Thursday, February 19, 2004
One month down. Sometimes it´s hard to believe (it´s just, and sometimes only) a month. That is, until I look in the mirror at my ragged clothes, stubly face and consider that I now feel most confortable eating a burger with a fork and knife. Raegan and I are in Bariloche and are rears are feeling much better, thank you. Tomorrow we are flying to El Calafate to spend a month around the small fishing villages, glaciers and granite peaks of the southern most parts of Argentina and Chile. For now -- at least -- we´re well rested. Note: I got a little carried away in the park the other day so this entry will be a long one, perhaps better taken in more than one sitting. Oh well, here goes....
Halting the break-neck pace we´ve been maintaining, Raegan and I spent the last 6 nights in El Bolson. Being a small mountain town with no university or chez panis, we felt our guidebook had erred by calling it "as close to Berkeley as you can get" in Argentina. Well, we were half right.
Our first night there we stayed in an affordable room with a balcony room overlooking a meadow with a rocky range beyond. Not bad. When we arrived at the residence our keeper got a look at us and excitedly asked us if we spoke german. Momentarily tempted, we conceeded "nein." Nevertheless, this encounter reminded me of the currious german immigration to the region. But it was too nice a day to concern myself with such matters. (There were also many wild west americans who settled here, including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid before they met their end in Bolivia, but that subject would be better discussed on another page).
The next day was a full one. We changed hotels, as the one we were staying in was 3k out of town, well beyond the end of the sidewalk. Our new digs were on the other side of the river, where there isn´t and never was a sidewalk. The following day we were to take a 4 day trek in the mountains to glaciers and narrow canyons and we had to stock up for the trip. We wouldn´t need our water filter as the river water was potible (dont they know about giardia?), but we would need food. We bought rice, cheese, salami, hard fruit, dried soup, nuts, granola, chocolate, and boxed wine at the market. We also left with a few beers for the afternoon/evening and ingredients that could potentially quench our desire to eat something resembling chinese food for dinner. We informed the club andino patigonica of our plans, and stoped for the fatefull super pancho (or footlong) before heading back to home base.
I was bummed I didn´t have my camera for the walk home. I wanted to take pictures of the other, poorer side of town. The pictures would be of the Andies with not so glamorous foregrounds: junker cars and spare parts in front of houses in mid-construction, also of the rickety pedestrian bridge which spanned the clear river, and of the kids swimming, some building small fires only feet from their swimming holes. And all this with a glorious granite range as a back drop -- very well highlighted by the early evening sun. No pictures though.
Instead we headed to Agustine´s, where we were staying in one of the houses he´d constructed on his land for travelers in seek of rest between jaunts to the mountains. We drank beer on a bench and watched a runt white kitten, and two malnourished dogs (or maybe American animals are obese). We also watched Agusine keep himself busy building another house, digging an irrigation dich, making leather hats, two little children running up a pile of dirt only to collapse at the peak in stiches at their slap-stick falls. We were surounded by funky fountains, the well, and the sprawling gardens which looked more accidental than planned. Despite all this motion, it was quiet and peaceful. All of this activity could only be noticed due to the peace and tranquility of the place. When we were not observing we were reading our novels or translating articles about dead iraqi recruits. All the while, the towering range beyong slowly changed colors as the evening came.
When we finished our first beer it was much too early to think about preparing dinner, much to my chagrin. We would have to wait until a more reasonable hour, say 10.30, to begin. I escaped to our room to listen to music, and ride out another wave of language frustrations. I was feeling a little funny, but attributed it to my frustrations and the stress it produced.
Two bites into our dinner of fried rice, I excused myself to lay in the fetal position in our room. After two hours of uncomfortably laying as still as I could -- and about 10 minutes into Valentine´s day -- the projectile vommiting began. I didn´t take too much satisfaction that I made it all in one of our plastic shopping bags. But Raegan did. I didn´t sleep that night. First it was due to the pain, then to the buzz saw snoring from the room above, and then, at 4.30 the roosters added their part.
In the morning, Agustine brought tea and an awefully bitter juice solution as Raegan had alerted him to my condition and our sudden change of plans the night before. Translations of herbs are difficult, so I am unsure of what the tea was, but it tasted like chamomile with lemon and honey. The juice, aparently, was a wormwood (from the garden) and alcohol solution with sugar to fight a loosing battle agaist the bitterness. In the afternoon his wife brought a small pot of soup made with some kind of grees (again, from the garden) stocks and all. I got it all down, and although I was weak, I was well on my way to recovery.
Once better, we further explored the town of El Bolson. We visited the ferria, where local artisans sell carved wood, beaded necklaces, pipes, leather goods, and organic preserves. Agustine sells his hats there, and informed us that after the ferria most locals head to the local theatre to sit cross legged, eat tapas, and listed to the sitar. Pretty Berkeley. The next day we headed up the mountain to a forest, where after a recent fire the burt wood was carved by local artists. Not all of the work was noteworthy, but it was pretty cool walking around a sculpture garden in the wildflour infested, regenerating woods. The day after that we took a 15 mile round-trip hike to a narrow canyon. Often in our travels we wonder how anything could be more beautiful than the place that we are, and again and again we find out how. This canyon is just another example. The canyon got so narrow at one point that I was able to jump across, the clear blue water a hundred feet bellow. Raegan chastised me while she took the bridge. Arriving at the Refugio nearby we pased through a meadow of grazing sheep, with a blonde, curly-haired boy chasing them -- a scene out of the sound of music -- then we passed through a field of lavender and entered the dark cabin, we were greated with gray haired man who turned down the Janis Joplin to ask, "wanna glass of water (piped fresh from the clear river)." Enough.
We walked back with a physician (who drank the water, too), and we discussed the econimics and politics of the country -- a subject for a future entry. It was great to speak english, my first conversation (other than with Raegan) in weeks.
El Bolson was the second place we were truly sad to leave -- the first being Mendoza. We became friends with a young couple from Rosario, and had Agustine and his wife to thank for being so welcoming -- not to mention my health. I´ll write another, shorter entry from the south.....
Comments-[ comments.]
Halting the break-neck pace we´ve been maintaining, Raegan and I spent the last 6 nights in El Bolson. Being a small mountain town with no university or chez panis, we felt our guidebook had erred by calling it "as close to Berkeley as you can get" in Argentina. Well, we were half right.
Our first night there we stayed in an affordable room with a balcony room overlooking a meadow with a rocky range beyond. Not bad. When we arrived at the residence our keeper got a look at us and excitedly asked us if we spoke german. Momentarily tempted, we conceeded "nein." Nevertheless, this encounter reminded me of the currious german immigration to the region. But it was too nice a day to concern myself with such matters. (There were also many wild west americans who settled here, including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid before they met their end in Bolivia, but that subject would be better discussed on another page).
The next day was a full one. We changed hotels, as the one we were staying in was 3k out of town, well beyond the end of the sidewalk. Our new digs were on the other side of the river, where there isn´t and never was a sidewalk. The following day we were to take a 4 day trek in the mountains to glaciers and narrow canyons and we had to stock up for the trip. We wouldn´t need our water filter as the river water was potible (dont they know about giardia?), but we would need food. We bought rice, cheese, salami, hard fruit, dried soup, nuts, granola, chocolate, and boxed wine at the market. We also left with a few beers for the afternoon/evening and ingredients that could potentially quench our desire to eat something resembling chinese food for dinner. We informed the club andino patigonica of our plans, and stoped for the fatefull super pancho (or footlong) before heading back to home base.
I was bummed I didn´t have my camera for the walk home. I wanted to take pictures of the other, poorer side of town. The pictures would be of the Andies with not so glamorous foregrounds: junker cars and spare parts in front of houses in mid-construction, also of the rickety pedestrian bridge which spanned the clear river, and of the kids swimming, some building small fires only feet from their swimming holes. And all this with a glorious granite range as a back drop -- very well highlighted by the early evening sun. No pictures though.
Instead we headed to Agustine´s, where we were staying in one of the houses he´d constructed on his land for travelers in seek of rest between jaunts to the mountains. We drank beer on a bench and watched a runt white kitten, and two malnourished dogs (or maybe American animals are obese). We also watched Agusine keep himself busy building another house, digging an irrigation dich, making leather hats, two little children running up a pile of dirt only to collapse at the peak in stiches at their slap-stick falls. We were surounded by funky fountains, the well, and the sprawling gardens which looked more accidental than planned. Despite all this motion, it was quiet and peaceful. All of this activity could only be noticed due to the peace and tranquility of the place. When we were not observing we were reading our novels or translating articles about dead iraqi recruits. All the while, the towering range beyong slowly changed colors as the evening came.
When we finished our first beer it was much too early to think about preparing dinner, much to my chagrin. We would have to wait until a more reasonable hour, say 10.30, to begin. I escaped to our room to listen to music, and ride out another wave of language frustrations. I was feeling a little funny, but attributed it to my frustrations and the stress it produced.
Two bites into our dinner of fried rice, I excused myself to lay in the fetal position in our room. After two hours of uncomfortably laying as still as I could -- and about 10 minutes into Valentine´s day -- the projectile vommiting began. I didn´t take too much satisfaction that I made it all in one of our plastic shopping bags. But Raegan did. I didn´t sleep that night. First it was due to the pain, then to the buzz saw snoring from the room above, and then, at 4.30 the roosters added their part.
In the morning, Agustine brought tea and an awefully bitter juice solution as Raegan had alerted him to my condition and our sudden change of plans the night before. Translations of herbs are difficult, so I am unsure of what the tea was, but it tasted like chamomile with lemon and honey. The juice, aparently, was a wormwood (from the garden) and alcohol solution with sugar to fight a loosing battle agaist the bitterness. In the afternoon his wife brought a small pot of soup made with some kind of grees (again, from the garden) stocks and all. I got it all down, and although I was weak, I was well on my way to recovery.
Once better, we further explored the town of El Bolson. We visited the ferria, where local artisans sell carved wood, beaded necklaces, pipes, leather goods, and organic preserves. Agustine sells his hats there, and informed us that after the ferria most locals head to the local theatre to sit cross legged, eat tapas, and listed to the sitar. Pretty Berkeley. The next day we headed up the mountain to a forest, where after a recent fire the burt wood was carved by local artists. Not all of the work was noteworthy, but it was pretty cool walking around a sculpture garden in the wildflour infested, regenerating woods. The day after that we took a 15 mile round-trip hike to a narrow canyon. Often in our travels we wonder how anything could be more beautiful than the place that we are, and again and again we find out how. This canyon is just another example. The canyon got so narrow at one point that I was able to jump across, the clear blue water a hundred feet bellow. Raegan chastised me while she took the bridge. Arriving at the Refugio nearby we pased through a meadow of grazing sheep, with a blonde, curly-haired boy chasing them -- a scene out of the sound of music -- then we passed through a field of lavender and entered the dark cabin, we were greated with gray haired man who turned down the Janis Joplin to ask, "wanna glass of water (piped fresh from the clear river)." Enough.
We walked back with a physician (who drank the water, too), and we discussed the econimics and politics of the country -- a subject for a future entry. It was great to speak english, my first conversation (other than with Raegan) in weeks.
El Bolson was the second place we were truly sad to leave -- the first being Mendoza. We became friends with a young couple from Rosario, and had Agustine and his wife to thank for being so welcoming -- not to mention my health. I´ll write another, shorter entry from the south.....
Friday, February 13, 2004
Also, chicos, please check out our pictures (by clicking on "pictures") I hope that works. If it doesn´t, let us know. Also, we love the comments, keep them coming. But if you´d like our personal addresses, they are: jacobfordschultz@yahoo.com and raeganjoern@hotmail.com. More to come when we return from the woods!
Comments-[ comments.]
Monday, February 09, 2004
Raegan and I have arrived in San Martin de los Andes. It´s beautifully situated on an Alpine lake (it is, afterall, the lake district) surounded forests and above them, glaciated peaks. Sounds great, eh? Well it is, but despite all of this, arriving here was sort of a rude awakening after Junin. We´re still in a small mountain town with no stop lights or signs, but here, perhaps they´re needed. As with Junin there is a river running through town, but unlike Junin here you cannot clearly make out every stone in it´s bed. Our salami, bread and cheese picnics are no longer made by a guy down the unpaved street, but are rather packed in plastic - yuck. But don´t despair, we may no longer be in la-la land, but we are still having a marvelous time.
Today we took a boat trip to a small beach on the other side of the lake. Once there we hiked to a waterfall with some Argentinian women we met at our hostel. There we sipped mate, the national addiction of Argentina. It´s actually quite nice, and it´s preperation is quite the ritual. I think between Raegan and I we will remember about 10 of the 15 steps involved, but we´ll likely have other opportunities to get it down. Nevertheless, we will certainly enjoy sharing it with you when we return. Perhaps the real lesson of this experience is that the Argentinan people are almost unbelievably generous. Several times, within a few minutes of meeting traveling Argentinans from Buenos Aries, they´ve offered up their phone numbers and addresses for our visit there in a few months. I could fill this page with other instances, but take my word for it: these are some nice people.
We´ve thoughtlessly omited any mention of our time in Mendoza, so here goes..... It lacked the lustre of Santiago, but we we couldn´t help but fall in love with the place. We met great people in our hostel, some who we plan to visit in Buenos Aires, perhaps the Cayman Islands, and others perhaps on other journeys. Each street is lined with trees. Hey urban planners: trees make for nice cities. Most days we took a public bus to wineries, and tasted great wines. Our highlight was our trip to Maipu, where we visited the museum at La Bodega Rural. They´re all Bodegas here, being the equivalent of Chateaus in France. After our time at La Bodega, we ate at a wonderful resteraunt. The owner, waiter, and chef produced no menu when we arrived, but rather: "how about a little of this or that or the other thing." We settled on a beef stew that he prepared in the clay oven he made, wine that he made, bread that he made, and for desert, he ran out to his orchard and plucked some peaches and grapes. It was a splurge, so the bill came to about $10.
What else?
We are always greeted with "Hola Chicos," and leave to "Ciao."
Expresso is always served with a small glass of mineral water on the side.
The trout meat is pink, due to a variety of algae which grows only here.
Tommorow we´re off to Villa Angostura (also on a lake). The Patagonian Express keeps rolling. Oh, and please write.
Comments-[ comments.]
Today we took a boat trip to a small beach on the other side of the lake. Once there we hiked to a waterfall with some Argentinian women we met at our hostel. There we sipped mate, the national addiction of Argentina. It´s actually quite nice, and it´s preperation is quite the ritual. I think between Raegan and I we will remember about 10 of the 15 steps involved, but we´ll likely have other opportunities to get it down. Nevertheless, we will certainly enjoy sharing it with you when we return. Perhaps the real lesson of this experience is that the Argentinan people are almost unbelievably generous. Several times, within a few minutes of meeting traveling Argentinans from Buenos Aries, they´ve offered up their phone numbers and addresses for our visit there in a few months. I could fill this page with other instances, but take my word for it: these are some nice people.
We´ve thoughtlessly omited any mention of our time in Mendoza, so here goes..... It lacked the lustre of Santiago, but we we couldn´t help but fall in love with the place. We met great people in our hostel, some who we plan to visit in Buenos Aires, perhaps the Cayman Islands, and others perhaps on other journeys. Each street is lined with trees. Hey urban planners: trees make for nice cities. Most days we took a public bus to wineries, and tasted great wines. Our highlight was our trip to Maipu, where we visited the museum at La Bodega Rural. They´re all Bodegas here, being the equivalent of Chateaus in France. After our time at La Bodega, we ate at a wonderful resteraunt. The owner, waiter, and chef produced no menu when we arrived, but rather: "how about a little of this or that or the other thing." We settled on a beef stew that he prepared in the clay oven he made, wine that he made, bread that he made, and for desert, he ran out to his orchard and plucked some peaches and grapes. It was a splurge, so the bill came to about $10.
What else?
We are always greeted with "Hola Chicos," and leave to "Ciao."
Expresso is always served with a small glass of mineral water on the side.
The trout meat is pink, due to a variety of algae which grows only here.
Tommorow we´re off to Villa Angostura (also on a lake). The Patagonian Express keeps rolling. Oh, and please write.
