I have been on my own again for almost a week now. I have not been hitchhiking. I have been in gritty markets, on nighttime buses and in a giant city. The gritty markets were in Temuco. Temuco is known for its bus stations, its universities, its markets and its Mapuche. "People of the Land," or the Mapuche, are the native people of southern Chile and Argentina. Historically they have been mistreated and tension is still strong. Their presence is more concentrated in Temuco than perhaps any other place in Chile which gives the town a particularly foreign and also segregated feel. While youth in collared shirts with german blood attend catholic universities on one side of town, ox-carts pull pig carcasses around and drunks sleep in the streets on the other. I saw both sides. I watched the students, nearly my contemporaries, coming and going from sterile academic buildings, taking cigarette breaks outside the library, reading from sturdy textbooks in between classes. On the other side of town, I saw blocks of headcheese piled high behind chickens nervously laying eggs, towers of tightly bound seaweed and rows of bright spices in open burlap sacks. The market is the largest in Chile and is proudly run by the Mapuche people. They should be proud too. It is a glorious and impressive sight. I was told many times by my Argentian coworkers that the Mapuches are mean. I took this as narrowminded racism. However, these market Mapuches lived up to their bad name. I was poorly recieved at the market, especially by the elderly cheese women with faces like old apples wrapped in thick shawls. My questions about the cheese--how long was it aged, sheep or goat or cow, what was on the rind--were less then welcome. Regardless, I was impressed.
So late at night I went to one of the many bus stations in Temuco. I took a bus that drove me through the night north on the Panamerican Highway. The seat, while supposedly semi-cama (reclining) seemed to be trying to spill me out all night. People snored loudly and I suspected that the adolescent sitting next me had a boner beneath his fleece blanket. If I could have tossed and turned, I would have, instead I just shimmied around in my seat all night.
I woke in Santiago. Sunrises in smoggy places are magic. This was no different. Everything has that hazy orange glow that makes you want to go to Hollywood and get famous. I was too cranky to entertain these fantasies, though I did think longingly of California.
I am staying at a very funny hostel here. It was not my first choice. My first choice was destroyed in the earthquake, which I discovered upon arrival in the hazy orange morning light. This place was next door, and still under construction. It is a beautiful old beautiful building with high ceilings and wavy glass windows looking out to a central courtyard. But the paint is still wet on the walls and the workmen come and go tracking plaster powder across the raw wood floors. The woman who works here is a gamer. She lives upstairs with her sixteen year old daughter and when she is not cleaning or microwaving chicken for her daughter, she is playing games on the computer. As we speak, she is behind me, face inches from the screen, clicking away at something that looks like midieval themed tetris. She also told me that she dreamed of going to Finland. She once had a chance to go there but was five months pregnant, so she couldn´t. She also drinks so very much instant coffee, late into the night.
Everyone (guidebooks included) seems to make apologies for the Santiago. They lament the lack of sights to see or nightlife to be had. I disagree. The city, so thick with smog, is delightfully self-satisfied. The buildings (most unattractive or atleast unnoteworthy) have been built sturdy and rooted to withstand impossible earthquakes. A personality seems to have come with this, a confidence that I find quite seductive. THe city knows itself, its limits, its strengths and it goes about its business in a graceful, cool, collected manner. In the last few days I have climbed to high heights to see the city under a blanket of smog, I have consumed fruits never before seen, I have visited lovely art museums and grimy markets both. It doesn´t seem bothered that I, a tourist, am here, nor is it doing anything to welcome let alone acknowledge me. This suits me. It is like the city version of a cat. And its behavior after the earthquake has proved that it can, indeed, land on its feet. That said, my eyes burn red and my skin feels filmy. This, I suppose is the price some pay.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
hacer dedo
I have, in the last week, ridden in many trucks, cars, buses and boats. Mostly trucks though. Mariana and I turned out to be very compatible travel partners--both easily satisfied and amused and both possessing similarly balanced amounts of fear and fun. I had a couple of days on the island of Chiloe before she came and met me--That is when the hitchhiking began. Out of necessity really, as not only is the island quite underserved by buses, it is the low season which means most services are closed. When asking around for this or that (bike or boat rentals, mainly) the answer was always,"sorry, ít´s not summer anymore." Furthermore, the island is rural in that quaint, heartwarming way that makes you trust everyone. It is all green pastures and brightly painted fishing boats. There is of course, the sadder, seedier truth of the island which is that traditional methods of living are being challenged by the infiltration of large-scale, hormone-happy fishing farms. In the larger towns of Castro and Ancud, there is certainly evidence of unbalance. Nobody is prosperous, but most get by. Buses run infrequently if ever and thus when you are walking along any of the many country roads, you are almost always offered a ride by passing farmers and families. And so hitchhiking came to me. By the time Mariana arrived in Ancud it became the true theme of the trip, the decided and necessary means of transport. Hitchhiking with Mariana was a delight, she would sit up close to the driver and chitchat rapidly, about the weather, the crops, island life, argentina vs. chile, etc. while I could sit silent for the most part, trying to understand. Once we were dropped further down the road, she could fill me in on the details. The islanders are proud people and most conversations displayed this.
We spent several days on the island, walking and hitching our way down lovely country roads. Though we never realized our goal of going out into the waters with some kind story-telling fishermen, the island was all we wanted it to be. It is a place famous not only for fish but for it´s rare widespread belief in magic and spirits. Though I did not see any of the legendary trolls, witches or mermaids, their presence is somehow always felt throughout the island.
Our next destination was north to the lake and volcano district. We could not, however, hitchhike our way off the island and thus, restrained by bus and boat schedules, we failed to make it all the way to our destination by nightfall. We found ourselves in the lakeside resort town of Frutillar. A fast-talking holiday-maker on our minibus insisted we stay at the lovely hospedaje she frequented. The hospedaje owner was lovely, with a limp and a warm way, but the damp room was freezing. It was, without a doubt, the coldest night of my life. Mariana and I shared a musty bed piled high with filmy faded blankets and still we woke stiff and miserable. The mood was brightened by the generous breakfast of german Kuchen (a sort of dry yet dense fruitcake common in the region) as well as by the magnificent sight of Volcan Osorno across the black sands and clear blue lake. Frutillar, like most of the lake district, is German. It all has a bizarre bavarian touch--the architecture, overusage of the letter "K", and most notably the popularity of strudels, kuchens and afternoon tea. It is quite convincing, what with the rolling green hills, snowcapped peaks, black and white cows. It is, indeed, a perfect picture of alpine paradise.
We finally made it to our desired town of Puerto Octay, where we had such high hopes in a certain hostel on the outskirts of town, "Zapato Amarillo." It was, in fact, quite lovely. Grass-rooves, raw wood, swiss-owned. From there we went on a miriad of adventures, by bike and foot, all of which started with vigor and enthusiasm and ended in exhaustion and laughter while thanking some truck driver as we climbed from his cab. I had never actually ridden in the cab of a real big truck before. I had never known the sensation of ´climbing´up. Or else the feeling of riding so high. I had never even considered hitching a ride from a truck driver. But somehow here, on these quaint country roads--all dairy, wool and toothless farmers--it seemed perfectly appropriate. We pushed our luck however in trying to arrive at the the supposedly lovely town of Ensenada. THe one and only road going to Ensenada was under serious construction and thus work trucks seriously outnumbered passing vehicles. we walked for quite a while, waiting for some nice farmer to pass. He never did and soon we began taking rides from the tractors and bulldozers. Ensenada seemed to never come. We began to get annoyed with one another as we bumped along through the construction zone getting endless hoots and kissing sounds from the working men we passed from on high. Mariana got fed up first and demanded, quite abruptly that we return. We made our way back through the site, bumping along high in some cement truck, waving at the working men. Once we were safely on paved ground, Mariana declared that she didn´t want to see any more "orange people", referring of course to the men´s work uniform. It is refreshing to travel around with someone who has not been raised in post-80´s, PC, private California schools. We avoided rides from the "orange people" for the rest of the trip, which left us to ride in cars and small trucks. This was fine too, though they all seemed to mention how very lovely Ensenada is. We will never know.
Our last destination was EntreLagos, not because it is so beautiful (it is, like it´s name, between lakes), but because it is close to the Puyuhue hotsprings. We rented a lovely little two-person cabana and then made our way on yet another rickity rural bus to the thermal springs. I faired better than Mariana in the hot waters. I, in fact, seemed to fair better than most. I attribute this to the scandinavian ancestry I am told to have. There are indoor pools but we opted for the outdoor pool next to the river. It is a funny family scene, full of peaceful old ladies in frilly-skirted swimsuits and red-faced bleary-eyed children. If you are brave enough, you can venture out into the misty frigid air and take a dip in the ice-cold river. I did this often, each time rubbing my flesh vigorously with the course volcanic black sand of the riverbed. This attracted quite a crowd who all looked more disgusted than impressed by this private, primitive act. I think Mariana was embarrassed of and for me. Rightfully so. But my skin later spoke the truth, so much like a baby´s it was.
We finally parted ways in EntreLagos, promising one another that we would not hitchhike alone, and also that we would meet up to travel again someday soon. I trust both of these things will happen.
We spent several days on the island, walking and hitching our way down lovely country roads. Though we never realized our goal of going out into the waters with some kind story-telling fishermen, the island was all we wanted it to be. It is a place famous not only for fish but for it´s rare widespread belief in magic and spirits. Though I did not see any of the legendary trolls, witches or mermaids, their presence is somehow always felt throughout the island.
Our next destination was north to the lake and volcano district. We could not, however, hitchhike our way off the island and thus, restrained by bus and boat schedules, we failed to make it all the way to our destination by nightfall. We found ourselves in the lakeside resort town of Frutillar. A fast-talking holiday-maker on our minibus insisted we stay at the lovely hospedaje she frequented. The hospedaje owner was lovely, with a limp and a warm way, but the damp room was freezing. It was, without a doubt, the coldest night of my life. Mariana and I shared a musty bed piled high with filmy faded blankets and still we woke stiff and miserable. The mood was brightened by the generous breakfast of german Kuchen (a sort of dry yet dense fruitcake common in the region) as well as by the magnificent sight of Volcan Osorno across the black sands and clear blue lake. Frutillar, like most of the lake district, is German. It all has a bizarre bavarian touch--the architecture, overusage of the letter "K", and most notably the popularity of strudels, kuchens and afternoon tea. It is quite convincing, what with the rolling green hills, snowcapped peaks, black and white cows. It is, indeed, a perfect picture of alpine paradise.
We finally made it to our desired town of Puerto Octay, where we had such high hopes in a certain hostel on the outskirts of town, "Zapato Amarillo." It was, in fact, quite lovely. Grass-rooves, raw wood, swiss-owned. From there we went on a miriad of adventures, by bike and foot, all of which started with vigor and enthusiasm and ended in exhaustion and laughter while thanking some truck driver as we climbed from his cab. I had never actually ridden in the cab of a real big truck before. I had never known the sensation of ´climbing´up. Or else the feeling of riding so high. I had never even considered hitching a ride from a truck driver. But somehow here, on these quaint country roads--all dairy, wool and toothless farmers--it seemed perfectly appropriate. We pushed our luck however in trying to arrive at the the supposedly lovely town of Ensenada. THe one and only road going to Ensenada was under serious construction and thus work trucks seriously outnumbered passing vehicles. we walked for quite a while, waiting for some nice farmer to pass. He never did and soon we began taking rides from the tractors and bulldozers. Ensenada seemed to never come. We began to get annoyed with one another as we bumped along through the construction zone getting endless hoots and kissing sounds from the working men we passed from on high. Mariana got fed up first and demanded, quite abruptly that we return. We made our way back through the site, bumping along high in some cement truck, waving at the working men. Once we were safely on paved ground, Mariana declared that she didn´t want to see any more "orange people", referring of course to the men´s work uniform. It is refreshing to travel around with someone who has not been raised in post-80´s, PC, private California schools. We avoided rides from the "orange people" for the rest of the trip, which left us to ride in cars and small trucks. This was fine too, though they all seemed to mention how very lovely Ensenada is. We will never know.
Our last destination was EntreLagos, not because it is so beautiful (it is, like it´s name, between lakes), but because it is close to the Puyuhue hotsprings. We rented a lovely little two-person cabana and then made our way on yet another rickity rural bus to the thermal springs. I faired better than Mariana in the hot waters. I, in fact, seemed to fair better than most. I attribute this to the scandinavian ancestry I am told to have. There are indoor pools but we opted for the outdoor pool next to the river. It is a funny family scene, full of peaceful old ladies in frilly-skirted swimsuits and red-faced bleary-eyed children. If you are brave enough, you can venture out into the misty frigid air and take a dip in the ice-cold river. I did this often, each time rubbing my flesh vigorously with the course volcanic black sand of the riverbed. This attracted quite a crowd who all looked more disgusted than impressed by this private, primitive act. I think Mariana was embarrassed of and for me. Rightfully so. But my skin later spoke the truth, so much like a baby´s it was.
We finally parted ways in EntreLagos, promising one another that we would not hitchhike alone, and also that we would meet up to travel again someday soon. I trust both of these things will happen.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
sea legs/land legs
Have you ever read the David Foster Wallace essay titled "The supposedly fun thing I´ll never do again"? The boat was something like that. Unlike Wallace´s experience, this was no cruise in a traditional sense. This was a cargo boat simply outfitted with passenger facilities. And we were not sailing on light blue waters. There were no bikinis, poolside drinks, etc. (Though we did play bingo the last night). The level of cruise-ness depended on the attitude of the passengers. If they wanted four nights and three days of party, they could have it, but they would have to be ok with flourescent lights, blinding sterile surfaces, cold metal and rough waters. It is also the off season, which means the fun loving summertime students have gone back to school. The weather is frigid, the seas rough. We, the passengers, were the stragglers. We got our tickets at ridiculously discounted prices and still we failed to fill the dining hall. There were, in fact, more cows on board than people. There were probably twice as many cows. They lived quite unhappily inside trucks at the stern of the boat amongst the other cargo containers. They shuffled around uncomfortably in their cramped quarters as we fought our way north through the windy fjords. They never stopped mooing--moos of fear, discomfort, surely sea sickness. They also never stopped smelling. Even when the winds on deck were strong enough to knock you down, the scent of the cows, and increasingly their feces, wafted (often violently) through the air. With that said, the passengers were ready to party. They were ready with their cases of liquor and junk food. They were ready like freshman are ready for dorm parties. A sort of `What happens on the boat stays on the boat` mentality pervaded. There were of course some calm native Chilenos who kept to themselves or serious science-oriented foreigners, but the rest could be divided into two groups. There were the bleary-eyed working class Chilean men, who were rarely at breakfast but always in the bar, and then there were the backpacking party gringos, always at breakfast but also always in the bar. The latter group were the people that they talk about when they talk about the Gringo Trail. They were from all over the US, Europe and Australia but had all met eachother in all the places you are supposed to go. They were on a sort of circuit. They already had inside jokes. They had bought booze together. They were facebook friends. I recognized many of them from the famous mountains--we had passed eachother on trails beneath glaciers. And here we were, all stuck together for three days. Here is a basic timeline:
Night one: Board the boat. I was in a starboard side bunk with a girl from Oakland and one from Australia. I was quite pleased by the quaint little cabin--complete with roomy lockers and curtains to pull around your personal bunk. I walked around the boat,watched the cows being loaded on board and then went to sleep. Meanwhile, above me, two floors up in the bar, the party had already begun. Booze was being pulled out of backpacks and blurry digital photos being taken. Or so I assume. I slept well that night.
Day One: Breakfast promptly at 8am. A safety briefing and short science lecture given in spanish and english on the glaciers. The lecturer, whom we got to know well, was quirky and incomprehensible. His lectures-there was one each day-were scattered at best yet frought with cringeworthy humor. I played cards for a long time with some of the partiers. I found they were not so bad. Lunch was promptly at 12:30. Salmon, potatoes, cauliflower. I read for a while, played some more cards, went on deck here and there. The partiers had decided it was time to start drinking. Upon joining them, I found that we could, in fact, be friends. Booze did a lot to help this. The night, after a prompt 7:30 dinner of beef tenderloin, was exactly that giddy-freshman-dorm-getting-to-know-you kind of thing. People were very drunk, very friendly. The lights were very bright, the surfaces very shiny, very cold. It all felt nightmarishly familiar. I enjoyed myself nevertheless.
Day Two: Pouring rain and angry wind. Once again 8am breakfast. Science talk on Flora and Fauna. At around lunchtime the rough waters began. The rest of day two was, for me, thus spent either rolling uncomfortably in my bunk wishing for death or vomitting violently on deck also wishing for death. There was more partying that night. Few were as sick as me. Inside, they drank wine with their spaghetti and bolognese sauce while I dry heaved into the wind, so full of the scent and sound of the equally ill cows. I finally slept though I suspect the cows never got proper rest.
Day Three: 8am breakfast. Science-culture talk on the island of Chiloe. Calm waters. I had some very lengthy discussions with some germans about business and emotions. Befriended a hipster from New York. Read some. Went on deck. Watched the cows. Felt so very appreciative of my health and of the relatively placid waters. The waters were so very placid that I not only ate my pork chop dinner, but I also drank wine, and a fair amount of it. This was the last night, the night they want you to remember: bingo night. This took place, of course, in the bar. The prizes were ship paraphanalia, mostly baseball caps and fleece vests. However, If you won any given round, you were awarded, or rather punished, by having to dance in front of the rest of the passengers. They were considerate enough to dim the lights when it was your turn to dance, but still it seemed cruel. I played with no aim to win. Once there were no more vests and caps to win, bingo was over and we were left to our own devices. The party crowd tried with varied success to finish the booze they had brought on board. The giddiness in the room was different than the first night. It was a giddiness to see land, to step off board and leave it behind.
Day four: We disembarked early at Puerto Montt and made a mass exodus to the bus station. I got on a bus going to the island of Chiloe while others went north, east, south. While I have made some very fond contacts, I was happy to say farewell. ONce in the lovely, grimy little port town of Ancud, I went walking around looking for a place to stay. I never felt so happy to be carrying such weight with me as I moved over solid ground.
And Chiloe has already turned out to be everything I wanted. Both sleepy and chaotic, lovely and filthy. I have already eaten steaming fish soups and tasted oysters and smelly soft cheeses from the markets. I have ridden the rickety rural buses around to see the funny little towns with their tin houses on stilts and brightly painted wooden churches. Everyone honks and waves and asks you if you want a ride. The weather changes by the minute and no one seems to mind. I have learned to put plastic bags in my shoes and ignore it as well.
Tomorrow Mariana, my dear sweet friend from the Estancia will meet me here. She is taking her vacation. She will give me all the gossip about the staff back in argentina. We have no plans, just to hike, canoe, eat, look for hot springs.
Night one: Board the boat. I was in a starboard side bunk with a girl from Oakland and one from Australia. I was quite pleased by the quaint little cabin--complete with roomy lockers and curtains to pull around your personal bunk. I walked around the boat,watched the cows being loaded on board and then went to sleep. Meanwhile, above me, two floors up in the bar, the party had already begun. Booze was being pulled out of backpacks and blurry digital photos being taken. Or so I assume. I slept well that night.
Day One: Breakfast promptly at 8am. A safety briefing and short science lecture given in spanish and english on the glaciers. The lecturer, whom we got to know well, was quirky and incomprehensible. His lectures-there was one each day-were scattered at best yet frought with cringeworthy humor. I played cards for a long time with some of the partiers. I found they were not so bad. Lunch was promptly at 12:30. Salmon, potatoes, cauliflower. I read for a while, played some more cards, went on deck here and there. The partiers had decided it was time to start drinking. Upon joining them, I found that we could, in fact, be friends. Booze did a lot to help this. The night, after a prompt 7:30 dinner of beef tenderloin, was exactly that giddy-freshman-dorm-getting-to-know-you kind of thing. People were very drunk, very friendly. The lights were very bright, the surfaces very shiny, very cold. It all felt nightmarishly familiar. I enjoyed myself nevertheless.
Day Two: Pouring rain and angry wind. Once again 8am breakfast. Science talk on Flora and Fauna. At around lunchtime the rough waters began. The rest of day two was, for me, thus spent either rolling uncomfortably in my bunk wishing for death or vomitting violently on deck also wishing for death. There was more partying that night. Few were as sick as me. Inside, they drank wine with their spaghetti and bolognese sauce while I dry heaved into the wind, so full of the scent and sound of the equally ill cows. I finally slept though I suspect the cows never got proper rest.
Day Three: 8am breakfast. Science-culture talk on the island of Chiloe. Calm waters. I had some very lengthy discussions with some germans about business and emotions. Befriended a hipster from New York. Read some. Went on deck. Watched the cows. Felt so very appreciative of my health and of the relatively placid waters. The waters were so very placid that I not only ate my pork chop dinner, but I also drank wine, and a fair amount of it. This was the last night, the night they want you to remember: bingo night. This took place, of course, in the bar. The prizes were ship paraphanalia, mostly baseball caps and fleece vests. However, If you won any given round, you were awarded, or rather punished, by having to dance in front of the rest of the passengers. They were considerate enough to dim the lights when it was your turn to dance, but still it seemed cruel. I played with no aim to win. Once there were no more vests and caps to win, bingo was over and we were left to our own devices. The party crowd tried with varied success to finish the booze they had brought on board. The giddiness in the room was different than the first night. It was a giddiness to see land, to step off board and leave it behind.
Day four: We disembarked early at Puerto Montt and made a mass exodus to the bus station. I got on a bus going to the island of Chiloe while others went north, east, south. While I have made some very fond contacts, I was happy to say farewell. ONce in the lovely, grimy little port town of Ancud, I went walking around looking for a place to stay. I never felt so happy to be carrying such weight with me as I moved over solid ground.
And Chiloe has already turned out to be everything I wanted. Both sleepy and chaotic, lovely and filthy. I have already eaten steaming fish soups and tasted oysters and smelly soft cheeses from the markets. I have ridden the rickety rural buses around to see the funny little towns with their tin houses on stilts and brightly painted wooden churches. Everyone honks and waves and asks you if you want a ride. The weather changes by the minute and no one seems to mind. I have learned to put plastic bags in my shoes and ignore it as well.
Tomorrow Mariana, my dear sweet friend from the Estancia will meet me here. She is taking her vacation. She will give me all the gossip about the staff back in argentina. We have no plans, just to hike, canoe, eat, look for hot springs.
Monday, April 12, 2010
new country
So I almost did all the things I was supposed to do. I did El Chalten: ice climbing on the Cerro Torre glacier and the Lago de los Tres trek of Fitz Roy. I was thoroughly wowed by both. Wowed by the spectacle of it all as well as the ability of my legs and especially my sad little canvas sneakers to bring me to these points of spectacle. Then I took the bus back to El Calafate and did the Perito Merino glacier. The only way to access the glacier is by doing some sort of bus tour. I chose the "Alternative tour" as it was said to be imformative but to the point, no frills. My fellow tourists were all Australian and easy to hate. The phrase "I´m not here to make friends" kept running through my mind. They seemed to pick up on it and left me to myself. The special little extra surprise of the tour was that we took a rugged dirt road to the glacier where we got to take an early morning stop at a primative estancia for tea. The leathery men of the ranch looked uncomfortable to have us there, like they wouldn´t have invited us if they didn´t have to. They were burning gasoline soaked tree trunks and garbage in large aluminum oil cans. We huddled around them to keep warm. We sipped our tea and watched the resident baby llama play with the baby cat. Then one of the men prepared a baby bottle with some chunky white formula and we took turns feeding the llama. Then we got back in the bus and rumbled away to the glacier. The glacier was massively impressive. Truly beyond anything I had ever seen. I felt too cool for the whole tour experience but definitely not too cool for the glacier. Noone could be unimpressed. And the day was perfect, bringing out the violent blues of the ice. We were lucky to witness giant ruptures as well: the equivalent of an 18 storey building crumbling to the ground. we spent a good four hours wandering up and down the steel balconies that traverse from one side to the other. We took a boat right up close to the glacier. The boat people pulled a chunk of ice out of the water and broke off pieces for us to suck on. We sucked at the ice and looked at the glacier while the boat idled, spewing black smoke into the crystal air. On our return bus ride, the australians showed eachother the photos they had just taken. They had a sort of rating system and got very raudy and competetive.
I spent the afternoon wandering up into the outskirts of town where the dirt roads disappear into the endless Steppe. There are all sorts of concrete structures that are either being built or being taken apart. It is difficult to tell which. I met no one on the roads and could hear nothing but the electricity running obediantly through the power lines above and the distant barking of dissastisfied dogs. It was magic so unlike the glacier.
The next morning I boarded the bus to cross into chile. There was nothing exciting about the border crossing except that we all had to give over any animal and plant products. Puerto Natales, Chile is a port town and also the main town to access the famous Torres del Paine. I am not doing the "circuit" in "del Paine." All the dedicated trekkers and big-talking backpackers are dissapointed in me. "you going to Paine tomorrow then?" they ask. When I say no, they want to argue. "but you are so close" they say. Some have the skills to sense my irritation and leave it at that, while others (and they are usually the Australians) keep pushing the issue. They want to know what treks I have already done, perhaps what climbs, etc. I entertain very little of this discourse. So I will not do Torres del Paine. I have thus not done all I am supposed to do. I feel no regret. It is not that I don´t like the mountains. They are breathtaking. As I have said, I have been humbled and amazed. But I am ready for salty air and rusty metal. Puerto Natales has given me a taste of this, while giant glacial peaks still provide that sense of nervous wonder. Puerto Natales is more tired than sleepy. The kids are not so cagey as they were in El Calafate, where they seemed downright angry. Here the people are just tired. They have all painted their corrugated metal houses bright colors too many times, only to have the unforgiving salty glacial air wear the paint down to the same rusty gray every time. The men here work with both fish and sheep. Some of the men are unloading boats of fish while others are unloading trucks of sheep. I saw both happening yesterday. I also saw a group of young children beat a partially mummified cat carcass with sticks. I wanted to take a photo but as I approached them, the stench of death brought blinding tears to my eyes.But my humble explorations of the town have grounded me. Would it be too much to say that I don´t need Torres del Paine? I don´t think so. I am somehow so satisfied to watch the men pack sheep and fish and the children bat-around dead cats. I need very little.
With that said, I am tonight boarding a giant frieght boat which will take me up through the fjords. I am supposed to be amazed by this too.
I spent the afternoon wandering up into the outskirts of town where the dirt roads disappear into the endless Steppe. There are all sorts of concrete structures that are either being built or being taken apart. It is difficult to tell which. I met no one on the roads and could hear nothing but the electricity running obediantly through the power lines above and the distant barking of dissastisfied dogs. It was magic so unlike the glacier.
The next morning I boarded the bus to cross into chile. There was nothing exciting about the border crossing except that we all had to give over any animal and plant products. Puerto Natales, Chile is a port town and also the main town to access the famous Torres del Paine. I am not doing the "circuit" in "del Paine." All the dedicated trekkers and big-talking backpackers are dissapointed in me. "you going to Paine tomorrow then?" they ask. When I say no, they want to argue. "but you are so close" they say. Some have the skills to sense my irritation and leave it at that, while others (and they are usually the Australians) keep pushing the issue. They want to know what treks I have already done, perhaps what climbs, etc. I entertain very little of this discourse. So I will not do Torres del Paine. I have thus not done all I am supposed to do. I feel no regret. It is not that I don´t like the mountains. They are breathtaking. As I have said, I have been humbled and amazed. But I am ready for salty air and rusty metal. Puerto Natales has given me a taste of this, while giant glacial peaks still provide that sense of nervous wonder. Puerto Natales is more tired than sleepy. The kids are not so cagey as they were in El Calafate, where they seemed downright angry. Here the people are just tired. They have all painted their corrugated metal houses bright colors too many times, only to have the unforgiving salty glacial air wear the paint down to the same rusty gray every time. The men here work with both fish and sheep. Some of the men are unloading boats of fish while others are unloading trucks of sheep. I saw both happening yesterday. I also saw a group of young children beat a partially mummified cat carcass with sticks. I wanted to take a photo but as I approached them, the stench of death brought blinding tears to my eyes.But my humble explorations of the town have grounded me. Would it be too much to say that I don´t need Torres del Paine? I don´t think so. I am somehow so satisfied to watch the men pack sheep and fish and the children bat-around dead cats. I need very little.
With that said, I am tonight boarding a giant frieght boat which will take me up through the fjords. I am supposed to be amazed by this too.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
national geographic
Now I am in El Chalten. It is the famous climbing outpost town giving access to the legendarily unclimbable Cerro Torre and the iconic Fitz Roy. My state of awe began during the plane ride from Bariloche to El Calafate. Never have I been so humbled by the surface of the earth. Pocked gray moonscapes gave way to blinding turquise lakes. We would disappear for a moment into thick white clouds only to reemerge amongst snowy jagged peaks, winding neon rivers, lush valleys. It was an hour and a half with my face pressed against the already greasy plastic of the window before making a dramatic landing over the piercing blue
I spent only a few hours in the tourist town of el calafate before boarding a bus to el chalten. During the five hour bus ride between the two towns, I came to understand what is commonly understood as Patagonia. An unfathomable expanse of what seems like nothing. It is not nothing. What look like tiny influctions on the horizon, are, in fact giant mesas of rock and sand. Those influctions become, very slowly sun-blocking giants upon approach. There is only one road. We met no more than a few cars, though we almost hit what I assumed were alpacas leaping, so carefree across the desert. I later saw their massive hides hanging to dry from barbed wire fences. But whose fences? Who is to keep out or in here? I had thought that texas was huge, the deserts of New Mexico, arizona, oklahoma. They are, they are all very large. But those states secure its travellers always with a feeling that perhaps, just over the next rise in the road, there could be a walmart. There is not that feeling here. To say that one feels small here, would be a gross understatement.
I arrived in El Chalten after dark. I spent the night in a fairly inoffensive hostel. Inoffensive in that more spanish was spoken than english and people kept their voices at a reasonable volume. I awoke this morning to find what it was that I could not see in last night's pitch--the giant forms of Fitz Roy and Torre looming over the dusty town. The town not only hovers between these two peaks, it also lives perhaps awkwardly between being an rugged outpost town and a tourist comfort station. There are all traces of luxury in the tiny almost trendy cafes and freshly painted hotels with thick-paned glass and central heating. At the same time, the roads are still gravel and the dogs that hang around look bored, hungry, full of fleas.
But topography once again brought me to my knees. It is the kind of place that makes people either really believe in science or really believe in God. Or else, you are a freespirited young soulsearcher: you do not know enough to believe in science and you are still too scared to believe in God. And so instead you take local hallucinogenic drugs, San Pedro or the like. It is a safe alternative; your mind is blown and yet you do not have to thank god or science. I am scared of both science and god. And only hallucinogens frighten me more. I am left, thus, with nothing but disbelief.
Tomorrow I try ice climbing. It is not really my style, what with all the harnesses and wrap around polarized sunglasses. But I have already been humbled.
I spent only a few hours in the tourist town of el calafate before boarding a bus to el chalten. During the five hour bus ride between the two towns, I came to understand what is commonly understood as Patagonia. An unfathomable expanse of what seems like nothing. It is not nothing. What look like tiny influctions on the horizon, are, in fact giant mesas of rock and sand. Those influctions become, very slowly sun-blocking giants upon approach. There is only one road. We met no more than a few cars, though we almost hit what I assumed were alpacas leaping, so carefree across the desert. I later saw their massive hides hanging to dry from barbed wire fences. But whose fences? Who is to keep out or in here? I had thought that texas was huge, the deserts of New Mexico, arizona, oklahoma. They are, they are all very large. But those states secure its travellers always with a feeling that perhaps, just over the next rise in the road, there could be a walmart. There is not that feeling here. To say that one feels small here, would be a gross understatement.
I arrived in El Chalten after dark. I spent the night in a fairly inoffensive hostel. Inoffensive in that more spanish was spoken than english and people kept their voices at a reasonable volume. I awoke this morning to find what it was that I could not see in last night's pitch--the giant forms of Fitz Roy and Torre looming over the dusty town. The town not only hovers between these two peaks, it also lives perhaps awkwardly between being an rugged outpost town and a tourist comfort station. There are all traces of luxury in the tiny almost trendy cafes and freshly painted hotels with thick-paned glass and central heating. At the same time, the roads are still gravel and the dogs that hang around look bored, hungry, full of fleas.
But topography once again brought me to my knees. It is the kind of place that makes people either really believe in science or really believe in God. Or else, you are a freespirited young soulsearcher: you do not know enough to believe in science and you are still too scared to believe in God. And so instead you take local hallucinogenic drugs, San Pedro or the like. It is a safe alternative; your mind is blown and yet you do not have to thank god or science. I am scared of both science and god. And only hallucinogens frighten me more. I am left, thus, with nothing but disbelief.
Tomorrow I try ice climbing. It is not really my style, what with all the harnesses and wrap around polarized sunglasses. But I have already been humbled.
Monday, April 5, 2010
holy week/farewell
I feel somehow as if I must apologize for such a long absence. The lack of writing was not for lack of activity. On the contrary. There has been simply too much going on. Here are my excuses, my reasons for not writing:
dog sitting: I was given the priviledge if not task of watching the dogs--feeding, medicating and walking them. The dogs belong to the lovely owner of Estancia. She had to go to Buenos Aires to attend to family matters. I was to stay at her house--also very lovely, right on the lake, beneath the mountain, full of raw wood and leather. There are four dogs. Two heaving, heavy golden retriever brothers, their golden retriever mother and then an unrelated crippled black lab. The mom and the lame one are fine, just sad. The other two, the beefy young brothers, are horrors. They eat rocks, live chickens, leftovers from every human meal. They are both fat and orange and thus I can´t tell them apart, though one is supposedly the more dominant one and also supposedly more muscle than fat. regardless, I cannot and could not tell the difference. I am also bad with remembering names. I need to put names to faces in order to remember them. The faces of these dogs mean nothing to me and so I am left with nothing. This became a problem with regards to medication. The pills(and there were many different types for various ailments to be given at various times of the day) were to be hidden inside little balls of some mushy rice-chicken-cheese concoction made specially by Manu. All was well. I hid the pills, gave them to their respective patients and then went about my business. But the right patients did not seem to get the right pills. I woke to vomit on the couch and at breakfast, found golden diarrhea in the kitchen. Both had chunks that resembled the rice-chicken-cheese concoction. I held my breath and waited for the illness to pass. It did. Mariana joined me in the house/dog sitting. Together we lived at the house and she took over the task of medicating the beasts. Under her care, nobody became ill.
Mariana: My friendship with Mariana blossomed out of the shared dog-sitting among other things. She helps run the estancia--and does a very good job. SHe speaks better english than I do spanish and this has also helped us to develop a friendship more sophisticated than with my other coworkers. She has an infectious laugh and a keen sense of the absurd. We share meals, hikes and much discussion about the guests that pass through here. Though it is truly not a complaint, she has taken up much of my time in which I might otherwise be writing.
Holy Week: Holy week is the very last rush before the quiet season. Holy week constitutes some sort of spring break for Argentines and thus a time to come in droves to the mountains. We have had many day-trippers. Families coming for the day to horseback ride, kayak, hike, eat lunch, dinner, take tea with cookies, see the views, etc. They often come with their children. The parents sit at one table and drink wine and stain the table cloth while the children sit at a different table where they throw food and stain the table cloth. In short, they create an awful lot of work. There are americans too, spaniards, south africans, finns, french. Yes several french. They have all brought their own little quirks. Nothing too disrupting except, perhaps, for the three generations of loud women. They just departed this morning, and left behind them a wake of empty sweet-n-low packages and empty bottles of sauvignon blanc. Daughters (two, ages 17 and 21, always tired except when drunk), mother (disatisfied with everything but her crossword puzzles, newly divorced) and grandmother (the loudest and most willing to make an impression). They were from Florida but with the distict accents of Long Islanders. They shared a lot (with one another, but projecting so that I could always hear) about the unfortunate situation with their new stepmom. There is scandal in the family, very juicy, very crass. There was also a huge fuss because the grandmother nearly lost her life on the rafting trip. She was thrown from the raft which left her both petrified and sore. Her life was spared but her nails were not. Her hands were a sight. Knobbled veiny fingers ended in jagged, angry bright pink nails. I helped her to repaint the damaged nails. She was not pleased with the results.
Training: Because I am leaving, somebody needs to take over my position. I have come to work in the service alone most of the time, manning the tables, the drinks, the cocktail, etc. I have it down to a science, or perhaps an art if I dare flatter myself. I have a delightful relationship with Silvina and a very functional one with Manu. Gladis--timid, depressed, slow-moving gladis--was somehow chosen to take over. It is is my job to train her. This has been a challenge to say the least. Though I had previously had very lovely feelings about Gladis, she is beginning to try my patience. My language skills are limited in such a way as I cannot explain to her the need to improvise, to think on ones feet, to multi-task, etc. But I have been kind and patient with her. Manu has not. THere is drama in the kitchen. Manu has made Gladis cry on several occasions. The administration has gotten involved. I am, by default, involved. I try to mediate. I use my body and my face to express what my words cannot and thus I am exhausted by all the encouraging smiles and shrugs-of-understanding. The two will work something out. It is no longer my problem.
Trip planning: My last and final excuse. This one has perhaps been the most occupying. I have been, for some time, deep in the process of preparing for the next part of my trip. I have bitten my nails a lot. I have debated internally and aloud, with myself and with others about where I should go, what I should do when I go there, etc. This all coincided with a steady stream of earthquakes in Chili (my supposed next destination. I could not help but take all the earth-shaking as some message from the gods. But I have decided, more or less.
Tomorrow I go south. South to the giant glaciers. I expect to be wowed. I will write about it, I hope. The glaciers, then up through the fjords by boat, then to the lush island of Chiloe, then north to Santiago, to the valleys of wine grapes and then who knows.
I could stay on here if I wanted. They want me to. I have already stayed longer than I thought. It is because I like it here. A lot. But I am excited now about travelling again. My bags are packed and my feet significantly itchy. They paid me today. More than I had expected. All in cash. I will guard it with my life as I climb up those mountains of ancient ice. I will, though, be taking with me more than money. I have new friends, new characters, a deeper understanding of the tourism industry, a solid vocabulary list of cleaning-associated words, and other less quantifiable gains.
dog sitting: I was given the priviledge if not task of watching the dogs--feeding, medicating and walking them. The dogs belong to the lovely owner of Estancia. She had to go to Buenos Aires to attend to family matters. I was to stay at her house--also very lovely, right on the lake, beneath the mountain, full of raw wood and leather. There are four dogs. Two heaving, heavy golden retriever brothers, their golden retriever mother and then an unrelated crippled black lab. The mom and the lame one are fine, just sad. The other two, the beefy young brothers, are horrors. They eat rocks, live chickens, leftovers from every human meal. They are both fat and orange and thus I can´t tell them apart, though one is supposedly the more dominant one and also supposedly more muscle than fat. regardless, I cannot and could not tell the difference. I am also bad with remembering names. I need to put names to faces in order to remember them. The faces of these dogs mean nothing to me and so I am left with nothing. This became a problem with regards to medication. The pills(and there were many different types for various ailments to be given at various times of the day) were to be hidden inside little balls of some mushy rice-chicken-cheese concoction made specially by Manu. All was well. I hid the pills, gave them to their respective patients and then went about my business. But the right patients did not seem to get the right pills. I woke to vomit on the couch and at breakfast, found golden diarrhea in the kitchen. Both had chunks that resembled the rice-chicken-cheese concoction. I held my breath and waited for the illness to pass. It did. Mariana joined me in the house/dog sitting. Together we lived at the house and she took over the task of medicating the beasts. Under her care, nobody became ill.
Mariana: My friendship with Mariana blossomed out of the shared dog-sitting among other things. She helps run the estancia--and does a very good job. SHe speaks better english than I do spanish and this has also helped us to develop a friendship more sophisticated than with my other coworkers. She has an infectious laugh and a keen sense of the absurd. We share meals, hikes and much discussion about the guests that pass through here. Though it is truly not a complaint, she has taken up much of my time in which I might otherwise be writing.
Holy Week: Holy week is the very last rush before the quiet season. Holy week constitutes some sort of spring break for Argentines and thus a time to come in droves to the mountains. We have had many day-trippers. Families coming for the day to horseback ride, kayak, hike, eat lunch, dinner, take tea with cookies, see the views, etc. They often come with their children. The parents sit at one table and drink wine and stain the table cloth while the children sit at a different table where they throw food and stain the table cloth. In short, they create an awful lot of work. There are americans too, spaniards, south africans, finns, french. Yes several french. They have all brought their own little quirks. Nothing too disrupting except, perhaps, for the three generations of loud women. They just departed this morning, and left behind them a wake of empty sweet-n-low packages and empty bottles of sauvignon blanc. Daughters (two, ages 17 and 21, always tired except when drunk), mother (disatisfied with everything but her crossword puzzles, newly divorced) and grandmother (the loudest and most willing to make an impression). They were from Florida but with the distict accents of Long Islanders. They shared a lot (with one another, but projecting so that I could always hear) about the unfortunate situation with their new stepmom. There is scandal in the family, very juicy, very crass. There was also a huge fuss because the grandmother nearly lost her life on the rafting trip. She was thrown from the raft which left her both petrified and sore. Her life was spared but her nails were not. Her hands were a sight. Knobbled veiny fingers ended in jagged, angry bright pink nails. I helped her to repaint the damaged nails. She was not pleased with the results.
Training: Because I am leaving, somebody needs to take over my position. I have come to work in the service alone most of the time, manning the tables, the drinks, the cocktail, etc. I have it down to a science, or perhaps an art if I dare flatter myself. I have a delightful relationship with Silvina and a very functional one with Manu. Gladis--timid, depressed, slow-moving gladis--was somehow chosen to take over. It is is my job to train her. This has been a challenge to say the least. Though I had previously had very lovely feelings about Gladis, she is beginning to try my patience. My language skills are limited in such a way as I cannot explain to her the need to improvise, to think on ones feet, to multi-task, etc. But I have been kind and patient with her. Manu has not. THere is drama in the kitchen. Manu has made Gladis cry on several occasions. The administration has gotten involved. I am, by default, involved. I try to mediate. I use my body and my face to express what my words cannot and thus I am exhausted by all the encouraging smiles and shrugs-of-understanding. The two will work something out. It is no longer my problem.
Trip planning: My last and final excuse. This one has perhaps been the most occupying. I have been, for some time, deep in the process of preparing for the next part of my trip. I have bitten my nails a lot. I have debated internally and aloud, with myself and with others about where I should go, what I should do when I go there, etc. This all coincided with a steady stream of earthquakes in Chili (my supposed next destination. I could not help but take all the earth-shaking as some message from the gods. But I have decided, more or less.
Tomorrow I go south. South to the giant glaciers. I expect to be wowed. I will write about it, I hope. The glaciers, then up through the fjords by boat, then to the lush island of Chiloe, then north to Santiago, to the valleys of wine grapes and then who knows.
I could stay on here if I wanted. They want me to. I have already stayed longer than I thought. It is because I like it here. A lot. But I am excited now about travelling again. My bags are packed and my feet significantly itchy. They paid me today. More than I had expected. All in cash. I will guard it with my life as I climb up those mountains of ancient ice. I will, though, be taking with me more than money. I have new friends, new characters, a deeper understanding of the tourism industry, a solid vocabulary list of cleaning-associated words, and other less quantifiable gains.
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