Kindness of Strangers

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

After the frenzied pace of Bariloche we decided to head south and chill out for a few days in El Bolson, a hippy dippy hangout set against a backdrop of sweeping mountains and dusty farmland. El Bolson translates as “The Big Bag,” so named for the towering valley walls that surround the town. But El Bolson also means big bags of artisan beer (nearly 75% of the country’s hops are produced here). Big bags of jewel-like berries, which are made into concoctions ranging from beer and conserves to pies and shakes. Big bags of the iconic and inventive Jauja ice cream, whose modest, flagship storefront boast flavors like dulce de leche with blackberry, calafate with goat’s milk, mate, local raspberry with marscapone, and rose hips. And big bags of South American backpackers. Lots and lots of bum backpackers.

My dad wrote me a brief email about El Bolson, stating that the town was a hippy hangout in the 60s. As far as I can tell, nothing’s really changed in 50 years. Gangs of backpackers maraud about the town, sporting “I Dream of Jeanie” pants, untamed dreadlocks, disheveled clothes, filthy feet, beaded jewelry, and tattoos. They set up camp in the town plaza, shanty towns of tents and drum circles. “I’ve never seen so many mullets and rat tails in my life,” observed Yvonne, one of the three Canadian women we met on the bus from Bariloche who served as our companions during our time in El Bolson.

Maikael and I spent an entire morning on a green park bench lining the plaza, making bets as to who were the real bum backpackers and who were the rich kids pretending to be bum backpackers. As we were doing so, a gangly hipster backpacker, wearing a too-tight T-shirt and a dingy hoodie, walked briskly towards us, looking slightly strung out. He said something too fast, something I couldn’t understand, and was gone as quickly as he had come. I asked Maikael to translate. “I think he asked me if we had any nuts,” responded Maikael, perplexed. “Like, as in walnuts?” I asked. “Yeah, I think so,” said Maikael. Our immediate thought was that “nuts” must be an Argentine bum backpacker code word for drugs. We watched to see if he asked anyone else for “nuts,” but he breezed by the couple with three kids and kept speed walking (no pun intended) through the plaza. Yeah, “nuts” definitely weren’t nuts.

Within minutes, a cute, petite young backpacker skipped up to us, and in her sweetest voice asked, “Hola, chicos, would you like to buy some nuts?” “No, thank you!” we responded cheerily. We exchanged a look of genuine surprise, beginning to wonder if there was a nut conspiracy in town, and watched her make her way around the plaza, heading straight for a family having a picnic in the corner. We craned our necks to see the transaction. She zipped open her backpack, producing plastic baggies of…nuts.

In order to make money, bum backpackers engage in all manner of money-making activities, from hocking handmade jewelry to, apparently, selling nuts. There is a great deal of chocolate produced in the area, requiring, I suppose, vast quantities of fresh nuts. (Later that afternoon, we noticed a sign in a chocolate shop that stated, “We buy nuts.”) It’s the perfect bum backpacker job, requiring zero overhead and 100% profit. Bum backpackers also have a penchant for earning a living as street performers. In other words, there are a lot of clowns in El Bolson, some better than others. A tightrope was constructed in the town plaza, and a garage band played on the sidewalk, all the members donning red clown noses. One guy was pretty talented, carrying out his clown act in front of Jauja and garnering a bulging crowd (I’m not sure how much money he netted, but it was enough to buy an ice cream cone when the show was over). Another bum backpacker, who was considerably older, decided to earn some pesos by contorting his body into yoga-esque shapes. Looks of horror washed across the faces of the crowd as he hitched up his soiled sweatpants, the elastic long gone, between poses.

Perhaps the greatest draw to this hippy haven is the artisan market, one of the largest and most famous in Argentina. Although the town only numbers 18,000 residents, over 320 registered vendors hock their wares, ranging from organic greens to chess sets depicting battles between the Spanish and Mapuche indians, three times a week under canopies surrounding the plaza. The only stipulation is that all products must be handmade, from the roquefort empanadas to the knitted rastafarian hats. I fawned over leather purses and hand-carved wooden journals and drooled over mammoth wheels of local cheese and the largest Easter lilies I’d ever seen. In the end we settled on homemade Belgian waffles, each square filled with shiny, just-picked berries with a smattering of cream and powdered sugar atop. We washed it down with fresh raspberry juice, the ruby seeds settled at the bottom of the giant glass, for US$1.25. Then we sampled local chocolate, creamy corn empanadas, sweet boysenberries, and a Patagonian lamb sandwich, the delicately spiced meat tucked between soft pillows of homemade bread, reveling in the bounty.

The bum backpackers were in heaven, too, making a killing on their bohemian wares and capturing legions of fans in a poor man’s Battle of the Bands. Everyone was happy in The Big Bag.

Our first batch of photos from Northern Patagonia (Bariloche and El Bolson, Argentina) are up on our web album.  Enjoy!

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

We knew we would hit Argentina at the peak of tourist season – we just didn’t consider that nearly all the tourists would be Argentine.

While the northern hemisphere is currently dodging snowflakes and bundled in layers of wool, Argentina’s cities are emptying, their residents seeking refuge in places like The Lake District, where cooler climes, verdant forests, and glittering blue lakes provide the perfect getaway for summer’s swan song. There are dozens of resort communities that dot the lakes, the season transforming sleepy hamlets into towns buzzing with activity…and bursting at the seams with masses of humanity.

We began our Lake District adventure in Bariloche, Argentina’s quintessential summer fun center. Originally settled as a German colony, Bavarian-style buildings grace a town ringed by deep woods, looking like a postcard from the Black Forest. At least, that’s how it probably used to look. What’s immediately apparent is that Bariloche has grown too big, too fast. The town’s central avenue is a mile-long strip of shops screaming for your attention, from tacky souvenir kiosks to the upscale chocolatiers that Bariloche is famous for. It’s also clear that the tourists are as diverse as the stores. Well-heeled portenos throw their pesos at decadent steak dinners, flowing heavily with velvety malbec, and cushy boat tours. Hotel Llao Llao, Argentina’s most iconic resort hotel, sits perched on the edge of a glistening lake, offering rooms and food as decadent as the views. Meanwhile, the emaciated, grungy South American backpackers, toting Doite backpacks, Quechua tents and spewing pitchouli in their wake, lounge in various states of repose in any available public space, crafting hemp bracelets, smoking heavily, and sharing vast quantities of mate.

It’s interesting that a town like Bariloche brings these two factions together, like some sort of battleground state. As an international tourist, it was a curious place to be in: we didn’t belong to either group, so we floated between both. During the days we took long, sunny hikes with the backpackers, summiting towering peaks that provided incomparable views of the jewel box lakes below, spread over the land like a collection of sparkling, sapphire rings. We spent our evenings in the midst of the portenos enjoying some of Argetina’s finest cuisine, the usual standbys of steak and pasta executed with exceptional skill, all washed down with regional red wines. Bariloche also offers Northern Patagonian specialties, including local lake trout, grapefruit-colored salmon, and tender lamb (and every shape of ravioli you can imagine stuffed with these succulent meats and fish). German dishes abound, with menus touting goulash with spatzel and buttery kuchen for dessert. After rich fondue and glasses of ruby wine, we groaned heavily as we walked home at midnight after dinner, back on Argentime.

Regardless of financial circumstances, Bariloche is one big cream puff, a South American Disneyland that offers escapism from everyday life. It’s a hard town to take too seriously. Between eating and shopping and lounging on the lake shore, every evening erupted into a flurry of activity. The Tren de Alegria, the Happiness Train, rumbled through town, a giant, cheery grin slapped on the face of the engine. People from all walks of life gathered around the impromptu bands that assembled on the sidewalks and squares, as electric tango and homegrown tunes drifted through the night. We giggled as one particularly good band, a group of men donning zany wigs, crazy clothes, and women’s dresses, captured a whole crowd’s attention with their music. A woman with purple butterfly wings weaved through the group blowing bubbles, as a band of kids danced like maniacs. A man with six improvised arms and faded pink leggings skirted the crowd, surprising people from behind. The backpackers were there. The portenos were there. Even we fit in.

I’ve posted new photos from Chiloe, Chile.  Enjoy!  Today we are off to Bariloche to enjoy some time in Argentina’s Lakes District.

Tuesday, February 4, 2009

I was trolling the streets of Chiloe, a small island community that has developed in relative isolation from Chile’s string bean mainland. Boasting its own culinary traditions, architecture, handicrafts, folklore, and even farming implements, I was feeling very cultured just breathing the same air as the Chilotas. We had exited a local artisan market, the only international tourists in the bunch. As I fingered the fine wool goods, a swarm of Spanish swirling around my head, I delighted in the fact that I could stop and have a conversation with a vendor who couldn’t guess where I was from, and wasn’t (yet) jaded by gringos. For the first time in weeks, I was a novelty. We purchased goofy wool hats and made our way up the street towards a fair that was spilling out from the church’s courtyard, a wooden relic protected by UNESCO, feeling very much at the end of the world.

Then, I saw it. At first I thought my eyes were deceiving me, but after a quick double take, the telltale lime green thumbprint registered in my brain. It was the van from The Mole, my favorite reality show of all time. In fact, it’s the only show I’ve pined for, obsessively monitoring CBS’s website for upcoming auditions. Once a program focused on contestants solving intellectual puzzles in exotic locations, the show took a turn for the worse in recent years, hitting bottom with Celebrity Mole Hawaii, which included such B-list gems as Stephen Baldwin, who starred as Barney in The Flintstones: Viva Rock Vegas, and Kathy Griffin. I was thrilled when the show was resurrected this summer, but disappointed when it debuted as a shadow of its former self, focusing on brawns over brain.

When the green thumbprint flashed before my eyes, emblazoned on a dented slate-colored van, my first thought was, “Oh my god, The Mole is filming their next season right here on Chiloe.” Suddenly, I had been transplated from the ends of the earth to Hollywood, and I found myself frantically scanning the church courtyard for obtrusive cameras. It was perfect, I thought, noticing that a variety of different games tables had been erected in the courtyard, imagining the contestants dashing from station to station. There would be quizzes on folk tales and races in the trineo, a Chilota farming invention used to ferry through muddy fields. There were be curanto eating contests, Chiloe’s native dish, a curious mix of pork, chicken, shellfish, and potatoes. The Mole: Chiloe would be the best season yet!

Then, memory and reason took hold. Last season had been filmed in Chile. I remember because I drooled over the dramatic Patagonian scenery and frosty pisco sours as they dashed around the country in a slate-grey van with a lime green thumbprint on the door!!! Clearly, after production had ended, the van had been sold to some Chilota, who probably wondered why they were driving a vehicle that looked like it could be some sort of crime solving machine.

Just as quickly as I had been reveling at finding myself in this remote location, I suddenly wanted nothing more than to plop myself down on my couch with an evening full of reality television at my fingertips.

Editor’s note:  This post was a joint writing effort between Maikael and Elizabeth, although primarily told from Maikael’s perspective.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

It’s not everyday that you get to realize a long-held dream. Nearly 10 years ago, the travel section of my Sunday paper highlighted Torres del Paine National Park in Chile. The spread captivated me with stunning pictures of the larger-than-life mountainous outcrop in southern Patagonia, the article promising a wind-blown, otherworldly landscape with unique rock formations, snow-capped peaks, glaciers, and turquoise lakes. The setting, the remoteness, the harshness captured me on a deep level; I wanted to walk amongst these mountains perched on the edge of the world.

We entered the park on a charter bus, a two and a half hour ride from Puerto Natales, accompanied by an Austrian woman, Claudia, who we met at our hostel, and who would hike with us over the next three days. As we disembarked, we discovered there was another seven kilometers of service road to walk before even intercepting the “W” trail. However, when we found an enterprising company offering minibus service to the trail head for $4, we jumped at the chance. A French girl from our hostel, who can only be described as an escaped insane asylum patient cum gypsy, balked at the minibus fee, deeming it “too consumerist.” We waved enthusiastically to her as we drove off, knowing she’d spend her one day in the park hiking amongst belching diesel and rumbling engines. Ah, wilderness!

I was nervous as we neared the trail head, fearing I would be disappointed by the unrealistic expectations that 10 years of waiting had planted in my head. After dropping our bags at the refugio, we raced toward our first stop, the eponymous Torres del Paine – Towers of the Blue Sky – whose spindly spires were illuminated in the brilliant afternoon sun. We picked our way through cool forests and crystalline streams, passing throngs of hikers on the trail. The towers dipped in and out of view, teasing us with a sliver of their crowns. The crowds thinned as we neared the towers, and it was clear why: the last hour involved an exceedingly steep climb up a face of massive boulders. With unsure footing and the wind pressing at our backs, we proceeded slowly, our moods becoming increasingly sour. This better be good, seemed to be the collective thought. Suddenly, the boulders disappeared and our field of vision was crowded with the most incredible view: the towers, massive hunks of jagged rock, framed by blue skies and illuminated by the waning sun, soaring a thousand feet above us. Waterfalls crashed down to an aquamarine lake, meltoff from a snow basin. We would soon grow accustomed to this color of water, but the first encounter was shockingly novel. Claudia was right: the place had a special energy. Although the winds howled and the cold immediately settled in as the sun glided below the towers, I could only sit and take it all in. It was hard to believe that this was only the beginning.

As we worked our way up each valley of the “W” over the following days, we were rewarded with unparalleled vistas, a result of the sheer scale that characterizes this park. Everything is vast and larger-than-life, from sweeping fields of swaying grasses to mammoth glaciers, to never-ending skies, glassy blue lakes, and soaring mountains. The scenery is constantly changing, a parade of natural beauty, and we were continually struck by the park’s diversity, as rocky moonscapes gave way to verdant forests, which melted into glacial valleys.

We hiked 53 miles (88 kilometers) over five days, but 20 of those miles were logged in a single day, all in an effort to drag our aching muscles towards Valle Frances, a glacier valley of extraordinary beauty. We spent the morning hugging massive Lake Nordenskjold’s emerald shoreline, as puffy clouds cast soft shadows over the clear blue water that we still hadn’t grown accustomed to. We shrugged off our packs at a campsite, certain that a lightened load would ease the six kilometer climb. But the first ascent was brutally steep: one portion of the trail offered a fabled cable rope to assist during poor weather conditions. A powerful Patagonian wind greeted Liz and I as we reached the first viewpoint, so powerful that a gust challenged my balance and knocked me down. We took in the hugeness of Glacier Frances, an icy expanse lodged in a charcoal mountainside, and watched several avalanches over the course of minutes, as streams of snow tumbled off the hillside and bellowed through the valley.

We trudged on, escaping the fierce winds for the safety of the forest, and as the trail continued its ascent, Liz became more fatigued and eventually told me she would turn back. I can’t claim to be a good husband on that particular day; I had, after all, been waiting 10 years for this moment. I continued on without her, encouraging her to wait for me at the campsite, promising I would be quick and would meet her within minutes of her return. Now alone, I attacked the trail like an animal, grunting and sweating with effort, surely alarming the backpackers I passed like a runaway train until I reached the mirador at the end. Here I was rewarded with a 360 degree view of the valley below, surrounded by yawning rock spires, rivaling Yosemite’s. I was swept up in time, something that happens when I find myself in places of natural beauty. I lounged on my back, my arms cradling my head, and loitered some more, feeling great about life. Suddenly realizing that time had slipped by, I hurried back to Liz as fast as I could, sprinting through the deep forest. When I arrived, out of breath, I saw the sour look arranged on her face, as she pretended to read a book. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? Two hours!” I knew I would be in the dog house for this. “It was totally worth it,” I said, guilt intertwined with satisfaction.

When we began our trek, we had no idea that the park contained so much glacial activity. Imagine the excitement, following the trail to reach Glacier Grey on the western-most “leg” of the “W,” as the first iceberg, a turquoise sculpture of ice bobbing in milky blue Lake Grey, glides into view. You think it’s the only iceberg you’ll see, as if you’ve made a great discovery, and proceed to take 100 pictures of it, only to find bigger and better ones as the glacier comes closer into view. Then, you reach a plateau on the trail, affording the first full view of the glacier. Your jaw drops. You gasp. Audibly. Bigger than you ever imagined, it empties into the lake in three sections, like slender, icy fingers, and the glacier stretches so far back that you can’t see where it begins, its backside shrouded in a perpetual storm. The “W” unfolds like a beautiful story, the trail slowly revealing more details. By the time we reached Refugio Grey, the distant chunks of glacial ice that had been so exciting earlier in the day were replaced by the sheer glee we felt as we stumbled upon a nearby inlet with a flotilla of icebergs that you could touch from the shore.

These were long, often windy, days of discovery, and the refugios provided a much-needed respite at the end of the day. All are situated in exceptionally beautiful locations in the park, employing simple, exposed-wood construction in an alpine style. Six to eight bunk beds in each room, with communal dining tables, promoted conversation, lending to the feeling that we were, once again, at Big Kids’ Summer Camp. Being able to peel away my “stink uniform,” take a hot shower, and enjoy a proper meal was a godsend. Our favorite was Refugio Grey, winning points for its off-the-beaten path location, cool vibe, and views of icebergs drifting by during dinner. (Other refugios, located near easily-accessible park entrances, operated and felt more like anonymous hotels, with slick decor, full bars, and a more demanding and pretentious clientèle.)

It’s impossible not to meet lots of interesting people on such an epic walk, and South America attracts a certain kind of intrepid person. We ran in to Kim and Ross on the trail, an Australian-Scottish couple we had met on the bus ride into the park, and they had just gotten engaged in the Valle Frances. Kim was sporting a ring that Ross had purchased months earlier in Peru, a true South American proposal, and being out of contact with the rest of the world, we were the first ones to hear the news! We also became fast friends with Jeff and Erin after meeting at dinner at Refugio Grey, the only other American couple we’ve met traveling around the world. And nearly every other hiker you meet on the trail is from Israel. All Israelis, men and women, serve an obligatory two years in the military and receive a stipend upon completion. Almost without fail, they use this money to take a big trip to either South America or Asia, and although we had read to expect this, it was still surprising to see groups as large as 20 Israelis pass us, spouting a plume of Hebrew in their wake.

While I love meeting interesting people, I also enjoy the solitude that comes with a long walk. It affords me valuable time to think about what’s important in my life. As Liz dashed forward and spent the day excitedly talking with newfound friends, I fell back, allowing me to get lost in my thoughts. As I’ve stripped away the many layers of my life back in the States, I’ve started to remember small things that I used to enjoy, but had somehow forgotten over the course of time as my life got the better of me. I used to play and listen to music, for example, which I rarely do now. I also enjoy the idea of architecture and building. I love the outdoors. Remembering myself has been one of the true values of taking a break from my everyday life.

As we exited the trail, stinking and sore, we were welcomed by a double rainbow over a aquamarine glacier lake. No joke. It was so simultaneously cheesy and romantic, Liz and I couldn’t help but grin at each other. Torres del Paine is known for schizophrenic weather systems, but Mother Nature had been on our side for nearly a week. It provided comfortable cloud cover when exposed to the elements or hiking up the steep valleys. It gifted us swaths of blue sky when reaching impressive natural monuments. It barely rained a drop. Call it The Thomas Luck, as we do, but in every way Torres del Paine exceeded my expectations, leaving me with only best experience and memories for years to come. We raised our hiking polls overhead and formed a perfect, celebratory “W” pattern, a fitting end to our journey.