag the last table under the trees and then watch portenos queue around the block as we greedily order malbec (the best I have ever tasted, or any of us in fact) and three beautifully adorned steaks. Somehow this place manages to outdo the fancier restaurant in food quality and after that the battle is won, lovely decor, lighting, ambience, and the three of us, really and simply three of the very best old friends, long time traveling companions and veterans of adventures and escapades in Mexico, Canada, and every corner of the US, not to mention family members, laughing and telling tales and feasting and enjoying the life craved by so many, in this sweet city of runaways and metamorphoses and wilderness and culture, in circumstances none of us would even be bold enough to dream into being, and yet into which we have somehow stumbled, anticipating the coming days and reveling in adventures ranging from years ago to hours ago, savoring the Alegria de Argentina, y la Alegria de Amistad.
The next morning, exhausted by the various demands of the city, we make our way out to a nearby rivertown. We travel by train, bumping along through endless suburbs, and arrive in the estuary of the Rio Parana, the vast river that combines with the Rio Uruguay to form the vast Rio de la Plata which eventually flows to the sea. On the banks of the estuaries main vein is the small, quiet, and (after BA) heavenly tranquil town of Tigre. It is by now means a resort town, or even much of a tourist town, but is in fact a getaway for locals who get driven out of the city by heat and the intensity of the metropolis. The weather closes in as we arrive and, after checking into a sweet little hotel and having a lunch of piping hot freshly made empanadas de carne, we arrive at the river banks as rain begins to trickle down. We had expected a wash of tourism, trekking and boating, but it is midweek and the town is quiet (not necessarily such a tragedy). We hop into a water taxi and take a long loop through the delta, up and down various arms of the endlessly interconnected river. The river is lined with everything from the crumbling mansions of portenos with failed plans and the slyly hidden cottages of runaways (hard not to imagine Nazis and on the run criminals in a place as secluded as this), to adventure camps and run down trash-heaps, the whole this is in the tangle of sub tropical river delta jungle. The rain streams down, lending the whole thing a hard, unfriendly gleam of grey, but it is a fascinating exploration none the less. Disembarking, we make our way to the conspicuously huge and splendid museum of white colonnades. The art is enjoyable, the solitude lovely, and the respite from the rain a huge relief. We stumble across one truly brilliant painting. A masterpiece of the usage of light and focus, it depicts a retreat of defeated cavalry running from a ruinous battlefield. There are also a series of excellent ship paintings in the early (and thrilling) historical days of Buenos Aires.
As evening falls and we head home, we are sidetracked by an understated Naval Museum, which turns out to be one of the greatest historical museums any of us has ever seen. With an incomparable collection of huge, intricate model ships (ranging from Egyptian crafts to Viking longboard, Spanish galleons, English frigates, WWI battleships and even some unrealized designs) and a vast history of Argentinas naval exploits (summed up cruelly. if accurately, by Tom Stubbs, "One ship, and oh look, it was sunk by the English") and an incredible collection of huge tanks, anti aircraft guns, ordnance, and even huge aircraft in an otherwise very abandoned warehouse. It is staggeringly well presented, excellently laid out, and, most enjoyably, totally empty save ourselves.
Dinner that night is an interesting affair. The food (porkchops and brochettes) and wine (duh, malbec) is great, though not world class like the previous night, and the restaurant and in fact the whole town, is totally deserted (it really is off-season in Tigre today it seems, eerily reminiscent of the deserted Valencian coast). But we need little ambience as we create most of it ourselves, and we do not want for laughter or good cheer. That night we begin a tradition which we all relish in. After dinner, very much on the edge of sleep but still reeling with warmth and wine, we make our way to the nearest ice cream parlor (which for some reason stay open till past midnight, they know me too well) and savor a few more laughs over a sumptuous gelato before speeding back to the hotel for sweet repose. (sorry for the language, evidence of a strange diet of Thomas Hardy, Donna Tart, and speaking Spanish).
The next day dawns with coffee and croissants and all of us sitting at a caf by the river (all right it doesn't quite dawn that way but it eventually ends up that way). We head out in brilliant sunshine (which totally transforms Tigre) to a spot on the river where we are met by an amiable guide named Rodrigo in a beautiful wooden canoe. With him at the helm and the three of us paddling with impressive strength and militaristic precision, we cross the wide Tigre river and make our way into the narrow watery lanes of the inner delta. Four hours we paddle in relative quiet, through this strange water jungle. It is tranquil, with the sunlight filtering down through the vines and other locals speeding by in their own self-propelled boats (ranging from kayaks and canoes to one man rowboats). Occasionally we make out way up a deserted side river into what feels very much like unexplored territory. In the delta there are no roads, so the only mechanical sound
is the infrequent sound of a boat engine quietly chugging past. We stop at the boat house for welcome tea and a snack and admire the handiwork or the master craftsman who makes the beautifully worked and painted Indian canoes. Slowly we make our way back but as we pass through a sun filled open glade we ask if we can swim. The water is brown but, in the sun is not particularly ominous. We have already been repeatedly informed that there are no piranhas (despite the name of the river, the unrelated parana) or crocodiles or anacondas. We ask to swim and rodrigo responds "I love to swim here." great, I respond, and strip off my life jacket and tshirts. Suddenly he is uneasy. What are you doing? he asks. And I realize he did not expect us to actually follow through. It is only once me and my dad are floating on our backs in the still cool water that he informs Casey that no one on his boat trips has Ever gone swimming in the river. It remains unclear, as we bid Rodrigo farewell half an hour later, whether he was withholding information about some dangerous river creature or whether he is simply afraid of water, which would certainly be odd for a river guide.
Lunch is more fresh hot empanadas, this time enjoyed on a sunny riverbank, surrounded by other Argentines. With the sun out, and the weekend nearing, Tigre has transformed from a slightly grim suburb to an idyllic paradise. After lunch we swing by an amusing, but slightly ridiculous museum (think ten minute info video and the LOTS of gourds on display) where we are finally able to complete our own mate setup (consisting of the ground herb itself, a thermos for the hot water which has to be constantly replenished, a gourd and a bombilla, or intricate silver straw) so that we can now enjoy the life giving beverage wherever there is hot water (which, in this country of mate drinkers is Everywhere). Then we are back on the train, clattering drowsily towards Buenos Aires. After another divine afternoon in the Botanical Gardens (where we cleverly ensconce ourselves in a security guard free napping zone corner), we get a beer at Plaza Serrano and then go to dinner at the place Casey and I ate at when we first arrived. Another deserted restaurant but, with a funny waiter and great food, another wonderful meal. Then, in a fluster of exhaustion and anticipation we speed back to the hostel, throw our bags together and get in a taxi to the airport, in full anticipation of the fact that things are about to escalate seriously in terms of adventurosity (yes that's a word). After exhausting delays, as the warmth of food and wine wear off, we groggily board a midnight plane from this wild metropolis to the much wilder reaches of this land. We are going to Patagonia.
The next day was unbelievably exciting. Having resolved our business at the embassy, we went back to Giramondo (which has by the way established itself as a truly great hostel) and waited outside by a cafe. Incredibly refreshing agua con gas (by now a staple) gave us relief from the sun as we waited for our new companion, who appeared at last from crowds of meandering Argentines. None other than the infamous Tom Stubbs.
From here our adventures took a dramatic turn that lasted through every moment of the two weeks my dad was with us. Now Casey and I are adventurous, no doubt, but with Tom Stubbs at the helm, adventures take on a fever pitch. With no respite, save for five minute afternoon naps. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We haven't even left BA yet. That first afternoon we had a luxuriant lunch of guacamole grilled chicken under the cool shelter of the trees at las cabras, and then spent the afternoon giving dad a tour of Palermo, our part of town which we now knew like locals. Or at least like moderately well established tourists. In the afternoon we had an abortive attempt to show him the cool shady loveliness of a nap in the Botanical gardens, but were rudely interrupted by a security guard who refused to allow us to lie on the grass. Fair enough, far be it from me to want to relax in a park. So we lay down on the gravel path. Now Tom Stubbs only needs a five minute nap to recover from 24 hours of sleepless travel but before minutes had passed our buddy was back, growling jefe, you must get up. So an attempted nap on a park bench. This was also interrupted and abandoned. Our peaceful haven had been turned into a war zone. But, knowing the strength of the Argentine Botanical Association, we recognized defeat and beat a rapid retreat. We were refreshed by hot showers and a drink on a rooftop terrace overlooking Plaza Serrano, the lively beating heart of Palermo. Afterwards we met up with a friend of a friend of my dads who took us out to dinner. Just so happened this distant acquaintance was a super chic Argentine couple who were world travelers, lived in the fanciest part of town, and only went to the finest restaurants. We were sitting two tables down from the former president of Argentina. Yes, that kind of fancy restaurant. This was our first opportunity for real Argentine Parilla (grill) of the highest order, so we ordered steak, steak, and steak, with a side of malbec (generally regarded as Argentinas viticultural specialty). Incredibly, after a starter of sausage, grilled pork fat, and cheese, the meal arrived an it truly was just a steak. Not steak and potatoes, nor steak and salad but steak, a steak that weighs the same as my little sister and was as big as my head (which if you know is pretty big sometimes). The steak were huge. Eating them was a Herculean feat that required strategy and stamina, and large quantities of water. Little did we know, we would wake up later in the night sweating feverishly and screaming" No More please I just want water". But in fact the meal was excellent, the wine good, the restaurant stunning, and the chic company very entertaining. We slept like the dead that night.
From here our adventures took a dramatic turn that lasted through every moment of the two weeks my dad was with us. Now Casey and I are adventurous, no doubt, but with Tom Stubbs at the helm, adventures take on a fever pitch. With no respite, save for five minute afternoon naps. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We haven't even left BA yet. That first afternoon we had a luxuriant lunch of guacamole grilled chicken under the cool shelter of the trees at las cabras, and then spent the afternoon giving dad a tour of Palermo, our part of town which we now knew like locals. Or at least like moderately well established tourists. In the afternoon we had an abortive attempt to show him the cool shady loveliness of a nap in the Botanical gardens, but were rudely interrupted by a security guard who refused to allow us to lie on the grass. Fair enough, far be it from me to want to relax in a park. So we lay down on the gravel path. Now Tom Stubbs only needs a five minute nap to recover from 24 hours of sleepless travel but before minutes had passed our buddy was back, growling jefe, you must get up. So an attempted nap on a park bench. This was also interrupted and abandoned. Our peaceful haven had been turned into a war zone. But, knowing the strength of the Argentine Botanical Association, we recognized defeat and beat a rapid retreat. We were refreshed by hot showers and a drink on a rooftop terrace overlooking Plaza Serrano, the lively beating heart of Palermo. Afterwards we met up with a friend of a friend of my dads who took us out to dinner. Just so happened this distant acquaintance was a super chic Argentine couple who were world travelers, lived in the fanciest part of town, and only went to the finest restaurants. We were sitting two tables down from the former president of Argentina. Yes, that kind of fancy restaurant. This was our first opportunity for real Argentine Parilla (grill) of the highest order, so we ordered steak, steak, and steak, with a side of malbec (generally regarded as Argentinas viticultural specialty). Incredibly, after a starter of sausage, grilled pork fat, and cheese, the meal arrived an it truly was just a steak. Not steak and potatoes, nor steak and salad but steak, a steak that weighs the same as my little sister and was as big as my head (which if you know is pretty big sometimes). The steak were huge. Eating them was a Herculean feat that required strategy and stamina, and large quantities of water. Little did we know, we would wake up later in the night sweating feverishly and screaming" No More please I just want water". But in fact the meal was excellent, the wine good, the restaurant stunning, and the chic company very entertaining. We slept like the dead that night.
For a few days, having established ourselves in Buenos Aires and gotten the lay of the land, and with my eye fairly excruciating, we wander and soak up a few favorite spots. There are the botanical gardens, where long afternoon reading sessions interrupted only by naps take place on a regular basis. There is also the little cafe (called Las Cabras) where we go in the evening for mate (amazing Argentinian drink, similar to green tea but drunk out of a gourd) which leaves us buzzing with a natural version of caffeine. We try not to spend too much money on food in an extremely expensive city, with mixed results. Snack foods (especially empanadas) are delicious, and strangely, the fast food is far superior to fast food in the US due to extremely high quality beef being absurdly easy to find. The highlight of these days of soaking up the city is a visit to the Sunday fair in Recoleta, the nicest part of town. We spend hours wandering down long lanes of beautifully crafted handmade goods, lured by the glimmering Argentine silver and beautiful wood carving. As well as the ubiquitous mate gourds. Finally, after a lunch of empanadas, we collapse in a sun drained stupor on the packed lawn, where dozens of local porteno family lounge in sunday afternoon bliss. As a local guitarist veins to croon Latin American pop songs, we realize we are getting a tiny glimpse of real Argentina, real Recoleta. It is a wonderful, fulfilling, sun drenched afternoon. After days Like this, I sleep long hours in the evening relaxing my otherwise exhausted eyes, and Casey plays music with an amazing Australian guitarist and a band of other interesting folks from all over the world. There is no where quite like a hostel for meeting like minded people. Except, perhaps, a train station.
There was also the drama of the Brazilian Consulate. Now we knew at this point that we were going to be visiting the Grahams (who I stayed with in London) at their house in Brazil, where they live part of the year. As a UK citizen I didn't need a visa but for silly burocratic reasons having to do with the stubbornness of the US government, Casey, as an American citizen, has to have a tourist visa. He had tried to get one in London but they had said it would be easier at the consulate in Buenos Aires.
Everyone has dealt with difficult burocracies like this (think the DMV on steroids, with major governmental backing) and this was no exception. We finally found the embassy, which was cleverly hidden, and ascended to the appropriate floor. After going through a very half hearted security check, we found ourselves in a room with several other people and no one at any of the 6 attending desks. Finally a large woman with a thicket of frizzled black hair came bustling out, accusative, as if we had interrupted her lunch break (hard to imagine at 9am). "whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?!?" she demanded, as if she honestly could not imagine why two travelers had come to the Visa Desk of the Brazilian Consulate. When we told her that we (duh) had come to ask about getting a visa she said nonononono (the wizard will not see you now) you have to make an appointment or come back on Monday VERY early in the morning. Then she shuffled away. We waited until finally she returned whatwhatwhatwhatwhat!?!? We asked, with gentile calmness, if we could make an appointment now. Nonononono do it on the website. We left, discouraged but not defeated. There was absolutely no possibility of making an appointment so we returned very early Monday. We had been planning to be there by 7:30 since the doors, said the website, opened at 8. But we slept through our alarm and arrived, very much still asleep despite having traveled the subway and walked several miles (the subway in BA is fairly limited so there are always long distances to walk even when you do ride it) at 8. I had had a dream the night before, a premonition, that if we wore nice clothes everything would go smoothly. So there we were, decked out in my wrinkled white shirt from my Europa capital days a rumpled gray shirt Casey had picked up in Spain. Our finest finery. We were ready to do gentlemanly battle with mrs. Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat. But as it turned out the doors did not open till 9 (which One has to suppose is the Brazilian definition of VERY early). So we sat outside and watched mournfully as a crowd of visa petitioners just like us began to arrive. Of the ten or so people outside the embassy, most of them American, not on made eye contact with another. We all knew that we were there for the same purpose and we all wanted to win. The air was thick with tension. Finally the doors opened and we all streamed forward aggressively. Casey then made a brilliant move, like a chess player forcing a check mate. He elegantly opened the door for a very impatient Mrs. Whatwhat, offering a gentlemanly smile and a warm good morning. She smiled, barely, and we sensed that we might have just won ten points. But that left us at the back of a long line. We crowded into the office and filed into the Visa Line. There were two very ominous American boys, maybe a few years older than us, but clearly with similar intentions (the bastards, how dare they go to brazil, We are going to brazil), who were extremely well dressed and carried intimidating manilla folders full of official 'documentation. Folders!! I though, Alas!! Casey meanwhile pulled out a very tattered brazil itinerary, a half
completed application form, and his ragged passport. I began to lose hope. They had folders! But then, the tides turned. The two Americans stood with Mrs. WWWW (WhatWhatWhatWhat!! she yelled at them repeatedly) and she demanded to know the phone number of their hostel. They turned around, forlorn, and asked if anyone in the room had a lonely planet guidebook. Oh yes, I responded, charming and benevolent, indeed I do believe it seems I do. Out the guidebook
came with a flourish and with that simple graceful gesture, all the tension in the room, at least on this side of the desk, was evaporated. We were all on the same team. All American, all travelers, boldly going where (according to mrs wwww petulant sense of surprise, no man had traveled before). We were all in this together, rebel fighters against the vast overwhelming powers of the Evil Embassy of Death. We smiled and joked and told DMV stories with the others in line and the room filled up with golden light. On the other side of the desk of course, it was all still stormclouds. The two Americans finally turned away, having failed utterly (losers!!! Take that!!!) and we stepped up to the desk. And before she could even say you know what (whatwhat) Casey played his ace, with all the suave, mysterious charm of a Casanova. How are you? He asked her. And she melted. It was clear that no one in her illustrious career (which had evidently gone on far too long) had ever asked her that question, certainly not as warmly and genuinely as Casey had done. She beamed back for 2/5 of a second and then her expression closed up and she responded stalwartly: fine. But we had broken through the storm clouds, released a tiny ray of sunlight. Now, instead of Demanding passports and documents, she simply asked for them. We couldn't help holding our breath as she stamped forms and flipped through papers. It actually looked like we were going to make it. But then she stopped and we realized, with a sinking feeling, that we had run into the same obstacle as the two Americans who had failed before us. She wanted our address and phone number in Brazil. Ok, I said brightly, and then wondered what the hell
I was going to write. I didn't know the Grahams address so I scribbled down as many words as I could remember, the region, nearby town, name of family. As an afterthought, I also put down my dads phone number, sure that even if they did call him, he would cover for us. Meanwhile, mrs. Ww had escaped behind the screen into the staff area, where she always eagerly ran off whenever there was the slightest pause in the proceedings. Though she was under the pretext of doing official business, it was easy to imagine she was just escaping for coffee and gossip. She returned, skimmed over what I had written, and looked deeply dissatisfied. She looked up at us, and her eyes narrowed. Bring more information tomorrow, just in case. And go settle the payment at the bank. To our incredulous excitement, the slip she handed us said "visa pickup tomorrow 12:00." We had done it.
The visa itself, of course, looks beautiful, elegantly adorning Casey's Passport. Sweet victory.
Everyone has dealt with difficult burocracies like this (think the DMV on steroids, with major governmental backing) and this was no exception. We finally found the embassy, which was cleverly hidden, and ascended to the appropriate floor. After going through a very half hearted security check, we found ourselves in a room with several other people and no one at any of the 6 attending desks. Finally a large woman with a thicket of frizzled black hair came bustling out, accusative, as if we had interrupted her lunch break (hard to imagine at 9am). "whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?!?" she demanded, as if she honestly could not imagine why two travelers had come to the Visa Desk of the Brazilian Consulate. When we told her that we (duh) had come to ask about getting a visa she said nonononono (the wizard will not see you now) you have to make an appointment or come back on Monday VERY early in the morning. Then she shuffled away. We waited until finally she returned whatwhatwhatwhatwhat!?!? We asked, with gentile calmness, if we could make an appointment now. Nonononono do it on the website. We left, discouraged but not defeated. There was absolutely no possibility of making an appointment so we returned very early Monday. We had been planning to be there by 7:30 since the doors, said the website, opened at 8. But we slept through our alarm and arrived, very much still asleep despite having traveled the subway and walked several miles (the subway in BA is fairly limited so there are always long distances to walk even when you do ride it) at 8. I had had a dream the night before, a premonition, that if we wore nice clothes everything would go smoothly. So there we were, decked out in my wrinkled white shirt from my Europa capital days a rumpled gray shirt Casey had picked up in Spain. Our finest finery. We were ready to do gentlemanly battle with mrs. Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat. But as it turned out the doors did not open till 9 (which One has to suppose is the Brazilian definition of VERY early). So we sat outside and watched mournfully as a crowd of visa petitioners just like us began to arrive. Of the ten or so people outside the embassy, most of them American, not on made eye contact with another. We all knew that we were there for the same purpose and we all wanted to win. The air was thick with tension. Finally the doors opened and we all streamed forward aggressively. Casey then made a brilliant move, like a chess player forcing a check mate. He elegantly opened the door for a very impatient Mrs. Whatwhat, offering a gentlemanly smile and a warm good morning. She smiled, barely, and we sensed that we might have just won ten points. But that left us at the back of a long line. We crowded into the office and filed into the Visa Line. There were two very ominous American boys, maybe a few years older than us, but clearly with similar intentions (the bastards, how dare they go to brazil, We are going to brazil), who were extremely well dressed and carried intimidating manilla folders full of official 'documentation. Folders!! I though, Alas!! Casey meanwhile pulled out a very tattered brazil itinerary, a half
completed application form, and his ragged passport. I began to lose hope. They had folders! But then, the tides turned. The two Americans stood with Mrs. WWWW (WhatWhatWhatWhat!! she yelled at them repeatedly) and she demanded to know the phone number of their hostel. They turned around, forlorn, and asked if anyone in the room had a lonely planet guidebook. Oh yes, I responded, charming and benevolent, indeed I do believe it seems I do. Out the guidebook
came with a flourish and with that simple graceful gesture, all the tension in the room, at least on this side of the desk, was evaporated. We were all on the same team. All American, all travelers, boldly going where (according to mrs wwww petulant sense of surprise, no man had traveled before). We were all in this together, rebel fighters against the vast overwhelming powers of the Evil Embassy of Death. We smiled and joked and told DMV stories with the others in line and the room filled up with golden light. On the other side of the desk of course, it was all still stormclouds. The two Americans finally turned away, having failed utterly (losers!!! Take that!!!) and we stepped up to the desk. And before she could even say you know what (whatwhat) Casey played his ace, with all the suave, mysterious charm of a Casanova. How are you? He asked her. And she melted. It was clear that no one in her illustrious career (which had evidently gone on far too long) had ever asked her that question, certainly not as warmly and genuinely as Casey had done. She beamed back for 2/5 of a second and then her expression closed up and she responded stalwartly: fine. But we had broken through the storm clouds, released a tiny ray of sunlight. Now, instead of Demanding passports and documents, she simply asked for them. We couldn't help holding our breath as she stamped forms and flipped through papers. It actually looked like we were going to make it. But then she stopped and we realized, with a sinking feeling, that we had run into the same obstacle as the two Americans who had failed before us. She wanted our address and phone number in Brazil. Ok, I said brightly, and then wondered what the hell
I was going to write. I didn't know the Grahams address so I scribbled down as many words as I could remember, the region, nearby town, name of family. As an afterthought, I also put down my dads phone number, sure that even if they did call him, he would cover for us. Meanwhile, mrs. Ww had escaped behind the screen into the staff area, where she always eagerly ran off whenever there was the slightest pause in the proceedings. Though she was under the pretext of doing official business, it was easy to imagine she was just escaping for coffee and gossip. She returned, skimmed over what I had written, and looked deeply dissatisfied. She looked up at us, and her eyes narrowed. Bring more information tomorrow, just in case. And go settle the payment at the bank. To our incredulous excitement, the slip she handed us said "visa pickup tomorrow 12:00." We had done it.
The visa itself, of course, looks beautiful, elegantly adorning Casey's Passport. Sweet victory.
That night began a tedious and dramatic problem that has plagued us for weeks since. The crisis is now averted, so I will write about it's full course to spare it from the rest of the story, and because it did in fact effect much of the rest of the journey.
In the night, lying in the nocturnal heat of the city, my eyes began to weep, uncontrollably. I wiped at them all night but realized that something was really wrong. They had bothered me ever since working in Ehrwald due to overexposure to the sun (combined with snow) that had made my eyes dry and week. For several days before that night they had been seriously bothering me but, used to the difficulties of eyes, especially with contact lenses, I expected to simply let them heal, as eyes can in fact do with remarkable speed under most circumstances. But with that weeping night it was clear something should be done. The US embassy website listed good doctors and I went to one I knew was in the most expensive part of Buenos Aires, figuring that might increase the chances of a good doctor. Me and Casey made our way there with me in fairly excruciating pain . Imagine lots of sand in both eyes, but you can't blink it out. Closing your eyes hurts, and opening them hurts even more. So slowly we made our way there, and I sat in a waiting room for a couple hours with a dozen others, nodding in and out of consciousness partly from pain but mostly from exhaustion and heat. Finally I was called in, where a sweet opthamologist took very kind cautious care of my eyes and informed me that I had a corneal ulcer, like a vast (3 millimeters across!!) scab on my eye that was refusing to heal. She prescribed antibiotics and a huge eyepatch of white gauze and tape and told me to return the next day. The next few days, though the eye slowly healed and was decreasingly painful, I was essentially an invalid. At first, it was too painful to focus on anything so I just slept and lay in the dark for hours while Casey made buddies with musicians around the hostel. But as it became less painfully I still had the problem of the eye patch. Navigating the huge, packed, dusty streets with no peripheral vision or depth perception was quite a challenge, but I slowly improved, with Casey occasionally steering me and telling me when I could and could not cross streets. In fact, Casey was a great doctor, administering my eye drop antibiotics and my eye-goop medication which apparently was meant to form a protective coating around the eye. The corneal ulcer healed surely, and I finally removed my eyepatch. By this time I was wearing a much cooler, more intimidating black pirate eyepatch. Little kids were fascinated by my condition and would grab their mommies arm to say "what's the problem with his eye mama?" it took a lot of self restraint not to make monster noises and really freak them out. The best reaction I ever got was when I passed a group of little girls on my way to the bathroom, and while there took off the eyepatch for the evening (it was healed enough that this was ok) and then returned. They had slightly oohed and aahed when I passed with the eye patch moments earlier but when I passed without it they were simply stunned. A couple times when people asked what happened I would make up an interesting sorry but after one exchange, where I told a woman I had been mauled by a tiger and she said "really, was that while you were in Europe?" I realized that the drama and humor couldn't withstand the translation.
So eventually one corneal ulcer healed but then the other eye, exhausted from
doing all the work for a week, began to break down as well. I saw another doctor (by now we were in a strange little coastal Patagonian town, but more on that later) who informed
me that I had keratitis, as a result of the snowblindness I had suffered. Keratitis is like a dozen smaller corneal ulcers. Just wonderful. But after a couple days with him and more new antibiotics, I continued with my eyes almost fully restored. At this point I had several long phone consultations with doctors back in the states. Urged by my parents desire for my health, I was considering traveling home to get to the bottom of this problem. The general consensus among the doctors was that keratitis was not extremely dangerous, just took a very long time to heal. By now I had been forbidden from wearing contact lenses and had a new pair of glasses and super strong sun glasses to be worn at all times. My eyes, through all of this, were extremely, and I mean EXtremely sensitive to the sun, but with ultra heavy duty sunglasses and a hat I could usually survive. I did (and do actually, the sun sensitivity is the only part that continues) spend a lot of time looking at the ground and missing out on scenery, but I'm sure I haven't missed too much. One of my eyes worsened again and we spent a week camping in a little town (the town with the only opthamologist for a 1000 miles, seriously) but at the end of this the doctor sent me on my way with no eye patch, no pain, and lots more fancy medications. That brings the story of my annoying eyes to the present, where they are currently quite comfortable but still slowly healing. The doctors in the US said that as a result of snowblindness they need to grow a new epithileum, which I assume is some sort of outer protective layer, and this is the reason for the continued over sensitivity. But I got a very suave new pair of glasses out of the deal so I guess its not all bad.
In the night, lying in the nocturnal heat of the city, my eyes began to weep, uncontrollably. I wiped at them all night but realized that something was really wrong. They had bothered me ever since working in Ehrwald due to overexposure to the sun (combined with snow) that had made my eyes dry and week. For several days before that night they had been seriously bothering me but, used to the difficulties of eyes, especially with contact lenses, I expected to simply let them heal, as eyes can in fact do with remarkable speed under most circumstances. But with that weeping night it was clear something should be done. The US embassy website listed good doctors and I went to one I knew was in the most expensive part of Buenos Aires, figuring that might increase the chances of a good doctor. Me and Casey made our way there with me in fairly excruciating pain . Imagine lots of sand in both eyes, but you can't blink it out. Closing your eyes hurts, and opening them hurts even more. So slowly we made our way there, and I sat in a waiting room for a couple hours with a dozen others, nodding in and out of consciousness partly from pain but mostly from exhaustion and heat. Finally I was called in, where a sweet opthamologist took very kind cautious care of my eyes and informed me that I had a corneal ulcer, like a vast (3 millimeters across!!) scab on my eye that was refusing to heal. She prescribed antibiotics and a huge eyepatch of white gauze and tape and told me to return the next day. The next few days, though the eye slowly healed and was decreasingly painful, I was essentially an invalid. At first, it was too painful to focus on anything so I just slept and lay in the dark for hours while Casey made buddies with musicians around the hostel. But as it became less painfully I still had the problem of the eye patch. Navigating the huge, packed, dusty streets with no peripheral vision or depth perception was quite a challenge, but I slowly improved, with Casey occasionally steering me and telling me when I could and could not cross streets. In fact, Casey was a great doctor, administering my eye drop antibiotics and my eye-goop medication which apparently was meant to form a protective coating around the eye. The corneal ulcer healed surely, and I finally removed my eyepatch. By this time I was wearing a much cooler, more intimidating black pirate eyepatch. Little kids were fascinated by my condition and would grab their mommies arm to say "what's the problem with his eye mama?" it took a lot of self restraint not to make monster noises and really freak them out. The best reaction I ever got was when I passed a group of little girls on my way to the bathroom, and while there took off the eyepatch for the evening (it was healed enough that this was ok) and then returned. They had slightly oohed and aahed when I passed with the eye patch moments earlier but when I passed without it they were simply stunned. A couple times when people asked what happened I would make up an interesting sorry but after one exchange, where I told a woman I had been mauled by a tiger and she said "really, was that while you were in Europe?" I realized that the drama and humor couldn't withstand the translation.
So eventually one corneal ulcer healed but then the other eye, exhausted from
doing all the work for a week, began to break down as well. I saw another doctor (by now we were in a strange little coastal Patagonian town, but more on that later) who informed
me that I had keratitis, as a result of the snowblindness I had suffered. Keratitis is like a dozen smaller corneal ulcers. Just wonderful. But after a couple days with him and more new antibiotics, I continued with my eyes almost fully restored. At this point I had several long phone consultations with doctors back in the states. Urged by my parents desire for my health, I was considering traveling home to get to the bottom of this problem. The general consensus among the doctors was that keratitis was not extremely dangerous, just took a very long time to heal. By now I had been forbidden from wearing contact lenses and had a new pair of glasses and super strong sun glasses to be worn at all times. My eyes, through all of this, were extremely, and I mean EXtremely sensitive to the sun, but with ultra heavy duty sunglasses and a hat I could usually survive. I did (and do actually, the sun sensitivity is the only part that continues) spend a lot of time looking at the ground and missing out on scenery, but I'm sure I haven't missed too much. One of my eyes worsened again and we spent a week camping in a little town (the town with the only opthamologist for a 1000 miles, seriously) but at the end of this the doctor sent me on my way with no eye patch, no pain, and lots more fancy medications. That brings the story of my annoying eyes to the present, where they are currently quite comfortable but still slowly healing. The doctors in the US said that as a result of snowblindness they need to grow a new epithileum, which I assume is some sort of outer protective layer, and this is the reason for the continued over sensitivity. But I got a very suave new pair of glasses out of the deal so I guess its not all bad.
The next morning we rose, still riding the wave of exhilaration at our new world. We had ambitious plans to see much of the City. First we sped by subway (hot and sticky and crowded underground, always) to the Plaza de Mayo and the Avenida de Mayo, the beating heart of the city. There we wandered round the Casa Rosada, the seat of government and famous crooning point of Evita. It stood elegantly over a leafy plaza where protesters camped and picketed, most noticeably the "mothers of the disappeared," a heart-wrenching group of mothers demanding that the government somehow explain the mass disappearance of thousands of argentines in the Dirty War, only a few decades ago. After witness this center, and the avenue, which is clearly the center of commerce and traffic and the crossing paths of various people aimed in various directions, we turned onto Florida, the pedestrianized vein of utter tourism in the city center. Dozens of glittery, undesirable objects glinted up at us, as we pressed through crowds. Now, we as a pair don't look (in my opinion) very touristy or very vulnerable, but here we made again a slip that made us instant targets. We took out the guidebook to glance at a map and get oriented. But two teenaged boys swept in, first begging money then demanding it, then ominously grabbing Casey arm and moving around us. Ultimately we made an excuse and bolted away into the tangle of people and way up the street. This did nothing to abet our growing uneasiness with these big crowded throbbing centers of the city. But on we went, down narrow streets into San Telmo, the exciting, edgy, artsy part of town. It was packed with antique shops of staggering scale selling everything from vast collections of silver and crystal to (gulp) real Nazi peraphanalia, presumably from the swarm of Nazis (including, apparently, Mengele and Bohrmann) that escaped down here after the war under the shelter of the questionable Peron Government. The dark dusty shops and warehouses were fascinating, quite unlike anything we had seen thus far, but there was little that appealed in a practical sense to two budgeting backpackers. We tried to leaf through a vast old record collection, but the vendor refused to let us continue until we told him exactly which record we were looking for. An impossible question, so we moved on. We had a vast lunch at a great little restaurant of Milanesa (breaded steak) with potatoes and Quilmes. Stuffed, we made our way to a cool hill top park where we watched people walking dogs and old men competing fiercely at chess. Then we made our way to Plaza Dorega, the heart of San Telmo. We watched a luscious tango show in the center of the square, marveling at the incredible nature of a dance at once so controlled and so passionate. We went into an incredible cafe off the plaza. Dark and historic, with names and messages carved into the bar and tables, and rows of dusty old glass bottles along the walls, the place was pulsating with Buenos Aires. We ordered submarinos, an Argentine favorite (and now a favorite of ours too!) of boiled milk with a whole chocolate bar dropped wonderfully in. Sitting there, looking out on the plaza, was utterly perfect in every way imaginable. We also made a friend in a street vendor who wanted to chat with us and show us how he crested his wares, beautiful, meticulously created necklaces and earrings of beaten metal, even when he realized we were not very promising potential customers. Finally, we walked back to the center via Puerto Madero, the up and coming fancy new district of the city, with glittering new office buildings and executive-looking restaurants. It was a waterfront (along a series of canals) and a cool breeze slept, thankfully off the water.
The end of the day was a beer on the rooftop of the hostel with some of the other people staying there, and then a deep sleep. It is quite possible that we saw more of Buenos Aires that day than any visitor has ever done in a single day
The end of the day was a beer on the rooftop of the hostel with some of the other people staying there, and then a deep sleep. It is quite possible that we saw more of Buenos Aires that day than any visitor has ever done in a single day
Landing in Buenos Aires left us, even seasoned to the rapid and unpredictable vicissitudes of travel as we were, a bit stunned. We sat on the curb out front of the airport for several minutes with the warm wind wrapping welcoming around us. We gathered ourselves and took in the departure from Europe, our home of some 6 months, and what had become our familiar ground. We took in the vast shift in the dynamic of where we had left, foggy, energetic, focused, draining London, and the vastly different and thus far totally undiscovered Buenos Aires. After a few quiet moments of shock and awe blending with fierce anticipation, we picked up our bags and instruments, so well known now as to feel almost weightless, and made our way into the vast city center. Still wrapped mostly in layers of clothing adequate for cool European spring we were soon overheated and sweating in sticky South American heat. We sailed smoothly into town, to a hostel called GIramondo, a brightly colored, light filled old mansion (BA, a city of such severe and rapid economic ups and downs, has plenty of converted mansions) that seemed perfect, but did not solve our now urgent need for food and drink. After wandering for a few minutes, we found ourselves in the grassy, sun drenched back patio of a little restaurant, drinking coca cola from glass bottles that dripped with condensation. Lunch could not possibly have been nicer or simpler. Two grilled chicken breasts on beds of fresh greens, all with a hint of balsamic vinegar, with freshly baked bread. Eating this, in the warmth and sunshine, in our new city, at the start of a whole new string of adventures, was almost too sweet and good to be true, and we beamed through the whole meal.
After lunch we began what would he several days of endless wandering through what is really a vast city. Buenos Aires has 12 million people and has multiple central areas so it is totally unlike the small, clustered European cities we had gotten so used o navigating on foot. Luckily for us, our hostel is in Palermo, definitively the nicest neighborhood in the city, with quiet tree-filled streets and great restaurants and huge gorgeous green parks. We spent our afternoon exploring first the trendy. shop-filled Palermo Soho, and then the quieter, elegant Palermo Hollywood, as the north and south ends of the neighborhood have been nicknamed.
We made an obligatory and quote interesting stop at the Museo de Evita. Evita, merely a fascinating and endearing heroine back home, is literally treated as a saint in Argentina, and so to see this veritable shrine to her definitely said something about the people of the country where we would be spending several months.
As the afternoon wore on, we found ourselves wandering through the divine, cool leafy spaces of the cities beautiful botanical gardens. Drained by travel, heat, and te excitement of the new city, we collapsed gratefully on the co green grass and lounged luxuriantly as evening fell. The gardens are like a perfectly manicured jungle, exquisite.
In the evening we found a one of a kind restaurant in Palermo Hollywood, sheltered from the street by vast, sound muffling trees, and decorated in bright green and red. We drank Quilmes, Argentina's national beer. Though are palates are growing to be somewhat sophisticated having tasted ales and lagers from England to Austria, we enjoyed this Argentine specialty immensely.
After a pitstop at the hostel, we headed ambitiously far into the center of the city for a good cheap meal. After a good deal of walking it became clear we did not yet understand the scale of this city, and we decided to hop on the subway, which, it turned out, was incredibly cheap and efficient. We sped toward our destination but when we disembarked I made a mistake. I took out my IPhone to check the address of the restaurant and suddenly a hand wrapped around it's shining form to snatch it from my grasp. Instinctively my fingers flexed and gripped fiercely. The tug of war lasted only milliseconds and then the boy bolted away down the street ad disappeared, hands empty. Now we were shook up (not in kansas anymore (or California, or Europe)) and we struggled to find the restaurant in a hyperparanoid state of awareness. We actually spotted the boy again, and he and his buddy leered at us, but other than that it was all a series of shadows and noises and the endless rush of the big city that made us jumpy. We finally found the restaurant but somewhere in between the writing of our lonely planet guidebook and the present it had transformed from cheap good value family eatery into upscale bistro. We couldn't begin to splurge on meals just yet so, distraught and disoriented, we made our way laboriously back to Palermo, where we found our way into a big pizzeria (Argentina, with it's huge Italian population and culture, has amazing Italian food) where, glassy-eyed and motionless with fatigue, we ordered a vast pizza which we couldn't finish but brought back with us to the hostel. Back in Palermo we felt again safe and comfortable and relaxed, and we slept soundly that night, despite the heat and the rush of traffic only a few feet away outside.
After lunch we began what would he several days of endless wandering through what is really a vast city. Buenos Aires has 12 million people and has multiple central areas so it is totally unlike the small, clustered European cities we had gotten so used o navigating on foot. Luckily for us, our hostel is in Palermo, definitively the nicest neighborhood in the city, with quiet tree-filled streets and great restaurants and huge gorgeous green parks. We spent our afternoon exploring first the trendy. shop-filled Palermo Soho, and then the quieter, elegant Palermo Hollywood, as the north and south ends of the neighborhood have been nicknamed.
We made an obligatory and quote interesting stop at the Museo de Evita. Evita, merely a fascinating and endearing heroine back home, is literally treated as a saint in Argentina, and so to see this veritable shrine to her definitely said something about the people of the country where we would be spending several months.
As the afternoon wore on, we found ourselves wandering through the divine, cool leafy spaces of the cities beautiful botanical gardens. Drained by travel, heat, and te excitement of the new city, we collapsed gratefully on the co green grass and lounged luxuriantly as evening fell. The gardens are like a perfectly manicured jungle, exquisite.
In the evening we found a one of a kind restaurant in Palermo Hollywood, sheltered from the street by vast, sound muffling trees, and decorated in bright green and red. We drank Quilmes, Argentina's national beer. Though are palates are growing to be somewhat sophisticated having tasted ales and lagers from England to Austria, we enjoyed this Argentine specialty immensely.
After a pitstop at the hostel, we headed ambitiously far into the center of the city for a good cheap meal. After a good deal of walking it became clear we did not yet understand the scale of this city, and we decided to hop on the subway, which, it turned out, was incredibly cheap and efficient. We sped toward our destination but when we disembarked I made a mistake. I took out my IPhone to check the address of the restaurant and suddenly a hand wrapped around it's shining form to snatch it from my grasp. Instinctively my fingers flexed and gripped fiercely. The tug of war lasted only milliseconds and then the boy bolted away down the street ad disappeared, hands empty. Now we were shook up (not in kansas anymore (or California, or Europe)) and we struggled to find the restaurant in a hyperparanoid state of awareness. We actually spotted the boy again, and he and his buddy leered at us, but other than that it was all a series of shadows and noises and the endless rush of the big city that made us jumpy. We finally found the restaurant but somewhere in between the writing of our lonely planet guidebook and the present it had transformed from cheap good value family eatery into upscale bistro. We couldn't begin to splurge on meals just yet so, distraught and disoriented, we made our way laboriously back to Palermo, where we found our way into a big pizzeria (Argentina, with it's huge Italian population and culture, has amazing Italian food) where, glassy-eyed and motionless with fatigue, we ordered a vast pizza which we couldn't finish but brought back with us to the hostel. Back in Palermo we felt again safe and comfortable and relaxed, and we slept soundly that night, despite the heat and the rush of traffic only a few feet away outside.
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