Salta to Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 18 march 2003
Gilles had asked me the other day, if I was flying from Salta to Buenos Aires. “Fly??? No, I am going by bus, of course. It’s only 20, 22 hours… Flying is too fast.”
Besides the toddler who wailed and screamed as if there was no tomorrow every 2 hours or so, it was a pleasant ride, through very flat grounds, on excellent highways with the full moon in the sky. Beyond the Andes, Argentina is just flat all the way to the coastline.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 19 march 2003
The movie-selector actually did not do a bad job, choosing movies with recognisable actors and coincidentally, all had a word beginning with the letter ‘P’ (the stupid things I noticed!): Payback, Patroit Games, Clear and Present Danger, The Perfect Storm. The 22-hour bus-ride did not appear to pass by that slowly.
When the bus pulled into the bus terminal in Retiro, it crawled so slowly around it as if it was an air-plane cruising on the taxi-way, waiting for instructions on which platform to pull in. Wait, I believed they were indeed waiting for instructions for there was a tiny phone which the driver had to pick up, before he could drive to the platform. Gosh, the bus terminal was THAT big.
Hola, Retiro. Hola, English clock tower. Hola, Buenos Aires.
Oh… really great to arrive at a city and know exactly where to go to take a bus to my hostel, how much to pay, where to get off, etc… all without a glance at any map or looking sky-wards for street-signs or asking someone for directions. I just walked to my hostel from pure memory of the streets. It felt just like coming home, my second home. I would be staying in a hostel this time because Pablo’s cousin had moved in with him in his apartment and there was not enough room for me.
I eagerly skipped out to town after I got settled. Oh, Buenos Aires… I had really missed you!! What were different? What were the same? There were many new graffiti on the ground and on the doors of banks, in English too, BANKS + GOVERNMENT MURDERERS, THIEVES. There were many new posters for President Candidates for the upcoming Argentinian election which would be in April. At one point, I observed a guy walk up to a series of MENEM’s posters and rip them off one by one. My sentiments too. The street-vendors on Calle Florida were gone again. There were also posters against the upcoming Iraqi war, ¡QUÉ HIJO DE BUSH! [instead of ‘son-of-a-bitch’, it was ‘son-of-Bush’] and NO SANGRE POR PETROLEO [No blood for oil].
The past few months, my entire world had consisted of canyons, glaciers, mountains, altiplano, ruins, museums, mummies, muddy roads… and frankly, I was a little taken aback when I met up with Pablo later that evening and he gravely told me the Iraq War might start tonight.
Oh, great to see Pablo again. He had gone skinnier and fairer. Sigh, he had lost the traveller’s tan. I guess I would too, soon… He wanted to know every single thing that happened to me during my three-month trip around South America. He refused to look at my latino souvenirs. He was afraid he might die laughing.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 20 march 2003
I was told that the price of my hostel included breakfast. I found nothing in the kitchen and made inquires at the Reception. I was given an triple-layered, dunk in white chocolate, spread with dulce de leche alfajor. What the…??? I recalled the bygone days in Brazil where, for breakfast, I had a whole basket of fruits, a buffet selection of cakes, tarts and pies and three flasks - one for coffee, one for milk, one for hot water for tea, to feast on. Heaven on Earth. Those were the days. Here in Buenos Aires… one alfajor. I would be staying eight nights here. I wonder if I would be ‘alfajored’ to death.
The main reason for returning to Buenos Aires was to catch up with my friends, of course. The other was to try and apply for my visa to Guatemala, my next destination.
When I arrived at the Embassy of Guatemala, the lady gave me a list of items I needed to produce and they must all be present before they would consider my application. Three photos, photocopy of DNI (Argentina’s Identity Card), photocopy of every page of the passport, air-tickets in and out of Guatemala and employment documentation. I pointed out that I did not have a DNI and employment documentation for I am not from Argentina, I am a tourist and I was not working here in Argentina. My air-tickets are in and out of Mexico, not Guatemala. She stopped short but told me to produce whatever I could and she would check with the Ambassador later.
I photocopied every page of my passport (gosh!!!) and returned to the Embassy. She made me wait for 1 hour before asking me to fill out the form. Just then, the Ambassador passed by and she explained to him my situation. To my utter surprise, the Ambassador said, without the DNI and the employment documentation, he could not process for me. What? I politely inquired if they had another set of requirements for tourists. No.
Argh. Now I had to go to Mexico City to get my visa done there. But the problem was - I fly to Cancún but transit in Mexico City. I do not have a few days there in Mexico City to sort out this visa issue. There is no Guatemala Embassy in Cancún, they told me.
I tracked down Mexicana and explained my situation. Could I change my transit in Mexico City, into two separate flights… Buenos Aires to Mexico City, stay a few days in Mexico City and then, Mexico City to Cancún, please? Sergio said maybe not, but he needed to check with his supervisor and his supervisor was not around. I should return tomorrow to get my answer.
Administration days! Pooh!!
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 21 march 2003
Guess what I had for breakfast… alfajor.
I returned to Mexicana and to my surprise, my dear Sergio had consulted his supervisor and they could make my tickets separate at no extra charges. Acknowledging my delighted gratitude, he added, “¿Argentina bueno, huh? [Argentina good, huh?]” I totally agreed.
I went to my language centre to collect my long overdue certificate for completing my Spanish Level 3 and chatted with the admin guy Carlos and my teacher Ariel. There, I also ran into one of my ex-classmates, Per, from Denmark, now in Level 4. We caught up with each other and he invited me to visit the new house he and his girlfriend were living now. His girlfriend Maria had just inherited it. Great idea! I would go there tomorrow.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 22 march 2003
I refused to eat the alfajor today and bought some other lovely pastries.
During my two months here in Buenos Aires, I had visited the weekend fair at Plaza Francia, near Recoleta, and had spotted some things that I might like to get for my friends. I was there rather early and the stall-owners had not arrived yet. I waited and waited for that particular stall-owner to come but by 1pm, I still could not find it.
Oh, forget it… I took a bus to Per’s house at Villa Elisa, in a southern suburb of Buenos Aires. It had a very nice, tranquil small-town feel to it. The inherited property was huge and lovely. There was underground water beneath the house and they could just draw water from there to drink! I live in a high-rise apartment all my life. To me, water means coming from the tap. Drinking from the ground and right from below your house too, was really interesting. I spent a lovely afternoon with them, asado included, of course.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 23 march 2003
I had taken some black-and-white photographs at San Telmo with my Australian friends Carolyn and Lydia, way back on a December Sunday before my camera was stolen from me that fateful day. So, with it, gone too were the captured images.
Today was my last Sunday in Buenos Aires. Pablo and I returned to San Telmo for a second chance at it. We continued to be thoroughly amused by the kitsch antiques, ancient toys, ridiculous wares up for sale. We were giggling and giggling non-stop. Who would buy this? Oh, look at that, look at that… My goodness!
My incredulous facial expression, according to him, was priceless. San Telmo was kitsch wonderland.
The funny thing was, in Chile, I had spotted a common practice of putting little things, grossly kitsch stuff, on their window panes… things like little plastic tiger or dinosaur, porcelain dolls holding parasols, cheap mass-produced figurines holding signs saying ‘TE AMO’, souvenirs from sea-side resorts made from tiny shells, faded plush toys, ARGH… I told Pablo, maybe he could buy them from San Telmo and export them to Chile.
That evening, I had an appointment with Claudio, whom I met in Mendoza. Yes, Claudio of the 1938 Chevrolet fame. I told him I would give him a call around 9pm and we would arrange where to meet. But I tried and tried and tried his cell phone and I kept getting no reception.
Frankly, I was a little frustrated. Disappointed, I plodded back to my hostel. To my surprise, I spied a 1938 Chevrolet parked in front of my hostel. I felt the boot, still warm. Claudio was coming down the hostel just as I was hurrying up to look for him. It was also great to meet up with him again.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 24 march 2003
I was really sewing up all my loose ends here in Buenos Aires. The other friend I had to meet… Francisca, yes, la chica loca.
She was now learning circus acrobats and juggling so that she could go and perform them in front of stopped traffic, she explained. Yeah, that sort of busking was rather common here in South America. She was also making candles and tie-dye skirts to sell.
She would dye one skirt for me today. Great, I get to choose the colour too. The skirt had to be worn from head-down. The skirt she had selected for me was a little small. No Argentinians would be able to fit into it, she told me. Maybe I could. Well, it got stuck at my breast level and I had to deflate them slightly to yank it down. I must never put on any weight in the future. But, it was really nice, especially as it was made by a wonderful friend. How I would miss her when I leave.
When we parted ways late that night, she kept saying she still could not believe that I would really, really be gone from Buenos Aires soon. Somehow, we had the feeling that we would see each other again. Yeah, I felt that way too.
I would definitely return to Argentina one day. The warm affection not just from her, but from her friends… and from precious Pablo and his family members were uncomparable. I tried to imagine introducing them to my family and friends if they ever come to Singapore. And I seriously doubt my family and friends would be able to give them the same level of warmth, affection and hospitality I got from them. It is not that my family and friends are not nice. It is just a different culture. Asians are really a lot more reserved, distant, restrained and they tend to keep a respectful distance until some time later. Here, Argentinians are just overflowing with affection.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 25 march 2003
As I had barely eaten anything yesterday at Francisca’s house, I was famished this morning. OK, one alfajor please.
Gosh, I had just a few days left in Argentina. I counted my remaining pesos and my Argentinian assets stood at 40 pesos.
Remember the bunch of souvenirs I bought and which Pablo refused to look at? I had to send those back. I feared the worst, heading to the Post Office. To my supreme astonishment, it was a breeze. The Customs Officer barely glanced at my souvenirs and gave it an OK at once. I had brought along brown paper and tape, but those were not required. The guy who did the weighing, helpfully taped up my box without fuss. Now, this is what I call - happy postal workers. It was grossly expensive but I had no choice, I could not carry everything. Surprisingly, I could pay with MasterCard too.
So, now, without withdrawing any more pesos, I really only had 40 pesos for the next three days. I wanted to go to Tigre tomorrow and I needed to save some pesos for my taxi ride to the airport the day after. I deducted those from my 40 pesos, and budgeted some for my trip to Tigre tomorrow and realised I would be left with 3 pesos today.
3 pesos??? That's US$1. I was still hungry now. I had a packet of rice in my bag. Alright, I decided to cook rice and eat it plain for sustenance. After the first plate, I was still hungry and weak. So, I cooked another plate. Plain rice was actually quite disgusting to Latin Americans. Well, I survived them. What can I say? I am Chinese afterall.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 26 march 2003
Tigre is in the northern end of Buenos Aires. It felt a little strange to emerge from the bustling, polluted Buenos Aires centre and arrive at the clean, tranquil, modern suburb of Tigre.
Tigre is a delta region and is criss-crossed by rivers and made up of islands everywhere. Some called it the ‘Venice of South America’. No, it did not feel quite like that to me. I took a boat-ride and we passed by houses with, instead of garages, their personal docks in front, for here, the only means of transportation was by boats. It was a lovely place and a lovely day. I spent a quiet time on one of those islands, reading, taking in the sun and supplying blood to the mosquitoes.
I was to meet Pablo today at Plaza de Mayo… my final farewell to my favourite Argentinian, my wonderful, best friend from my trip. He really made a difference to how I saw things around me and how I travelled.
I had met his niece and nephews for a few days around Christmas last year, just before I left Buenos Aires. I had thought they would not remember much about me but Pablo told me that they asked about me often and even invented a song for me, something like ‘Trisha Trisha…’. My jaws dropped when I heard this. I had never, never, never ever been so honoured and touched in my entire life! Such ANGELS!! I really did not understand how I deserved this.
Well, Pablo did not remember the lyrics. He said he would ask his nephews to write to me. How sweet they are all to me.
I made them a present. I used the photographs I took of them during the Christmas celebration and made a montage on a poster. The montage had the shape of Argentina. My angel Nicolás grins from Iguazú. Pablo’s parents, Virgilio and Ana Maria, are at Missiones. Sweet Natalia looks up from Salta and Jujuy. Shy Matias shows off his football at Mendoza. Cheeky Emiliano sticks his tongue out at Córdoba. Pablo’s sister Gabriela, brother Sergi and in-laws Raúl and Fabiana ham it up at Bariloche. Little Tomás poses at Puerto Madryn. Pablo is located at Calafate, Chaltén. And the very handsome Santiago swings his tennis racket at the other side of the wind-swept southern Patagonia, around Comodora Rivadavia, I supposed. A group photo at Ushuaia and Tierra del Fuego and a picture of Pablo and I at Islas Malvinas (or Falkland Islands, the Argentinians still maintain they are theirs, I agree with them).
I asked Pablo how he felt when his 8-month trip was coming to an end, how he felt right after it ended, and how he felt now. He tried to share as much as possible. He said I might plunge into a state of depression one day, just as he had. He said I should write to him when I felt that way and he promised to try and console and help me to get over it. I really had cold feet now. My one-year trip… now, just one month left. I could not believe it!
Parting with Pablo was a difficult. But, somehow, we also had the feelings that we would see each other again. Such is life. Everything is a cycle. Something must end, in order for something else to begin. Sometimes, certain thing comes back in a circle. Other times, they branch off into other paths.
Returning to Buenos Aires was a very personal thing to me. (I am sorry if I had bored readers to tears with these last days in Buenos Aires.) Returning to Buenos Aires was like completing a smaller circle, inside my wider circle of my round-the-world trip. What would returning home be like? Gosh, what is home? Home can be anywhere now.
I had seen and done so many things, I had previously thought not possible. Breathing in the sprays of Iguaçu Falls, trekking on the Perito Moreno glacier, naïvely doing the Torres del Paine hike by myself and not dying, hiking up that Villarrica volcano in horrible weather and not dying again, twisting my way in and out of altiplanos and seeing vicuñas, visiting the sarcophagi in Chachapoyas… I recall the words a friend once told me, “You can do anything you want as long as you set your mind to it.” There.
Showing posts with label _ARGENTINA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label _ARGENTINA. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
Monday, March 17, 2003
26 - Farewell, My Amigos (Humahuaca, Iruya, Tilcara)
Arica to Calama, CHILE - 11 march 2003
I cannot stand the last days in a country when you want to have enough money to last until you are REALLY out of the country but do not want to have TOO MUCH left. And if you have a little extra and you decide to stay one day longer or visit yet another sight during the last day, you just might run out and then, you have to withdraw MORE.
So, I was struggling with counting my Chilean Pesos all morning today. Do I do some more shopping to get rid of these pesos? Or do I change them back to dollars? Do I have enough money for an ice-cream now? I wonder what’s for dinner?
I decided to restrict myself to an X-amount and change 12,000 pesos back. To my surprise, the Chilean Pesos had slid down against the US Dollar by quite a bit since my withdrawal and I was left with a pathetic amount of dollars.
Coming into Chile, from Peru, the first question the Customs Officer had asked me was if I had fruits with me. Now, leaving Arica, at the bus terminal, inexplicably, I also had to go through Customs. Again, the Officer asked if I had any fruits with me. They checked my big backpack thoroughly but left my hand-luggage alone.
I was comfortably asleep on the bus when at around midnight or so, in the middle of nowhere, we were hauled out of the bus… this time, to have our hand-luggage X-rayed. Now, why couldn’t the Customs Officers have checked them back at Arica’s bus terminal?
Calama, CHILE to San Salvador de Jujuy, ARGENTINA - 12 march 2003
Again, I was comfortably asleep on the bus (which was rather rare) when at around 5am or so, in the middle of another nowhere, we were hauled out of the bus… this time, to have our hand-luggage manually checked. What the…???? Three times?? Just for leaving Arica?
It reminded me of the time when I was returning from a business trip in Manila, Philippines. Only ticket-holders could enter the Manila airport. Then, our hand-luggage had to go through FIVE X-ray machines and finally, manually checked before boarding the plane.
OK, that was Manila. When my Filipino colleagues took me to the shopping centre, as a form of a ‘tour’, they had dutifully informed me, “Over here, there was a bomb attack in May last year. And there… the cinema, there was another bomb explosion just in December… And…”
But what were the Chilean Customs after? F-R-U-I-T-S???? Did the last Customs Officer hope to find the one grape missed out by the X-ray machine? Here, you can have my banana… go ahead, take it.
At Calama, we stopped to change buses. I managed to finish up all my Chilean pesos on breakfast and toilet and boarded another bus to Argentina later.
This was the same altiplano route coming into Chile about three weeks ago. Well, Bolivia was right smack in the middle of South America and since I could not cut across it, I had to double-back the same way, skirting around Bolivia.
Strangely, this time, I found it terribly difficult to cope with the altitude. I suffered from a bad headache from the Argentinian border onwards. I could not sleep. I could not get comfortable in any position. I felt marginally better after they stopped at that same restuarant-in-the-middle-of-nowhere and fed us some bread and tea. Then, I started to smell the horrible odour of exposed shoes. Oh yucks. I thought it was just me and my super-sensitive nose and tried to tolerate it as best as I could. I was ready to puke any moment.
Then, the bus driver stopped and he stood up and announced something about ‘zapatos’ [shoes]. Oh no, he had smelled it too and actually refused to drive on until the person who took off his shoes put them on again. Well, this is the altiplano. Fresh air is precious.
The driver assistant then walked down the aisle to check who was the culprit. Several snapped open their Rexona and sprayed the disgusting air around them. He stopped in front of the Japanese tourist and spoke to him sternly.
Shoeless Ninja, however, could not understand a word beyond ‘zapatos’. He looked a little puzzled, reached down, picked up his shoe and held it in front of the driver assistant. “¿Zapatos?” he queried. The driver assistant was not amused. We were.
Finally, another tourist half-yelled, half-giggled in English, “Put them on!!” Shoeless Ninja never struck again. And so, we breathed.
I was tremendously relieved to arrive in Jujuy after the tortuous 24-hour bus-journey. During my near-midnight dinner of a ‘SuperPancho’ (fancy name for long hot-dog), the lady rejected my 1 Argentinian Peso as ‘falso’. Here in Argentina too? I was here three months and did not notice anything.
Now, I studied all my pesos and indeed, trained from Peru, I spotted two types of ‘falsos’. One had the wrong font for ‘UN PESO’ (I told you…) and the smiley sun had an outline around its face. The other, the fraudster did a better job, was the same in every sense, except the colour of the ‘gold’ centre was a bit more ‘yellow’ and the coin felt lighter.
San Salvador de Jujuy to Humahuaca, ARGENTINA - 13 march 2003
I was awakened by a morning-call knock on a neighbouring door. “Son las 8.” the receptionist had announced. I groggily glanced at my clock, it read ‘7:00am’.
Hmmm… I opened my door, shocking the receptionist with my hair in the meantime, to confirm if it was indeed 8am.
Oh, I guess, life was fair. The 2 hours I had gained in Peru, I had given 1 back in Chile a few days ago and apparently, I had to give back the remaining 1 to Argentina now. Chile changed their time but Argentina did not.
Good thing to find out about it now, for I had a morning bus to catch to Humahuaca.
Humahuaca is an Andean town, full of Bolivian flavour, further north of Jujuy. The route to get here was along another amazing Quebrada de la Humahuaca. Argentina can only outdo itself in amazing quebradas [canyons].
I spent the day, relaxing around the charming little town and buying souvenirs. I was feeling a tinge of sadness now. I had been in South America for nearly six months and it was coming to an end soon.
South America is truly at the other end of the world from my country. It is extremely expensive to fly here. And perhaps, it might be a long time before I can afford another visit here. To my friends and family, South America is like MAGIC, impossible to imagine. And so, I was now buying up souvenirs as if I was not returning for a long time.
Way back in June, when Pablo and I had gone shopping for souvenirs in China, I had only bought three snuff bottles for my friends but he had gone crazy snapping up the Oriental souvenirs, the more Oriental-looking, the better. Several looked really kitsch to me, although I had helped him pick the least kitsch-looking of them all. I had cringed, snickered at some of them and had gone ‘eewww’ secretly.
Now, when I show Pablo my latino souvenirs when I reach Buenos Aires, I suspect he would also cringe, snicker at them and go ‘eewww’ secretly.
Ah, cultural differences. How wonderful they exist!
Humahuaca, Iruya to Tilcara ARGENTINA - 14 march 2003
I took the only daily bus to another tiny town, called Iruya, 3 hours away from Humahuaca. I had not known what to expect in Iruya. I heard it was really pretty but I was not sure what I could do there. I decided to check out of my hostel, leave my backpack there, catch the bus to Iruya, stay a few hours and catch the same bus back to Humahuaca later.
The road to Iruya was paved for about 1 hour before turning into dirt tracks that rounded mountains after mountains and crossed river beds occasionally. While the road was not that great, it was WONDERFUL compared to Peru and I suspect, Bolivia, and so one knew that one was still in Argentina.
We stopped at a huge Pachamama shrine of rocks, with abandoned bottles of alcohol and tetra-packs of wine, a scattering of coca-leaves. I learnt later this spot was at 4000+m.
Later, we headed downhill for 1220m in about 20km. There were many hair-pin turns and the view was terrific! The gorges, the river-bed, the sheer drops, the hidden valleys, the slopes spotted with rocks… Sometimes, one could spot a few horses or even a few children walking on the huge river-bed, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Naturally, there would be peasants who would get on or off the bus, leaving you to wonder… Where did they come from? Where in the world are they going?
From this point onwards, my eyes were glued to the window to absorb the fantastic scenery and so I could not understand why Elena, from Belguim, sitting next to me, fell asleep on the bus.
Finally, Iruya came into view and the best view of Iruya was actually quite a distance from it. It looked like a magical tiny town set amongst brilliantly-coloured towering triangular mountains, perched at a cliff, above the river-bed. My jaws remained open for a good minute.
Elena and I walked around the hilly little town and stopped for a bit of food to fill our stomach. I really liked it here. It was so tranquil, so hidden. It really felt like a town at the end of the road. For the road ended in front of the church and beyond that, around the town, one could only walk. So, I suspect, there were really no roads BEHIND or AROUND Iruya. I regretted my decision to take the same bus out today but it was already made.
Elena had travelled from Tilcara, about 1 hour south of Humahuaca. I intended to go there later today.
When we arrived back at Humahuaca, we tried to find out the next bus to Tilcara and just then, a bus with ‘TILCARA’ written in front pulled up. It looked like a hop-on-and-pay-later bus but my backpack was still back at the hostel. I left my small bag with Elena and hurried back to grab my backpack.
Running at 3000+m altitude, on wet cobbled-stoned streets (it had rained in Humahuaca) is never a good idea but thankfully, I returned without a broken bone or tooth and not that out-of-breath to a bus that was very kind to wait for me.
Elena took me to Malka Hostel which was quite a hike away from the centre of Tilcara. I made friends with the rest of my house-mates, Gilles from France, Olga, Sebastian and Javier from Buenos Aires and we had a sumptuous dinner together.
Gilles is a very interesting Zen-like person. For the past four years, he had come to Tilcara and stayed here for one month each time. He would spend his days, walking around the mountains, visiting schools in the tiniest village bringing along chalks, pens and talking to the locals in other obscure valleys… To him, Tilcara is the most perfect place in the world.
Tilcara, ARGENTINA - 15 march 2003
Elena was sitting near the window of the dining room, having breakfast, when I walked over to chat with her. I had barely completed my first line when I stopped short suddenly and stared out of the window. I staggered a little too.
“Oh my god… Oh my god…” I gasped, stupefied, totally blown away. The view was INCREDIBLE! Malka Hostel, being such a hike away, was sitting at the top of a hill and from here, one could see right across Tilcara to the range of colourful mountains with its swirls of paints and now, they were gloriously basking in the morning sun.
“Now, I understand why Gilles stay here for one month every year. Oh, I want to get married here in Tilcara.” I said.
Later, at the centre, Olga, Sebastian and I went looking for a guide to take us hiking and we passed by café after café, playing cumbia, and I changed my mind right away. “Nope, I do not want to get married here in Tilcara.”
We were unable to find the guide. He was probably drunk from last night’s party of Carnaval. Apparently, Carnaval had not really ended in Tilcara.
We decided to head out hiking by ourselves. There appeared to be yet another 'La Garganta del Diablo' (The Devil's Throat) to check out. If we find it, we find it. If not, we would still have a nice day hiking in the mountains.
We asked several locals along the way and soon, had to start climbing up the side of a mountain. The view behind us was truly fantastic. We could see the meandering river in the wide river valley, with the red, ochre, purplish mountains by the side.
A few German tourists passed by and two explained in English how exactly to get to the 'Garganta', which I translated for Olga and Sebastian. It was a waterfall, as it turned out. We had not been sure. Could be a cave, could be whatever. And then, it dawned on me, hmmm… if my Spanish would get better, with English, Mandarin and Spanish, I could potentially talk to quite a lot of people around the world. Cool…
We walked along the canyon for a while, hopping across the tiny river here and there and finally, arrived at the waterfall. No one else was here. It was great.
Tilcara to Salta, ARGENTINA - 16 march 2003
Today, the weather was cloudy and rainy which left me really appreciating the excellent weather we had yesterday for hiking.
I walked out to Pukara, a pre-Incas fortress on top of a hill not far from Tilcara. Although it was a fortress, being on an inaccessible hill, it actually had no high walls around it. Several stone-houses had been reconstructed, with the mud-and-straw roofs too.
However, stupidly, the authorities had gone and constructed a ‘monument’ to pay tribute to the archaeologists at the top of the hill. Gosh, this ‘monument’ had absolutely no relation to the ruins around it. It was not even done in the style of the ruins. It was just an ugly pyramid. But some tourists asked me to take a picture of them in front of this stupid ‘monument’. Err…
I made my way to Salta that afternoon. Well, I had to go to a bigger town to catch a good bus to Buenos Aires. I did not know San Salvador de Jujuy well but I had stayed in Salta for a few days and had really liked my hostel. So, I decided to go there.
Great to be in a city where you know exactly where to walk to your hostel.
Salta, ARGENTINA - 17 march 2003
Nothing earth-shattering happened. Just another day to do nothing. Poked my nose into furniture stores, browsed through trashy discount shops, checked out the geese swimming at the lake, observed some plants in the plaza, listened to CDs without buying, you know, the usual suspects.
I cannot stand the last days in a country when you want to have enough money to last until you are REALLY out of the country but do not want to have TOO MUCH left. And if you have a little extra and you decide to stay one day longer or visit yet another sight during the last day, you just might run out and then, you have to withdraw MORE.
So, I was struggling with counting my Chilean Pesos all morning today. Do I do some more shopping to get rid of these pesos? Or do I change them back to dollars? Do I have enough money for an ice-cream now? I wonder what’s for dinner?
I decided to restrict myself to an X-amount and change 12,000 pesos back. To my surprise, the Chilean Pesos had slid down against the US Dollar by quite a bit since my withdrawal and I was left with a pathetic amount of dollars.
Coming into Chile, from Peru, the first question the Customs Officer had asked me was if I had fruits with me. Now, leaving Arica, at the bus terminal, inexplicably, I also had to go through Customs. Again, the Officer asked if I had any fruits with me. They checked my big backpack thoroughly but left my hand-luggage alone.
I was comfortably asleep on the bus when at around midnight or so, in the middle of nowhere, we were hauled out of the bus… this time, to have our hand-luggage X-rayed. Now, why couldn’t the Customs Officers have checked them back at Arica’s bus terminal?
Calama, CHILE to San Salvador de Jujuy, ARGENTINA - 12 march 2003
Again, I was comfortably asleep on the bus (which was rather rare) when at around 5am or so, in the middle of another nowhere, we were hauled out of the bus… this time, to have our hand-luggage manually checked. What the…???? Three times?? Just for leaving Arica?
It reminded me of the time when I was returning from a business trip in Manila, Philippines. Only ticket-holders could enter the Manila airport. Then, our hand-luggage had to go through FIVE X-ray machines and finally, manually checked before boarding the plane.
OK, that was Manila. When my Filipino colleagues took me to the shopping centre, as a form of a ‘tour’, they had dutifully informed me, “Over here, there was a bomb attack in May last year. And there… the cinema, there was another bomb explosion just in December… And…”
But what were the Chilean Customs after? F-R-U-I-T-S???? Did the last Customs Officer hope to find the one grape missed out by the X-ray machine? Here, you can have my banana… go ahead, take it.
At Calama, we stopped to change buses. I managed to finish up all my Chilean pesos on breakfast and toilet and boarded another bus to Argentina later.
This was the same altiplano route coming into Chile about three weeks ago. Well, Bolivia was right smack in the middle of South America and since I could not cut across it, I had to double-back the same way, skirting around Bolivia.
Strangely, this time, I found it terribly difficult to cope with the altitude. I suffered from a bad headache from the Argentinian border onwards. I could not sleep. I could not get comfortable in any position. I felt marginally better after they stopped at that same restuarant-in-the-middle-of-nowhere and fed us some bread and tea. Then, I started to smell the horrible odour of exposed shoes. Oh yucks. I thought it was just me and my super-sensitive nose and tried to tolerate it as best as I could. I was ready to puke any moment.
Then, the bus driver stopped and he stood up and announced something about ‘zapatos’ [shoes]. Oh no, he had smelled it too and actually refused to drive on until the person who took off his shoes put them on again. Well, this is the altiplano. Fresh air is precious.
The driver assistant then walked down the aisle to check who was the culprit. Several snapped open their Rexona and sprayed the disgusting air around them. He stopped in front of the Japanese tourist and spoke to him sternly.
Shoeless Ninja, however, could not understand a word beyond ‘zapatos’. He looked a little puzzled, reached down, picked up his shoe and held it in front of the driver assistant. “¿Zapatos?” he queried. The driver assistant was not amused. We were.
Finally, another tourist half-yelled, half-giggled in English, “Put them on!!” Shoeless Ninja never struck again. And so, we breathed.
I was tremendously relieved to arrive in Jujuy after the tortuous 24-hour bus-journey. During my near-midnight dinner of a ‘SuperPancho’ (fancy name for long hot-dog), the lady rejected my 1 Argentinian Peso as ‘falso’. Here in Argentina too? I was here three months and did not notice anything.
Now, I studied all my pesos and indeed, trained from Peru, I spotted two types of ‘falsos’. One had the wrong font for ‘UN PESO’ (I told you…) and the smiley sun had an outline around its face. The other, the fraudster did a better job, was the same in every sense, except the colour of the ‘gold’ centre was a bit more ‘yellow’ and the coin felt lighter.
San Salvador de Jujuy to Humahuaca, ARGENTINA - 13 march 2003
I was awakened by a morning-call knock on a neighbouring door. “Son las 8.” the receptionist had announced. I groggily glanced at my clock, it read ‘7:00am’.
Hmmm… I opened my door, shocking the receptionist with my hair in the meantime, to confirm if it was indeed 8am.
Oh, I guess, life was fair. The 2 hours I had gained in Peru, I had given 1 back in Chile a few days ago and apparently, I had to give back the remaining 1 to Argentina now. Chile changed their time but Argentina did not.
Good thing to find out about it now, for I had a morning bus to catch to Humahuaca.
Humahuaca is an Andean town, full of Bolivian flavour, further north of Jujuy. The route to get here was along another amazing Quebrada de la Humahuaca. Argentina can only outdo itself in amazing quebradas [canyons].
I spent the day, relaxing around the charming little town and buying souvenirs. I was feeling a tinge of sadness now. I had been in South America for nearly six months and it was coming to an end soon.
South America is truly at the other end of the world from my country. It is extremely expensive to fly here. And perhaps, it might be a long time before I can afford another visit here. To my friends and family, South America is like MAGIC, impossible to imagine. And so, I was now buying up souvenirs as if I was not returning for a long time.
Way back in June, when Pablo and I had gone shopping for souvenirs in China, I had only bought three snuff bottles for my friends but he had gone crazy snapping up the Oriental souvenirs, the more Oriental-looking, the better. Several looked really kitsch to me, although I had helped him pick the least kitsch-looking of them all. I had cringed, snickered at some of them and had gone ‘eewww’ secretly.
Now, when I show Pablo my latino souvenirs when I reach Buenos Aires, I suspect he would also cringe, snicker at them and go ‘eewww’ secretly.
Ah, cultural differences. How wonderful they exist!
Humahuaca, Iruya to Tilcara ARGENTINA - 14 march 2003
I took the only daily bus to another tiny town, called Iruya, 3 hours away from Humahuaca. I had not known what to expect in Iruya. I heard it was really pretty but I was not sure what I could do there. I decided to check out of my hostel, leave my backpack there, catch the bus to Iruya, stay a few hours and catch the same bus back to Humahuaca later.
The road to Iruya was paved for about 1 hour before turning into dirt tracks that rounded mountains after mountains and crossed river beds occasionally. While the road was not that great, it was WONDERFUL compared to Peru and I suspect, Bolivia, and so one knew that one was still in Argentina.
We stopped at a huge Pachamama shrine of rocks, with abandoned bottles of alcohol and tetra-packs of wine, a scattering of coca-leaves. I learnt later this spot was at 4000+m.
Later, we headed downhill for 1220m in about 20km. There were many hair-pin turns and the view was terrific! The gorges, the river-bed, the sheer drops, the hidden valleys, the slopes spotted with rocks… Sometimes, one could spot a few horses or even a few children walking on the huge river-bed, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Naturally, there would be peasants who would get on or off the bus, leaving you to wonder… Where did they come from? Where in the world are they going?
From this point onwards, my eyes were glued to the window to absorb the fantastic scenery and so I could not understand why Elena, from Belguim, sitting next to me, fell asleep on the bus.
Finally, Iruya came into view and the best view of Iruya was actually quite a distance from it. It looked like a magical tiny town set amongst brilliantly-coloured towering triangular mountains, perched at a cliff, above the river-bed. My jaws remained open for a good minute.
Elena and I walked around the hilly little town and stopped for a bit of food to fill our stomach. I really liked it here. It was so tranquil, so hidden. It really felt like a town at the end of the road. For the road ended in front of the church and beyond that, around the town, one could only walk. So, I suspect, there were really no roads BEHIND or AROUND Iruya. I regretted my decision to take the same bus out today but it was already made.
Elena had travelled from Tilcara, about 1 hour south of Humahuaca. I intended to go there later today.
When we arrived back at Humahuaca, we tried to find out the next bus to Tilcara and just then, a bus with ‘TILCARA’ written in front pulled up. It looked like a hop-on-and-pay-later bus but my backpack was still back at the hostel. I left my small bag with Elena and hurried back to grab my backpack.
Running at 3000+m altitude, on wet cobbled-stoned streets (it had rained in Humahuaca) is never a good idea but thankfully, I returned without a broken bone or tooth and not that out-of-breath to a bus that was very kind to wait for me.
Elena took me to Malka Hostel which was quite a hike away from the centre of Tilcara. I made friends with the rest of my house-mates, Gilles from France, Olga, Sebastian and Javier from Buenos Aires and we had a sumptuous dinner together.
Gilles is a very interesting Zen-like person. For the past four years, he had come to Tilcara and stayed here for one month each time. He would spend his days, walking around the mountains, visiting schools in the tiniest village bringing along chalks, pens and talking to the locals in other obscure valleys… To him, Tilcara is the most perfect place in the world.
Tilcara, ARGENTINA - 15 march 2003
Elena was sitting near the window of the dining room, having breakfast, when I walked over to chat with her. I had barely completed my first line when I stopped short suddenly and stared out of the window. I staggered a little too.
“Oh my god… Oh my god…” I gasped, stupefied, totally blown away. The view was INCREDIBLE! Malka Hostel, being such a hike away, was sitting at the top of a hill and from here, one could see right across Tilcara to the range of colourful mountains with its swirls of paints and now, they were gloriously basking in the morning sun.
“Now, I understand why Gilles stay here for one month every year. Oh, I want to get married here in Tilcara.” I said.
Later, at the centre, Olga, Sebastian and I went looking for a guide to take us hiking and we passed by café after café, playing cumbia, and I changed my mind right away. “Nope, I do not want to get married here in Tilcara.”
We were unable to find the guide. He was probably drunk from last night’s party of Carnaval. Apparently, Carnaval had not really ended in Tilcara.
We decided to head out hiking by ourselves. There appeared to be yet another 'La Garganta del Diablo' (The Devil's Throat) to check out. If we find it, we find it. If not, we would still have a nice day hiking in the mountains.
We asked several locals along the way and soon, had to start climbing up the side of a mountain. The view behind us was truly fantastic. We could see the meandering river in the wide river valley, with the red, ochre, purplish mountains by the side.
A few German tourists passed by and two explained in English how exactly to get to the 'Garganta', which I translated for Olga and Sebastian. It was a waterfall, as it turned out. We had not been sure. Could be a cave, could be whatever. And then, it dawned on me, hmmm… if my Spanish would get better, with English, Mandarin and Spanish, I could potentially talk to quite a lot of people around the world. Cool…
We walked along the canyon for a while, hopping across the tiny river here and there and finally, arrived at the waterfall. No one else was here. It was great.
Tilcara to Salta, ARGENTINA - 16 march 2003
Today, the weather was cloudy and rainy which left me really appreciating the excellent weather we had yesterday for hiking.
I walked out to Pukara, a pre-Incas fortress on top of a hill not far from Tilcara. Although it was a fortress, being on an inaccessible hill, it actually had no high walls around it. Several stone-houses had been reconstructed, with the mud-and-straw roofs too.
However, stupidly, the authorities had gone and constructed a ‘monument’ to pay tribute to the archaeologists at the top of the hill. Gosh, this ‘monument’ had absolutely no relation to the ruins around it. It was not even done in the style of the ruins. It was just an ugly pyramid. But some tourists asked me to take a picture of them in front of this stupid ‘monument’. Err…
I made my way to Salta that afternoon. Well, I had to go to a bigger town to catch a good bus to Buenos Aires. I did not know San Salvador de Jujuy well but I had stayed in Salta for a few days and had really liked my hostel. So, I decided to go there.
Great to be in a city where you know exactly where to walk to your hostel.
Salta, ARGENTINA - 17 march 2003
Nothing earth-shattering happened. Just another day to do nothing. Poked my nose into furniture stores, browsed through trashy discount shops, checked out the geese swimming at the lake, observed some plants in the plaza, listened to CDs without buying, you know, the usual suspects.
Thursday, February 20, 2003
24 - Run Llama Run (Salta)
Cachí to Salta, ARGENTINA - 18 february 2003
The route from Cachí to Salta is along another legendarily spectacular highway. We passed by Parque Nacional de Cardones which was a flattish area entirely grown with candelabra cacti. Then, after the highest peak, Piedra del Molino, about 3600m, I was suddenly looking down at a very winding road through green mountains. It was another surreal scene. I love being above the clouds. The winding route, Cuesta de Obispo, had many treacherous curves downhill and we had to go slow.
By the time we reached the bottom of the mountains, along Quebrada de Escoipe, the vegetation had changed from grassy shrubs to tall, sub-tropical trees and we soon turned into Salta.
Salta is a rather pleasant and unassuming city. I liked it. Not in-your-face beautiful but pleasant enough. The city has a very cosy feel, with a hill, a huge park and a pleasant plaza right in the busy centre. And now that we are at the northern bit of Argentina, the locals here are predominantly Indian-looking.
Salta, ARGENTINA - 19 February, 2003
There had been a whole bunch of sights suggested by the earnest staff at the tourist office but no, after so many hot, dusty, giddy, windy roads lately, I just wanted to take it easy in Salta today.
I ended up shopping for books, and if I may add, books in Spanish, to practise later in my life if I ever become more proficient.
I had actually been attempting to read a book in Spanish the last few days - Historias de Cronopios y de Famas [Stories of Cronopios and Famas] by another Buenos Aires genius, Julio Cortázar.
Whenever I mentioned to the other Argentinians that I was struggling with this book, they all agreed it would be very, very, VERY tough for me.
Well, tough as it is, it is such a sweet book, I just have to share it with you. Allow me to attempt to translate two of my favourite little tales (amongst the very few that I managed to complete). If they sound whimsical, it is not due to bad translation. If they sound like bad translation, it is due to bad translation… it’s me.
--- Travels - by Julio Cortázar, translated by me, with BIG apologies to fans ---
When the Famas travel, their customs to spend a night in a city are the following: One Fama goes to the hotel and ascertains cautiously the prices, the quality of the bed-sheets and the colour of the carpets. The second goes to the commissariat and declares all the assets of the three, like the inventory of the contents in their suitcases. The third Fama goes to the hospital and copies the list of doctors and their specialties.
Upon finishing these tasks diligently, the travellers reunite at the main plaza of the city, inform one another about their observations and enter a café to drink an aperitif. But before, they hold hands and dance in a circle. This dance is given the name ‘Happiness of the Famas’.
When the Cronopios travel, they find hotels full, trains that have already left, that it rains like cats and dogs, and the taxis do not want to take them or charge them very high prices. The Cronopios are not disheartened because they believe firmly that these things happen to all, and at the hour of sleeping, they tell one another, “The beautiful city, the very beautiful city.” And they dream all night that in the city, there are great fiestas and that they are invited. The next day, they wake up very contented and this is how the Cronopios travel.
The Esperanzas, sedentary, leave travelling to the men, and are like statues that people come to see, for they cannot be bothered.
--- Business - by Julio Cortázar, translated by me, with even BIGGER apologies to fans ---
The Famas had set up a factory of garden hoses and employed many Cronopios to do the rolling and storage. As soon as the Cronopios were at the place of work, they became very, very happy. There were green, red, blue, yellow and violet garden hoses. They were transparent and upon testing them, one could see running water with all the bubbles and at times, a surprised insect. The Cronopios started to shout and wanted to dance tregua and dance catala instead of working. The Famas were furious with them and applied the following articles 21, 22 and 23 of the internal rules to avoid a repetition of these bad jobs.
However, the Famas are very careless, the Cronopios waited for favourable circumstances and carried many garden hoses off in a car. When they met a little girl, they cut a piece of the blue garden hose and gave it to her so that she could jump with the garden hose. So, in all the street-corners, one started to see lovely blue and transparent bubbles, with a little girl inside like a squirrel in a cage. The parents of the little girl aspired to take away the garden hose in order to water the garden, but one knew that the astute Cronopios had punctured the hoses such that water would drop out from them and they serve no purpose. In the end, the parents became tired and the little girl went back to the street-corner and jumped and jumped.
With the yellow garden hoses, the Cronopios adorned diverse monuments, and with the green garden hoses, they made traps of African type in the middle of the pathway, in order to see the Esperanzas fall one by one. All around the fallen Esperanzas, the Cronopios danced tregua and danced catala, and the Esperanzas reproached them for their action, saying: “Cruel Cronopios bloody. Cruel!”
The Cronopios, who desired no harm to the Esperanzas, helped them up and gave them pieces of the red garden hoses. So the Esperanzas could go to their houses and complete the most intense of their yearnings: to water their green gardens with red garden hoses.
The Famas closed the factory and gave a banquet full of funereal speeches, with waiters serving the fish in great whispers. And they did not invite any Cronopio, and only those Esperanzas who had not fallen in the traps in the pathway, because the others who did were left with pieces of garden hoses and the Famas were angry with these Esperanzas.
------
Now, don’t they leave you slightly stupefied but grinning?
Salta, ARGENTINA - 20 february 2003
I signed up for a day-tour to visit the areas north of Salta. The morning today was, however, rainy and cloudy. The other tourists in my tour were Tom and Jenny from France.
My guide, Billy, wanted to do the route the reverse direction so that we would arrive at Purmamarca in the morning and be able to see the Seven-Colours Mountain with the sun shining right at them. He hoped that we would get the sun by then, that is.
We took the scenic mountainous route, Route 9, also called the Cornisa (all the roads along this region seemed to have fancy names), to San Salvador de Jujuy, the capital of Jujuy Province. The vegetation here was luscious, sub-tropical thick forests, dripping with ferns and climbers. This was a really old route used by the Indians and had apparently existed for a thousand years.
Along the route, there were shrines set up for ‘saint-like’ heroes, one of them being Gauchito Gil, to pray for safe journeys. Sometimes, the drivers left things like spare tyres, bottles of water, extra stuff they did not need, for the next driver who might need them.
Soon, we arrived at Purmamarca but alas, the sun still remained behind the clouds and we could not get the brilliance of the colours of the Seven-Colours Mountain so famous in all the postcards. Purmamarca is the little Andean town set right against the mountain, all the houses were of the adobe sort. Very photogenic.
We climbed further up from 2000+m to 4000+m in the following section of the route. Here, Billy thought that we would see the sun once we cleared the cloud-layer and reach altiplano [high plains]. To our surprise, after clearing the cloud-layer, there was ANOTHER cloud-layer above the altiplano. Now, this was impossible to clear and so, the elusive sun remained hidden from us.
The altiplano was a plateau at around 4000m and it was flattish, dry desert all the way. In the distance, we could see the white colour of the salt-pan. Approaching the salt-pan, known as Salinas Grande, I could see from the windscreen of the car, one side was entirely grey with a brewing storm and the other was slightly cloudy but with pockets of blue sky.
Usually, there were workers working on the salt-pan but due to the coming storm, all had cleared out. So, we arrived to an abandoned salt mining site. The salt-pan had strange hexagon shapes on the plains. The edges of the hexagon shapes were crumbles of raw salt crystals. There were some blue pools of water where salt crystals were formed and where the mining was done.
I had expected strong harsh rays famous of the altiplano sun and blinding whiteness reflected from the mirror-like salt pans and had prepared to slather myself with sunscreen, but not today, honey. There was nothing bright here. Instead, we managed a few photos before being pelted by the storm and raged by the strong, cold wind, and had to scramble back into the car and flee.
Billy strongly recommended us to visit Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia which was five times the size of Salinas Grande and even more impressive. Yes, I K-N-O-W… but I cannot go to Bolivia. Sigh… Here’s the wound. Here’s the salt-pan. Now rub.
We passed by several llamas on the rest of the desert altiplano before reaching a very sorry-looking, desolate mining town San Antonio de Los Cobres for lunch. We were all more or less suffering slightly from the altitude now. Well, here at the restaurant, they served coca tea and so we ordered the tea to fortify ourselves. I even bought a tiny little toy-llama. So kitsch, I love it.
On our way down, we passed another shrine but this one for Pachamama [Mother Earth]. The Indians who passed by here would leave their bottles of alcohol that they were drinking, some coca leaves, cigarettes, etc… to worship Pachamama and ask for a safe journey. One type of bottles read: PURE ALCOHOL 96%. Gosh, mere mortals like us use 90% alcohol to disinfect wounds. But 96%??!? Imagine drinking that!
We crossed the railway track of the famous ‘Tren a las Nubes’ [Train of the Clouds] several times on our way back to Salta along Quebrada del Toro. This railway track was used more often by regular cargo trains which carried gas and fuel to export to Chile.
Up until now, all the produce from North-east Argentina could not be exported through the ports of Chile. All had to be brought to the Buenos Aires port, on the Atlantic side, although they were physically closer to the ports of Chile. Billy explained that soon this would change and it would be easier to export products out across the Pacific Ocean to Asia and Russia.
Would dulce de leche be one of the products? Dulce de leche? Billy then proceeded to reveal the secret of making dulce de leche.
Boil a pot of water slowly and put the can of sweet condensed milk inside without opening the can. This is called Baño Maria [Maria’s Bath]. Keep the can in the pot of slowly-boiling water for 2 to 3 hours and, voila!, dulce de leche!
My saviour!
The route from Cachí to Salta is along another legendarily spectacular highway. We passed by Parque Nacional de Cardones which was a flattish area entirely grown with candelabra cacti. Then, after the highest peak, Piedra del Molino, about 3600m, I was suddenly looking down at a very winding road through green mountains. It was another surreal scene. I love being above the clouds. The winding route, Cuesta de Obispo, had many treacherous curves downhill and we had to go slow.
By the time we reached the bottom of the mountains, along Quebrada de Escoipe, the vegetation had changed from grassy shrubs to tall, sub-tropical trees and we soon turned into Salta.
Salta is a rather pleasant and unassuming city. I liked it. Not in-your-face beautiful but pleasant enough. The city has a very cosy feel, with a hill, a huge park and a pleasant plaza right in the busy centre. And now that we are at the northern bit of Argentina, the locals here are predominantly Indian-looking.
Salta, ARGENTINA - 19 February, 2003
There had been a whole bunch of sights suggested by the earnest staff at the tourist office but no, after so many hot, dusty, giddy, windy roads lately, I just wanted to take it easy in Salta today.
I ended up shopping for books, and if I may add, books in Spanish, to practise later in my life if I ever become more proficient.
I had actually been attempting to read a book in Spanish the last few days - Historias de Cronopios y de Famas [Stories of Cronopios and Famas] by another Buenos Aires genius, Julio Cortázar.
Whenever I mentioned to the other Argentinians that I was struggling with this book, they all agreed it would be very, very, VERY tough for me.
Well, tough as it is, it is such a sweet book, I just have to share it with you. Allow me to attempt to translate two of my favourite little tales (amongst the very few that I managed to complete). If they sound whimsical, it is not due to bad translation. If they sound like bad translation, it is due to bad translation… it’s me.
--- Travels - by Julio Cortázar, translated by me, with BIG apologies to fans ---
When the Famas travel, their customs to spend a night in a city are the following: One Fama goes to the hotel and ascertains cautiously the prices, the quality of the bed-sheets and the colour of the carpets. The second goes to the commissariat and declares all the assets of the three, like the inventory of the contents in their suitcases. The third Fama goes to the hospital and copies the list of doctors and their specialties.
Upon finishing these tasks diligently, the travellers reunite at the main plaza of the city, inform one another about their observations and enter a café to drink an aperitif. But before, they hold hands and dance in a circle. This dance is given the name ‘Happiness of the Famas’.
When the Cronopios travel, they find hotels full, trains that have already left, that it rains like cats and dogs, and the taxis do not want to take them or charge them very high prices. The Cronopios are not disheartened because they believe firmly that these things happen to all, and at the hour of sleeping, they tell one another, “The beautiful city, the very beautiful city.” And they dream all night that in the city, there are great fiestas and that they are invited. The next day, they wake up very contented and this is how the Cronopios travel.
The Esperanzas, sedentary, leave travelling to the men, and are like statues that people come to see, for they cannot be bothered.
--- Business - by Julio Cortázar, translated by me, with even BIGGER apologies to fans ---
The Famas had set up a factory of garden hoses and employed many Cronopios to do the rolling and storage. As soon as the Cronopios were at the place of work, they became very, very happy. There were green, red, blue, yellow and violet garden hoses. They were transparent and upon testing them, one could see running water with all the bubbles and at times, a surprised insect. The Cronopios started to shout and wanted to dance tregua and dance catala instead of working. The Famas were furious with them and applied the following articles 21, 22 and 23 of the internal rules to avoid a repetition of these bad jobs.
However, the Famas are very careless, the Cronopios waited for favourable circumstances and carried many garden hoses off in a car. When they met a little girl, they cut a piece of the blue garden hose and gave it to her so that she could jump with the garden hose. So, in all the street-corners, one started to see lovely blue and transparent bubbles, with a little girl inside like a squirrel in a cage. The parents of the little girl aspired to take away the garden hose in order to water the garden, but one knew that the astute Cronopios had punctured the hoses such that water would drop out from them and they serve no purpose. In the end, the parents became tired and the little girl went back to the street-corner and jumped and jumped.
With the yellow garden hoses, the Cronopios adorned diverse monuments, and with the green garden hoses, they made traps of African type in the middle of the pathway, in order to see the Esperanzas fall one by one. All around the fallen Esperanzas, the Cronopios danced tregua and danced catala, and the Esperanzas reproached them for their action, saying: “Cruel Cronopios bloody. Cruel!”
The Cronopios, who desired no harm to the Esperanzas, helped them up and gave them pieces of the red garden hoses. So the Esperanzas could go to their houses and complete the most intense of their yearnings: to water their green gardens with red garden hoses.
The Famas closed the factory and gave a banquet full of funereal speeches, with waiters serving the fish in great whispers. And they did not invite any Cronopio, and only those Esperanzas who had not fallen in the traps in the pathway, because the others who did were left with pieces of garden hoses and the Famas were angry with these Esperanzas.
------
Now, don’t they leave you slightly stupefied but grinning?
Salta, ARGENTINA - 20 february 2003
I signed up for a day-tour to visit the areas north of Salta. The morning today was, however, rainy and cloudy. The other tourists in my tour were Tom and Jenny from France.
My guide, Billy, wanted to do the route the reverse direction so that we would arrive at Purmamarca in the morning and be able to see the Seven-Colours Mountain with the sun shining right at them. He hoped that we would get the sun by then, that is.
We took the scenic mountainous route, Route 9, also called the Cornisa (all the roads along this region seemed to have fancy names), to San Salvador de Jujuy, the capital of Jujuy Province. The vegetation here was luscious, sub-tropical thick forests, dripping with ferns and climbers. This was a really old route used by the Indians and had apparently existed for a thousand years.
Along the route, there were shrines set up for ‘saint-like’ heroes, one of them being Gauchito Gil, to pray for safe journeys. Sometimes, the drivers left things like spare tyres, bottles of water, extra stuff they did not need, for the next driver who might need them.
Soon, we arrived at Purmamarca but alas, the sun still remained behind the clouds and we could not get the brilliance of the colours of the Seven-Colours Mountain so famous in all the postcards. Purmamarca is the little Andean town set right against the mountain, all the houses were of the adobe sort. Very photogenic.
We climbed further up from 2000+m to 4000+m in the following section of the route. Here, Billy thought that we would see the sun once we cleared the cloud-layer and reach altiplano [high plains]. To our surprise, after clearing the cloud-layer, there was ANOTHER cloud-layer above the altiplano. Now, this was impossible to clear and so, the elusive sun remained hidden from us.
The altiplano was a plateau at around 4000m and it was flattish, dry desert all the way. In the distance, we could see the white colour of the salt-pan. Approaching the salt-pan, known as Salinas Grande, I could see from the windscreen of the car, one side was entirely grey with a brewing storm and the other was slightly cloudy but with pockets of blue sky.
Usually, there were workers working on the salt-pan but due to the coming storm, all had cleared out. So, we arrived to an abandoned salt mining site. The salt-pan had strange hexagon shapes on the plains. The edges of the hexagon shapes were crumbles of raw salt crystals. There were some blue pools of water where salt crystals were formed and where the mining was done.
I had expected strong harsh rays famous of the altiplano sun and blinding whiteness reflected from the mirror-like salt pans and had prepared to slather myself with sunscreen, but not today, honey. There was nothing bright here. Instead, we managed a few photos before being pelted by the storm and raged by the strong, cold wind, and had to scramble back into the car and flee.
Billy strongly recommended us to visit Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia which was five times the size of Salinas Grande and even more impressive. Yes, I K-N-O-W… but I cannot go to Bolivia. Sigh… Here’s the wound. Here’s the salt-pan. Now rub.
We passed by several llamas on the rest of the desert altiplano before reaching a very sorry-looking, desolate mining town San Antonio de Los Cobres for lunch. We were all more or less suffering slightly from the altitude now. Well, here at the restaurant, they served coca tea and so we ordered the tea to fortify ourselves. I even bought a tiny little toy-llama. So kitsch, I love it.
On our way down, we passed another shrine but this one for Pachamama [Mother Earth]. The Indians who passed by here would leave their bottles of alcohol that they were drinking, some coca leaves, cigarettes, etc… to worship Pachamama and ask for a safe journey. One type of bottles read: PURE ALCOHOL 96%. Gosh, mere mortals like us use 90% alcohol to disinfect wounds. But 96%??!? Imagine drinking that!
We crossed the railway track of the famous ‘Tren a las Nubes’ [Train of the Clouds] several times on our way back to Salta along Quebrada del Toro. This railway track was used more often by regular cargo trains which carried gas and fuel to export to Chile.
Up until now, all the produce from North-east Argentina could not be exported through the ports of Chile. All had to be brought to the Buenos Aires port, on the Atlantic side, although they were physically closer to the ports of Chile. Billy explained that soon this would change and it would be easier to export products out across the Pacific Ocean to Asia and Russia.
Would dulce de leche be one of the products? Dulce de leche? Billy then proceeded to reveal the secret of making dulce de leche.
Boil a pot of water slowly and put the can of sweet condensed milk inside without opening the can. This is called Baño Maria [Maria’s Bath]. Keep the can in the pot of slowly-boiling water for 2 to 3 hours and, voila!, dulce de leche!
My saviour!
Monday, February 17, 2003
24 - Run Llama Run (Cafayate, Cachi)
Tafí del Valle to Cafayate, ARGENTINA - 14 february 2003
I left Tafí del Valle and kissed cool, alpine weather goodbye. The route to Cafayate was as I had previously described going to Amaicha del Valle and from there, the surrounding areas turned semi-arid, brown, dry and dusty. The whole place continued to be spotted with candalabra cacti, called cardones, posing in various amusing contortions, heeding Madonna’s advice of ‘don’t-just-stand-there, let’s-get-to-it, strike-a-pose-there’s-nothing-to-it, vogue’.
Cafayate is one dusty, hot little town, set amongst mountains. Similar to Mendoza, Cafayate is also famous of its wine production and is surrounded by fields of vineyards as well.
I hid from the sun until late afternoon before venturing to walk along Route 40 to try and get out of town to better view the mountains. Route 40 is the famous highway that, at about 3500km long, nearly crossed the entire length of Argentina.
From the map I was issued at the tourist office, there was an El Molino, 3km off the highway, which from the legend, appeared to be an archaeological site or something and I decided to walk there just for the sake of walking.
The sun was in my face when I veered left off the highway. I passed by numerous vineyards and later, bare, dry grounds spotted with your garden variety of prickly, desert flora. Although not as high as Tafí del Valle, at 1660m, the sun in Cafayate still boasted harsh rays.
Behind me, I could see gorgeously red mountain ranges with strips of beige and orange. As the afternoon sun was shining right at them, the view was perfect. I frequently walked backwards just to admire the view. That was Quebrada de Los Conchas along Route 68.
An hour later, not unexpected, I could not find any archaeological site whatsoever and after a nonchalant shrug, I returned to Cafayate.
Well, at least, the walk had touched up on my fading Brazilian tan.
Cafayate, ARGENTINA - 15 february 2003
By 10am, the heat was already intolerable. I bought some pastries and found a shady spot in the plaza to sit and eat. I was onto my second pastry when I heard a crack and a crash. Not more than five metres from me, a whole HUGE branch of a big tree, previously some six metres above ground, had broken off and crashed onto the plaza, taking along branches from neighbouring trees. It was an utter mess.
Upon inspection later, nosy as I am, I realised the branch was of the type with thousands of spikes and thorns! Oh no!! IMAGINE if I had chosen to sit under THAT tree! No one would be updating this article anymore.
Then, I met THE GUY to marry in Argentina. As soon as he set eyes on me, he could not stop giggling and smiling. I squatted alongside him and started chatting him up. He was playing with two coins and I asked if they were for me. “NNNNNOOOOO”, still giggling, still smiling.
One coin rolled under the car. He asked for my help to retrieve it, still giggling, still smiling. I retrieved it but “NNNNOOOOO” the coin was still not for me.
“Me voy [I go]” he announced, still giggling, still smiling. “¿Para dónde? [To where?]” “Mi casa [My house]” “Voy contigo. [I go with you.]” I suggested. “¡NNNNOOOOOO!!”, mildly horrified but still giggling, still smiling. Playing hard-to-get.
Oh, my heart totally melted. His angelic eyes, his impish grin, his adorable dimples. My ANGEL!!! He is Ezekiel. He is four. Sound the wedding bells.
I made a slow walk to a tiny hill 2km away, Cerro Santa Teresita. At the top was an altar which provided much-needed shelter from the sun. Gracias, Santa Teresita. From there, we were offered a view of Cafayate and the surrounding mountains.
I somehow became the photographer for three families as they each sought me out for their ‘top-of-the-world’ shots.
On my way down, I met Nelson who is a ceramic-potter. He chatted with me and upon learning that I wanted to walk to Rio Colorado, 5km away, tomorrow, he suggested coming along with me. Sure, why not? He said 7am. 7am!!!!! Unless it was to catch a bus, I had not woken up so early in a LONG time. But I guess it was necessary to beat the heat. OK.
I had booked for an excursion to visit Quebrada de Los Conchas in the late afternoon and this was one of the best things I had done in Argentina.
If I had written that the mountain scenery from Mendoza to Chile, passing Puente del Inca was GORGEOUS, then, I am sorry, but this one TAKES THE CAKE, man.
The view along this route was ASTOUNDING, BREATHTAKING, STUPEFYING, MARVELLOUS, IMPRESSIVE, SPECTACULAR, etc… and yes, I am using the Thesaurus to help churn out these adjectives. Otherwise, I would have to resort to SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS.
The various oddly sculpted mountain formations are of red, ochre, yellow, beige, orange, coral, sienna, brown, grey, hint of lavendar, etc… a sea of wondrous colours. When I am back to the civilised world and doing stupid things like buying lipsticks named Sienna or Terracotta, I will surely remember this incredible route.
For eons, wind and water had eroded and twisted the mountains into structures with names like ‘Los Castillos’ [The Castles, they looked like…], ‘El Sapo’ [The Frog, it looked like…], ‘El Obelisco’ [The Obelisk, make a guess…], etc… But those other poor nameless ones were equally jaw-dropping. My head was turning here and there and everywhere to savour the views.
The ‘Anfiteatro’ [Amphitheatre] is a narrow gorge between two walls before opening up into a ‘stage’ of sorts with very high walls of great acoustics. We were leaving this place, when a lady, thinking that she was alone with her family, started to sing in the middle of the ‘stage’. She sang a familiar little opera tune, starting and ending with ‘M-M-aaaaaa-ah---RRRRIIII-y-YAAA’, probably titled ‘Maria’.
Her rich, moving voice resonated on the ‘stage’. All of us stood in silence, utterly stupefied. I closed my eyes and indeed, I felt myself soar into the sky with her voice. I seriously sensed that I was floating. My eyes brimmed with tears when I re-opened them. This was so special. She had a gift and unwittingly, she had shared it with all of us that afternoon in this amazing place.
After spending some time climbing into and out of ‘La Garganta del Diablo’ [another ‘The Devil’s Throat’], we headed back. A pity the sun had started to set by now, for there were some other sights we had driven by just now without stopping, meaning to stop by later. Still, my guide drove us off-road at one point and told us to walk in the desert.
The moon was almost full (it would be full tomorrow), so it was more or less bright enough to navigate but some small cacti and thorny bushes were not so easy to avoid. We kept getting lanced.
We arrived at ‘Las Ventanas’ [The Windows] and the almost-full moon could be seen beyond the ‘windows’. How wonderful! It was so beautiful to be out here in the desert at night with the moon and the stars above.
Cafayate to Angastaco, ARGENTINA - 16 february 2003
The early morning sun was hidden behind clouds and it was indeed a very nice, cool walk to Rio Colorado.
The river was just a trickle but I was not keen to hike further out to the waterfalls. So, Nelson and I sat under a tree and enjoyed the tranquility and the view. We had arrived at the edge of the mountain range around Cafayate.
I learnt from Nelson that one group of Indians that used to settle here were called Calchaqui, hence the area here was named ‘El Valle Calchaqui’. They were here even before the Incas arrived. There were some traces of their settlement nearby. For example, on some rocks there were holes which the Calchaqui Indians had used to pound maize. They resisted the colonization of the Spanish bravely but many died when they were brought to Buenos Aires to build the city there. I believe the race is now extinct.
Today was Sunday and soon, many families, armed with picnic baskets, came trotting by to find good spots by the river for a picnic. Nice.
I wanted to stop by Cachí, a little town further north but to get there, I had to first go to Angastaco, spend a night there and catch the 5:30am bus the next day to Cachí and this was what I did. In this ‘rural’ part of Argentina, to Angastaco, I encountered the oldest, dustiest, most broken-looking bus I had been on since China.
Though the sun had set, because of the full moon, I could still make out the shapes of more fantastic rock formations. There were many ‘Las Flechas’ [The Arrows] abound. They were sharp and pointing in one direction at an angle, with a vengeance, like arrows. Amazing view through and through.
Unfortunately for me, Angastaco was having a festival that night. Not another folkloric festival, I feared. No, this was worse. After the folkloric bit ended by 10pm or so, the plaza was blasted with loud, throbbing cumbia… continuous, repetitive, ‘happy happy’ cumbia. My WORST nightmare!
As you already know my sentiments on this, I LOATHED cumbia! The repetitive bass POM-pom-POM-pom remained indifferent as the cheesy songs changed from one to another, with a highly-excitable DJ-sort screaming and shouting delirious nonsense in between. I feared this would be another ‘until-daybreak’ party and I was proven right.
Angastaco to Cachí, ARGENTINA - 17 february 2003
I did not sleep at all. By 5am, I grumbly dragged myself to the plaza to check out the party. To my surprise, the plaza was deserted!! Yet, the HORRIBLE cumbia was still blaring away from the plaza’s loudspeakers. If I had a bazooka with me, I would have blasted the loudspeakers away. I could not believe that there was no one in the plaza and yet, the party music was carrying on and on.
The two Buenos Aires girls in my room, also going to Cachí, told me the party was held in a house, not in the plaza. OK, fine. But if it was held in a house, why not just blast the stupid music in that house? Why keep the entire town awake with stupid stupid stupid cumbia?!??! Get me out of Angastaco.
The route to Cachí is along the beautiful Valle Calchaqui but I could not vouch for it for I was catching up on my sleep.
Cachí is an even smaller, even dustier little desert town, at 2280m. Nearby are peaks like Nevado de Cachí which had altitudes of above 6300m. Cachí is very quiet, tranquil and time seems to stand still here. It retained an authentic colonial flavour. I read that people here died of old age because there was nothing else to die of.
Too hot. Too sleepy. I slept a great deal in Cachí, I am afraid, but while not sleeping, I walked around town, to a little peak nearby and a miniscule archaeological site, to amuse myself.
The houses were mainly painted white or beige. Many were made of adobe, or mud. There were little iron lamps outside the houses. Some windows, doors and street signs were made of the light-weight wood from dried-up cacti.
I was also spotting more gauchos in this part of my trip. These are Argentinian cowboys, who wear black, flattish hats and sometimes, colourfully weaved belts. Yeah, they ride horses occasionally too.
I left Tafí del Valle and kissed cool, alpine weather goodbye. The route to Cafayate was as I had previously described going to Amaicha del Valle and from there, the surrounding areas turned semi-arid, brown, dry and dusty. The whole place continued to be spotted with candalabra cacti, called cardones, posing in various amusing contortions, heeding Madonna’s advice of ‘don’t-just-stand-there, let’s-get-to-it, strike-a-pose-there’s-nothing-to-it, vogue’.
Cafayate is one dusty, hot little town, set amongst mountains. Similar to Mendoza, Cafayate is also famous of its wine production and is surrounded by fields of vineyards as well.
I hid from the sun until late afternoon before venturing to walk along Route 40 to try and get out of town to better view the mountains. Route 40 is the famous highway that, at about 3500km long, nearly crossed the entire length of Argentina.
From the map I was issued at the tourist office, there was an El Molino, 3km off the highway, which from the legend, appeared to be an archaeological site or something and I decided to walk there just for the sake of walking.
The sun was in my face when I veered left off the highway. I passed by numerous vineyards and later, bare, dry grounds spotted with your garden variety of prickly, desert flora. Although not as high as Tafí del Valle, at 1660m, the sun in Cafayate still boasted harsh rays.
Behind me, I could see gorgeously red mountain ranges with strips of beige and orange. As the afternoon sun was shining right at them, the view was perfect. I frequently walked backwards just to admire the view. That was Quebrada de Los Conchas along Route 68.
An hour later, not unexpected, I could not find any archaeological site whatsoever and after a nonchalant shrug, I returned to Cafayate.
Well, at least, the walk had touched up on my fading Brazilian tan.
Cafayate, ARGENTINA - 15 february 2003
By 10am, the heat was already intolerable. I bought some pastries and found a shady spot in the plaza to sit and eat. I was onto my second pastry when I heard a crack and a crash. Not more than five metres from me, a whole HUGE branch of a big tree, previously some six metres above ground, had broken off and crashed onto the plaza, taking along branches from neighbouring trees. It was an utter mess.
Upon inspection later, nosy as I am, I realised the branch was of the type with thousands of spikes and thorns! Oh no!! IMAGINE if I had chosen to sit under THAT tree! No one would be updating this article anymore.
Then, I met THE GUY to marry in Argentina. As soon as he set eyes on me, he could not stop giggling and smiling. I squatted alongside him and started chatting him up. He was playing with two coins and I asked if they were for me. “NNNNNOOOOO”, still giggling, still smiling.
One coin rolled under the car. He asked for my help to retrieve it, still giggling, still smiling. I retrieved it but “NNNNOOOOO” the coin was still not for me.
“Me voy [I go]” he announced, still giggling, still smiling. “¿Para dónde? [To where?]” “Mi casa [My house]” “Voy contigo. [I go with you.]” I suggested. “¡NNNNOOOOOO!!”, mildly horrified but still giggling, still smiling. Playing hard-to-get.
Oh, my heart totally melted. His angelic eyes, his impish grin, his adorable dimples. My ANGEL!!! He is Ezekiel. He is four. Sound the wedding bells.
I made a slow walk to a tiny hill 2km away, Cerro Santa Teresita. At the top was an altar which provided much-needed shelter from the sun. Gracias, Santa Teresita. From there, we were offered a view of Cafayate and the surrounding mountains.
I somehow became the photographer for three families as they each sought me out for their ‘top-of-the-world’ shots.
On my way down, I met Nelson who is a ceramic-potter. He chatted with me and upon learning that I wanted to walk to Rio Colorado, 5km away, tomorrow, he suggested coming along with me. Sure, why not? He said 7am. 7am!!!!! Unless it was to catch a bus, I had not woken up so early in a LONG time. But I guess it was necessary to beat the heat. OK.
I had booked for an excursion to visit Quebrada de Los Conchas in the late afternoon and this was one of the best things I had done in Argentina.
If I had written that the mountain scenery from Mendoza to Chile, passing Puente del Inca was GORGEOUS, then, I am sorry, but this one TAKES THE CAKE, man.
The view along this route was ASTOUNDING, BREATHTAKING, STUPEFYING, MARVELLOUS, IMPRESSIVE, SPECTACULAR, etc… and yes, I am using the Thesaurus to help churn out these adjectives. Otherwise, I would have to resort to SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS.
The various oddly sculpted mountain formations are of red, ochre, yellow, beige, orange, coral, sienna, brown, grey, hint of lavendar, etc… a sea of wondrous colours. When I am back to the civilised world and doing stupid things like buying lipsticks named Sienna or Terracotta, I will surely remember this incredible route.
For eons, wind and water had eroded and twisted the mountains into structures with names like ‘Los Castillos’ [The Castles, they looked like…], ‘El Sapo’ [The Frog, it looked like…], ‘El Obelisco’ [The Obelisk, make a guess…], etc… But those other poor nameless ones were equally jaw-dropping. My head was turning here and there and everywhere to savour the views.
The ‘Anfiteatro’ [Amphitheatre] is a narrow gorge between two walls before opening up into a ‘stage’ of sorts with very high walls of great acoustics. We were leaving this place, when a lady, thinking that she was alone with her family, started to sing in the middle of the ‘stage’. She sang a familiar little opera tune, starting and ending with ‘M-M-aaaaaa-ah---RRRRIIII-y-YAAA’, probably titled ‘Maria’.
Her rich, moving voice resonated on the ‘stage’. All of us stood in silence, utterly stupefied. I closed my eyes and indeed, I felt myself soar into the sky with her voice. I seriously sensed that I was floating. My eyes brimmed with tears when I re-opened them. This was so special. She had a gift and unwittingly, she had shared it with all of us that afternoon in this amazing place.
After spending some time climbing into and out of ‘La Garganta del Diablo’ [another ‘The Devil’s Throat’], we headed back. A pity the sun had started to set by now, for there were some other sights we had driven by just now without stopping, meaning to stop by later. Still, my guide drove us off-road at one point and told us to walk in the desert.
The moon was almost full (it would be full tomorrow), so it was more or less bright enough to navigate but some small cacti and thorny bushes were not so easy to avoid. We kept getting lanced.
We arrived at ‘Las Ventanas’ [The Windows] and the almost-full moon could be seen beyond the ‘windows’. How wonderful! It was so beautiful to be out here in the desert at night with the moon and the stars above.
Cafayate to Angastaco, ARGENTINA - 16 february 2003
The early morning sun was hidden behind clouds and it was indeed a very nice, cool walk to Rio Colorado.
The river was just a trickle but I was not keen to hike further out to the waterfalls. So, Nelson and I sat under a tree and enjoyed the tranquility and the view. We had arrived at the edge of the mountain range around Cafayate.
I learnt from Nelson that one group of Indians that used to settle here were called Calchaqui, hence the area here was named ‘El Valle Calchaqui’. They were here even before the Incas arrived. There were some traces of their settlement nearby. For example, on some rocks there were holes which the Calchaqui Indians had used to pound maize. They resisted the colonization of the Spanish bravely but many died when they were brought to Buenos Aires to build the city there. I believe the race is now extinct.
Today was Sunday and soon, many families, armed with picnic baskets, came trotting by to find good spots by the river for a picnic. Nice.
I wanted to stop by Cachí, a little town further north but to get there, I had to first go to Angastaco, spend a night there and catch the 5:30am bus the next day to Cachí and this was what I did. In this ‘rural’ part of Argentina, to Angastaco, I encountered the oldest, dustiest, most broken-looking bus I had been on since China.
Though the sun had set, because of the full moon, I could still make out the shapes of more fantastic rock formations. There were many ‘Las Flechas’ [The Arrows] abound. They were sharp and pointing in one direction at an angle, with a vengeance, like arrows. Amazing view through and through.
Unfortunately for me, Angastaco was having a festival that night. Not another folkloric festival, I feared. No, this was worse. After the folkloric bit ended by 10pm or so, the plaza was blasted with loud, throbbing cumbia… continuous, repetitive, ‘happy happy’ cumbia. My WORST nightmare!
As you already know my sentiments on this, I LOATHED cumbia! The repetitive bass POM-pom-POM-pom remained indifferent as the cheesy songs changed from one to another, with a highly-excitable DJ-sort screaming and shouting delirious nonsense in between. I feared this would be another ‘until-daybreak’ party and I was proven right.
Angastaco to Cachí, ARGENTINA - 17 february 2003
I did not sleep at all. By 5am, I grumbly dragged myself to the plaza to check out the party. To my surprise, the plaza was deserted!! Yet, the HORRIBLE cumbia was still blaring away from the plaza’s loudspeakers. If I had a bazooka with me, I would have blasted the loudspeakers away. I could not believe that there was no one in the plaza and yet, the party music was carrying on and on.
The two Buenos Aires girls in my room, also going to Cachí, told me the party was held in a house, not in the plaza. OK, fine. But if it was held in a house, why not just blast the stupid music in that house? Why keep the entire town awake with stupid stupid stupid cumbia?!??! Get me out of Angastaco.
The route to Cachí is along the beautiful Valle Calchaqui but I could not vouch for it for I was catching up on my sleep.
Cachí is an even smaller, even dustier little desert town, at 2280m. Nearby are peaks like Nevado de Cachí which had altitudes of above 6300m. Cachí is very quiet, tranquil and time seems to stand still here. It retained an authentic colonial flavour. I read that people here died of old age because there was nothing else to die of.
Too hot. Too sleepy. I slept a great deal in Cachí, I am afraid, but while not sleeping, I walked around town, to a little peak nearby and a miniscule archaeological site, to amuse myself.
The houses were mainly painted white or beige. Many were made of adobe, or mud. There were little iron lamps outside the houses. Some windows, doors and street signs were made of the light-weight wood from dried-up cacti.
I was also spotting more gauchos in this part of my trip. These are Argentinian cowboys, who wear black, flattish hats and sometimes, colourfully weaved belts. Yeah, they ride horses occasionally too.
Thursday, February 13, 2003
23 - Planet of the Asados (La Rioja, Tafi del Valle)
Mendoza to La Rioja, ARGENTINA - 07 february 2003
Yair had explained to me that he did not believe my theory on the Argentinian postage cost, i.e. that if 20g costs US$1.50, 2kg would cost US$150. He claimed that postage costs did not follow linear proportions.
Half-believing him, I had gone and bought a bunch of souvenirs last night. Yep, when you are making a list and checking it twice, it really means the trip is coming to an end soon. Sob.
At the post office, the lady motor-mouthed rapidly something to me. I heard ‘Aduana’ [Customs], ‘revisar’ [check] and ‘caja’ [box]. My short-term memory only retained ‘caja’ and realised I had to find a box myself. If I bought one of those postal boxes from the post office, she said it would be MORE expensive.
Hmmm… because of the economic down-fall, I remembered spotting many poor folks going through garbage bags along the streets collecting boxes. Should I do the same? Or should I go to one of these guys to try and buy one off them? I had just decided to head back to the hostel to see if anyone had a box when I spotted a box under a tree. I peeped. It was empty and the right size. Box was mine.
But, back at the post office, the lady re-explained that I had to go to the Customs for them to check the items before I could seal up the box. Unfortunately, the Customs office was closed now and would only be opened on Monday morning. It was Friday.
Oh dear, how inconvenient this was turning out to be. I lugged the box to La Rioja.
On the luxurious overnight bus to La Rioja, the steward served dinner to us. I had forgotten this sort of service existed in Argentina. The last time I took such a bus in Argentina was more than three months ago heading to Buenos Aires. I grumbled to the guy next to me that what a shame, I had already eaten dinner. In response, he smiled and did a very typical Argentinian hand gesture to me.
The gesture: With the right hand facing up, place all fingers together. Hold the fingers at an angle and rock to-and-fro a few times.
Oh, how I had missed this since Buenos Aires! This gesture can be used to mean anything… from ‘You look like crap, everything OK?’ to ‘HEY, hey, what you are talking about? I disagree with that…’ to ‘What? I don’t get you. Explain that again?’ to ‘Oh, it is the most gorgeous place in the world! Precioso!’ to ‘Hahaa, what a toad you are.’
For my case now, it would be the last meaning.
La Rioja to Los Molinos, ARGENTINA - 08 february 2003
My objective of coming to La Rioja was to visit Parque Nacional de Talampaya nearby. I had read somewhere that it was advisable NOT to head out there during summer. This was summer. Hmmm… I made inquiries at the tourist office.
The lady gravely warned me it was 45 to 50°C a few days ago in town. So, she reckoned it would be about 60°C in the desert. Oh nooooo… I would NOT be heading there.
However, she tried to interest me to go to Los Molinos, a small town 2 hours away, which would have a festival tonight. Fine.
This was the first time in a long, long time there was cable-TV in my hotel room and the remote control belonged to me and me only. I stayed in bed and channel-surfed the entire afternoon. 52 channels and there was nothing on TV.
I caught the bus to Los Molinos that evening. The small town was fenced up with garbage bags so that anyone entering the main plaza would have to fork out 7 Arg Pesos. The stage was set up at the plaza with many tables and chairs. I really had no clue what sort of festival this was. Because of Mexico, I had imagined the festival to be full of folkloric music and assorted colourful traditional dances.
Well, there were only two dances and they were put up by children, a little hurried and inexperienced. The next 2 hours though, had brilliant bands playing folkloric music which I enjoyed thoroughly.
Los Molinos to La Rioja, ARGENTINA - 09 february 2003
OK, I stand corrected. Let’s face it. 2, 3 hours of folkloric music was fine. But 8 hours of it was a bit of an overkill to the untrained ears, don’t you agree? I had not slept well on the bus last night and so, I found myself dozing off in the middle of the loud, booming party.
The locals were having great fun though. They sang along to every folk song and danced. They bought flour and foam-spray and it was a free-for-all fight as everyone tossed or sprayed everyone else. Two kids next to me eyed me for a while. I braced myself and indeed, they sprayed me entirely with foam.
Finally, F-I-N-A-L-LY, the party ended at day-break. Enough of folkloric music! I was very relieved to catch my bus back to La Rioja for a much-needed sleep.
La Rioja to Tucumán, ARGENTINA - 10 february 2003
The Customs office of La Rioja was way out of town, along one of the highways. I optimistically made my way there by taxi. There, I realised that the officers wanted the box to be wrapped up with brown paper after checking and that I had to provide the brown paper. But, where can I buy brown paper? Back at the town centre.
Argh. For a moment, I wanted to give up and lug all the stuff until I crossed back into Chile. Then, I thought I would stick it through, just to see how low it could go.
Back to the town centre and back to the Customs office with brown paper. The guy asked me to go ahead and wrap the box. But… but… don’t you want to CHECK the contents first? That was the POINT of bringing the box all the way to Customs for inspection before wrapping, wasn’t it?
The guy gave me an ‘oh yeah’ look, gave the contents a cursory glace, barely lifting the plastic bags to check the insides. OK, now wrap it.
I cursed the day I decided to post things home from Argentina.
I arrived at Tucumán late at night and had my first diarrhoea since China.
Tucumán to Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 11 february 2003
The route from Tucumán to Tafí del Valle was amazing. As we climbed up the mountains, the surrounding vegetation looked like tropical forests. The entire mountains were packed with trees and the trees were fully grown with climbers and ferns. Impressive. The bus made turns after turns towards the cloud level. Sit on the left side.
Once we burst out of the clouds, the vegetation changed to grassy mountains, spotted with pine forests. Tafí del Valle looked very agreeable to me. It was no longer harsh desert weather. It was alpine weather.
The tremors in my stomach and the very windy road made me feel queasy upon arrival. I had a headache too which I attributed to ‘altitude sickness’. Strange, this was only 2050m. When I was at Puente del Inca, it was 2700m and I did not feel weird then. Maybe the difference in altitude between Tucumán and Tafí was greater. I decided to take it really easy today.
The view around this pretty town in the valley was wonderful. We were surrounded by green mountains all over, half immersed in clouds. In the distance, we could see a lake. There were llamas too. Tourists could rent horses to visit the area but the local gauchos were using horses for regular transportation as well. Tafí was tranquil and pretty. I really liked it here.
I soon got to chatting with a couple of old men who wanted me to stay in Argentina and get married. Get married with whom? The cheeky toothless one offered to be my groom at once. Right.
Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 12 february 2003
I had been crapping everything I ate. I took some medication and gingerly had some empanadas at a restaurant. I chatted to the owner of the restaurant, Julio. He suggested to me that later at 5pm, if I wanted, I could join him and his family for a drive to the neighbouring town El Mollar and he would drive me to the top of a mountain for a great viewing spot to take pictures of the valley. That sounded fantastic. I agreed to it at once.
I took a walk along the rocky river bed but soon, found that I was too sick and still had not enough energy today. I was still crapping, by the way. I decided to head back to my hotel to sleep.
By 5pm, I met up with Julio, his wife Gracilia and his son Cecil. We got into his car but the weather had turned rainy by then and it was not possible to go to any viewing spot for any photos.
Julio was very nice. He kept apologizing about the missed opportunity to me. How sweet. Gracilia then suggested that we drive to another town, Amaicha del Valle, more than 50km away, to have an asado with her sister’s family.
Amaicha del Valle, although also a charming town in the valley, had a climate entirely different from Tafí. It was dry there. It rained perhaps five days a year, I was informed by Cecil. We climbed up more curvy roads and hit the highest point of El Infiernillo 3045m. Beyond that, the vegetation indeed took a change. Now, instead of pine forests, we could see scores of candelabra cacti, 2 to 4 metres tall. Many seemed to be giving us the third finger. It was a near-desert climate here. How odd.
Soon, despite my weak stomach conditions, I found myself gnawing at various cow parts at the house of Gracilia’s sister. I met many relatives too.
They showed me the backroom where they made bread and wine. There was a cow’s belly, where the four stomaches used to be, tied to four poles. Inside the belly, they would put grapes and then, they would step on them - the first step towards wine-making. How delightful to see this er… ‘container’. I had heard this explanation in the bodega tour in Mendoza but they had said this was the ‘old’ practice for everything was mechanised now. I had just found a place that still did it the ‘old’ way in a cow’s belly.
Again, I must say I was very lucky to have met such a wonderful family, entirely by chance.
Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 13 february 2003
I stayed another day here in Tafí. Just to gain more strength.
I visited the nearby town El Mollar which had a Parque Nacional Menhires with stone menhirs, some with carvings. It was not very impressive and not well-maintained too as many of the stones were, sadly, vandalised by amorous Argentinians proclaiming this love and that.
I hitched a ride back to Tafí and dropped by Julio’s restaurant for a visit again. Now, he wanted to invite me to another asado with his cousin tonight. He had been very kind to me and I was very touched. Cecil’s eyes lit up when I agreed to the invitation.
Asados. Asados. Only the Argentinians know how to make a real asado. I subsisted on more meat today. But I swear I would NOT be having another asado for a long time.
By the end of the dinner, the family put some folkloric music on and the assorted aunts, uncles, this cousin and that, started doing folkloric dances, with swing handkerchiefs in the air and arms held high, curved like candalabras. I joined in one dance, to some applause and much delight as the ‘ambassador from China’, as I was known to them, with some clumsy, embarrassing foot-work.
But I drew the line at cumbia. The horrible cumbia. This is happy-peppy music with repetitive POM-pom-POM-pom bass beats, highly excitable electronic tunes and LEVEL INFINITY KITSCH. It is HORRIBLE!! Unfortunately, the Andean folks love it.
Yair had explained to me that he did not believe my theory on the Argentinian postage cost, i.e. that if 20g costs US$1.50, 2kg would cost US$150. He claimed that postage costs did not follow linear proportions.
Half-believing him, I had gone and bought a bunch of souvenirs last night. Yep, when you are making a list and checking it twice, it really means the trip is coming to an end soon. Sob.
At the post office, the lady motor-mouthed rapidly something to me. I heard ‘Aduana’ [Customs], ‘revisar’ [check] and ‘caja’ [box]. My short-term memory only retained ‘caja’ and realised I had to find a box myself. If I bought one of those postal boxes from the post office, she said it would be MORE expensive.
Hmmm… because of the economic down-fall, I remembered spotting many poor folks going through garbage bags along the streets collecting boxes. Should I do the same? Or should I go to one of these guys to try and buy one off them? I had just decided to head back to the hostel to see if anyone had a box when I spotted a box under a tree. I peeped. It was empty and the right size. Box was mine.
But, back at the post office, the lady re-explained that I had to go to the Customs for them to check the items before I could seal up the box. Unfortunately, the Customs office was closed now and would only be opened on Monday morning. It was Friday.
Oh dear, how inconvenient this was turning out to be. I lugged the box to La Rioja.
On the luxurious overnight bus to La Rioja, the steward served dinner to us. I had forgotten this sort of service existed in Argentina. The last time I took such a bus in Argentina was more than three months ago heading to Buenos Aires. I grumbled to the guy next to me that what a shame, I had already eaten dinner. In response, he smiled and did a very typical Argentinian hand gesture to me.
The gesture: With the right hand facing up, place all fingers together. Hold the fingers at an angle and rock to-and-fro a few times.
Oh, how I had missed this since Buenos Aires! This gesture can be used to mean anything… from ‘You look like crap, everything OK?’ to ‘HEY, hey, what you are talking about? I disagree with that…’ to ‘What? I don’t get you. Explain that again?’ to ‘Oh, it is the most gorgeous place in the world! Precioso!’ to ‘Hahaa, what a toad you are.’
For my case now, it would be the last meaning.
La Rioja to Los Molinos, ARGENTINA - 08 february 2003
My objective of coming to La Rioja was to visit Parque Nacional de Talampaya nearby. I had read somewhere that it was advisable NOT to head out there during summer. This was summer. Hmmm… I made inquiries at the tourist office.
The lady gravely warned me it was 45 to 50°C a few days ago in town. So, she reckoned it would be about 60°C in the desert. Oh nooooo… I would NOT be heading there.
However, she tried to interest me to go to Los Molinos, a small town 2 hours away, which would have a festival tonight. Fine.
This was the first time in a long, long time there was cable-TV in my hotel room and the remote control belonged to me and me only. I stayed in bed and channel-surfed the entire afternoon. 52 channels and there was nothing on TV.
I caught the bus to Los Molinos that evening. The small town was fenced up with garbage bags so that anyone entering the main plaza would have to fork out 7 Arg Pesos. The stage was set up at the plaza with many tables and chairs. I really had no clue what sort of festival this was. Because of Mexico, I had imagined the festival to be full of folkloric music and assorted colourful traditional dances.
Well, there were only two dances and they were put up by children, a little hurried and inexperienced. The next 2 hours though, had brilliant bands playing folkloric music which I enjoyed thoroughly.
Los Molinos to La Rioja, ARGENTINA - 09 february 2003
OK, I stand corrected. Let’s face it. 2, 3 hours of folkloric music was fine. But 8 hours of it was a bit of an overkill to the untrained ears, don’t you agree? I had not slept well on the bus last night and so, I found myself dozing off in the middle of the loud, booming party.
The locals were having great fun though. They sang along to every folk song and danced. They bought flour and foam-spray and it was a free-for-all fight as everyone tossed or sprayed everyone else. Two kids next to me eyed me for a while. I braced myself and indeed, they sprayed me entirely with foam.
Finally, F-I-N-A-L-LY, the party ended at day-break. Enough of folkloric music! I was very relieved to catch my bus back to La Rioja for a much-needed sleep.
La Rioja to Tucumán, ARGENTINA - 10 february 2003
The Customs office of La Rioja was way out of town, along one of the highways. I optimistically made my way there by taxi. There, I realised that the officers wanted the box to be wrapped up with brown paper after checking and that I had to provide the brown paper. But, where can I buy brown paper? Back at the town centre.
Argh. For a moment, I wanted to give up and lug all the stuff until I crossed back into Chile. Then, I thought I would stick it through, just to see how low it could go.
Back to the town centre and back to the Customs office with brown paper. The guy asked me to go ahead and wrap the box. But… but… don’t you want to CHECK the contents first? That was the POINT of bringing the box all the way to Customs for inspection before wrapping, wasn’t it?
The guy gave me an ‘oh yeah’ look, gave the contents a cursory glace, barely lifting the plastic bags to check the insides. OK, now wrap it.
I cursed the day I decided to post things home from Argentina.
I arrived at Tucumán late at night and had my first diarrhoea since China.
Tucumán to Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 11 february 2003
The route from Tucumán to Tafí del Valle was amazing. As we climbed up the mountains, the surrounding vegetation looked like tropical forests. The entire mountains were packed with trees and the trees were fully grown with climbers and ferns. Impressive. The bus made turns after turns towards the cloud level. Sit on the left side.
Once we burst out of the clouds, the vegetation changed to grassy mountains, spotted with pine forests. Tafí del Valle looked very agreeable to me. It was no longer harsh desert weather. It was alpine weather.
The tremors in my stomach and the very windy road made me feel queasy upon arrival. I had a headache too which I attributed to ‘altitude sickness’. Strange, this was only 2050m. When I was at Puente del Inca, it was 2700m and I did not feel weird then. Maybe the difference in altitude between Tucumán and Tafí was greater. I decided to take it really easy today.
The view around this pretty town in the valley was wonderful. We were surrounded by green mountains all over, half immersed in clouds. In the distance, we could see a lake. There were llamas too. Tourists could rent horses to visit the area but the local gauchos were using horses for regular transportation as well. Tafí was tranquil and pretty. I really liked it here.
I soon got to chatting with a couple of old men who wanted me to stay in Argentina and get married. Get married with whom? The cheeky toothless one offered to be my groom at once. Right.
Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 12 february 2003
I had been crapping everything I ate. I took some medication and gingerly had some empanadas at a restaurant. I chatted to the owner of the restaurant, Julio. He suggested to me that later at 5pm, if I wanted, I could join him and his family for a drive to the neighbouring town El Mollar and he would drive me to the top of a mountain for a great viewing spot to take pictures of the valley. That sounded fantastic. I agreed to it at once.
I took a walk along the rocky river bed but soon, found that I was too sick and still had not enough energy today. I was still crapping, by the way. I decided to head back to my hotel to sleep.
By 5pm, I met up with Julio, his wife Gracilia and his son Cecil. We got into his car but the weather had turned rainy by then and it was not possible to go to any viewing spot for any photos.
Julio was very nice. He kept apologizing about the missed opportunity to me. How sweet. Gracilia then suggested that we drive to another town, Amaicha del Valle, more than 50km away, to have an asado with her sister’s family.
Amaicha del Valle, although also a charming town in the valley, had a climate entirely different from Tafí. It was dry there. It rained perhaps five days a year, I was informed by Cecil. We climbed up more curvy roads and hit the highest point of El Infiernillo 3045m. Beyond that, the vegetation indeed took a change. Now, instead of pine forests, we could see scores of candelabra cacti, 2 to 4 metres tall. Many seemed to be giving us the third finger. It was a near-desert climate here. How odd.
Soon, despite my weak stomach conditions, I found myself gnawing at various cow parts at the house of Gracilia’s sister. I met many relatives too.
They showed me the backroom where they made bread and wine. There was a cow’s belly, where the four stomaches used to be, tied to four poles. Inside the belly, they would put grapes and then, they would step on them - the first step towards wine-making. How delightful to see this er… ‘container’. I had heard this explanation in the bodega tour in Mendoza but they had said this was the ‘old’ practice for everything was mechanised now. I had just found a place that still did it the ‘old’ way in a cow’s belly.
Again, I must say I was very lucky to have met such a wonderful family, entirely by chance.
Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 13 february 2003
I stayed another day here in Tafí. Just to gain more strength.
I visited the nearby town El Mollar which had a Parque Nacional Menhires with stone menhirs, some with carvings. It was not very impressive and not well-maintained too as many of the stones were, sadly, vandalised by amorous Argentinians proclaiming this love and that.
I hitched a ride back to Tafí and dropped by Julio’s restaurant for a visit again. Now, he wanted to invite me to another asado with his cousin tonight. He had been very kind to me and I was very touched. Cecil’s eyes lit up when I agreed to the invitation.
Asados. Asados. Only the Argentinians know how to make a real asado. I subsisted on more meat today. But I swear I would NOT be having another asado for a long time.
By the end of the dinner, the family put some folkloric music on and the assorted aunts, uncles, this cousin and that, started doing folkloric dances, with swing handkerchiefs in the air and arms held high, curved like candalabras. I joined in one dance, to some applause and much delight as the ‘ambassador from China’, as I was known to them, with some clumsy, embarrassing foot-work.
But I drew the line at cumbia. The horrible cumbia. This is happy-peppy music with repetitive POM-pom-POM-pom bass beats, highly excitable electronic tunes and LEVEL INFINITY KITSCH. It is HORRIBLE!! Unfortunately, the Andean folks love it.
Thursday, February 6, 2003
23 - Planet of the Asados (Mendoza)
Viña del Mar, CHILE to Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 02 february 2003
I took the day bus to Mendoza because the view across the Andes from Chile to Argentina was reputedly amazing. I sometimes had problems sleeping in night buses. But I apparently had NO PROBLEM sleeping in day buses. Go figure.
So, while I tried my utmost best to keep my eyes open to appreciate the view, I dozed off constantly throughout the ride.
Still, from my vague sporadic memory, I could recall, at first, layers of hazy mountains in various shades of grey, lined up one layer after another against the horizon. Then, the valley narrowed and the mountains rose up all around us, very brown, very dry. In the distance, snow was spotted on the higher continuous Andes mountains. We made a slow climb up one mountain and at one point, I counted at least 20 hair-pin turns down below. It was unnerving looking down the steep mountain and be able to trace the ribbony road.
We soon crossed into Argentina and the spectacular Quebrada de Los Horcones, as this valley is known, continued to amaze us with its colours and peaks. But my eye-lids turned to lead soon after and I could not recall much until we cleared the mountains and passed through plains and plains of vineyards. Mendoza has a reputation for its wine production. We had arrived.
A change of country, a change of currency, a change of ‘language’.
In Chile, to convert Chilean pesos into Singaporean dollars, I had to (more or less) divide everything by 350, which involved a healthy multiplication table of 350, borrowing from here, carrying forward there… a lot of brain cells died in Chile. In Argentina, I simply had to (more or less) divide by two. What a relief.
In Chile, I had to drop my ‘sh’ pronunciation in all the words with ‘y’ and ‘ll’ and changed them to a soft ‘j’ sound.
Also, the Argentinians use ‘vos’ in place of ‘tu’ for ‘YOU’. Apparently, only the Argentinians (and maybe the Uruguayians) use ‘vos’. It does not really exist in any Spanish language books or dictionary.
The conjugation for ‘vos’ is different from ‘tu’ for its present tense. But for the other tenses, like past tense, future tense, etc… they are the same as ‘tu’. It is as if after struggling through the present tense to create something different (just for the sake of it), the inventors of ‘vos’ decided to take a break and enjoy some mate and then, they suffered a major case of the Mañana Syndrome and never got back to figuring out the rest of the tenses for ‘vos’.
And NOW, back in Argentina, I had to ‘sh’ more often and use ‘vos’ and its respective conjugated present tense. I was pausing more often and tongue-twisting over everything again.
Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 03 february 2003
My room-mates, Claudio, from Argentina and Yair, from Israeli, were heading to the bodegas (wine-yards and factories) to see how wine was produced. They asked if I wanted to join them.
Claudio added he had his own wheels. Oh, vamos. ¿Como no? [Oh, let’s go. Why not?] And it was not just any car… it was a 1938 Chevrolet, in regal maroon shade and with its original horn (a deep resounding ‘MOOO’).
We struggled to drive out of Mendoza city. We passed by the same streets a few times as Claudio made wrong turns here and there. Maybe he did it on purpose, for everywhere, nearly everyone’s eyeballs were glued to his car.
Men driving in the opposite direction or at a right angle to us, kept their admiring eyes on the car, risking lives and limbs. Curious cyclists stopped by Claudio’s side and made inquiries about the model. Eager street window-cleaners insisted on the honour of wiping the windscreens although they had just been cleaned at the last junction. Later at the bodegas, tourists wanted to pose for a picture. The car was a chico [guy] magnet.
We visited three bodegas. Bodega GIOL has a long history and a huge ancient wine-yard but only 10% is still functioning. The next was very exclusive, Bodega Artesania, where they claim to do everything as personal as possible, hand-picking the grapes, hand-labelling each bottle. Only two restaurants in Buenos Aires serve their wine. One could only buy their wine from this bodega and nowhere else. The third is very modern, with high-technology and metallic pipes all over. All were different and thanks to Yair’s translation (he spoke superb Spanish) to English for me, rather interesting.
We twirled, sniffed and spread fermented grapes over our taste buds (evenly). Hmmm… looks like wine, smells like wine, tastes like wine… I wonder…
There was an asado at my hostel that night, i.e. we ate barbecued cows. Yes!! How I missed Argentina. The excellent juicy bifes… I had indeed suffered in Chile.
Good meat, good music, good Mendoza wine. This is the life.
Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 04 february 2003
The lady at the tourist office had told Yair there were two buses to Puente del Inca, 6am and 10:15am. But another lady had told me there were five buses, 6am, 10:15am, 1:20pm, 3+pm, etc…
We had, of course, overslept and missed the morning buses totally. Now, confused about the different information we were given, we called the telephone number the lady at the tourist office had given me. We were told there were buses at 6am, 10:15am and 1:20pm. Nothing more.
We thought, how misinformed we were.
Alright. We decided to go together and catch the 1:20pm bus. But upon arrival at the terminal, we were told there were only two buses: 6am and 10:15am. What the…!!!???
We realised, HOW MISINFORMED WE WERE.
We had no choice but to return to the hostel and undo all the ‘goodbyes’ we did earlier.
I thus spent the entire day today exploring Mendoza’s city centre. Mendoza is much smaller, quieter and less polluted than Buenos Aires, with merely 700,000 inhabitants. Despite the more-than-35ºC heat, it could be pleasant to walk around at certain places, for many had trees by the sides that somehow grew in such a way that they meet with those on the opposite sides, forming a wonderful shade under the foliage. They called these the ‘tree-lined avenues’.
The reason why Mendoza was quieter was also due to the ‘siesta time’. Nearly all the shops closed from 1pm to 5pm. How very inconvenient.
I visited a hairdresser to maintain my slick urban look. It was interesting to compare the various experiences I had had with hairdressers in different countries.
In China, before I knew it, the lady massaged my head, chopped my back, wrung my arms ruthlessly as part of the massage package that came with the price. Very good massages. Then, the hairdresser proceeded to do an atrocious haircut.
In Germany, the hairdresser flipped through hair-stylist magazines to look for pictures for me to pick how I wanted my back and sides to be like. After ascertaining them, she fled to a screen behind worriedly. A long pause followed. Later, another lady came to attend to me, her head shaking. Hmmm… apparently, the first hairdresser was so nervous, uptight and traumatised that I spoke no German that she dared not cut my hair.
In Brazil, the hairdresser had looked me up and down and asked, “Fala Português? [Speak Portuguese?]” “Não [No]” Without batting an eyelid, he nonchalantly proceeded entirely in Portuguese to explain how he would cut my hair, his hands rustling my hair (like how they did in Vidal Sassoon ads) and ending with the typical thumbs-up, “Tudo bem? [Everything OK?]” I shrugged, “Tudo bem! [Everything OK!]”. How laid-back Brazilians are.
And now, as my hair was being cut, I got to chatting with the hairdresser and then, the owner of the saloon. By the time the cut was over, the two shampoo girls had joined in and all four wanted me to write my Chinese name for them to see, asked me why we eat rice everyday and how to say ‘kiss’ (so typical of Argentinians!) in Mandarin. Before I left, we exchanged kissies-on-the-right-cheek, hugged and wished one another eternal happiness.
Mendoza to Puente del Inca, ARGENTINA - 05 february 2003
Today, having bought our tickets yesterday, Yair and I managed to drag ourselves out of the bed in the morning. We dragged Claudio along too.
We sat in the first row. So instead of the usual view-by-the-side, we had an amazing view-in-front. This was the same route coming from Chile and as I had guiltily missed out on the scenery earlier, my eyes remained peeled the entire trip this time. It was a gorgeous journey. GORGEOUS (if I may add, with capital G, O, R, G, etc…)!!!!
The Puente del Inca is a natural bridge formed from the calcium, sulphur and other minerals of the underground water. Years ago, a hotel had built thermal baths under the bridge. An earthquake or avalanche (I am not sure) destroyed the hotel and the abandoned thermal baths remained somewhat in ruins now. Underground water still sprouted in the baths. The rocks around were covered in yellow and white.
Someone had once told me the Puente del Inca was not that impressive. Hey, I disagreed. Sure, it was perhaps not as impressive as his ingrown toe-nail, but I loved it here. Claudio was also a photo-buff and we spent a long time exploring the baths and under the natural bridge slowly, snapping away merrily.
Later, we followed the abandoned rail-track towards Chile and murdered many frames with, what we hoped to be, artistic and creative shots of the railway tracks, dilapidated tunnels, using shadow and light. Ahem.
We came upon a bridge. The pedestrian walkway had long eroded away. We decided to walk on the metal tracks slowly to cross it. Stand By Me flashbacks. Halfway through, we yelled, “¡Tren!! ¡Tren! [Train!]” and giggled away. No one would believe we are both in our late twenties.
At midnight, despite the cold wind (altitude of Puente del Inca is 2700+m), we made our way out gingerly to the natural thermal pool near the natural bridge.
OK, with the Andean wind blowing away, we had to be mentally STRONG to strip down quickly to our swimwear and plunge in. There was a pool which had somewhat warm water and a natural ‘jacuzzi’ which was continuously bubbling out warmer water.
Ahhh… what I did not get to do in Villarrica, I got to do it here. And with stars, no… the entire Milky Way in the sky too. This IS the life!
We stayed in there for a long time, dozing off at times, contemplating the Milky Way, wrinkling ourselves into prunes and soaking in the smell of rotten eggs.
We must have been in there for an hour and a half before Yair suggested we should be heading back soon. “Vamos a salir.” [Let’s leave] was repeated for the next 2½ hours. We just COULD NOT make ourselves leave the pool. We had to be mentally MUCH STRONGER. It would be TOO COLD to get up and dry ourselves.
Soon, more people joined us in the pool and it became difficult to leave.
Finally, at 3am or so, I decided to JUST DO IT. I bravely took a deep breath, dashed out, nearly died of hypothermia trying to dry myself and shivered back to the hostel. Brrrr…
Puente del Inca to Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 06 february 2003
As it turned out, Claudio only left the bath at 5am. And Yair, who had been the first to suggest leaving, actually stayed in there with the other late-comers until 7:30am this morning when the sun popped up. He was in the thermal pool for more than 8 hours! He was now a walking, wrinkly, stinky rotten egg.
Claudio took the earlier bus back to Mendoza. Yair had heard there was a laguna nearby and I decided to follow him to try and find it. Just a little further from where Claudio and I had stopped yesterday, we spotted Aconcagua. I was looking for a laguna and instead, I came upon Aconcagua! What a wonderful surprise!
Sheesh, if we had known yesterday, we would have walked further and Claudio would not have left without seeing Aconcagua. You see, Aconcagua is the highest peak in America at 6900+m.
We were joined later by more hostel-mates, one, a Norwegian guy in his 50s. He is a mountaineer, with 18 4000+m peaks under his belt. He had arrived with a climbing team but LANCHILE had lost his bag with his climbing gear. So, his friends left to climb the peak while he remained here, waiting for his luggage to show up. And it did not appear to be showing up at all for no one at LANCHILE seemed to care.
I took the day bus to Mendoza because the view across the Andes from Chile to Argentina was reputedly amazing. I sometimes had problems sleeping in night buses. But I apparently had NO PROBLEM sleeping in day buses. Go figure.
So, while I tried my utmost best to keep my eyes open to appreciate the view, I dozed off constantly throughout the ride.
Still, from my vague sporadic memory, I could recall, at first, layers of hazy mountains in various shades of grey, lined up one layer after another against the horizon. Then, the valley narrowed and the mountains rose up all around us, very brown, very dry. In the distance, snow was spotted on the higher continuous Andes mountains. We made a slow climb up one mountain and at one point, I counted at least 20 hair-pin turns down below. It was unnerving looking down the steep mountain and be able to trace the ribbony road.
We soon crossed into Argentina and the spectacular Quebrada de Los Horcones, as this valley is known, continued to amaze us with its colours and peaks. But my eye-lids turned to lead soon after and I could not recall much until we cleared the mountains and passed through plains and plains of vineyards. Mendoza has a reputation for its wine production. We had arrived.
A change of country, a change of currency, a change of ‘language’.
In Chile, to convert Chilean pesos into Singaporean dollars, I had to (more or less) divide everything by 350, which involved a healthy multiplication table of 350, borrowing from here, carrying forward there… a lot of brain cells died in Chile. In Argentina, I simply had to (more or less) divide by two. What a relief.
In Chile, I had to drop my ‘sh’ pronunciation in all the words with ‘y’ and ‘ll’ and changed them to a soft ‘j’ sound.
Also, the Argentinians use ‘vos’ in place of ‘tu’ for ‘YOU’. Apparently, only the Argentinians (and maybe the Uruguayians) use ‘vos’. It does not really exist in any Spanish language books or dictionary.
The conjugation for ‘vos’ is different from ‘tu’ for its present tense. But for the other tenses, like past tense, future tense, etc… they are the same as ‘tu’. It is as if after struggling through the present tense to create something different (just for the sake of it), the inventors of ‘vos’ decided to take a break and enjoy some mate and then, they suffered a major case of the Mañana Syndrome and never got back to figuring out the rest of the tenses for ‘vos’.
And NOW, back in Argentina, I had to ‘sh’ more often and use ‘vos’ and its respective conjugated present tense. I was pausing more often and tongue-twisting over everything again.
Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 03 february 2003
My room-mates, Claudio, from Argentina and Yair, from Israeli, were heading to the bodegas (wine-yards and factories) to see how wine was produced. They asked if I wanted to join them.
Claudio added he had his own wheels. Oh, vamos. ¿Como no? [Oh, let’s go. Why not?] And it was not just any car… it was a 1938 Chevrolet, in regal maroon shade and with its original horn (a deep resounding ‘MOOO’).
We struggled to drive out of Mendoza city. We passed by the same streets a few times as Claudio made wrong turns here and there. Maybe he did it on purpose, for everywhere, nearly everyone’s eyeballs were glued to his car.
Men driving in the opposite direction or at a right angle to us, kept their admiring eyes on the car, risking lives and limbs. Curious cyclists stopped by Claudio’s side and made inquiries about the model. Eager street window-cleaners insisted on the honour of wiping the windscreens although they had just been cleaned at the last junction. Later at the bodegas, tourists wanted to pose for a picture. The car was a chico [guy] magnet.
We visited three bodegas. Bodega GIOL has a long history and a huge ancient wine-yard but only 10% is still functioning. The next was very exclusive, Bodega Artesania, where they claim to do everything as personal as possible, hand-picking the grapes, hand-labelling each bottle. Only two restaurants in Buenos Aires serve their wine. One could only buy their wine from this bodega and nowhere else. The third is very modern, with high-technology and metallic pipes all over. All were different and thanks to Yair’s translation (he spoke superb Spanish) to English for me, rather interesting.
We twirled, sniffed and spread fermented grapes over our taste buds (evenly). Hmmm… looks like wine, smells like wine, tastes like wine… I wonder…
There was an asado at my hostel that night, i.e. we ate barbecued cows. Yes!! How I missed Argentina. The excellent juicy bifes… I had indeed suffered in Chile.
Good meat, good music, good Mendoza wine. This is the life.
Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 04 february 2003
The lady at the tourist office had told Yair there were two buses to Puente del Inca, 6am and 10:15am. But another lady had told me there were five buses, 6am, 10:15am, 1:20pm, 3+pm, etc…
We had, of course, overslept and missed the morning buses totally. Now, confused about the different information we were given, we called the telephone number the lady at the tourist office had given me. We were told there were buses at 6am, 10:15am and 1:20pm. Nothing more.
We thought, how misinformed we were.
Alright. We decided to go together and catch the 1:20pm bus. But upon arrival at the terminal, we were told there were only two buses: 6am and 10:15am. What the…!!!???
We realised, HOW MISINFORMED WE WERE.
We had no choice but to return to the hostel and undo all the ‘goodbyes’ we did earlier.
I thus spent the entire day today exploring Mendoza’s city centre. Mendoza is much smaller, quieter and less polluted than Buenos Aires, with merely 700,000 inhabitants. Despite the more-than-35ºC heat, it could be pleasant to walk around at certain places, for many had trees by the sides that somehow grew in such a way that they meet with those on the opposite sides, forming a wonderful shade under the foliage. They called these the ‘tree-lined avenues’.
The reason why Mendoza was quieter was also due to the ‘siesta time’. Nearly all the shops closed from 1pm to 5pm. How very inconvenient.
I visited a hairdresser to maintain my slick urban look. It was interesting to compare the various experiences I had had with hairdressers in different countries.
In China, before I knew it, the lady massaged my head, chopped my back, wrung my arms ruthlessly as part of the massage package that came with the price. Very good massages. Then, the hairdresser proceeded to do an atrocious haircut.
In Germany, the hairdresser flipped through hair-stylist magazines to look for pictures for me to pick how I wanted my back and sides to be like. After ascertaining them, she fled to a screen behind worriedly. A long pause followed. Later, another lady came to attend to me, her head shaking. Hmmm… apparently, the first hairdresser was so nervous, uptight and traumatised that I spoke no German that she dared not cut my hair.
In Brazil, the hairdresser had looked me up and down and asked, “Fala Português? [Speak Portuguese?]” “Não [No]” Without batting an eyelid, he nonchalantly proceeded entirely in Portuguese to explain how he would cut my hair, his hands rustling my hair (like how they did in Vidal Sassoon ads) and ending with the typical thumbs-up, “Tudo bem? [Everything OK?]” I shrugged, “Tudo bem! [Everything OK!]”. How laid-back Brazilians are.
And now, as my hair was being cut, I got to chatting with the hairdresser and then, the owner of the saloon. By the time the cut was over, the two shampoo girls had joined in and all four wanted me to write my Chinese name for them to see, asked me why we eat rice everyday and how to say ‘kiss’ (so typical of Argentinians!) in Mandarin. Before I left, we exchanged kissies-on-the-right-cheek, hugged and wished one another eternal happiness.
Mendoza to Puente del Inca, ARGENTINA - 05 february 2003
Today, having bought our tickets yesterday, Yair and I managed to drag ourselves out of the bed in the morning. We dragged Claudio along too.
We sat in the first row. So instead of the usual view-by-the-side, we had an amazing view-in-front. This was the same route coming from Chile and as I had guiltily missed out on the scenery earlier, my eyes remained peeled the entire trip this time. It was a gorgeous journey. GORGEOUS (if I may add, with capital G, O, R, G, etc…)!!!!
The Puente del Inca is a natural bridge formed from the calcium, sulphur and other minerals of the underground water. Years ago, a hotel had built thermal baths under the bridge. An earthquake or avalanche (I am not sure) destroyed the hotel and the abandoned thermal baths remained somewhat in ruins now. Underground water still sprouted in the baths. The rocks around were covered in yellow and white.
Someone had once told me the Puente del Inca was not that impressive. Hey, I disagreed. Sure, it was perhaps not as impressive as his ingrown toe-nail, but I loved it here. Claudio was also a photo-buff and we spent a long time exploring the baths and under the natural bridge slowly, snapping away merrily.
Later, we followed the abandoned rail-track towards Chile and murdered many frames with, what we hoped to be, artistic and creative shots of the railway tracks, dilapidated tunnels, using shadow and light. Ahem.
We came upon a bridge. The pedestrian walkway had long eroded away. We decided to walk on the metal tracks slowly to cross it. Stand By Me flashbacks. Halfway through, we yelled, “¡Tren!! ¡Tren! [Train!]” and giggled away. No one would believe we are both in our late twenties.
At midnight, despite the cold wind (altitude of Puente del Inca is 2700+m), we made our way out gingerly to the natural thermal pool near the natural bridge.
OK, with the Andean wind blowing away, we had to be mentally STRONG to strip down quickly to our swimwear and plunge in. There was a pool which had somewhat warm water and a natural ‘jacuzzi’ which was continuously bubbling out warmer water.
Ahhh… what I did not get to do in Villarrica, I got to do it here. And with stars, no… the entire Milky Way in the sky too. This IS the life!
We stayed in there for a long time, dozing off at times, contemplating the Milky Way, wrinkling ourselves into prunes and soaking in the smell of rotten eggs.
We must have been in there for an hour and a half before Yair suggested we should be heading back soon. “Vamos a salir.” [Let’s leave] was repeated for the next 2½ hours. We just COULD NOT make ourselves leave the pool. We had to be mentally MUCH STRONGER. It would be TOO COLD to get up and dry ourselves.
Soon, more people joined us in the pool and it became difficult to leave.
Finally, at 3am or so, I decided to JUST DO IT. I bravely took a deep breath, dashed out, nearly died of hypothermia trying to dry myself and shivered back to the hostel. Brrrr…
Puente del Inca to Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 06 february 2003
As it turned out, Claudio only left the bath at 5am. And Yair, who had been the first to suggest leaving, actually stayed in there with the other late-comers until 7:30am this morning when the sun popped up. He was in the thermal pool for more than 8 hours! He was now a walking, wrinkly, stinky rotten egg.
Claudio took the earlier bus back to Mendoza. Yair had heard there was a laguna nearby and I decided to follow him to try and find it. Just a little further from where Claudio and I had stopped yesterday, we spotted Aconcagua. I was looking for a laguna and instead, I came upon Aconcagua! What a wonderful surprise!
Sheesh, if we had known yesterday, we would have walked further and Claudio would not have left without seeing Aconcagua. You see, Aconcagua is the highest peak in America at 6900+m.
We were joined later by more hostel-mates, one, a Norwegian guy in his 50s. He is a mountaineer, with 18 4000+m peaks under his belt. He had arrived with a climbing team but LANCHILE had lost his bag with his climbing gear. So, his friends left to climb the peak while he remained here, waiting for his luggage to show up. And it did not appear to be showing up at all for no one at LANCHILE seemed to care.
Thursday, January 9, 2003
20 - Where the Penguins Roam (Puerto Natales, El Chalten, El Calafate)
Punta Arenas to Puerto Natales, CHILE - 03 january 2003
The Germans were heading to Ushuaia today and I, to Puerto Natales. Kai and Udo had been in Punta Arenas for two weeks, waiting for Kai’s new passport. He had carelessly left it on a bus, two weeks into their trip. They were here so long they seemed to be running the hostel, for the hostel guys, Caco and Jorge, were hardly ever around.
The hostel guys would appear suddenly to fetch something from their rooms, exchange a few quick words with us and disappear. They would return at perhaps 10+pm and ask us to wake them up at 12 midnight so that they could go out to party. They were supposed to be at the bus-station all day, hoping to bait a tourist, like what they did me. Only last night did we have new guests but they were walk-ins.
We all seriously wondered if Caco could manage the hostel with the Germans gone. Just after they left for the bus-station, I asked Caco if he had taken the keys back from the Germans. He let out a scream and ran out to chase after the Germans. Later, he returned with the keys and pantingly told me that when the hostel was opened two months ago, he had twelve keys, and now, only three were left. Yeah, we should not worry, they would do a good job running their hostel.
I arrived at a yet another very windy and cold Chilean town, Puerto Natales. Maybe even windier and colder than what I remembered of Punta Arenas. And this was supposed to be SUMMER!
I made arrangements for my boat trip to Puerto Montt by ferry in two weeks’ time and had a discussion with Hurben, my hostel owner, about the Torres del Paine hike. He suggested I do it alone by renting a tent and a stove and bringing my own food. Urrmmm… I was not sure if I could do it but I would worry about that later. Tomorrow, I wanted to cross back into Argentina to visit a few places first, before returning to do the Torres del Paine trek.
When I was out about in town, I could not really go far for the wind was really very strong. It was better to stay huddled in a café or the hostel. At a café, I overheard a group of Western tourists, very seriously and studiously discussing the Torres del Paine hike, commenting about ‘4 hours on this trail’, and ‘the contours looked steep here’.
Actually, for a while now, since I arrived in Punta Arenas, I had already began to feel that the backpackers here appeared to be all out for an expedition, very equipped for trekking. Afterall, they had flown all the way from Europe purely to do some serious hikings. Most had gigantic backpacks, with rolled-up tents, mattresses, warm sleeping bags and other high-tech gears tied to them. Many also had the mean-looking walking poles, which if not used properly, could take an eye or two out. At every free time, they could be spotted poring over hiking maps, mapping out trails and discussing their routes. All very SERIOUS.
I bit into my bread and considered about ME. Gee… I, thoroughly ill-equipped, seemed to be heading off to do some trekking with nothing but a backpack of optimism.
Puerto Natales, CHILE to El Chaltén, ARGENTINA - 04 january 2003
Long day of travel today as I crossed the border back to Argentina. Strange that after the border, the clouds disappeared and the sky was beautifully blue. A huge difference from Puerto Natales.
We stopped at a toilet / snack stop in the middle of nowhere. I know I am repeating myself but the wind was really, really vicious. I did not walk back to the bus later. I kinda floated-landed-floated-landed.
As I looked out of the window and saw the whipping wind thrashing the scrublands, I realised this must be the part of the world where the locals had twenty different names for ‘wind’ and if I mentioned ‘árbol’ [tree] to them, they would need to look it up in the dictionary for they had long forgotten that trees exist on this planet.
We arrived at El Calafate, near the famous Argentinian glaciers, 7½ hours later. I bought another bus-ticket out to El Chaltén later this evening. Again, the journey to El Chaltén was through barren, wind-swept moonscape. However, the sky was so crisp and clear that day that when we were perhaps more than 100 km from El Chaltén, we were able to spot some sudden pointy intrusions from the plains - the mountains of Cerro Torres and Fitzroy in the distance.
Gosh, they were just spectacular, even from such a distance. Amidst the flatlands, it was weird to see such sharp peaks jutting out suddenly. That was why some mountains were named after impressive figures of our past and others are simply known as ‘mere mountains’.
El Chaltén, ARGENTINA - 05 january 2003
Such was my luck that today, the selected day for my hike to view Mount Fitzroy, it was cloudy the entire morning.
The clouds nested around Mount Fitzroy the entire time I was heading towards it, never quite lifting away. I was walking with Britta, a Canadian, who did not mind some company. The majority of the hike was through rather easy flattish woods. It was gorgeous all around, with pine trees and reddish shrubs and glaciers and snowy mountains in the distance.
The last bit of the hike, about 1 hour or so, was up a hill, rather steep and stony the entire way. I got really winded in a while. Seriously, can I do the Torres del Paine hike by myself?
But, naturally, once you reached the top, the reward was stupendous and you forget all the pains and troubles at once. Mount Fitzroy and company were picture-perfect behind Lago a los Tres, a glacier lake. OK, they would be picture-perfect if the clouds would lift. We stayed up there for more than an hour, basking in the radiant beauty of the surrounding mountains and the icy lake, waiting and waiting for the clouds.
Finally, we did a few snappies, filled up our bottles with glacier water and embarked on the walk down.
On the way back, we kept turning around to look at Mount Fitzroy. Slowly, the clouds WERE lifting! At each strategic spot, we took a picture, just in case this was the BEST Mount Fitzroy we could get. Actually, by then, I thought, with the clouds almost floating away, some parts of it clinging to the mountain, the tail-ends of it fluttering in the wind, somewhat caressing the sky… it actually made Mount Fitzroy look alive!
In the end, we probably had enough Mount Fitzroy photos to last a lifetime. Well, I was thoroughly impressed by the immense beauty of the park. Gosh, how can you NOT LOVE this country!!! No wonder they make great calendars.
El Chaltén to El Calafate, ARGENTINA - 06 january 2003
Today, heading out of El Chaltén, the sky was once again clear, cloudless and wondrously blue. Oh well. Mount Fitzroy posed eternally and stoically in the background as I departed.
Back in El Calafate that afternoon, I walked around the touristy little town and poked my nose into those touristy little shops selling touristy little souvenirs.
Now back in Argentina, which was cheaper than Chile, I decided to purchase some grocery supplies for my Torres del Paine hike which I still was not sure if I could do it.
El Calafate, ARGENTINA - 07 january 2003
I joined an excursion to do a minitrekking on Perito Moreno Glacier today. We were all bundled into a huge tourist bus and it spun through the woods and mountains for about 2 hours before turning a corner and lo and behold, the VERY IMPRESSIVE Perito Moreno Glacier stretched out ahead of us! What a VIEW!
Then, we were transported to a ferry that brought us to the western end of the glacier.
We were met by dashing-looking glacier-trekking guides. All of them were wearing cool sun-shades, were dressed in cool blue jackets, were slightly unshaven. They were just posing by the rocks, muttering ‘Buen dia’ [Good morning] and ‘Hola’ [Hello] and looking dashing.
They reminded me of the dashing-looking abseiling guides I had in Bonito, Brazil. Guess it came with the job description… Only the dashing-lookings need apply.
Luki, our English-speaking and dashing-looking guide, proceeded to explain how glaciers are formed to us English-speakers. The group of ice here in Southern Patagonia is the third largest in the world, after Antarctica and Greenland. The ice here is not very old, perhaps four or five centuries old, but it was difficult to estimate. See? Despite being slightly distracted, I paid attention.
Just then, we heard a crack and a groan and some chunks of ice fell off round the corner. It created a series of waves that washed up to our feet.
We donned crampons and followed José, another dashing-looking dude, up the undulating ice. It was not very difficult to walk on ice, with crampons. Just stomp around. It was better to walk with feet apart and flat-down.
Occasionally, there were deep, blue, beautiful crevices or holes inside the glacier. The ‘blueness’ was an optical illusion caused by the lack of oxygen in the ice further below.
When we were done, we were brought to another viewpoint right in front of the HUGE glacier. It was really very impressive. How blue it all looked. I could not believe I was staring right at a glacier!! I had long since run out of adjectives. I waited for the chance to see a whole wall of ice fall off. So, whenever there was a crack and a groan, we all looked around desperately, “Where? Where?” It was a AMAZING excursion. I probably had enough glacier photos to last two lifetimes.
El Calafate, ARGENTINA to Puerto Natales, CHILE - 08 january 2003
We crossed the border back to Chile. The Customs guys at the Chilean border wanted to check our bags. Ooops. We were not supposed to bring in fruits, meat and some stuff. I was not sure if the groceries I picked up were alright. He rummaged through my bag, fondled my cans of pate and my packet of rice and said nothing. He missed my carton of Dulce de leche (but of course!). Phew.
Puerto Natales, CHILE - 09 january 2003
I bought more groceries, rented a one-man tent and a stove, shopped around and found a cheap canister of gas and shoved everything into my backpack. Yet, I still was not sure if I could do the Torres del Paine hike myself.
By evening, I chatted with a Swiss couple, Thomas and Silvie, and a Dutch girl, Hannake, in the hostel. Thomas and Silvie were also heading to Torres del Paine tomorrow. Hanna was waiting for some Dutch friends to show up tonight and they would hit Torres del Paine the day after.
Thomas: “Do you have rain gear?”
Me: “Just a jacket.”
Silvie: “Nothing for your pants??”
Me: “No… nothing.”
Thomas: “Oh, everyone on the trip says it will definitely RAIN and RAIN!”
Silvie: “How about thermal underwear?”
Me: “Nope, I don’t have that either.”
Silvie, concerned: “But it will be VERY COLD!”
Thomas: “What temperature can your sleeping bag take?”
Me: “It says on the label 1°C to 8°C.”
Thomas, now very concerned: “Oh no… That means you will only be barely comfortable at 8°C. It is not warm enough.”
Hanna: “WHAT? You don’t even have a map???”
Me: “Well. No. I suppose I can borrow, if I want.”
The three were very sweet and very kind and very concerned for me. I knew I was ill-equipped but I just did not possess the fancy gears that Europeans do and I could not BUY everything.
They have these gizmos because they are experienced hikers and they come from cold countries and use them anyway. For my tropical country - Sarong? Yes… Cute spaghetti-straped sundresses? Yes… Thermal underwear? Afraid not.
I guessed they probably said a silent prayer for me that evening.
The Germans were heading to Ushuaia today and I, to Puerto Natales. Kai and Udo had been in Punta Arenas for two weeks, waiting for Kai’s new passport. He had carelessly left it on a bus, two weeks into their trip. They were here so long they seemed to be running the hostel, for the hostel guys, Caco and Jorge, were hardly ever around.
The hostel guys would appear suddenly to fetch something from their rooms, exchange a few quick words with us and disappear. They would return at perhaps 10+pm and ask us to wake them up at 12 midnight so that they could go out to party. They were supposed to be at the bus-station all day, hoping to bait a tourist, like what they did me. Only last night did we have new guests but they were walk-ins.
We all seriously wondered if Caco could manage the hostel with the Germans gone. Just after they left for the bus-station, I asked Caco if he had taken the keys back from the Germans. He let out a scream and ran out to chase after the Germans. Later, he returned with the keys and pantingly told me that when the hostel was opened two months ago, he had twelve keys, and now, only three were left. Yeah, we should not worry, they would do a good job running their hostel.
I arrived at a yet another very windy and cold Chilean town, Puerto Natales. Maybe even windier and colder than what I remembered of Punta Arenas. And this was supposed to be SUMMER!
I made arrangements for my boat trip to Puerto Montt by ferry in two weeks’ time and had a discussion with Hurben, my hostel owner, about the Torres del Paine hike. He suggested I do it alone by renting a tent and a stove and bringing my own food. Urrmmm… I was not sure if I could do it but I would worry about that later. Tomorrow, I wanted to cross back into Argentina to visit a few places first, before returning to do the Torres del Paine trek.
When I was out about in town, I could not really go far for the wind was really very strong. It was better to stay huddled in a café or the hostel. At a café, I overheard a group of Western tourists, very seriously and studiously discussing the Torres del Paine hike, commenting about ‘4 hours on this trail’, and ‘the contours looked steep here’.
Actually, for a while now, since I arrived in Punta Arenas, I had already began to feel that the backpackers here appeared to be all out for an expedition, very equipped for trekking. Afterall, they had flown all the way from Europe purely to do some serious hikings. Most had gigantic backpacks, with rolled-up tents, mattresses, warm sleeping bags and other high-tech gears tied to them. Many also had the mean-looking walking poles, which if not used properly, could take an eye or two out. At every free time, they could be spotted poring over hiking maps, mapping out trails and discussing their routes. All very SERIOUS.
I bit into my bread and considered about ME. Gee… I, thoroughly ill-equipped, seemed to be heading off to do some trekking with nothing but a backpack of optimism.
Puerto Natales, CHILE to El Chaltén, ARGENTINA - 04 january 2003
Long day of travel today as I crossed the border back to Argentina. Strange that after the border, the clouds disappeared and the sky was beautifully blue. A huge difference from Puerto Natales.
We stopped at a toilet / snack stop in the middle of nowhere. I know I am repeating myself but the wind was really, really vicious. I did not walk back to the bus later. I kinda floated-landed-floated-landed.
As I looked out of the window and saw the whipping wind thrashing the scrublands, I realised this must be the part of the world where the locals had twenty different names for ‘wind’ and if I mentioned ‘árbol’ [tree] to them, they would need to look it up in the dictionary for they had long forgotten that trees exist on this planet.
We arrived at El Calafate, near the famous Argentinian glaciers, 7½ hours later. I bought another bus-ticket out to El Chaltén later this evening. Again, the journey to El Chaltén was through barren, wind-swept moonscape. However, the sky was so crisp and clear that day that when we were perhaps more than 100 km from El Chaltén, we were able to spot some sudden pointy intrusions from the plains - the mountains of Cerro Torres and Fitzroy in the distance.
Gosh, they were just spectacular, even from such a distance. Amidst the flatlands, it was weird to see such sharp peaks jutting out suddenly. That was why some mountains were named after impressive figures of our past and others are simply known as ‘mere mountains’.
El Chaltén, ARGENTINA - 05 january 2003
Such was my luck that today, the selected day for my hike to view Mount Fitzroy, it was cloudy the entire morning.
The clouds nested around Mount Fitzroy the entire time I was heading towards it, never quite lifting away. I was walking with Britta, a Canadian, who did not mind some company. The majority of the hike was through rather easy flattish woods. It was gorgeous all around, with pine trees and reddish shrubs and glaciers and snowy mountains in the distance.
The last bit of the hike, about 1 hour or so, was up a hill, rather steep and stony the entire way. I got really winded in a while. Seriously, can I do the Torres del Paine hike by myself?
But, naturally, once you reached the top, the reward was stupendous and you forget all the pains and troubles at once. Mount Fitzroy and company were picture-perfect behind Lago a los Tres, a glacier lake. OK, they would be picture-perfect if the clouds would lift. We stayed up there for more than an hour, basking in the radiant beauty of the surrounding mountains and the icy lake, waiting and waiting for the clouds.
Finally, we did a few snappies, filled up our bottles with glacier water and embarked on the walk down.
On the way back, we kept turning around to look at Mount Fitzroy. Slowly, the clouds WERE lifting! At each strategic spot, we took a picture, just in case this was the BEST Mount Fitzroy we could get. Actually, by then, I thought, with the clouds almost floating away, some parts of it clinging to the mountain, the tail-ends of it fluttering in the wind, somewhat caressing the sky… it actually made Mount Fitzroy look alive!
In the end, we probably had enough Mount Fitzroy photos to last a lifetime. Well, I was thoroughly impressed by the immense beauty of the park. Gosh, how can you NOT LOVE this country!!! No wonder they make great calendars.
El Chaltén to El Calafate, ARGENTINA - 06 january 2003
Today, heading out of El Chaltén, the sky was once again clear, cloudless and wondrously blue. Oh well. Mount Fitzroy posed eternally and stoically in the background as I departed.
Back in El Calafate that afternoon, I walked around the touristy little town and poked my nose into those touristy little shops selling touristy little souvenirs.
Now back in Argentina, which was cheaper than Chile, I decided to purchase some grocery supplies for my Torres del Paine hike which I still was not sure if I could do it.
El Calafate, ARGENTINA - 07 january 2003
I joined an excursion to do a minitrekking on Perito Moreno Glacier today. We were all bundled into a huge tourist bus and it spun through the woods and mountains for about 2 hours before turning a corner and lo and behold, the VERY IMPRESSIVE Perito Moreno Glacier stretched out ahead of us! What a VIEW!
Then, we were transported to a ferry that brought us to the western end of the glacier.
We were met by dashing-looking glacier-trekking guides. All of them were wearing cool sun-shades, were dressed in cool blue jackets, were slightly unshaven. They were just posing by the rocks, muttering ‘Buen dia’ [Good morning] and ‘Hola’ [Hello] and looking dashing.
They reminded me of the dashing-looking abseiling guides I had in Bonito, Brazil. Guess it came with the job description… Only the dashing-lookings need apply.
Luki, our English-speaking and dashing-looking guide, proceeded to explain how glaciers are formed to us English-speakers. The group of ice here in Southern Patagonia is the third largest in the world, after Antarctica and Greenland. The ice here is not very old, perhaps four or five centuries old, but it was difficult to estimate. See? Despite being slightly distracted, I paid attention.
Just then, we heard a crack and a groan and some chunks of ice fell off round the corner. It created a series of waves that washed up to our feet.
We donned crampons and followed José, another dashing-looking dude, up the undulating ice. It was not very difficult to walk on ice, with crampons. Just stomp around. It was better to walk with feet apart and flat-down.
Occasionally, there were deep, blue, beautiful crevices or holes inside the glacier. The ‘blueness’ was an optical illusion caused by the lack of oxygen in the ice further below.
When we were done, we were brought to another viewpoint right in front of the HUGE glacier. It was really very impressive. How blue it all looked. I could not believe I was staring right at a glacier!! I had long since run out of adjectives. I waited for the chance to see a whole wall of ice fall off. So, whenever there was a crack and a groan, we all looked around desperately, “Where? Where?” It was a AMAZING excursion. I probably had enough glacier photos to last two lifetimes.
El Calafate, ARGENTINA to Puerto Natales, CHILE - 08 january 2003
We crossed the border back to Chile. The Customs guys at the Chilean border wanted to check our bags. Ooops. We were not supposed to bring in fruits, meat and some stuff. I was not sure if the groceries I picked up were alright. He rummaged through my bag, fondled my cans of pate and my packet of rice and said nothing. He missed my carton of Dulce de leche (but of course!). Phew.
Puerto Natales, CHILE - 09 january 2003
I bought more groceries, rented a one-man tent and a stove, shopped around and found a cheap canister of gas and shoved everything into my backpack. Yet, I still was not sure if I could do the Torres del Paine hike myself.
By evening, I chatted with a Swiss couple, Thomas and Silvie, and a Dutch girl, Hannake, in the hostel. Thomas and Silvie were also heading to Torres del Paine tomorrow. Hanna was waiting for some Dutch friends to show up tonight and they would hit Torres del Paine the day after.
Thomas: “Do you have rain gear?”
Me: “Just a jacket.”
Silvie: “Nothing for your pants??”
Me: “No… nothing.”
Thomas: “Oh, everyone on the trip says it will definitely RAIN and RAIN!”
Silvie: “How about thermal underwear?”
Me: “Nope, I don’t have that either.”
Silvie, concerned: “But it will be VERY COLD!”
Thomas: “What temperature can your sleeping bag take?”
Me: “It says on the label 1°C to 8°C.”
Thomas, now very concerned: “Oh no… That means you will only be barely comfortable at 8°C. It is not warm enough.”
Hanna: “WHAT? You don’t even have a map???”
Me: “Well. No. I suppose I can borrow, if I want.”
The three were very sweet and very kind and very concerned for me. I knew I was ill-equipped but I just did not possess the fancy gears that Europeans do and I could not BUY everything.
They have these gizmos because they are experienced hikers and they come from cold countries and use them anyway. For my tropical country - Sarong? Yes… Cute spaghetti-straped sundresses? Yes… Thermal underwear? Afraid not.
I guessed they probably said a silent prayer for me that evening.
Monday, December 30, 2002
20 - Where the Penguins Roam (Ushuaia)
Buenos Aires to Ushuaia, ARGENTINA - 28 december 2002
Pablo and I had yet another farewell hug at yet another airport. The last time was in Moscow, Russia when I saw him off at the airport and then, I had made my way to the nothernmost town of my entire trip - St. Petersburg.
Now, in turn, he saw me off at the airport and I would be making my way to the southernmost town of my entire trip - Ushuaia.
As the plane flew over Ushuaia, getting ready to land, I saw before me the most beautiful landscape I could ever recall from the air.
The snowy and craggy mountains stretched nearly to the edge of the bay. The mountains were simply breath-taking and I was lost for words. I gaped from my window, stupefied. The lady from my next seat had to ask me to sit back so that she could partake of the view as well. The pretty little town of Ushuaia sat at the bottom of the mountains, in front of the bay. I kept thinking where exactly I was on the map and I just could not get used to it.
I got off the plane and studied the people around me. I figured that this was probably the closest I ever got to rubbing shoulders with polar explorers, research biologists and people rich enough to afford the Antarctica cruises.
The air was absolutely crisp, fresh and cool. I left a 35°C Buenos Aires and arrived at a 7°C Ushuaia. I was enchanted by the colourful flowers all over town. I later learnt from a Chiliean that they are called ‘chochos’, they look like ears of corns in purple, pink, orange, etc… Delightful.
The sun was shining but the wind vicious. Many Argentine flags had tattered ends as they probably had been subjected to the relentless wind for ages.
Taking out my wind-breaker, I nearly lost it to oblivion. Standing by the dock, I nearly got tossed into the Beagle Channel. I tried to enjoy the outdoors and the sunshine by walking around but it was a tad difficult when you imagined your eye-lashes could be swept out to Antarctica any moment.
As I had just rejoined the ‘backpackers’ circuit after a two-month hiatus, frankly, I needed some time to get used to it again. I was not in the mood yet to chat with anybody… you know, the usual backpackers’ talk… “So, where are you from?”, “Are you just doing South America?”, “How long are you travelling for?”, “Where are you heading off next?”… In fact, listening to English being spoken in the next table in the café I was in, already disorientated me.
Here in Ushuaia, the sun set at around 10:30pm or 11pm. Yet another near ‘White Night’. I remember writing about this phenomenon when I was in St. Petersburg in summer. Then, I had giggled from my bed when I looked out of the window at midnight and could still observe the after-sunset blue. Now, nearly half a year later, I was in Ushuaia, in summer again, and experiencing the same phenomenon.
Two near ‘White Nights’ in one year. For someone whose natural habitat is on the Equator where the sun rises and sets at the same time everyday of the year, this was really a fantastic experience!
Ushuaia, ARGENTINA - 29 december 2002
I headed to Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego in the morning. I had wanted to do this trek alone. I figured it would be a nice walk in the woods, totally immersed with nature.
I got off at the start of the trail with Paul, from England. He had just returned from a US$4000 10-day Antarctica cruise. See, I told you I would be rubbing shoulders with one of these luminaries.
We did the first 2km or so of the Coastal Path together. He did not mind doing this stretch of the trail with me but I feared I was slowing him down as he still wanted to conquer other more strenuous trails later. I kept urging him to feel free to move on ahead. In the end, he disappeared into the woods, never to be spotted by me again.
As I made my way through the woods by myself, I realised THIS was the way to enjoy nature. Ever so often, I stopped dead in my tracks and listened. The gentle lapping of the waves from the bay… the occasional distant songs from birds… the rustling of the leaves as the shifting wind blew over… the soft pecking of the trunks by invisible woodpeckers… I would miss all these if I had been walking with someone. We would be chatting away, totally clueless. Even if we did not talk and I had stopped in my track, the sound of the other person’s movements, the rubbing of his pants as he walked, his footsteps, would drown these subtle and gentle natural melodies.
I finished the Coastal Path and sat in front of the Lapataia Bay and had a sandwich. There were two possible trails from here and I tried to decide which one I would take. I decided to walk the Lago Roca trail to the border of Chile-Argentina. Hmmm… to walk through the woods to the border of two countries… Yep, there was a nice frontier ring to it.
I made my way along the lake and at some point, got myself a little lost. When you start having to turn away from sheer drops, or crawling through very narrow gaps between huge boulders, or getting pricked every so often, you could pretty much guess you had strayed from the required trail.
I could see no yellow poles for a while now. Either I turned back or I persevered on, hoping the yellow pole was just around the corner. In the end, to my relief, I spotted the ‘3km’ sign some distance away but I had to clamber on top of huge boulders and slide down a little slope unglamourously to reach it.
At the end of the trail, there was an orange obelisk-thingie and a sign ‘LIMITE INTERNACIONAL - NO PASAR / NO TRESPASSING’. I was naughty, I crossed into Chile illegally and did a wander around to test if there were hidden snipers or laser-triggered machine guns. Nope.
I sat by the lake and stared ahead of me at the mountains opposite. The wind was extremely strong by the lake. I stood up, put on my Peruvian ‘alpaca, baby alpaca’ woolly cap and my Langmusi (Tibetan town in China) fashion-challenged gloves. Then, I re-sat by the lake and stared ahead of me at the mountains opposite.
I mentally noted my geographical location on the globe. This was a moment to treasure, to savour.
Ushuaia, ARGENTINA - 30 december 2002
I had complained about the high cost of sending post from Argentina but I made an exception today. I wrote a postcard to myself, a ‘Happy New Year’ greeting and sent it from el fin del mundo [the end of the world]. I wonder what I would make of it when I return home in a few months and read this postcard.
I took a boat ride down the Beagle Channel to veer near islands with resting cormorants and lounging sea-lions.
The way cormorants fly is great. They flutter their wings desperately ever so close to the water as they try to gain height and swoop away. I loved watching them take off. If I was not misinformed, their wings are not waterproof, hence, they need to stand around the island and dry their wings after that… which was what they were doing most of the time on the islands.
The sea-lions dozed away and lumbered around sleepily and grumpily. A few babies clustered together near their mommies.
On the boat was this guy, with a Texan drawl, from my hostel – Regi. He told me he had been doing some research to see how he could get to the Antarctica cheaply. He claimed that he always wanted to head out there because it was the last continent he had not set foot on. He was not too keen on those 10-day cruises, he just wanted to set foot on Antarctica.
Oh, sigh… I guess, all sorts of travellers exist. I did not agree with what he was saying but I exercised supreme self-control by clamming up, not saying a word and simply nodding away politely. Unsolicited, he went on to fortify my knowledge with his past trips and adventures. Well, once everything was out of the way, I guess I should be nice to say he was NOT THAT BAD a company.
Pablo and I had yet another farewell hug at yet another airport. The last time was in Moscow, Russia when I saw him off at the airport and then, I had made my way to the nothernmost town of my entire trip - St. Petersburg.
Now, in turn, he saw me off at the airport and I would be making my way to the southernmost town of my entire trip - Ushuaia.
As the plane flew over Ushuaia, getting ready to land, I saw before me the most beautiful landscape I could ever recall from the air.
The snowy and craggy mountains stretched nearly to the edge of the bay. The mountains were simply breath-taking and I was lost for words. I gaped from my window, stupefied. The lady from my next seat had to ask me to sit back so that she could partake of the view as well. The pretty little town of Ushuaia sat at the bottom of the mountains, in front of the bay. I kept thinking where exactly I was on the map and I just could not get used to it.
I got off the plane and studied the people around me. I figured that this was probably the closest I ever got to rubbing shoulders with polar explorers, research biologists and people rich enough to afford the Antarctica cruises.
The air was absolutely crisp, fresh and cool. I left a 35°C Buenos Aires and arrived at a 7°C Ushuaia. I was enchanted by the colourful flowers all over town. I later learnt from a Chiliean that they are called ‘chochos’, they look like ears of corns in purple, pink, orange, etc… Delightful.
The sun was shining but the wind vicious. Many Argentine flags had tattered ends as they probably had been subjected to the relentless wind for ages.
Taking out my wind-breaker, I nearly lost it to oblivion. Standing by the dock, I nearly got tossed into the Beagle Channel. I tried to enjoy the outdoors and the sunshine by walking around but it was a tad difficult when you imagined your eye-lashes could be swept out to Antarctica any moment.
As I had just rejoined the ‘backpackers’ circuit after a two-month hiatus, frankly, I needed some time to get used to it again. I was not in the mood yet to chat with anybody… you know, the usual backpackers’ talk… “So, where are you from?”, “Are you just doing South America?”, “How long are you travelling for?”, “Where are you heading off next?”… In fact, listening to English being spoken in the next table in the café I was in, already disorientated me.
Here in Ushuaia, the sun set at around 10:30pm or 11pm. Yet another near ‘White Night’. I remember writing about this phenomenon when I was in St. Petersburg in summer. Then, I had giggled from my bed when I looked out of the window at midnight and could still observe the after-sunset blue. Now, nearly half a year later, I was in Ushuaia, in summer again, and experiencing the same phenomenon.
Two near ‘White Nights’ in one year. For someone whose natural habitat is on the Equator where the sun rises and sets at the same time everyday of the year, this was really a fantastic experience!
Ushuaia, ARGENTINA - 29 december 2002
I headed to Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego in the morning. I had wanted to do this trek alone. I figured it would be a nice walk in the woods, totally immersed with nature.
I got off at the start of the trail with Paul, from England. He had just returned from a US$4000 10-day Antarctica cruise. See, I told you I would be rubbing shoulders with one of these luminaries.
We did the first 2km or so of the Coastal Path together. He did not mind doing this stretch of the trail with me but I feared I was slowing him down as he still wanted to conquer other more strenuous trails later. I kept urging him to feel free to move on ahead. In the end, he disappeared into the woods, never to be spotted by me again.
As I made my way through the woods by myself, I realised THIS was the way to enjoy nature. Ever so often, I stopped dead in my tracks and listened. The gentle lapping of the waves from the bay… the occasional distant songs from birds… the rustling of the leaves as the shifting wind blew over… the soft pecking of the trunks by invisible woodpeckers… I would miss all these if I had been walking with someone. We would be chatting away, totally clueless. Even if we did not talk and I had stopped in my track, the sound of the other person’s movements, the rubbing of his pants as he walked, his footsteps, would drown these subtle and gentle natural melodies.
I finished the Coastal Path and sat in front of the Lapataia Bay and had a sandwich. There were two possible trails from here and I tried to decide which one I would take. I decided to walk the Lago Roca trail to the border of Chile-Argentina. Hmmm… to walk through the woods to the border of two countries… Yep, there was a nice frontier ring to it.
I made my way along the lake and at some point, got myself a little lost. When you start having to turn away from sheer drops, or crawling through very narrow gaps between huge boulders, or getting pricked every so often, you could pretty much guess you had strayed from the required trail.
I could see no yellow poles for a while now. Either I turned back or I persevered on, hoping the yellow pole was just around the corner. In the end, to my relief, I spotted the ‘3km’ sign some distance away but I had to clamber on top of huge boulders and slide down a little slope unglamourously to reach it.
At the end of the trail, there was an orange obelisk-thingie and a sign ‘LIMITE INTERNACIONAL - NO PASAR / NO TRESPASSING’. I was naughty, I crossed into Chile illegally and did a wander around to test if there were hidden snipers or laser-triggered machine guns. Nope.
I sat by the lake and stared ahead of me at the mountains opposite. The wind was extremely strong by the lake. I stood up, put on my Peruvian ‘alpaca, baby alpaca’ woolly cap and my Langmusi (Tibetan town in China) fashion-challenged gloves. Then, I re-sat by the lake and stared ahead of me at the mountains opposite.
I mentally noted my geographical location on the globe. This was a moment to treasure, to savour.
Ushuaia, ARGENTINA - 30 december 2002
I had complained about the high cost of sending post from Argentina but I made an exception today. I wrote a postcard to myself, a ‘Happy New Year’ greeting and sent it from el fin del mundo [the end of the world]. I wonder what I would make of it when I return home in a few months and read this postcard.
I took a boat ride down the Beagle Channel to veer near islands with resting cormorants and lounging sea-lions.
The way cormorants fly is great. They flutter their wings desperately ever so close to the water as they try to gain height and swoop away. I loved watching them take off. If I was not misinformed, their wings are not waterproof, hence, they need to stand around the island and dry their wings after that… which was what they were doing most of the time on the islands.
The sea-lions dozed away and lumbered around sleepily and grumpily. A few babies clustered together near their mommies.
On the boat was this guy, with a Texan drawl, from my hostel – Regi. He told me he had been doing some research to see how he could get to the Antarctica cheaply. He claimed that he always wanted to head out there because it was the last continent he had not set foot on. He was not too keen on those 10-day cruises, he just wanted to set foot on Antarctica.
Oh, sigh… I guess, all sorts of travellers exist. I did not agree with what he was saying but I exercised supreme self-control by clamming up, not saying a word and simply nodding away politely. Unsolicited, he went on to fortify my knowledge with his past trips and adventures. Well, once everything was out of the way, I guess I should be nice to say he was NOT THAT BAD a company.
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