I rolled uneasily into Mendoza. I am wary of cities, they tend to leach the life from me. The din of aggravated car horns; the subtle stench of urine tucked in every corner; the filth of concentrated population; the panhandling and pickpocket; all blind me to a city´s cultural value. With that said, I loved Mendoza.
Mendoza balanced its dense cityscape with several pristine parks. The park´s sweet air carried down wide pedestrian avenues where grids of umbrella topped tables sprouted from the street like beds of red pansies. The scene was all very European as if transported from Florence or Paris. Waiters stood neatly dressed, a menu tucked under one arm, trying to entice passing pedestrians to dine. Musicians glided from table to table, lingering at groups of tourists and other potential tippers. Local diners sipped cappuccino with one leg cast over the other, a cigarette burning lazily between their fingers.
The parks served as stages for Peruvian musicians who played in traditional indigenous garb. They ran a clever racket, drawing large semicircle crowds, pretending to blow into flutes while the music actually came from a stealthily stowed iPod. An American I watched the performance with doubted that they were even from Peru: ¨I swear those dudes are Puerto Rican.¨ The deep whistling of the flutes gave the park a continuous soundtrack.
The park was structured around three fountains that projected water into the sky through a number of spouts. I never really appreciated fountains. It seemed like an unnecessary waste of water and energy. But I guess I have yet to see one that has achieved its designed effect for me. The perimeter of the park was held together by artensan stands. Hippies sat along the walls of the nucleus fountain, selling their goods on blankets and towels.
Around midday, uniformed students spilled out into the streets. The youngsters wore blue and white lab coats indicative of their age. Teenagers romped through the park in boisterous gaggles. Occasionally, a couple would break off from the group and retreat to a shady tree where they became wrapped around one another in a braid of adolescent love.
Drifting clouds of cheap marijuana smoke met with the ambient scent of cut grass, giving the park a fresh aroma. If it were bottled as a cologne, you might title it tranquilo.
I checked into a hostel down the street from the park where I reunited with Chris and Megan- this time intentionally. For some reason, everyone in the hostel seemed unusually fascinated with me. I was not being overly sociable or funny. In fact, I felt rather introverted. None the less, groups of Argentines continually called me over to there table- giving up their seats, feeding me their food and beer. The groups ringleader, a small Argentine who functioned in a caffeinated trance from continual mate consumption, affectionately called me Kurt Cobain on account of my long blond hair. While I found the nickname morbid and not especially flattering, I did not protest. I even strummed an air guitar when he introduced me to others.
My arrival in Mendoza was schedualed around the city´s annual Harvest Festival. Primped to perfection, Mendoza was hosting an international crowd the ran the spectrum: wine enthusiasts, backpackers, partiers.
NEW UPDATE FOR MOM AND DAD: I am jumping on a bus tomorrow to go back to Buenos Aires. I will arrive in Buenos Aires the 16th. I am not staying there tho, from B.A. Im heading into Uruguay. Everything is good! Love you lots!
Friday, March 13, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
The Crux
Heading east across central Argentina, I opted for a circuitous route towards the country´s wine capital, Mendoza. I hoped to stray from the well worn backpacker avenues and destinations where the local economy depends on tourism, and find a more authentic Argentina. My time in Horcon Chile exposed me to this seductive, albeit occasionally stressful, form of solo travel. The trade off for these experiences is being completely alone in a foreign world. Yet this unique solitude is part of the appeal. Rarely in life is true detachment possible. It is during these times when one´s self reliance is put to the test.
Bumping along on a regional bus, passing through tunnels cut into the mountainside, a unseen landscape unfolded before me. Many forget, as I did, that magnificent nature exists beyond Patagonia in Argentina. In fact, the highest mountain in South America, Aconcagua, is located in the region of Mendoza. The mountains here were far different than those in the South. Down in Patagonia, the peaks were often of clean granite that shot narrowly into the sky. Here the mountain´s staggering mass ate up the horizon, often stealing the sun in the late afternoon. The stone matches the region´s arid temperatures, painted in honey mustard yellows, squash oranges, and hot pepper reds. Their summits are cooled with pristine white snow that seems to contradict the dry heat at ground level. Rivers run brown down through the valleys like a never ending flow of chocolate milk.
My first stop was in Uspallata. Located about two and a half hours west of Mendoza, Uspallata is a one road town encircled by snow capped mountains. As I disembarked the bus, foreboding clouds crept overhead. I had planned to camp at a site in town, but with the sky beginning to whimper and cry, and my tent in no condition to weather a storm, I grabbed a room in a cheap hospedaje (bed & breakfast). Dropping my pack on one of the room´s twin beds, I returned to the street.
Uspallata´s recent claim to fame is that it was used for the filming of the late 90´s Brad Pitt film Seven Years in Tibet. After the filming a local bar bought up all the extra props and took the name Tibet Bar. Thirsty for a cold beer, I took a seat under an umbrella outside of the Tibet Bar. Sitting there, nursing a liter of Quilmes, I watched distant clouds strike at the horizon with bolts of lightening. As the corresponding thunder rolled, I realized this was the first time I had seen lightening since I first got to Argentina. This brewed the realization I had been on the road for a while.
Three months. Three months of bus rides; camping; hiking; fishing; blisters; sun burns; hostels; stress; laughs; scenery; friends; hunger; loneliness. The list goes on and on. While I refused to openly admit it, my mind and body could not deny that I was tired. An underlying current of exhaustion coated everything I did. The physical toll was manifest in my weight loss, the subtle forward roll of my shoulders, and my overall unkempt appearance. The mental exhaustion, however, was far more potent. Traveling alone, the mind runs on a loop. Beyond the constant interchange of thoughts of family, friends, and home, there is the running checklist of necessities. ¨Do I have my: passport, wallet, camera, fly rod?¨ Whenever the bus stops to pick up more passengers, I must shoot to the window and make sure no one steals my pack. I have gone weeks without real conversation with people. During these times, the volume on my internal voice is cranked. Without remiss from the continual weighing of concerns, the mind throbs.
My time in Uspallata passed uneventfully. Nursing the wounds of three months on the road, I lazily relished in the forgotten comforts of a clean, single room equipped with a television. Lying there, dressed in the tv´s flashing indigo, I became reacquainted with the world I left behind. All the reports were depressing; record unemployment; plummeting stocks; bankrupt companies. There was even a segment on the growing numbers at soup kitchens. Overwhelmed, I wondered if things had gotten markedly worse, or if my perspective had just changed.
Traveling plugged me into an intoxicating network of positive people. Fortified by a continuous flow of contagious energy, the negatives of the world scarcely penetrate it. Backpackers are free agents, abandoning the expected modes of society´s design, and striving for something that trumps all material: experience. They sacrifice the fundamental comforts of a normal life for the sake of perspective. While I admit there is a degree of selfishness inherent to this, it is a necessary evil in gaining understanding, and in turn, hopefully spawning tolerance. Weighing this perspective with the grim happenings flashing before me, I wondered how to reconcile the two. With a few days before Mendoza´s annual wine festival, I took a bus further east to Potrerillos. Much like Uspallata, Potrerillo´s modest infrastructure grew off a few winding roads that descended down a valley and met an ¨T¨ intersection running perpendicular to a bean shaped lake. On the opposite bank, a mountain crowded the scenery. Uneven throughout, the maroon mountain looked like a crude piece of clay thumbed into a basic form. I trudged up from the bus stop where a local drunk harmlessly called out to disembarking passengers, and found what looked to be a camp site. Passing over a cattle guard and into the property, there were kayaks and rafts strewn on the pebble coated pavement. ¨Hola¨, an unseen voice called out to me. I turned to find a man struggling with a big propane tank. He softly placed it down, and hurried over to me with an extended hand. A long gray beard extended from a stringy mass of ash hair.Wielding an excited smile, he took my hand in his calloused grasp, then took my wrist with his other hand as if to reconfirm the meeting. ¨Me llamo Paco, beinvindos.¨
I liked Paco immediately. He was a product of the sixties, still pushing along strong with flower power. The property looked like a hippy commune. Dogs and children pranced around happily. An open air kitchen was the site´s focal point. An enormous poster of John Lennon, post Bealtes, was bound to the kitchen´s ancient fridge. Dreadlocked men and women sat on the outdoor kitchen´s extended deck, making handmade necklaces and bracelets. They drank from a bottle of red wine that when empty Paco refilled with a big jug. Paco kept all of his money in a tupperware container that he left unattended on the kitchen table. Instead of camping, Paco offered me a bed in his ´hostel´. The hostel was a plywood room with two three bed bunks. A night off the ground and on a mattress cost me only five extra pesos. I picked the middle bed from the stack of three. This proved to be a wise choice as large rodents snuck into the room from under the space in the door and from the gaps in the roof at night. I happily spent the days before Mendoza´s wine festival swinging in a hammock reading.
TO MOM & DAD: Im headed way up to Salta for ten days. Ill give a call when I get settled
Bumping along on a regional bus, passing through tunnels cut into the mountainside, a unseen landscape unfolded before me. Many forget, as I did, that magnificent nature exists beyond Patagonia in Argentina. In fact, the highest mountain in South America, Aconcagua, is located in the region of Mendoza. The mountains here were far different than those in the South. Down in Patagonia, the peaks were often of clean granite that shot narrowly into the sky. Here the mountain´s staggering mass ate up the horizon, often stealing the sun in the late afternoon. The stone matches the region´s arid temperatures, painted in honey mustard yellows, squash oranges, and hot pepper reds. Their summits are cooled with pristine white snow that seems to contradict the dry heat at ground level. Rivers run brown down through the valleys like a never ending flow of chocolate milk.
My first stop was in Uspallata. Located about two and a half hours west of Mendoza, Uspallata is a one road town encircled by snow capped mountains. As I disembarked the bus, foreboding clouds crept overhead. I had planned to camp at a site in town, but with the sky beginning to whimper and cry, and my tent in no condition to weather a storm, I grabbed a room in a cheap hospedaje (bed & breakfast). Dropping my pack on one of the room´s twin beds, I returned to the street.
Uspallata´s recent claim to fame is that it was used for the filming of the late 90´s Brad Pitt film Seven Years in Tibet. After the filming a local bar bought up all the extra props and took the name Tibet Bar. Thirsty for a cold beer, I took a seat under an umbrella outside of the Tibet Bar. Sitting there, nursing a liter of Quilmes, I watched distant clouds strike at the horizon with bolts of lightening. As the corresponding thunder rolled, I realized this was the first time I had seen lightening since I first got to Argentina. This brewed the realization I had been on the road for a while.
Three months. Three months of bus rides; camping; hiking; fishing; blisters; sun burns; hostels; stress; laughs; scenery; friends; hunger; loneliness. The list goes on and on. While I refused to openly admit it, my mind and body could not deny that I was tired. An underlying current of exhaustion coated everything I did. The physical toll was manifest in my weight loss, the subtle forward roll of my shoulders, and my overall unkempt appearance. The mental exhaustion, however, was far more potent. Traveling alone, the mind runs on a loop. Beyond the constant interchange of thoughts of family, friends, and home, there is the running checklist of necessities. ¨Do I have my: passport, wallet, camera, fly rod?¨ Whenever the bus stops to pick up more passengers, I must shoot to the window and make sure no one steals my pack. I have gone weeks without real conversation with people. During these times, the volume on my internal voice is cranked. Without remiss from the continual weighing of concerns, the mind throbs.
My time in Uspallata passed uneventfully. Nursing the wounds of three months on the road, I lazily relished in the forgotten comforts of a clean, single room equipped with a television. Lying there, dressed in the tv´s flashing indigo, I became reacquainted with the world I left behind. All the reports were depressing; record unemployment; plummeting stocks; bankrupt companies. There was even a segment on the growing numbers at soup kitchens. Overwhelmed, I wondered if things had gotten markedly worse, or if my perspective had just changed.
Traveling plugged me into an intoxicating network of positive people. Fortified by a continuous flow of contagious energy, the negatives of the world scarcely penetrate it. Backpackers are free agents, abandoning the expected modes of society´s design, and striving for something that trumps all material: experience. They sacrifice the fundamental comforts of a normal life for the sake of perspective. While I admit there is a degree of selfishness inherent to this, it is a necessary evil in gaining understanding, and in turn, hopefully spawning tolerance. Weighing this perspective with the grim happenings flashing before me, I wondered how to reconcile the two. With a few days before Mendoza´s annual wine festival, I took a bus further east to Potrerillos. Much like Uspallata, Potrerillo´s modest infrastructure grew off a few winding roads that descended down a valley and met an ¨T¨ intersection running perpendicular to a bean shaped lake. On the opposite bank, a mountain crowded the scenery. Uneven throughout, the maroon mountain looked like a crude piece of clay thumbed into a basic form. I trudged up from the bus stop where a local drunk harmlessly called out to disembarking passengers, and found what looked to be a camp site. Passing over a cattle guard and into the property, there were kayaks and rafts strewn on the pebble coated pavement. ¨Hola¨, an unseen voice called out to me. I turned to find a man struggling with a big propane tank. He softly placed it down, and hurried over to me with an extended hand. A long gray beard extended from a stringy mass of ash hair.Wielding an excited smile, he took my hand in his calloused grasp, then took my wrist with his other hand as if to reconfirm the meeting. ¨Me llamo Paco, beinvindos.¨
I liked Paco immediately. He was a product of the sixties, still pushing along strong with flower power. The property looked like a hippy commune. Dogs and children pranced around happily. An open air kitchen was the site´s focal point. An enormous poster of John Lennon, post Bealtes, was bound to the kitchen´s ancient fridge. Dreadlocked men and women sat on the outdoor kitchen´s extended deck, making handmade necklaces and bracelets. They drank from a bottle of red wine that when empty Paco refilled with a big jug. Paco kept all of his money in a tupperware container that he left unattended on the kitchen table. Instead of camping, Paco offered me a bed in his ´hostel´. The hostel was a plywood room with two three bed bunks. A night off the ground and on a mattress cost me only five extra pesos. I picked the middle bed from the stack of three. This proved to be a wise choice as large rodents snuck into the room from under the space in the door and from the gaps in the roof at night. I happily spent the days before Mendoza´s wine festival swinging in a hammock reading.
TO MOM & DAD: Im headed way up to Salta for ten days. Ill give a call when I get settled
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
A New Trip
The bus was fleeing Horcon as I stepped out from the dank confines of my rented room and into the buttery mid-morning sun. I was operating on minimal rest. The night prior the rhythmic clapping of the Pacific lulled me to sleep. Around three in the morning, drunken yelling jolted me awake. Outside my door, I could make out the shuffling feet of two men gripped in a fight. In their haste, a car door was left ajar. Its speakers screamed a face melting Santana guitar solo into the night- the perfect accompaniment for the dull thuds of fists on faces. I leaned forward in bed and checked that the door was locked. This easy access to the door was the room´s only luxury. I lay uneasily for the rest of the night, enveloped in the top comforter.
The old bus sputtered towards me. I flagged it down. The driver impatiently waved me aboard, giving me no time to stow my pack in the bus´s rear compartment. So there it sat next to me in the first window seat: a big, blue gringo eye sore. The bus soon filled and my seat occupying bag became the focus of every embarking passenger. Forced to stand in the aisle, they glared down at me and my pack with concentrated disdain. I took my queue and relinquished my seat to the first taker. But this did little to quell the bus´s growing indignation over my selfish storage. I could feel everyone´s eyes silently condemning me. I threw down my shades that previously held my hair back, and pretended to sleep. This proved especially difficult as I was standing.
The scene became increasingly hostile as every decrepit old foggie from here to Viña crawled aboard. Finally, overwhelmed by all the unwanted attention, I asked the bus driver if he could stop so I got put my bag in the back. He refused. Instead he told me to toss it up on his dash board. I returned to the seat, grabbed the bag and navigated awkwardly through the crowd of passengers. A faint applause broke out in my wake celebrating the local victory. The bag took up most of the right side of the windshield, a definite moving violation. But with little Argentine children riding on the back of motorcycles without helmets, I was sure the local authorities would not pay this breach in safety much mind.
The bus docked in Viña around midday. I immediately booked a ticket on an overnight trip back into Argentina. Hours later sitting on the second story of the bus at a border crossing, I let my eyes glaze to passengers scurrying around mounds of luggage below my window. The scene melted into a brewing stew of colors. I let my mind wander. Flipping through the thoughts of past adventures and adventures soon to come, I realized that the nature of my trip had changed. I was out of Patagonia. No more treks. No more rivers. No more doing really. Now was a time to cover ground. A time to push hard for the last month, and see the rest of Argentina.
The old bus sputtered towards me. I flagged it down. The driver impatiently waved me aboard, giving me no time to stow my pack in the bus´s rear compartment. So there it sat next to me in the first window seat: a big, blue gringo eye sore. The bus soon filled and my seat occupying bag became the focus of every embarking passenger. Forced to stand in the aisle, they glared down at me and my pack with concentrated disdain. I took my queue and relinquished my seat to the first taker. But this did little to quell the bus´s growing indignation over my selfish storage. I could feel everyone´s eyes silently condemning me. I threw down my shades that previously held my hair back, and pretended to sleep. This proved especially difficult as I was standing.
The scene became increasingly hostile as every decrepit old foggie from here to Viña crawled aboard. Finally, overwhelmed by all the unwanted attention, I asked the bus driver if he could stop so I got put my bag in the back. He refused. Instead he told me to toss it up on his dash board. I returned to the seat, grabbed the bag and navigated awkwardly through the crowd of passengers. A faint applause broke out in my wake celebrating the local victory. The bag took up most of the right side of the windshield, a definite moving violation. But with little Argentine children riding on the back of motorcycles without helmets, I was sure the local authorities would not pay this breach in safety much mind.
The bus docked in Viña around midday. I immediately booked a ticket on an overnight trip back into Argentina. Hours later sitting on the second story of the bus at a border crossing, I let my eyes glaze to passengers scurrying around mounds of luggage below my window. The scene melted into a brewing stew of colors. I let my mind wander. Flipping through the thoughts of past adventures and adventures soon to come, I realized that the nature of my trip had changed. I was out of Patagonia. No more treks. No more rivers. No more doing really. Now was a time to cover ground. A time to push hard for the last month, and see the rest of Argentina.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Wandering off the Tourist Trail Continued
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.
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.
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.
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