1004

Some people in EL Bolson had recommended that I stayed at 1004, a hostel on top of building that supposedly had the best view of all of Bariloche.

Sure enough, the view was kick ass and it was hella cheap. If you were willing to sleep on the floor of the living room, it was only 2 dollars a nite. I had been sleeping on the floor for the past two months, it was nothing. Besides, I had a camping mat.

Better than El Bolson, Bariloche had more stuff going on. Unfortunately I had gotten a big NO from University of Minnesota and began to feel a little anxious about my scholarship.

Professor Garand from Louisiana State University had sent me comforting news, saying I had done all right and everything should go well, but I didnt want to end up in Baton Rouge

To make matters worst, I got a NO from Pittsburgh, which pretty much meant Ohio State and Illinois were out of the question.

Anxiety was eating me up alive and I had to get outta there. I went on a four day trek to Laguna Negra and Cerro Lopez.

I have found in camping and trekking a whole new hobby. Packing a tent and burner gives you access to such awesome places that you would never be able to get to otherwise.

I am glad to be finding an agreeable path back to nature. My mochila has empowered me, once again, to get to know myself better, find agreeable means to my habits, all while being very healthy and spending very little money.

Roughly one month after I left Bariloche, I was wandering the streets of La Paz, Bolivia, when I realized I had wonderful fingers... but only the streets of La Paz will explain what that means. Eventually I will get to it.

El Cajon del Azul

El Bolson is a hippie spot 75 miles South of Bariloche. Hippie spots and their free-for-all, easy going slow pace are really fun... for the first ten minutes. Than it is all about people pretending to be really friendly so they can bum smokes.

Having lived in Berkeley, I am pretty schooled at how to avoid hippies, but some times they get on my nerves. Fortunately, El Bolson had something else other than hippies, it has El Cajon del Azul.

The Azul is a river and the Cajon is a gorge that was carved by the river. It was a spectacular place, even though the weather was really crappy.

The ascent up there was really, really beautiful. A four hour walk through beautiful forests, filled with birds and llao-llao covered threes, all accompanied by the soothing soundtrack provided by the river waters.

I walked up with these two sisters from Comodoro Rivadavia. They were currently living in Buenos Aires so they could go to college. We walked all the way up to the Cajon and there was much "onda". I was feeling very good about the attention I was getting from the ladies. Paula was the oldest one of the sisters and was what appeared to flirting with me. It wasn't your average making eyes and smiles but it was definitely flirting.

She was only going up the hill to the Cajon for a couple of hours, as she had to be back down that evening. We hung out for like 20 minutes and they had to leave. Paula gave me her number:

Te vas a Buenos Aires? (are you going to Buenos Aires?)

Bueno.... (well !)

Bueno, si te vas, hay que llamarme. Che, veni a Buenos Aires. (well, if you come, you have to call me... you should come to Buenos Aires)

I wrote her phone number 'cause even though I knew I was not going to Buenos Aires, it was good to flirt.

Unfortunately, it rained practically the whole time I was at the Cajon. I couldn't even camp out. It was awesome though, and really solidified my interest in trekking.

Razorblade bound

After leaving Frances, I stayed a couple of days at Rio Arrayanes, a river with many of those trees I described before. The camping was okay but people were very loud at nite. I was hurting for a real shower and a shave so I decided to head North to El Bolson for some well deserved hostel time, with ice-cream, internet and every thing else an good hostel can provide.

Horacio, Lucio y Compania

Every morning while at Frances, I was greeted by this family who would walk by my tent. They were 8 in total. Horacio and Carmen were the proud parents of Gala, 13, Camila, 9, and Lucio, 5. Daniel was a friend of Horacio's and Pablo's father. Hernan was a life long friend of Pablo's and refer to him as Castor (the beaver), making allusion to his teet, long corrected by the use of braces.

Every morning, they would parade their canas (fishing rods) to a good pot, all hoping to catch some trucha (trout). Daniel would lead the pack and Lucio would fall behind. They were friendly and one day, after catching a big one, they invited me to go have dinner with them.

Other than enjoying very tasty fresh trout, it was a great opportunity for me to catch a glimpse of the functionings of an average Argentina family. In all fairness, Argentineans live very similarly to Brazilians, with very few distinct trade marks.

Mate is a unifying element of Argentine culture, playing the same role of rede Globo in Brazil or sitcoms in the states: it gives the family an opportunity to gather around an object and discuss the day together. In the case of the US and Brazil, it is the tv; here it is the bowl of mate. They eat insane amounts of meat, which when combined with insanely hot mate can lead to a painfully early death caused by stomach cancer, at least that is what Chatwin said. (Bruce Chatwin, In Patagonie, penguin books)

They are crazy about soccer, way more than Brazilians are. But what I found most intriguing is their anti-americanism, or anti-yanki, as they say it themselves.

In ths case, anti-yankism was epitomized by Horacio, the father. It is so funny how the reason for every bad thing that goes on in Argentina some how goes back to the US. If some three year old child trips and fall, chipping a tooth, it is either because some imperialist White American actually plotted a way to bring grief upon Argentina by intentionally putting irregularities on the side walk; or it is because some American company holds the entire market of baby food and intentionally took away all the calcium from Argentinean kids' diets.

It has gotten to a point where American responsibility for the Argentine demise is so strong that there is no point in actually fighting against it. It is as if Argentina is just a puppet of American Imperialism and there is nothing one can do.

Horacio was a very welcoming, genuine and full hearted Porteno. They all welcomed me very well, acting as the host family of P.N. Los Alerces.

Perhaps the cutest one of them was Lucio, the 5 year old. Always sporting his cana, Lucio was a temple of serenity. Where other kids would cry their eyes out, Lucio went unphazed. His mother had given up on trying to keep him clean, as he made a point to get himself as ditry as humanly possible.

This one night they invited me to some trout and they also had some pasta with red sauce. I dont need to remind you of the type of havoc children can reap out of red sauce, but Lucio really took the cake. Covered in sauve from his chin to his forehead, it is hard to figure out where he manage to find so much sauce from such a small plate.

With no booster chair and no one to mind him, he kept bringing the plate closer and closer to the edge of the table, until it was dangling from the edge. Just like you average child, Lucio wasn't really aware of how much strength you actually need to cut pasta. Combine the child's excess of force with a plate of pasta dangling from the table and what you get is a catapult that showers Lucio with red sauce from head to toe... nothing short of a Jim Carrey movie.

What I loved the most about Carmen was that she never made Lucio feel bad about stuff. If it were me, the first thing I would say is "look what you did". But that wasn't what Carmen said, instead she turned to him and said...

"Ahhhh, Lucio mira lo que te paso" (ahh Lucio, look what happened to you)

Maybe that was why he was so happy all the time, he carried no sense of guilt. He was adorable.

He came to me one day , as I was getting out from my tent, he looked at me and said.

Tenez cana (do you have a fishing rod?)

No

Bueno, veni y puedes usar la mia (that is fine, come and you can use mine)

I immediately thought of my sister and Pedro, my unborn nephew. I was wondering if you can actually teach someone to be this nice or is it just something one has in them.

My whole week at Frances was awesome. I only left because there were many other places I wanted to visit and I had to move on at some point.

Playa del Frances

Named after some French loner who roamed the park, playa del frances (Frenchman's beach) was very different from Lago Futalaufquen camp.

Immediately after the boat launching ramp, there was a trek that lead to a more secluded area, unaccessible by cars and thus shielded from noise and people in general.

I found shelter under a most beautiful Arrayan tree, a type of tree I had never seen before.

Arrayan is a Mapuche word for " growing only over water". It is a very distinct type of tree, with a light cinnamon colored bark and white flowers no bigger than a penny. In trying to picture it, I would advise people to picture a guava tree with a very light bark, covered in tiny white circular leaves. It is a beauty. For those who still cannot picture it, just search for a photo.

This was, perhaps the best campground I ever pitched my tent on. This is a very difficult statement to make, since I have officially made Poincenot my favorite place on earth. However, as far as the very vicinity of my tent, this place is unbeatable.

The three was a perfect reparo (shield) from the wind and rain (luckily, there was no rain), not to mention how charming it was. At night, there was not a voice to be heard or artificial light to be seen.

Not four meters away from my tent stood Futalaufquen lake. I cant tell you how awesome this place was. It was my home for a week. It made perfect sense to me, after my sojourn with the noise people on the other camp, to become a loner and just roam the park aimlessly... maybe they would name a beach after me.

Lago Futalaufquen

My first stop at the park was lago Futalaufquen, a huge lake of glacier origin.

Cascata Irigoyen was the first camping libre I went to, but it was accessible by car and that meant coolers and kids walking around.

I was very disappointed at the place. The park was obviously beautiful but the people were making it horrible; there was thrash everywhere, loud music and drunken fools, not your average trek and camp kind of environment.

After two days at this not so nice spot, I end up at Playa del Frances... and that was more like what I was looking for

Esquel and Los Alerces

The end of ruta 40 lead me to Esquel, a small town only there to serve as the gateway to Parque Nacional Los Alerces.

In dire need of some camping fixtures, I got myself a new sleeping bag, mat and pot.

After spending the nigth at a refugio-like spot, I was off to the park