Horcon was what I imagined and hoped coastal South America would be like. One dusty road ran downhill through the town and culminated in a beautiful chaos of fisherman and fishmongers crowded on the frothing shores of the Pacific. The fisherman, dressed in bright, hazard orange foul weather gear and frumpy stocking caps, sat in big wooden dories, mending their nets and sorting their match. Their faces wore the barnacle-like blemishes indicative of their ruddy occupation. Passing around a communal bottle of Brahmas, perhaps the first beer of the morning, the fisherman went about their tasks in a sedated fashion. The fish mongers called out the day´s deals to the gathering crowd of restaurant owners, local hippies, and passing spectators. When the loads of fish were transferred to the hands of the makeshift market, a young boy on horseback pulled the dories back out to sea. Once freed from the shallows, one fisherman began to row the dorie´s´s long oars while the other hurried to bring the archaic engine to life. They past sneakily through the rocky crown that protected Horcon, then entered back into the bosom of the Pacific for another outing.
The scene was intoxicating. I stood there for an immeasurable amount of time, engrossed in the systematic mayhem of Horcon´s daily happenings. What made the experience all the more seductive was the undeniable fact that I was the only gringo in the town. For better and for worse, this became the theme of my time in Horcon.
After indulging in a catch-of-the-day meal at a restaurant on the coast, I trudged back uphill to continue my search for lodgings. When in became clear that camping was reserved for Horcon´s hippy faction, a community I did not have the energy or backbone to infiltrate for a place to camp, I resorted to finding a room in one of the town´s various cabanas. After some failed attempts, I was directed to a man who might have a more affordable option for me. I rang the bell from outside a wooden gate, and a aged man appeared in the doorway. He walked shakily up to me, unlocked the gate, and asked what my business was. When I told him I was looking for a room, and detecting that I was American, his droopy face lifted into a youthful smile. Turned out the man split his time in Seattle. He was overjoyed that an American had wandered to his doorstep. He brought me into his house and introduced me to his wife. The two spoke spotty English which they interchanged with Spanish. After a few minutes of passing pleasantries, the man led me uphill to a property where the room was located.
Workers, all of whom the man introduced me to, hurried around the site, wielding hammers and paint brushes. The building was clearly undergoing a serious face lift. We walked along a cement path dusted with wood chips to a knobless door. The man struggled for a few awkward moments locating the key. Finally he inserted the correct one, and pushed open the door. A gust of musty air escaped from the room. Inside, a lone, unmade mattress sat in a dimly lit rectangle of unfinished sheet rock. I entered. The room smelt like an damp, old towel. It had a tiny bathroom, with a toilet and sink-but no shower. I learned later, only after using the toilet, that it lacked sufficient water to be flushed. On the positive side, the room´s only window had an excellent view of the Pacific and I could hear the crashing waves from below. ¨Diez mil pesos¨- Ten thousand pesos, the man said. The price was exorbitant- the most I had been charged for a room in Chile. But he was a good man, and I figured my night´s rent would help him finish the renovation. More importantly, I had not where else to go.
I set down my pack, changed into some swim trunks, and had a walk down to the beach. The man, also on his way to town, accompanied me. He waved to passing people like a statesman, often stopping to introduce me to some old cronies. ¨Le presenta Ruby. Es de Boston en Los Estados Unidos.¨ On our walk, the man elaborated how far off the tourist trail I was. Horcon does not receive much, if any, international tourism. Travelers heading along Chile´s coast most readily stop at Valparaiso or Viña del Mar. Two word´s in my guide book´s brief blurb on Horcon brought me there: Nude beach. I have never had a tan who-who-ee, and I figured this trip was the best opportunity to try one on. I did not tell this to the man, who was intensely curious on how I ended up in Horcon. ¨Im trying to get away from all the Israelis¨, I jokingly lied in Spanish. He nodded approvingly.
I often forget, as I did then, how unapologetically conspicuous I look in South America. For no other reason than there has been no good reason to do so, I have not had a haircut in over two in a half years. My bright blond split ends fall well past my solders. Over the past three months, I have not shaved my goatee which now hangs in a scraggly, sun bleached mess. In terms of my backpacking appearance, I have employed my father´s philosophy for jury duty: look as crazy as possible and they will probably not pick you. Down here, I figure the more unkempt and mentally unsound I look, the less likely someone will harass me. Unfortunately, now in Horcon, exceptionally alone, this philosophy did not prove as effective as times past.
Walking along the shore, my darting eyes hidden behind my trusty shades, I spotted three drunks nestled amongst some beached boulders. Increasingly aware of how foreign I was to everyone, I quickened my step and readied to pass the three swaying men. Spotting me, one of the men wobbled to his feet. The drunk, missing most of his teeth, struggled to chew what looked to be a piece of dried pineapple. Drul slithered from the corners of his mouth. ¨Bon tour!¨, he slurred. Then, ¨Hello.¨ Finally he finished with, ¨Hola.¨ Turning to him in mid step, in the best Chilean accent I could fake, I responded ¨Buenas tardes.¨ I was pleased at how painless the passing was.
Unfortunately, my stroll back from the beach was not so lighthearted. Shuffling through the crowded market place that lines the beach, I spotted a relatively young, clearly intoxicated local bearing down on me. Although I knew he was directing his unsound steps towards me, I was not too concerned. After three beers, my internal focus was pinned on the fact that I urgently needed to find a suitable place to urinate. As the drunk neared, he hustled to a three step trot, then lunged at me, swinging a clenched fist. For some reason I was not alarmed by this in the least bit. In fact, I was anticipating it. The punch stopped inches from my face. ¨Puta¨-Bitch, he spat at me. I passed him, unimpressed by his drunken courage.
Later as the episode began to sink in, I no longer felt as cozy as I once did. I went to bed early, and caught the first bus out of town the next morning.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wandering off the Tourist Trail
After two glorious, sleep saturated nights, my fidgeting bank balance forced me out of the Dutch owned hostel and back into my tent. I set up camp at a site on the far end of Largo Vallairca, away from town. The spot was a good base of operations to nurse my slightly swollen ankle. These lazy days, I sat supine on the beach, people watching and sipping Cristal- not the champagne of course, but Chile´s favorite cerveza. Before long, the slothic routine became draining. Motivated again, I set out early one morning to fish Pucon´s Rio Trancura. The murky river snaked through the mountainous outskirts of town. Monkey puzzle trees covered the mountains making for a scene that I imagine exists in Colombia.
As the sun began to wane on the day, hunger and frustration compelled me back to town. My ankle still on the mend, I stuck out my thumb to hitchhike back to camp. A white van pulled along side me. Peering into the window, a man, women and child sat wedged tightly across the bench seat. The driver waved me to the rear of the windowless van. Opening the door, I was surprised to find six other passengers sprawled out on a old mattress in the back. Having already slung my pack on one shoulder and with the door now open, I was committed to taking the ride. I awkwardly climbed in, and took the only available spot on the mattress next to a women breast feeding a baby who seemed for too old to be breast fed. The baby glared up at me, and with his olive black eyes he seemed to ask ¨What? You want some?¨ The rest of the passengers paid me little mind as if they had been picking up hitchhikers all day. In this moment, I wished I spoke better conversational Spanish. Each silence soaked minute passed painfully. Everyone just stared out the back window as if not wanting to humanize me through conversation because they were just going to kill me anyway. When this unfounded paranoia crawled across my mind, I kindly lied to the driver, saying that this was far enough. I climbed out as awkwardly as I went in and waved everyone a sedated goodbye.
Back at camp, I found that my tent had suffered a major injury. After 36 nights, one of the main posts snapped in half. I gave it a crude fix, a job my contractor friends from home would cringe at, and slept in the tent for one last night in Pucon. One last night in Patagonia.
The following day, around 830 in the evening, I boarded an all night bus North to Viña del Mar, Chile. I arrived shortly after ten in the morning and walked out to meet my first city in nearly three months. The city scape had not changed much. An ambient stench of urine still weighed heavy in the air. Drunks still sat in squalor in the park. An overweight women sat on a street corner feeding hordes of stray dogs and drinking from a box of wine. Grossly underfed horses stood in piles of their own waste, waiting to pull carriage. The only display of humanity I enjoyed was a blind shoe shine sitting neatly on his shinebox, clapping and calling out to the passing footsteps.
Viña was in the midst of its annual, week long music festival. The event is broadcasted throughout Chile, displaying the country´s most talented and beautiful. I failed to glean a good sense of what the event actually entailed. The front page of every Chilean newspaper showed a man wearing a blond wig and a long red dress, dancing across the stage. On one arm was a tattoo of Che Geavara, and on the other, a tattoo of Christ. Whoever he was, the Chileans found him immensely entertaining. For my purposes, Viña week meant there was no space for me in the inn. So I jumped on a regional bus heading North to a little fishing village that won a brief blurb in my guide book.
After about an hour on the small, outdated bus, I realized I was the only remaining passenger. These are always uneasy moments- scanning the passing roadside for signs, wondering if you missed your stop. A sign separating me from the driver read NO HABLAR AL CONDUCTOR- Do not talk to the driver. I abided this mandate for as long as my growing anxiety would allow, then asked ¨¿Cuantos faltan al Horcon?¨ ¨Cinco minutos¨he replied sharply.
Five minutes later, I stood in the bus´s exhaust, plucking my pack from the rarely used compartment at the rear. Walking out of the dusty bus lot and onto Horcon´s only road, I spent the first two hours shopping for a place to stay. Holding the ripped out page from my guide book, I read that there was a place to camp. Staggering around the described location, a women with stringy black hair came out and met me. She explained that I was at the right location, but that she had never offered camping as the book had said. On the road, you learn very quickly that guidebooks are stuffed with much unfounded information. Having to cover large chunks of a country, often on a meager, free-lance budget, travel writers often make up reviews for places. With only a little paragraph describing Horcon, I knew this was the case. The women offered me her patio to camp. I thanked her, but turned down the offer, hoping to find a cheap bed. TO BE CONTINUED...
Note to family: I am heading on a night bus back into Argentina heading towards Mendoza. If the bus passes through a town called Uspallata, I am going to stop there for a few days. I will ring you when I get a chance. Love you!
As the sun began to wane on the day, hunger and frustration compelled me back to town. My ankle still on the mend, I stuck out my thumb to hitchhike back to camp. A white van pulled along side me. Peering into the window, a man, women and child sat wedged tightly across the bench seat. The driver waved me to the rear of the windowless van. Opening the door, I was surprised to find six other passengers sprawled out on a old mattress in the back. Having already slung my pack on one shoulder and with the door now open, I was committed to taking the ride. I awkwardly climbed in, and took the only available spot on the mattress next to a women breast feeding a baby who seemed for too old to be breast fed. The baby glared up at me, and with his olive black eyes he seemed to ask ¨What? You want some?¨ The rest of the passengers paid me little mind as if they had been picking up hitchhikers all day. In this moment, I wished I spoke better conversational Spanish. Each silence soaked minute passed painfully. Everyone just stared out the back window as if not wanting to humanize me through conversation because they were just going to kill me anyway. When this unfounded paranoia crawled across my mind, I kindly lied to the driver, saying that this was far enough. I climbed out as awkwardly as I went in and waved everyone a sedated goodbye.
Back at camp, I found that my tent had suffered a major injury. After 36 nights, one of the main posts snapped in half. I gave it a crude fix, a job my contractor friends from home would cringe at, and slept in the tent for one last night in Pucon. One last night in Patagonia.
The following day, around 830 in the evening, I boarded an all night bus North to Viña del Mar, Chile. I arrived shortly after ten in the morning and walked out to meet my first city in nearly three months. The city scape had not changed much. An ambient stench of urine still weighed heavy in the air. Drunks still sat in squalor in the park. An overweight women sat on a street corner feeding hordes of stray dogs and drinking from a box of wine. Grossly underfed horses stood in piles of their own waste, waiting to pull carriage. The only display of humanity I enjoyed was a blind shoe shine sitting neatly on his shinebox, clapping and calling out to the passing footsteps.
Viña was in the midst of its annual, week long music festival. The event is broadcasted throughout Chile, displaying the country´s most talented and beautiful. I failed to glean a good sense of what the event actually entailed. The front page of every Chilean newspaper showed a man wearing a blond wig and a long red dress, dancing across the stage. On one arm was a tattoo of Che Geavara, and on the other, a tattoo of Christ. Whoever he was, the Chileans found him immensely entertaining. For my purposes, Viña week meant there was no space for me in the inn. So I jumped on a regional bus heading North to a little fishing village that won a brief blurb in my guide book.
After about an hour on the small, outdated bus, I realized I was the only remaining passenger. These are always uneasy moments- scanning the passing roadside for signs, wondering if you missed your stop. A sign separating me from the driver read NO HABLAR AL CONDUCTOR- Do not talk to the driver. I abided this mandate for as long as my growing anxiety would allow, then asked ¨¿Cuantos faltan al Horcon?¨ ¨Cinco minutos¨he replied sharply.
Five minutes later, I stood in the bus´s exhaust, plucking my pack from the rarely used compartment at the rear. Walking out of the dusty bus lot and onto Horcon´s only road, I spent the first two hours shopping for a place to stay. Holding the ripped out page from my guide book, I read that there was a place to camp. Staggering around the described location, a women with stringy black hair came out and met me. She explained that I was at the right location, but that she had never offered camping as the book had said. On the road, you learn very quickly that guidebooks are stuffed with much unfounded information. Having to cover large chunks of a country, often on a meager, free-lance budget, travel writers often make up reviews for places. With only a little paragraph describing Horcon, I knew this was the case. The women offered me her patio to camp. I thanked her, but turned down the offer, hoping to find a cheap bed. TO BE CONTINUED...
Note to family: I am heading on a night bus back into Argentina heading towards Mendoza. If the bus passes through a town called Uspallata, I am going to stop there for a few days. I will ring you when I get a chance. Love you!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Climbing through Pucon
Pucon´s existence hinges on the good graces of Volcano Villarica. The active volcano looms over the town like a lurking shop clerk. Its smokey breath serves as a constant reminder of its potential wrath. Sirens ring out seven times a day, testing Pucon´s alert systems. The prolonged waaang invokes images of students futilely falling under their desks, preparing for nuclear holocaust. Additionally, the sirens inspire you to draw up an exit strategy in the event of an unfortunate eruption. I decided I would flee to the river, rod in tow, and hijack a raft or a dingy. With a volcano erupting recently in Chaiten, Argentina, the merits of having an exit strategy were confirmed.
Practically speaking, Pucon depends on tourism. Its principal streets are cluttered with tour guides peddling once-in-a-lifetime experiences to tourists in the market for meaningful memories. The premier attraction is climbing the volcano. The guided trek fetches a pretty peso- a peso I cannot possibly part with. Artisans line the streets selling all sorts of handcrafted knickknacks. Occasionally, a compact car loosely equipped with exterior speakers sputters down the road advertising Pucon´s two ring circus. The annoying announcement runs on a circuit and sounds strikingly similar to a hopped up used car salesman trying to get some beat up, old Volvo off his lot. The torturous track could be used in hostage negotiations, or to draw out Al Qaeda from Afghan foothills. How someone could voluntarily drive this nightmare on wheels is beyond me. He either really loves the circus, or has a serious drug problem.
Equally disconcerting are the women in Pucon. They are gorgeous. But that is not the problem. The vast majority of these Chilean beauties are linked to grotesque, unfit, untidy, and most of all, undeserving men. This must be a cultural misunderstanding, because I just don´t get it. Unless it is siblings weekend here in Pucon, there is no explanation for such a tragedy.
As is the case with most resort towns, Pucon is expensive. I have been living on nine empanadas a day which costs about the same as a night in a hostel, or three nights in a camp site.
Pucon´s other major attraction is the beach surrounding Largo Villarica. The black sand beach is swamped from early in the day till sunset. Much like everything else in Pucon, the beach is used to turn a profit. Three trendy, open air bars serve drinks to anyone willing to part with their pesos- myself included. All sorts of water crafts are available to rent along the shore. This turns the lake into a dangerous melee of jetskis and kayaks. You can even rent one of those big inflatable orbs that, when inside, allow you walk on water. The beach turns into a ball park with vendors hiking up and down the shoreline calling out a long litany of products for sale. I saw one man employed in the most innovative venture. For a small fee, he dutifully applies sun block or tanning oil on bikini bound babes. Genius! I thought. This guy needs to have a chat with that poor bastard driving the clown car. I wanted to shake the man´s hand, but it was clearly engaged in something far more worthwhile.
The hostel I stayed at, unoriginally named El Refugio, was owned by a Dutch man, Peter. With cropped black hair and sharp, even features, Peter possessed the look of an Amsterdam native. Despite speaking perfect English, an ability he displayed when chatting with some Brits and a Kiwi, he insisted on speaking to me only in Spanish. While I did not mind this as it was good practice, I could not figure out why this was so. I am not usually pinned as an American. My blond hair and blue eyes lead many non-Americans to believe I am Scandinavian. I am never, however, mistaken as a native of some Spanish speaking country. None the less, I continued to converse with Peter in my convoluted, grammatically unsound Spanish.
My first morning there, I sat in the kitchen eating leftovers and picking apart a Bill Bryson book I traded for the night before. Across from me sat an American and two Israeli girls. They were engrossed in a perverse conversation about hostel sex. Reading Bryson´s sorry attempts at humor became futile as my fellow breakfast-goers would mutter some smutty buzz word and inevitably steal my attention. Eventually I introduced myself as a means of ending their inane dialogue. After exchanging the normal pleasantries of travelers- Where are you from? How long are you traveling?- I learned that they were going climbing with an Ecuadorian from the hostel. This immediately peaked my interest, and soon I found myself in the back of a cab with them heading to the climb. I spent most of the time chatting with the Ecuadorian climber, Jose. Noticeably short, Jose had a thick, brown beard that I can only describe as biblical. It was amazing how much easier it was to understand Jose´s Spanish compared to the Argentine and Chilean conversations that I have been accustomed to. This clarity of conversation allowed us to go beyond superficial conversation for the sake of passing time, and into more in depth topics about our lives.
The cab took us as far as it could before the road became impassable. After a four km hike, the rock face came into sight. Just as I had done so many times before years back when I used to competitively climb, I began reading the rock puzzle before me. With my gaze fixed on the stone, my mind plotting moves like Bobby Fischer, I failed to notice a deep hole in the path before me. Of course I fell into the whole. My ankle rolled, sounding like walnuts being crushed together. I sat meekly on the ground, sucking air through the straw of my pursed lips, and swayed back and fourth, hoping the pain would fade. Despite having put myself in many potentially dangerous situations during this trip, all of my injuries occur in the most unimpressive fashions. On my Torres del Paine hike, I sprained my knee after taking a pee up on a hill just outside the camp . In Calafate, I suffered a serious burn on my hand after I sat on an unsound stool and fell into a scalding hot radiator. The pain was exacerbated when I looked up to find two janitors seized in laughter. They set up the faulty stool for that very purpose.
So there I sat, my brand new companions surrounding me in a half-hearted state of sympathy. The swelling was pretty immediate, but I could walk on it. ¨If I can walk, then I can climb¨, I said. Twenty minutes later, I was threading my legs into a harness, and squeezing my feet into climbing shoes. The ritual brought me back to my teenage climbing days. The stale sweaty smell of the shoes, the feeling of digging into a chalk bag- I was in bliss. Checking that my figure eight knot was properly cinched, I approached the rock. Despite having not touched a rock face in years, my body fell right back into its former climbing mode. My heels hooked on ledges, my hips shifted into the stone, and my fingers grasped effortlessly on to little holds. It was a terrific experience.
Practically speaking, Pucon depends on tourism. Its principal streets are cluttered with tour guides peddling once-in-a-lifetime experiences to tourists in the market for meaningful memories. The premier attraction is climbing the volcano. The guided trek fetches a pretty peso- a peso I cannot possibly part with. Artisans line the streets selling all sorts of handcrafted knickknacks. Occasionally, a compact car loosely equipped with exterior speakers sputters down the road advertising Pucon´s two ring circus. The annoying announcement runs on a circuit and sounds strikingly similar to a hopped up used car salesman trying to get some beat up, old Volvo off his lot. The torturous track could be used in hostage negotiations, or to draw out Al Qaeda from Afghan foothills. How someone could voluntarily drive this nightmare on wheels is beyond me. He either really loves the circus, or has a serious drug problem.
Equally disconcerting are the women in Pucon. They are gorgeous. But that is not the problem. The vast majority of these Chilean beauties are linked to grotesque, unfit, untidy, and most of all, undeserving men. This must be a cultural misunderstanding, because I just don´t get it. Unless it is siblings weekend here in Pucon, there is no explanation for such a tragedy.
As is the case with most resort towns, Pucon is expensive. I have been living on nine empanadas a day which costs about the same as a night in a hostel, or three nights in a camp site.
Pucon´s other major attraction is the beach surrounding Largo Villarica. The black sand beach is swamped from early in the day till sunset. Much like everything else in Pucon, the beach is used to turn a profit. Three trendy, open air bars serve drinks to anyone willing to part with their pesos- myself included. All sorts of water crafts are available to rent along the shore. This turns the lake into a dangerous melee of jetskis and kayaks. You can even rent one of those big inflatable orbs that, when inside, allow you walk on water. The beach turns into a ball park with vendors hiking up and down the shoreline calling out a long litany of products for sale. I saw one man employed in the most innovative venture. For a small fee, he dutifully applies sun block or tanning oil on bikini bound babes. Genius! I thought. This guy needs to have a chat with that poor bastard driving the clown car. I wanted to shake the man´s hand, but it was clearly engaged in something far more worthwhile.
The hostel I stayed at, unoriginally named El Refugio, was owned by a Dutch man, Peter. With cropped black hair and sharp, even features, Peter possessed the look of an Amsterdam native. Despite speaking perfect English, an ability he displayed when chatting with some Brits and a Kiwi, he insisted on speaking to me only in Spanish. While I did not mind this as it was good practice, I could not figure out why this was so. I am not usually pinned as an American. My blond hair and blue eyes lead many non-Americans to believe I am Scandinavian. I am never, however, mistaken as a native of some Spanish speaking country. None the less, I continued to converse with Peter in my convoluted, grammatically unsound Spanish.
My first morning there, I sat in the kitchen eating leftovers and picking apart a Bill Bryson book I traded for the night before. Across from me sat an American and two Israeli girls. They were engrossed in a perverse conversation about hostel sex. Reading Bryson´s sorry attempts at humor became futile as my fellow breakfast-goers would mutter some smutty buzz word and inevitably steal my attention. Eventually I introduced myself as a means of ending their inane dialogue. After exchanging the normal pleasantries of travelers- Where are you from? How long are you traveling?- I learned that they were going climbing with an Ecuadorian from the hostel. This immediately peaked my interest, and soon I found myself in the back of a cab with them heading to the climb. I spent most of the time chatting with the Ecuadorian climber, Jose. Noticeably short, Jose had a thick, brown beard that I can only describe as biblical. It was amazing how much easier it was to understand Jose´s Spanish compared to the Argentine and Chilean conversations that I have been accustomed to. This clarity of conversation allowed us to go beyond superficial conversation for the sake of passing time, and into more in depth topics about our lives.
The cab took us as far as it could before the road became impassable. After a four km hike, the rock face came into sight. Just as I had done so many times before years back when I used to competitively climb, I began reading the rock puzzle before me. With my gaze fixed on the stone, my mind plotting moves like Bobby Fischer, I failed to notice a deep hole in the path before me. Of course I fell into the whole. My ankle rolled, sounding like walnuts being crushed together. I sat meekly on the ground, sucking air through the straw of my pursed lips, and swayed back and fourth, hoping the pain would fade. Despite having put myself in many potentially dangerous situations during this trip, all of my injuries occur in the most unimpressive fashions. On my Torres del Paine hike, I sprained my knee after taking a pee up on a hill just outside the camp . In Calafate, I suffered a serious burn on my hand after I sat on an unsound stool and fell into a scalding hot radiator. The pain was exacerbated when I looked up to find two janitors seized in laughter. They set up the faulty stool for that very purpose.
So there I sat, my brand new companions surrounding me in a half-hearted state of sympathy. The swelling was pretty immediate, but I could walk on it. ¨If I can walk, then I can climb¨, I said. Twenty minutes later, I was threading my legs into a harness, and squeezing my feet into climbing shoes. The ritual brought me back to my teenage climbing days. The stale sweaty smell of the shoes, the feeling of digging into a chalk bag- I was in bliss. Checking that my figure eight knot was properly cinched, I approached the rock. Despite having not touched a rock face in years, my body fell right back into its former climbing mode. My heels hooked on ledges, my hips shifted into the stone, and my fingers grasped effortlessly on to little holds. It was a terrific experience.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Road Provides
The bus to Pucon was scheduled to leave at 640 in the A.M. I lay restlessly in my tent, tossing and turning in a foggy facade of sleep. Having abandoned conventional time long ago, I no longer trusted my normally precise internal clock. Every half hour I frantically shook awake and turned on my cell phone for the time. The small black connection to my former life survives on the last charge I gave it back in the United States- requiring me to turned it off immediately after each check. At five o´clock I gave up on pretending to sleep, and began the process of packing up my gear in the illuminated circle of my headlamp.
With my gear haphazardly packed, I said goodbye to the campground once again- I hoped for the last time. Trudging down the streets of San Junin, where the street names are carved into trout shaped signs, teenage drunks congregated loudly outside the town´s seemingly only club. Still donning my headlamp, I knew I was a good target for drunken harassment. Robbed of sleep, and beginning to sweat stickily under my jacket and pack, tired frustration made me more dangerous than that of their drunken courage. I decided if they approached me and I sensed any hostility, I would knock out the teeth of the biggest one with my tin water bottle. Of course this situation never materialized. Every intoxicated Argentine I have come across has been more than gracious to me- or as gracious as possible when slurring one´s Spanish and fighting to focus . A night without real sleep made me bitter.
At the bus station, I flopped my pack against the exterior wall and sat on it. Across the street a shop catering to the waiting passengers was opening. I was surprised by this. Argentina´s shops hold the most peculiar hours. Normally, a shop opens at 10, then closes at12 for a five hour siesta, after which time it reopens till 10. Siestas made no business sense to me. The midday time of the siesta seemed to best period to sell things. I guess enjoying a midday nap after lunch is worth the money missed. Regarding it a rarity that this shop was open right now, I dashed over and purchased a Coke, sweet bread, and an box of crackers that I still smirk at when ordering, Saladix. Back at the station, I looked over the gathering of waiting passengers. An old man wearing a Canadian tuxedo, jeans and a denim jacket, paced before me. His pristinely shined black dress shoes clapped loudly on the pavement. Impatience rang out into the gray morning with each of his frantic steps. To my right a family sat. Each were dressed neatly, and the father sat eating a sandwich which he occasionally fed to a stray dog. Their son, a miniature version of the father, sat there sipping on a coffee. The boy was no more than eleven. Children here become exposed to the addictions of caffeine very early. On one occasion at a border crossing, I saw a little Chilean girl of no more than four sipping on Mate (the highly caffeinated South American tea). The boy sat there smiling, sipping his black coffee like any working stiff would to jump start the day.
Boarding the bus, I slid into the partially reclined seat with deep satisfaction. After extended periods of camping, bus trips are always a welcomed opportunity to sit in a proper chair. Closing my eyes, I hoped to slip into a deep sleep. But no, sitting across the aisle from me was the caffeine charged boy from the bus station. From the moment his rear end hit the seat, his mouth was moving. He talked frantically and without end. When he ran out of things to pepper his father with, he resorted to singing a futbol anthem until something new to vocalize entered his mind. Soon the chatter became as ambient as the hum of the bus. I withdrew my broken, water damaged iPod, and thumbed it, hoping that this moment of undeserved torture would warrant a miracle.
After an hour, the bus slowed to a stop at a border crossing hidden deep in the Andes. This was my third time crossing the border. Each time proved to be an interesting experience. Crossing the Argentine border tends to be rather easy. Everyone disembarks with their paperwork, and waits for a passport stamp. After the Argentine border, the bus passes through what I presume is a neutral area, and then it stops at the Chilean border. The Chilean border is not so easy to cross. After descending the bus, all of the luggage is taken out of the bus and brought into the office. Above all things one could sneak into the country, more than drugs or firearms, the Chilean government is most concerned with the smuggling of fruit and meat. In the bus, a form is filled out declaring if you have meat or fruit in your luggage. During my first crossing of the Chilean border a couple of Brits stood visibly nervous behind me in line. Dressed in archetypal hippie garb, I thought for sure they had drugs in their bags. Having never witnessed a drug bust, and relishing in how innocent I was, I waited with brimming anticipation for their turn to have their bag searched. When the two met border patrol men, they guiltily handed over a sausage and an apple. That´s it? I dissappointedly thought. Karma ended up biting me for wishing ill on my fellow passengers. Waved over , I handed my sheet to a stubborn looking Chilean. He asked in Spanish what fruit I had. I said I did not have any fruit. Pointing to the sheet, he drew my attention to where I checked the box saying: ¨Yes, I am carrying fruit .¨ In my half sleepy state on the bus, I mistakenly checked the wrong box. The ¨Yes ¨option seemed more positive at the time. Stumbling over my Spanish, I struggled nervously to convince the man that it was a mistake, and that I was not carrying any fruit. Excited to make an example of this gringo, he pulled apart my bag- tossing my clothes on the ground. He even went as far as taking apart my tent. I learned my lesson that day. Here, now crossing for a third time, I deliberately and clearly checked, ¨No, I am not carrying fruit¨.
The process at this border crossing was far more civil. Instead of border patrol men pulling out underwear and hygiene products in search of a hidden banana or a slice of ham, the bags were passed through a x-ray machine. We swiftly retrieved our luggage at the other end and boarded back on the bus.
The bus rolled into Pucon Chile. I disembarked and collected my gear in the rain. A hostel was necessary for tonight. Setting up a tent in the rain is a miserable practice and inevitably spawns a lasting foul mood. I stepped into the first hostel from the bus station. Entering, I was met by a gracious young host who showed me to a spacious, seven bed room. Later, sitting in the common area where a small wood burning stove flickered light in the dimmly lit room, I sighed contently. Staying in hostels has become an absolute luxory. Struggling to keep this trip on budget, I continually resort to camping to save my pesos for future bus tickets, park fees, and food of course. In the last month, I spent five nights in a bed, under a roof.
With my gear haphazardly packed, I said goodbye to the campground once again- I hoped for the last time. Trudging down the streets of San Junin, where the street names are carved into trout shaped signs, teenage drunks congregated loudly outside the town´s seemingly only club. Still donning my headlamp, I knew I was a good target for drunken harassment. Robbed of sleep, and beginning to sweat stickily under my jacket and pack, tired frustration made me more dangerous than that of their drunken courage. I decided if they approached me and I sensed any hostility, I would knock out the teeth of the biggest one with my tin water bottle. Of course this situation never materialized. Every intoxicated Argentine I have come across has been more than gracious to me- or as gracious as possible when slurring one´s Spanish and fighting to focus . A night without real sleep made me bitter.
At the bus station, I flopped my pack against the exterior wall and sat on it. Across the street a shop catering to the waiting passengers was opening. I was surprised by this. Argentina´s shops hold the most peculiar hours. Normally, a shop opens at 10, then closes at12 for a five hour siesta, after which time it reopens till 10. Siestas made no business sense to me. The midday time of the siesta seemed to best period to sell things. I guess enjoying a midday nap after lunch is worth the money missed. Regarding it a rarity that this shop was open right now, I dashed over and purchased a Coke, sweet bread, and an box of crackers that I still smirk at when ordering, Saladix. Back at the station, I looked over the gathering of waiting passengers. An old man wearing a Canadian tuxedo, jeans and a denim jacket, paced before me. His pristinely shined black dress shoes clapped loudly on the pavement. Impatience rang out into the gray morning with each of his frantic steps. To my right a family sat. Each were dressed neatly, and the father sat eating a sandwich which he occasionally fed to a stray dog. Their son, a miniature version of the father, sat there sipping on a coffee. The boy was no more than eleven. Children here become exposed to the addictions of caffeine very early. On one occasion at a border crossing, I saw a little Chilean girl of no more than four sipping on Mate (the highly caffeinated South American tea). The boy sat there smiling, sipping his black coffee like any working stiff would to jump start the day.
Boarding the bus, I slid into the partially reclined seat with deep satisfaction. After extended periods of camping, bus trips are always a welcomed opportunity to sit in a proper chair. Closing my eyes, I hoped to slip into a deep sleep. But no, sitting across the aisle from me was the caffeine charged boy from the bus station. From the moment his rear end hit the seat, his mouth was moving. He talked frantically and without end. When he ran out of things to pepper his father with, he resorted to singing a futbol anthem until something new to vocalize entered his mind. Soon the chatter became as ambient as the hum of the bus. I withdrew my broken, water damaged iPod, and thumbed it, hoping that this moment of undeserved torture would warrant a miracle.
After an hour, the bus slowed to a stop at a border crossing hidden deep in the Andes. This was my third time crossing the border. Each time proved to be an interesting experience. Crossing the Argentine border tends to be rather easy. Everyone disembarks with their paperwork, and waits for a passport stamp. After the Argentine border, the bus passes through what I presume is a neutral area, and then it stops at the Chilean border. The Chilean border is not so easy to cross. After descending the bus, all of the luggage is taken out of the bus and brought into the office. Above all things one could sneak into the country, more than drugs or firearms, the Chilean government is most concerned with the smuggling of fruit and meat. In the bus, a form is filled out declaring if you have meat or fruit in your luggage. During my first crossing of the Chilean border a couple of Brits stood visibly nervous behind me in line. Dressed in archetypal hippie garb, I thought for sure they had drugs in their bags. Having never witnessed a drug bust, and relishing in how innocent I was, I waited with brimming anticipation for their turn to have their bag searched. When the two met border patrol men, they guiltily handed over a sausage and an apple. That´s it? I dissappointedly thought. Karma ended up biting me for wishing ill on my fellow passengers. Waved over , I handed my sheet to a stubborn looking Chilean. He asked in Spanish what fruit I had. I said I did not have any fruit. Pointing to the sheet, he drew my attention to where I checked the box saying: ¨Yes, I am carrying fruit .¨ In my half sleepy state on the bus, I mistakenly checked the wrong box. The ¨Yes ¨option seemed more positive at the time. Stumbling over my Spanish, I struggled nervously to convince the man that it was a mistake, and that I was not carrying any fruit. Excited to make an example of this gringo, he pulled apart my bag- tossing my clothes on the ground. He even went as far as taking apart my tent. I learned my lesson that day. Here, now crossing for a third time, I deliberately and clearly checked, ¨No, I am not carrying fruit¨.
The process at this border crossing was far more civil. Instead of border patrol men pulling out underwear and hygiene products in search of a hidden banana or a slice of ham, the bags were passed through a x-ray machine. We swiftly retrieved our luggage at the other end and boarded back on the bus.
The bus rolled into Pucon Chile. I disembarked and collected my gear in the rain. A hostel was necessary for tonight. Setting up a tent in the rain is a miserable practice and inevitably spawns a lasting foul mood. I stepped into the first hostel from the bus station. Entering, I was met by a gracious young host who showed me to a spacious, seven bed room. Later, sitting in the common area where a small wood burning stove flickered light in the dimmly lit room, I sighed contently. Staying in hostels has become an absolute luxory. Struggling to keep this trip on budget, I continually resort to camping to save my pesos for future bus tickets, park fees, and food of course. In the last month, I spent five nights in a bed, under a roof.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Pale Morning Dun
The anatomy of a shark forces it to live in a perpetual state of motion. Its survival requires forcing water through its gills by continually swimming. If a shark stops moving, it suffocates and dies. I pondered this while stuck up in a hostel for three days. Over the past two-plus months, moving from place to place has been so fundamental to day´s events that it has become a psychological necessity. Lying there in bed, soaking up the rest my body needed to recover, I was itching to get back on the road like an addict to dope.
Travel completely alters one´s relationship with time. Despite functioning on intervals of bus schedules and check-out times, I do not wear a watch. My only gauge on time beyond the rising and setting of the sun, is two miniature calendars that I tapped to the Altoid´s box holding my money and creditcards. Just as one habitually glances at their wrist watch, I pull out that box and equate the remaining days I have to squeeze in the last of my destinations. Days, not hours, are all that matter. Checking off those three days at the hostel pained me. With February dwindling to a close, leaving me with just over a month, I am still in Patagonia. Over and over I failed to leave this intoxicating region- its always one more hike, one more river.
With my stomach restored to manageable state, I boarded a bus back to San Junin for one last river. I met Chris at the same family infested camp ground as a week prior. ¨You made it,¨ he called over walking into the grounds. ¨Was there any doubt?¨ The images of me curled in a sweaty ball of sickness flashed across my mind. ¨Yea I guess there was a little doubt.¨
We had one more day to fish Rio Chimihuine before Chris needed to catch a bus back to Buenos Aires. Hiking an hour out of town, we met the river some 20 kilometers below the lake that fed Chimihuine. After wading up stream a bit, we came to a section of the river where brush broke through the surface and cast never ending current lines down stream. With the water flowing down shallows and dumping into a deep aquamarine pool, I just knew there were some big trout sitting on the bottom waiting for the sun to set.
I zeroed into a spot across shore, about two feet off the bank. A little back eddie was hidden behind a series of branches that extended like a hand warding me off. I positioned myself ten feet diagonally down stream. Casting side arm, I double hauled into the wind. It took a number adjustments to find the perfect cast for the spot. Side arm, I false cast till I had the required distance. Then on my last forward cast, I stopped my rod tip just before where I wanted the fly to go. After the line unrolled parallel to the water, the fly snapped around behind the brush. Unable to mend, I had about a three second window before my fly began to drag. I peppered this spot with a myriad of flies, convinced there was a fish there. Finally, with the sun deep behind the mountains and the grey of the early night fading into black, I tied on the smallest fly I had in my box. A Pale Morning Dun. The fly hit, then crunch. I shrieked, and set the hook. The fish shot downstream towards the refuge of heavy current and deep brush. Chasing my fish, I jumped over a jungle gym of fallen limbs submerged before me- the trout jumped simultaneously. Running down to me, Chris shouted¨Where´s your camera?¨ Trying to undue the jinx Chris may have inadvertently set on me, I responded, ¨Don´t say camera.¨
Striping the fish in, line was everywhere. I knew if he went on another run I would probably lose him. So I muscled him in, banking on the strength of my knots. I plunged my hand in, and was fortunate to get a perfect grip on him. It was a beautiful rainbow trout streaked blood red.
Standing there, splitting the current, I raised my fish for a photo. It was not the biggest fish I had caught. It wasn´t a brown, and we didn´t even get a good picture of it. But I knew then as I do now, that that moment would live forever in my Patagonian dreams.
NOTE TO FAMILY: I am in Pucon Chile. I am planning on doing a three day hike here. I am still in the midst of gathering information about it, so I will give you a call when I have more information. Love you!
Travel completely alters one´s relationship with time. Despite functioning on intervals of bus schedules and check-out times, I do not wear a watch. My only gauge on time beyond the rising and setting of the sun, is two miniature calendars that I tapped to the Altoid´s box holding my money and creditcards. Just as one habitually glances at their wrist watch, I pull out that box and equate the remaining days I have to squeeze in the last of my destinations. Days, not hours, are all that matter. Checking off those three days at the hostel pained me. With February dwindling to a close, leaving me with just over a month, I am still in Patagonia. Over and over I failed to leave this intoxicating region- its always one more hike, one more river.
With my stomach restored to manageable state, I boarded a bus back to San Junin for one last river. I met Chris at the same family infested camp ground as a week prior. ¨You made it,¨ he called over walking into the grounds. ¨Was there any doubt?¨ The images of me curled in a sweaty ball of sickness flashed across my mind. ¨Yea I guess there was a little doubt.¨
We had one more day to fish Rio Chimihuine before Chris needed to catch a bus back to Buenos Aires. Hiking an hour out of town, we met the river some 20 kilometers below the lake that fed Chimihuine. After wading up stream a bit, we came to a section of the river where brush broke through the surface and cast never ending current lines down stream. With the water flowing down shallows and dumping into a deep aquamarine pool, I just knew there were some big trout sitting on the bottom waiting for the sun to set.
I zeroed into a spot across shore, about two feet off the bank. A little back eddie was hidden behind a series of branches that extended like a hand warding me off. I positioned myself ten feet diagonally down stream. Casting side arm, I double hauled into the wind. It took a number adjustments to find the perfect cast for the spot. Side arm, I false cast till I had the required distance. Then on my last forward cast, I stopped my rod tip just before where I wanted the fly to go. After the line unrolled parallel to the water, the fly snapped around behind the brush. Unable to mend, I had about a three second window before my fly began to drag. I peppered this spot with a myriad of flies, convinced there was a fish there. Finally, with the sun deep behind the mountains and the grey of the early night fading into black, I tied on the smallest fly I had in my box. A Pale Morning Dun. The fly hit, then crunch. I shrieked, and set the hook. The fish shot downstream towards the refuge of heavy current and deep brush. Chasing my fish, I jumped over a jungle gym of fallen limbs submerged before me- the trout jumped simultaneously. Running down to me, Chris shouted¨Where´s your camera?¨ Trying to undue the jinx Chris may have inadvertently set on me, I responded, ¨Don´t say camera.¨
Striping the fish in, line was everywhere. I knew if he went on another run I would probably lose him. So I muscled him in, banking on the strength of my knots. I plunged my hand in, and was fortunate to get a perfect grip on him. It was a beautiful rainbow trout streaked blood red.
Standing there, splitting the current, I raised my fish for a photo. It was not the biggest fish I had caught. It wasn´t a brown, and we didn´t even get a good picture of it. But I knew then as I do now, that that moment would live forever in my Patagonian dreams.
NOTE TO FAMILY: I am in Pucon Chile. I am planning on doing a three day hike here. I am still in the midst of gathering information about it, so I will give you a call when I have more information. Love you!
Saturday, February 14, 2009
My First Major Mistake
After four nights, camping along Rio Chimhuine lost its appeal. The campsite was overrun by boisterous Argentine and Chilean families who crowded all available space with chairs, floats and over-the-top tents. I imagined the scene resembled a base camp where teams of climbers established an elaborate makeshift community to wait out the weather or acclimate to the altitude. Except instead of granola eating, slacklinging climbers, the campground bustled with packs of yelping children, gossiping ladies basking sweaty in the sun, and big bellied men who clouded the air with thick barbecue smoke. We had also acquired the devotion of a mangy mutt who became a mascot of sorts, following us everywhere. With his snout covered in scars and blotches of fur missing in various spots, the ablino dog was the saddest stray I´d come across. It was out of compassion that we did not run him off. We aptly named him ¨gringo¨.
We snuck out of the campsite during Gringo´s midday siesta, and hauled our gear to the bus station. Standing by the pyramid of our packs we watched two men dressed in grease stained denim jumpers service our bus extensively. The two men shuffled amidst scattered lugnuts and wrenches, working to bring the bus back to life. Under the instruction of the mechanics looking up through the windshield, the driver stoked the engine with taps on the gas. Finally in of cloud of exficiating smoke, the bus coughed, then roared to life. We boarded, and set out to El Parque de Lanin giving ourselves a fifty - fifty shot of making it there.
The bus passed out of San Junin proper, and picked up a rocky, dirt road that led into the park. The bus shook mercilessly as it semicircled the park´s first massive lake, Huechulafquen. After two and a half hours of gyrating uncomfortably in the dusty bus, we reached our destination, Lago Paumin. Descending uneasily from the bus, our bodies still trapped in a jittering state, we walked out to a modest church. With its heavy wooden door wagging open, the church's entrance was markedly small, only about five feet tall. Ducking in, I came to a simple alter with four sets of pews arranged in a semicircle. A statue of Mary beamed brightly in its white stone, and a newly plucked rose was placed in her extended hand. "I want to get married here", Megan whispered whimsically.
Behind the church, stood the overpowering volcano, Lanin. At 3776 meters, Lanin towers over the park. Capped by deep glacial ice, the Mapuche name "Lanin" translates to "Dead Rock." It was thought amongst the indigenous tribes that those who climbed the volcano would be killed by evil spirits. Despite its foreboding folklore, Lanin can be summated without ropes, albeit with the aid of ice axes, and crampons.
The 3790 square kilometer expanse that now makes up the Parque Lanin was once the grounds of the Pehuenche Indians. A large tribe of the indigenous Mapuches, the Pehuenche harvested the land up till the 19th Century. Today, only two sections of the park remain in their possession. One of these reservations offers camping to passing trekkers.
We walked down from the church, towards the shoreline of Lago Paumin. Across the lake, masked in a maze of conifers, we could just make out the reds and blues of tightly staked tents. At the shoreline, there was a bell to ring to call on the campground's ferry service. Sounding the bell, a lanky man sauntered out from the shade and dragged an old dingy out into the lake. He crossed briskly, rowing diagonally into the wind so not to be set too far off his mark. The dingy scrapped up on to shore and the man met us with a genuine smile. He wore a white leather cow boy hat that had a colorful salmon fly tucked into its exterior band. His face was sewn in subtle wrinkles and a sunburned scar ran down from his brow. He helped us arrange our packs at the dinghy's bow, and then we boarded to the stern. Facing us, the man rowed and amicably asked where we were from and how long we were traveling. He sifted through our accent impaired Spanish, and kindly answered our time-passing questions. Beached on the other bank, he helped us with our packs and gave us the run down of the site. We sharpened our hearing to his Spanish. Our combined translation was that it was ten pesos a night, there was a store that sold groceries and beer, and that water could be taken from the stream that ran through the property. We all nodded happily, and expressed our understanding with "Si Si Si."
Passing up from the gravel shoreline and through the trees, we found that the campground was more like a farm. Animals were everywhere. Sheep and cows nosed at the ground, and clipped vigorously at the grass. Roosters and chickens bobbed their heads horizontally, and stopped every few steps to peck at some discarded morsel. A boy of no more then eleven skillfully galloped a horse, chasing three other horses that were being held together by a pack of charging dogs. In addition to the array of farm animals, the sky was full of wild Patagonian birds the squawked noisily in the sky. Despite the din of the scene, we were content to be back in the grips of nature and out of the ugly, clutter of vacationers.
Readying for dinner, we needed to get water. Following the Mapuche's instructions we sought out the stream. Walking to the stream, hopscotching over cow patties and lamb droppings, I began to think aloud. "We should not be drinking this water." The number one rule in camping is to not consume water that runs anywhere near livestock. I knew this, they knew this. We banked our confidence on the Mapuche's advice, and said those all too familiar words- the two words that invariably end in tragedy: "F**k it".
We ate a meal before the fire, and drank wine and beer that we bought from the Mapuche family. The exhaustion induced by a long day drew us to our sleeping mats and we closed our eyes just as a light rain began to spit for black night's sky.
An unknown number of hours later, pulsing discomfort ripped me awake. I shot out of my tent with such primal urgency that I didn't even attempt to unzip the screen door. I tore it open like I would a heavily knotted plastic bag. Stepping into the night, cold rain stole my mind from the dream it lingered in. I dashed barefoot as far away from my tent as my body would allow, before dropping my drawers and falling to a squat. Demonic filth exploded from my body and I began to vomit violently between my shaking knees. The frigid night assaulted me, and I began to shiver uncontrollably. When the episode passed, I fumbled back to my tent, my body contorted by the cold. Nausea clouded my mind and cramps clenched my stomach tightly. Fighting involuntary spasms, I poked my feet into my sleeping bag and lay pathetically on my back with my knees bent and cast to one side.
With apocalyptic rain pummelling my tent, I struggled to steady my mind and access my situation. I was sick- sicker than I have been in recent memory. My head lamp was fading to a flicker, and without a watch, I had no idea when the morning would come. The next bus back to town was not till eight P.M. the following day, and just the thought of making the two and a half hour ride back exacerbated my condition. My tent was beginning to leak at my feet, and I knew all subsequent trips to relieve myself would result in being absolutely drenched. The thought that plagued my mind the most though, was that I was thousands and thousands of miles away from my home, my bed, and most of all, my mom.
I fought through the night. My trips out of the tent became so frequent that I opted to be naked from the waist down. No sense in getting my pants wet I thought. The pain and overwhelming sense of desperation cast my mind in a pseudo state of delusion. With each wave of terrible cramps, I clenched my eyes shut and called out for my mom. In these moments, if I could have, I would have deployed my parachute on this trip, and ended it.
The morning came without me noticing. I shot my head out, and dry heaved until acidic bile coated my mouth. I gathered it in a wad, and spat. The noise of my vomiting woke up Chris. "I'm not hung over", I called over. "I'm sick." "What do you think it was?" His question was coated in fear, and he already knew the answer. "The water."
After some hours moaning in my tent, I met Chris and Megan at our wooden picnic table. I thumbed through their Lonely Planet guide book, and found the "Health & Safety" section and read aloud: "Giardiasis...caused by a common parasite often found in contaminated water...Symptoms include stomach cramps, nausea, a bloated stomach, watery diarrhea and frequent gas." Check. Check. And Check. A friend from home once contracted giardiasis after doing some outdoors course. He missed a week of school, and lost a fair amount of weight.
Beholding my surroundings, I could feel the terrible reality of my situation beginning to creep over me. The outhouse was the iconic image of an outhouse: uneven pieces of wood bound together to form a tight closet, and inside a splintery wooden slab with a whole cut out. Roosters sang out loudly. Grazing sheep scoured the grass around our site. Chickens pecked at our scraps. My stomach sounded and felt like it was brewing espresso. Lying across the bench, I submitted aloud "I just need to accept the fact that there is nothing that will make me feel better right now." Remembering that the bus did not leave for another 10 hours, I continued, "And it is going to be along time before I get somewhere better than here." Fortunately, at the time, I did not know how true those statements were going to be. If I had, the meltdown would have been beyond repair.
I spent the rest of the day, laying in my tent like a roasting piece of spoiled meat. The sun beat down on the tent, and with my door open, mosquitos and bees flew in and out. I am not a good sick person. Despite having spent more time in a hospital than most people , I am a terrible patient. I inherited this weakness from my father. He, like me, is unapologetically dependent on my mother in ailing times. We roll on the ground and moan aloud, beckoning her all soothing sympathy. My mother, and my brother for that matter, rise to the occasion when they are sick. They do not complain- just suffer in silence. Lying there, I mulled over this lowsy inheritence. My only mental relief was that I was not going to die. Or was I?
Around six, I gathered all the strength and patience that remained, and got to packing. I hate packing more than anything. I thought doing the task in the midst of a bodily meltdown would be unbearable, but making moves towards civilization actually made the menial ritual almost enjoyable. It took about the two hour window I had to get all my stuff in order. We rang the bell and an old Mapuche women emerged from the house. As the women approached, and looking over all our stuff, I silently doubted the her ability to perform the task. She was missing most of her teeth, and her body was shaped in a perfect circle with its apex exactly at her midsection. She looked over our stuff and motioned for us to place it in the dingy. I thought she might do one trip with Megan and the gear, then come back to get Chris and I. But no, she told us all to climb in at the stern. It was awkward sitting there with this old women rowing us over. I wanted to volunteer to row the dingy myself, but I realized that any exertion would result in messy regret. So I quietly sat there, pinning all the chivalrous guilt on Chris. We made it across, and the women dismissed us, "Bueno. Buen viaje."
I dreaded the idea of this bus ride. Remembering all the bumps for the previous ride I readied my stomach with a concoction of Immodiom, Pepto Bismal, and a Tums (just for the mint flavor). When the bus arrived, we learned that we were suppose to buy our tickets in advance, and that the bus was full. My despair levels were off the chart already, so this information really did not register. Seeing our disheveled state, the driver sympathetically allowed us to board the bus, provided we remain standing in the aisle. He could have thrown me in the trunk for all I cared, I needed to get out of there. Fortunately, three seats were made available by passengers who never showed up, and we sat all the way back to San Junin.
My mind relished in the idea of sleeping in a bed. We camped for fourteen days, and my back could not do another night on the ground. When we neared town, the bus slowed to a crawl behind a line of traffic. Soon the windows were full of lights, and music blared outside the bus. Unbeknownst to us, San Junin was in the midst of its year's biggest festival. Open air shops lined the streets, and hoards of teenage men danced wildly, spilling Quillmes beer over eachother.
Disembarking into the scene, it was clear that staying in a hostel was out of the question. Every bed was booked. So we lugged our gear back to the campsite we started at days before. Approaching the fenced in area, I could just make out the sign "No Hay Lugar"- there is no space. Again my saturated sense of despair could not weigh this reality, so I relinquished all decision making power to Chris and Megan. After unsuccessfully haggling with the campsite owner, two Argentine girls called us over to a cab. The cab driver offered to let us camp on his front lawn. This was our only safe option- safer than camping illegally along the river, where we would be entirely vulnerable to the hordes of drunks that romped the streets.
In keeping with the day's events, the cabby´s house was meters away from the modest stadium where the central celebration was going on. Argentine music blared over poor sound systems, and drunks passed the lawn screaming to one another. I set up my tent in stupified silence. With my stomach empty, my mind numb, and my spirit extinguished, I crawled into my tent and fell asleep.
We snuck out of the campsite during Gringo´s midday siesta, and hauled our gear to the bus station. Standing by the pyramid of our packs we watched two men dressed in grease stained denim jumpers service our bus extensively. The two men shuffled amidst scattered lugnuts and wrenches, working to bring the bus back to life. Under the instruction of the mechanics looking up through the windshield, the driver stoked the engine with taps on the gas. Finally in of cloud of exficiating smoke, the bus coughed, then roared to life. We boarded, and set out to El Parque de Lanin giving ourselves a fifty - fifty shot of making it there.
The bus passed out of San Junin proper, and picked up a rocky, dirt road that led into the park. The bus shook mercilessly as it semicircled the park´s first massive lake, Huechulafquen. After two and a half hours of gyrating uncomfortably in the dusty bus, we reached our destination, Lago Paumin. Descending uneasily from the bus, our bodies still trapped in a jittering state, we walked out to a modest church. With its heavy wooden door wagging open, the church's entrance was markedly small, only about five feet tall. Ducking in, I came to a simple alter with four sets of pews arranged in a semicircle. A statue of Mary beamed brightly in its white stone, and a newly plucked rose was placed in her extended hand. "I want to get married here", Megan whispered whimsically.
Behind the church, stood the overpowering volcano, Lanin. At 3776 meters, Lanin towers over the park. Capped by deep glacial ice, the Mapuche name "Lanin" translates to "Dead Rock." It was thought amongst the indigenous tribes that those who climbed the volcano would be killed by evil spirits. Despite its foreboding folklore, Lanin can be summated without ropes, albeit with the aid of ice axes, and crampons.
The 3790 square kilometer expanse that now makes up the Parque Lanin was once the grounds of the Pehuenche Indians. A large tribe of the indigenous Mapuches, the Pehuenche harvested the land up till the 19th Century. Today, only two sections of the park remain in their possession. One of these reservations offers camping to passing trekkers.
We walked down from the church, towards the shoreline of Lago Paumin. Across the lake, masked in a maze of conifers, we could just make out the reds and blues of tightly staked tents. At the shoreline, there was a bell to ring to call on the campground's ferry service. Sounding the bell, a lanky man sauntered out from the shade and dragged an old dingy out into the lake. He crossed briskly, rowing diagonally into the wind so not to be set too far off his mark. The dingy scrapped up on to shore and the man met us with a genuine smile. He wore a white leather cow boy hat that had a colorful salmon fly tucked into its exterior band. His face was sewn in subtle wrinkles and a sunburned scar ran down from his brow. He helped us arrange our packs at the dinghy's bow, and then we boarded to the stern. Facing us, the man rowed and amicably asked where we were from and how long we were traveling. He sifted through our accent impaired Spanish, and kindly answered our time-passing questions. Beached on the other bank, he helped us with our packs and gave us the run down of the site. We sharpened our hearing to his Spanish. Our combined translation was that it was ten pesos a night, there was a store that sold groceries and beer, and that water could be taken from the stream that ran through the property. We all nodded happily, and expressed our understanding with "Si Si Si."
Passing up from the gravel shoreline and through the trees, we found that the campground was more like a farm. Animals were everywhere. Sheep and cows nosed at the ground, and clipped vigorously at the grass. Roosters and chickens bobbed their heads horizontally, and stopped every few steps to peck at some discarded morsel. A boy of no more then eleven skillfully galloped a horse, chasing three other horses that were being held together by a pack of charging dogs. In addition to the array of farm animals, the sky was full of wild Patagonian birds the squawked noisily in the sky. Despite the din of the scene, we were content to be back in the grips of nature and out of the ugly, clutter of vacationers.
Readying for dinner, we needed to get water. Following the Mapuche's instructions we sought out the stream. Walking to the stream, hopscotching over cow patties and lamb droppings, I began to think aloud. "We should not be drinking this water." The number one rule in camping is to not consume water that runs anywhere near livestock. I knew this, they knew this. We banked our confidence on the Mapuche's advice, and said those all too familiar words- the two words that invariably end in tragedy: "F**k it".
We ate a meal before the fire, and drank wine and beer that we bought from the Mapuche family. The exhaustion induced by a long day drew us to our sleeping mats and we closed our eyes just as a light rain began to spit for black night's sky.
An unknown number of hours later, pulsing discomfort ripped me awake. I shot out of my tent with such primal urgency that I didn't even attempt to unzip the screen door. I tore it open like I would a heavily knotted plastic bag. Stepping into the night, cold rain stole my mind from the dream it lingered in. I dashed barefoot as far away from my tent as my body would allow, before dropping my drawers and falling to a squat. Demonic filth exploded from my body and I began to vomit violently between my shaking knees. The frigid night assaulted me, and I began to shiver uncontrollably. When the episode passed, I fumbled back to my tent, my body contorted by the cold. Nausea clouded my mind and cramps clenched my stomach tightly. Fighting involuntary spasms, I poked my feet into my sleeping bag and lay pathetically on my back with my knees bent and cast to one side.
With apocalyptic rain pummelling my tent, I struggled to steady my mind and access my situation. I was sick- sicker than I have been in recent memory. My head lamp was fading to a flicker, and without a watch, I had no idea when the morning would come. The next bus back to town was not till eight P.M. the following day, and just the thought of making the two and a half hour ride back exacerbated my condition. My tent was beginning to leak at my feet, and I knew all subsequent trips to relieve myself would result in being absolutely drenched. The thought that plagued my mind the most though, was that I was thousands and thousands of miles away from my home, my bed, and most of all, my mom.
I fought through the night. My trips out of the tent became so frequent that I opted to be naked from the waist down. No sense in getting my pants wet I thought. The pain and overwhelming sense of desperation cast my mind in a pseudo state of delusion. With each wave of terrible cramps, I clenched my eyes shut and called out for my mom. In these moments, if I could have, I would have deployed my parachute on this trip, and ended it.
The morning came without me noticing. I shot my head out, and dry heaved until acidic bile coated my mouth. I gathered it in a wad, and spat. The noise of my vomiting woke up Chris. "I'm not hung over", I called over. "I'm sick." "What do you think it was?" His question was coated in fear, and he already knew the answer. "The water."
After some hours moaning in my tent, I met Chris and Megan at our wooden picnic table. I thumbed through their Lonely Planet guide book, and found the "Health & Safety" section and read aloud: "Giardiasis...caused by a common parasite often found in contaminated water...Symptoms include stomach cramps, nausea, a bloated stomach, watery diarrhea and frequent gas." Check. Check. And Check. A friend from home once contracted giardiasis after doing some outdoors course. He missed a week of school, and lost a fair amount of weight.
Beholding my surroundings, I could feel the terrible reality of my situation beginning to creep over me. The outhouse was the iconic image of an outhouse: uneven pieces of wood bound together to form a tight closet, and inside a splintery wooden slab with a whole cut out. Roosters sang out loudly. Grazing sheep scoured the grass around our site. Chickens pecked at our scraps. My stomach sounded and felt like it was brewing espresso. Lying across the bench, I submitted aloud "I just need to accept the fact that there is nothing that will make me feel better right now." Remembering that the bus did not leave for another 10 hours, I continued, "And it is going to be along time before I get somewhere better than here." Fortunately, at the time, I did not know how true those statements were going to be. If I had, the meltdown would have been beyond repair.
I spent the rest of the day, laying in my tent like a roasting piece of spoiled meat. The sun beat down on the tent, and with my door open, mosquitos and bees flew in and out. I am not a good sick person. Despite having spent more time in a hospital than most people , I am a terrible patient. I inherited this weakness from my father. He, like me, is unapologetically dependent on my mother in ailing times. We roll on the ground and moan aloud, beckoning her all soothing sympathy. My mother, and my brother for that matter, rise to the occasion when they are sick. They do not complain- just suffer in silence. Lying there, I mulled over this lowsy inheritence. My only mental relief was that I was not going to die. Or was I?
Around six, I gathered all the strength and patience that remained, and got to packing. I hate packing more than anything. I thought doing the task in the midst of a bodily meltdown would be unbearable, but making moves towards civilization actually made the menial ritual almost enjoyable. It took about the two hour window I had to get all my stuff in order. We rang the bell and an old Mapuche women emerged from the house. As the women approached, and looking over all our stuff, I silently doubted the her ability to perform the task. She was missing most of her teeth, and her body was shaped in a perfect circle with its apex exactly at her midsection. She looked over our stuff and motioned for us to place it in the dingy. I thought she might do one trip with Megan and the gear, then come back to get Chris and I. But no, she told us all to climb in at the stern. It was awkward sitting there with this old women rowing us over. I wanted to volunteer to row the dingy myself, but I realized that any exertion would result in messy regret. So I quietly sat there, pinning all the chivalrous guilt on Chris. We made it across, and the women dismissed us, "Bueno. Buen viaje."
I dreaded the idea of this bus ride. Remembering all the bumps for the previous ride I readied my stomach with a concoction of Immodiom, Pepto Bismal, and a Tums (just for the mint flavor). When the bus arrived, we learned that we were suppose to buy our tickets in advance, and that the bus was full. My despair levels were off the chart already, so this information really did not register. Seeing our disheveled state, the driver sympathetically allowed us to board the bus, provided we remain standing in the aisle. He could have thrown me in the trunk for all I cared, I needed to get out of there. Fortunately, three seats were made available by passengers who never showed up, and we sat all the way back to San Junin.
My mind relished in the idea of sleeping in a bed. We camped for fourteen days, and my back could not do another night on the ground. When we neared town, the bus slowed to a crawl behind a line of traffic. Soon the windows were full of lights, and music blared outside the bus. Unbeknownst to us, San Junin was in the midst of its year's biggest festival. Open air shops lined the streets, and hoards of teenage men danced wildly, spilling Quillmes beer over eachother.
Disembarking into the scene, it was clear that staying in a hostel was out of the question. Every bed was booked. So we lugged our gear back to the campsite we started at days before. Approaching the fenced in area, I could just make out the sign "No Hay Lugar"- there is no space. Again my saturated sense of despair could not weigh this reality, so I relinquished all decision making power to Chris and Megan. After unsuccessfully haggling with the campsite owner, two Argentine girls called us over to a cab. The cab driver offered to let us camp on his front lawn. This was our only safe option- safer than camping illegally along the river, where we would be entirely vulnerable to the hordes of drunks that romped the streets.
In keeping with the day's events, the cabby´s house was meters away from the modest stadium where the central celebration was going on. Argentine music blared over poor sound systems, and drunks passed the lawn screaming to one another. I set up my tent in stupified silence. With my stomach empty, my mind numb, and my spirit extinguished, I crawled into my tent and fell asleep.
Monday, February 9, 2009
San Junin
Megan, Chris and I returned to San Martin from Largo Lolog during the town`s annual celebration of its founding. Men and boys dressed in traditional gaucho garb rode through the town high atop amber and white horses. Each wore baggy pants tucked into soft leather boots. The pants were secured with wide fabric belts studded with silver or gold medallions. Straddling fluffy sheep wool saddles, each Argentine had large sheathed knifes tucked through the backsides of their belts. The outfit was capped with the traditional Argentine beret. Although many were dressed in this way especially for the festival, the traditional vestige is wore normally.
By midday a parade commenced down the main road. Each faction of San Martin was represented in the procession. With an elaborately outfitted brass band playing, the parade began with the elderly residents of San Martin creeping slowly down the road, waving their soft hands slowly at the crowd. An old couple, dressed traditionally, were at the lead. The old man gad watery eyes and tanned, leathery skin. Pride beamed from his darting gaze. Then came the town´s youth, followed by the handicapped. The parade continued long into the day with every imaginable subset of the community taking a turn walking down the stretch of road which culminated before a stage holding the communities elected officials. Even the garbage men and the electricians drove their trucks down the way, beeping and waving the blue and white Argentine flag. It was nice to watch the crowd receive each passing group with the same enthusiasm and appreciation.
The next day we boarded a local bus and took it one hour north to San Juanin de Los Andes. Although similarly structured as San Martin, San Juanin is free of tourist clutter. The town is pristinely maintained, slow, and quiet. Our impetus for being there was fishing. San Juanin is considered by many as a fly fishing Mecca in Patagonia. It has fortunately avoided being overhyped by guidebooks which allows it to remain a sleepy town with down right epic trout rivers.
We set up camp along the banks of Rio Chimehuín. Not long after our tents were popped, Chris and I had our fly rods assembled with big grass hopper patterns clinched to newly tied leaders. I recently realized that all the big, picture worthy, trophy trout I´ve caught throughout my years of fishing have been Rainbow Trout. Never a big Brown. While I do love Rainbow´s sunset pinks and lilly pond greens, and their spectacular aireal jumps during the fight, I have subconsciously focused my hunt on Brown Trout here in Patagonia.
Brown trout are uniquely beautiful. A slender white strip of white coats the very bottoms of their bellies. From there a warm yellow bleeds into a velvety brown. The masterpiece is finished with cranberry red spots that are circled in white. In the high, midday sun they shimmer in silky magnificence.
It did not take long to find a good stretch of water to fish. We waded across rocky shallows towards the other bank. There the river dumped in a hot dog shaped pool that ran 100 feet under overhanging trees. The river was set on the perfect latitude connecting the sun and the moon. Fishing into the night, we watched the sun fall down stream in an explosion of red and orange. Concurrently up stream, the moon, bright and full, rose out of the navy blue and dark purple horizon of the creeping night.
NOTE TO FAMILY: I am spending one more night in San Junin (2-10), then headed into the National Park Lanin which is just on the outskirts of town. Depending on the fishing and hiking, I may be there for five days. I will ring you when I get back. Love you.
By midday a parade commenced down the main road. Each faction of San Martin was represented in the procession. With an elaborately outfitted brass band playing, the parade began with the elderly residents of San Martin creeping slowly down the road, waving their soft hands slowly at the crowd. An old couple, dressed traditionally, were at the lead. The old man gad watery eyes and tanned, leathery skin. Pride beamed from his darting gaze. Then came the town´s youth, followed by the handicapped. The parade continued long into the day with every imaginable subset of the community taking a turn walking down the stretch of road which culminated before a stage holding the communities elected officials. Even the garbage men and the electricians drove their trucks down the way, beeping and waving the blue and white Argentine flag. It was nice to watch the crowd receive each passing group with the same enthusiasm and appreciation.
The next day we boarded a local bus and took it one hour north to San Juanin de Los Andes. Although similarly structured as San Martin, San Juanin is free of tourist clutter. The town is pristinely maintained, slow, and quiet. Our impetus for being there was fishing. San Juanin is considered by many as a fly fishing Mecca in Patagonia. It has fortunately avoided being overhyped by guidebooks which allows it to remain a sleepy town with down right epic trout rivers.
We set up camp along the banks of Rio Chimehuín. Not long after our tents were popped, Chris and I had our fly rods assembled with big grass hopper patterns clinched to newly tied leaders. I recently realized that all the big, picture worthy, trophy trout I´ve caught throughout my years of fishing have been Rainbow Trout. Never a big Brown. While I do love Rainbow´s sunset pinks and lilly pond greens, and their spectacular aireal jumps during the fight, I have subconsciously focused my hunt on Brown Trout here in Patagonia.
Brown trout are uniquely beautiful. A slender white strip of white coats the very bottoms of their bellies. From there a warm yellow bleeds into a velvety brown. The masterpiece is finished with cranberry red spots that are circled in white. In the high, midday sun they shimmer in silky magnificence.
It did not take long to find a good stretch of water to fish. We waded across rocky shallows towards the other bank. There the river dumped in a hot dog shaped pool that ran 100 feet under overhanging trees. The river was set on the perfect latitude connecting the sun and the moon. Fishing into the night, we watched the sun fall down stream in an explosion of red and orange. Concurrently up stream, the moon, bright and full, rose out of the navy blue and dark purple horizon of the creeping night.
NOTE TO FAMILY: I am spending one more night in San Junin (2-10), then headed into the National Park Lanin which is just on the outskirts of town. Depending on the fishing and hiking, I may be there for five days. I will ring you when I get back. Love you.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Reel Small World
With images of Rio Gallegos lingering in my mind, my arrival to San Martin de los Andes was refreshing. Hunting for a hostel, I walked along immaculate sidewalks where not even an old cigarette filter was wedged in its cracks. The storefronts were adorned with elaborate displays, and the shopkeepers smiled as I passed. San Martin´s plazas of perfectly primped grass were maintained by old men wearing matching sweater vests. The hunched men busied themselves sweeping stones back onto the path after people passed. So quant, San Martin invoked a merry melody in the mind´s radio.
I found a hostel, dropped my pack, and went to the grocery store with a couple of young Chilean who were in my room. The two hitchhiked from their home in Chile, and it was their last night in Argentina. I relished in the opportunity to work on my Spanish with them. They enjoyed hearing about my life in the States and were particularly interested in knowing if the portrayals of college in American film were accurate. I said they were for the most part, but not as funny.
Back at the hostel, I set my groceries on the counter and prepared to cook an omelets. It was three days since my last proper meal. Hurrying from bus to bus forces one to dramatically lower the standards of a daily diet. Between bags of chips and cookies, I ate sandwiches that an disheveled woman put together in the bus terminal at a make shift stand of stacked cardboard boxes. Handing my winkled pesos to the women, I did my best to divert my eyes from her flagrant disregard for personal hygiene. I inhaled the unknown meat tortas and chased them with a swig of Peptobismal.
Now at the hostel, I knew I needed to revive my body with some protein. I scurried around the hostel´s kitchen in search for a pan. Two guys were putting together some pasta creation at the stove. Although they were silent, I detected that they were Americans, or at least Israelis. ¨You know where the pans are?¨, I asked in English. He stooped down below the stove, and handed me a pan. ¨Where you from¨, I poked. ¨Boston¨, he replied. For some reason I expected him to be from Boston. Our discourse began laboriously, but I soon melted his hesitation when I told him I was a fishing guide back in the States and that I was in San Martin to fish. Chris was also there to fish. We got to talking and he invited me to join them for dinner. Having just checked my dwindling bank account, I stashed my now broken eggs in a jar and warmly accepted his invite.
Setting the table, Chris introduced me to his traveling partner Megan. Also from Boston, Megan asked where I went to school. ¨Holy Cross¨, I mindlessly responded. She dropped the silver wear she was gathering, and excitedly turned to me taken in a giddy smile. ¨No you´re not!¨ she laughed. I knew what that meant. Megan graduated from Holy Cross the year before me. We both went abroad the years we would have been in the same social scenes, so we had never met. Chris and Megan recently quit their jobs in the American rat race to travel. Bottles of wine took us late into the night and we laughed together like old friends. Staggering back to our rooms, we agreed to combine forces and head to the river in the morning to camp and fish.
I was uneasy to join Americans for this stint of travel in San Martin. Being with Americans, especially in a group, transforms the traveling experience to something completely different than what I am used to as a solo traveler. It is easy to become insular and hide in the comfortable bubble of speaking English and operating in the various American modes. The surroundings are no longer viewed independently- they are compared to the US. Time is spent laughing over movie quotes and anecdotes of pop culture. Time is also spent doing what American post grads do best: drinking. I had my first drink in three weeks with Megan and Chris. I set these concerns aside. Chris is a flyfisherman and a bow hunter. I was confident he would be an excellent companion for the river. Megan is a fellow Crusader. I could not walk away from the scary coincidence of bumping into someone who attended the same 2800 student school way down here in South America. Not to mention the fact that both are supremely warm, kindhearted people. It was a nice change from the seriousness of my most recent adventures.
We boarded a local bus and made it to Lago Lolog set North East of San Martin. The lake sat in the shadow of Cerro Colorado and in the far distance the peak of Volcan Lanin poked out from the landscape like a setting sun. Neither Chris nor I were interested in fishing the lake. We were there to fish the river that dumped into the lake, Rio Quilquihue. The camp site we intended on was nine kilometers from where the bus dropped us. While we initially attempted the walk, our painfully heavy packs persuaded us to camp illegally along the river. There were no signs prohibiting this, and we were all financially inclined to take this risk for some free camping. Best of all though, we were right on the river.
Chris and I spent the days climbing through brambles and downed tree limbs along the river, scouting for underfished spots. Argentina´s fisheries, or at least the one´s I have been fortunate enough to wade into, are subject to a lot of local pressure. Most access points to the rivers are crowded with local Argentines using a myriad of techniques to catch dinner. Most cast regular spinning rods with spoons or a bobber from which a number of flies hang. Others go even more primitive and handline a string wrapped around a stripped toilet paper roll. The inherent problem is that there is very little sport, catch and release fishing being done by these local fisherman. With very little mandated regulation, locals keep most of their catches, no matter the size. The stretches of river that are controlled, as in Tierra del Fuego, are privately owned and cost a hundred American dollars to fish per day. It saddens me to see these locals actively destroying the gift of these magical rivers. Trout Unlimited needs to set up shop down here.
Chris and I walked far from the crowds, and found excellent runs where riffles dumped around exposed boulders. Little Rainbow Trout rose clear out of the water, devouring some delicious terrestrial. With trees and shrubs directly behind us and across the way the fishing was highly technical. I made sweeping roll casts that shot my nymphing rig up stream. I hooked into several small brown trout that were dressed in dazzling red spots. My trophy was a 14 inch Rainbow the gleamed hot red in the sunlight. Camped just upstream, Chris and I fished late into the night. Squinting, I could just barely make out the silhouette of my indicator in the milky light of the crescent moon.
NOTE TO FAMILY: I am headed to San Juanin for a week or so. Ill call you when I can. All my love.
I found a hostel, dropped my pack, and went to the grocery store with a couple of young Chilean who were in my room. The two hitchhiked from their home in Chile, and it was their last night in Argentina. I relished in the opportunity to work on my Spanish with them. They enjoyed hearing about my life in the States and were particularly interested in knowing if the portrayals of college in American film were accurate. I said they were for the most part, but not as funny.
Back at the hostel, I set my groceries on the counter and prepared to cook an omelets. It was three days since my last proper meal. Hurrying from bus to bus forces one to dramatically lower the standards of a daily diet. Between bags of chips and cookies, I ate sandwiches that an disheveled woman put together in the bus terminal at a make shift stand of stacked cardboard boxes. Handing my winkled pesos to the women, I did my best to divert my eyes from her flagrant disregard for personal hygiene. I inhaled the unknown meat tortas and chased them with a swig of Peptobismal.
Now at the hostel, I knew I needed to revive my body with some protein. I scurried around the hostel´s kitchen in search for a pan. Two guys were putting together some pasta creation at the stove. Although they were silent, I detected that they were Americans, or at least Israelis. ¨You know where the pans are?¨, I asked in English. He stooped down below the stove, and handed me a pan. ¨Where you from¨, I poked. ¨Boston¨, he replied. For some reason I expected him to be from Boston. Our discourse began laboriously, but I soon melted his hesitation when I told him I was a fishing guide back in the States and that I was in San Martin to fish. Chris was also there to fish. We got to talking and he invited me to join them for dinner. Having just checked my dwindling bank account, I stashed my now broken eggs in a jar and warmly accepted his invite.
Setting the table, Chris introduced me to his traveling partner Megan. Also from Boston, Megan asked where I went to school. ¨Holy Cross¨, I mindlessly responded. She dropped the silver wear she was gathering, and excitedly turned to me taken in a giddy smile. ¨No you´re not!¨ she laughed. I knew what that meant. Megan graduated from Holy Cross the year before me. We both went abroad the years we would have been in the same social scenes, so we had never met. Chris and Megan recently quit their jobs in the American rat race to travel. Bottles of wine took us late into the night and we laughed together like old friends. Staggering back to our rooms, we agreed to combine forces and head to the river in the morning to camp and fish.
I was uneasy to join Americans for this stint of travel in San Martin. Being with Americans, especially in a group, transforms the traveling experience to something completely different than what I am used to as a solo traveler. It is easy to become insular and hide in the comfortable bubble of speaking English and operating in the various American modes. The surroundings are no longer viewed independently- they are compared to the US. Time is spent laughing over movie quotes and anecdotes of pop culture. Time is also spent doing what American post grads do best: drinking. I had my first drink in three weeks with Megan and Chris. I set these concerns aside. Chris is a flyfisherman and a bow hunter. I was confident he would be an excellent companion for the river. Megan is a fellow Crusader. I could not walk away from the scary coincidence of bumping into someone who attended the same 2800 student school way down here in South America. Not to mention the fact that both are supremely warm, kindhearted people. It was a nice change from the seriousness of my most recent adventures.
We boarded a local bus and made it to Lago Lolog set North East of San Martin. The lake sat in the shadow of Cerro Colorado and in the far distance the peak of Volcan Lanin poked out from the landscape like a setting sun. Neither Chris nor I were interested in fishing the lake. We were there to fish the river that dumped into the lake, Rio Quilquihue. The camp site we intended on was nine kilometers from where the bus dropped us. While we initially attempted the walk, our painfully heavy packs persuaded us to camp illegally along the river. There were no signs prohibiting this, and we were all financially inclined to take this risk for some free camping. Best of all though, we were right on the river.
Chris and I spent the days climbing through brambles and downed tree limbs along the river, scouting for underfished spots. Argentina´s fisheries, or at least the one´s I have been fortunate enough to wade into, are subject to a lot of local pressure. Most access points to the rivers are crowded with local Argentines using a myriad of techniques to catch dinner. Most cast regular spinning rods with spoons or a bobber from which a number of flies hang. Others go even more primitive and handline a string wrapped around a stripped toilet paper roll. The inherent problem is that there is very little sport, catch and release fishing being done by these local fisherman. With very little mandated regulation, locals keep most of their catches, no matter the size. The stretches of river that are controlled, as in Tierra del Fuego, are privately owned and cost a hundred American dollars to fish per day. It saddens me to see these locals actively destroying the gift of these magical rivers. Trout Unlimited needs to set up shop down here.
Chris and I walked far from the crowds, and found excellent runs where riffles dumped around exposed boulders. Little Rainbow Trout rose clear out of the water, devouring some delicious terrestrial. With trees and shrubs directly behind us and across the way the fishing was highly technical. I made sweeping roll casts that shot my nymphing rig up stream. I hooked into several small brown trout that were dressed in dazzling red spots. My trophy was a 14 inch Rainbow the gleamed hot red in the sunlight. Camped just upstream, Chris and I fished late into the night. Squinting, I could just barely make out the silhouette of my indicator in the milky light of the crescent moon.
NOTE TO FAMILY: I am headed to San Juanin for a week or so. Ill call you when I can. All my love.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Zen of Travel
Travel is not for everyone. I'm not talking about package deal, seven day six nights,all inclusive, fanny pack and tevas travel. Im talking about hostels, 36 hour bus rides, month old beard, "shit wheres the embassy", backpacking. Now I do not claim expert status. In fact one of my first lessons on the road was that there are way more hardcore travelers out there- folks who've been living out of a bag for year, that have no mailing address and carry around thick, ink drenched passports. I am not an expert, but I am compatable to the lifestyle.
Two months deep, the necessary ease and flexibility required of comfortable travel are formatted into my perspective. I roll into foriegn towns at dark with no bed booked, no food, no direction- with no anxiety. Stress is dissolved by the optimism that everything will eventually work out. Travel requires an acceptance that there will be pain, problems and lonliness. But all these things are trivial in the face of the beautiful big picture.
In terms of steering the course of a trip, nothing beats the advice of fellow travelers. Guidebooks end up being nothing more than exra weight. Over the course of this trip, I have cut my South American guide book in half and sent my Argentina one home. A good map is really the only necessary item. There are of course the occassional downfall with this minimalist approach. Recently, after getting as far south as I wanted, I planned to venture North through Chile. I learned then that between where I was and where I wanted to be was mostly all ice, and no bus traveled that route. Flexibility. To get to Pucon, my desired destination from Puerto Natales, I had to head four hours further south to Punta Arenas, then seven hours North East back into Argentina to Rio Gallegos, then 26 hours North back to Bariloche. Only then, at Bariloche, could I get a bus to Pucon. This is chess on a bigger board. Much like pawns must be moved out to bring bishops and rooks into the game to execute an eventual checkmate, getting somewhere often requires undesired stops along the way.
I love these stops though. They take me off the gringo tourist trail and reveal an authentic South America. Rio Gallegos for instance has no tourist draw, apart from its bus station. The small city is set up like a concentration camp- not a nazi camp, but like the ones Japanese-Americans were forced into during WWII. Rio Gallegos is made up of identical concrete dwellings that fit like legos into the town's simple grid structure. The hospital seemed to be a focal point. With its tin roof painted with a big red cross over a white circle, the building could have been plucked from the set of M.A.S.H.
Flights would eliminate these unneccesary sidetrips, but I am insistant on doing everything on the ground. So far I have logged 120 hours on buses. I have taken luxory buses where the seats recline to become a bed as well as not so comfortable buses where I've been crammed into a hot window seat next to an old lady with chronic flatulence. In the end, if its got a bathroom, I am happy.
Bus travel exposed me to the wonders that would only be green and yellow patchwork from the sky. Traveling back north via Argentina gave me another opportunity to whitness the mind numbing nothingness of the plains between Southern and Central Patagonia. Out my window, the terrain of yellow and dark, muddy green grass seemed endless. The sky gave points of reference to scale the distance of the terrain. In the foreground the sky was of a deeper blue and the dark bottoms of the clouds where the sun did not hit were visible. Beyond that the sky faded into a softer blue while the clouds shrunk in the distance. Depite its desolation, the scene was not lifeless. Heards of Guanocos (a close relative to the llama) and Nandu Ostriches nosed at the arid ground, searching for sustenance.
Traveling on the East Coast the road ran parallel to the Atlantic. I was overjoyed to be reunited with the Ocean I love. Seeing that familiar blue again, with birds diving into the white wash, I forgot where I was. I let my mind think that I was home again. Slithering back into my seat from the window, hoping the bus would stop so I could take in the salty air, my first real potent taste of homesickness hit. I almost wished I never saw it...almost.
When we arrived in Bariloche, I did not waste any time to book a ticket on the next bus out to San Martin. While I love Bariloche, it was becoming a black hole. This was my third time going through the Swiss town. I knew if I booked a room there, two days would turn into six pretty quick. So I suffered through another four hours, and got to San Martin.
Two months deep, the necessary ease and flexibility required of comfortable travel are formatted into my perspective. I roll into foriegn towns at dark with no bed booked, no food, no direction- with no anxiety. Stress is dissolved by the optimism that everything will eventually work out. Travel requires an acceptance that there will be pain, problems and lonliness. But all these things are trivial in the face of the beautiful big picture.
In terms of steering the course of a trip, nothing beats the advice of fellow travelers. Guidebooks end up being nothing more than exra weight. Over the course of this trip, I have cut my South American guide book in half and sent my Argentina one home. A good map is really the only necessary item. There are of course the occassional downfall with this minimalist approach. Recently, after getting as far south as I wanted, I planned to venture North through Chile. I learned then that between where I was and where I wanted to be was mostly all ice, and no bus traveled that route. Flexibility. To get to Pucon, my desired destination from Puerto Natales, I had to head four hours further south to Punta Arenas, then seven hours North East back into Argentina to Rio Gallegos, then 26 hours North back to Bariloche. Only then, at Bariloche, could I get a bus to Pucon. This is chess on a bigger board. Much like pawns must be moved out to bring bishops and rooks into the game to execute an eventual checkmate, getting somewhere often requires undesired stops along the way.
I love these stops though. They take me off the gringo tourist trail and reveal an authentic South America. Rio Gallegos for instance has no tourist draw, apart from its bus station. The small city is set up like a concentration camp- not a nazi camp, but like the ones Japanese-Americans were forced into during WWII. Rio Gallegos is made up of identical concrete dwellings that fit like legos into the town's simple grid structure. The hospital seemed to be a focal point. With its tin roof painted with a big red cross over a white circle, the building could have been plucked from the set of M.A.S.H.
Flights would eliminate these unneccesary sidetrips, but I am insistant on doing everything on the ground. So far I have logged 120 hours on buses. I have taken luxory buses where the seats recline to become a bed as well as not so comfortable buses where I've been crammed into a hot window seat next to an old lady with chronic flatulence. In the end, if its got a bathroom, I am happy.
Bus travel exposed me to the wonders that would only be green and yellow patchwork from the sky. Traveling back north via Argentina gave me another opportunity to whitness the mind numbing nothingness of the plains between Southern and Central Patagonia. Out my window, the terrain of yellow and dark, muddy green grass seemed endless. The sky gave points of reference to scale the distance of the terrain. In the foreground the sky was of a deeper blue and the dark bottoms of the clouds where the sun did not hit were visible. Beyond that the sky faded into a softer blue while the clouds shrunk in the distance. Depite its desolation, the scene was not lifeless. Heards of Guanocos (a close relative to the llama) and Nandu Ostriches nosed at the arid ground, searching for sustenance.
Traveling on the East Coast the road ran parallel to the Atlantic. I was overjoyed to be reunited with the Ocean I love. Seeing that familiar blue again, with birds diving into the white wash, I forgot where I was. I let my mind think that I was home again. Slithering back into my seat from the window, hoping the bus would stop so I could take in the salty air, my first real potent taste of homesickness hit. I almost wished I never saw it...almost.
When we arrived in Bariloche, I did not waste any time to book a ticket on the next bus out to San Martin. While I love Bariloche, it was becoming a black hole. This was my third time going through the Swiss town. I knew if I booked a room there, two days would turn into six pretty quick. So I suffered through another four hours, and got to San Martin.
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