Hanging on the Edge in Bariloche

« Return to Argentina

Even though it is off-off season, Bariloche was humming with tourists. Nested against an enormous lake and surrounded by mountains and a world-class ski resort, this town could easily be a colony of British Columbia. Mountain biking, rafting, fishing, hiking, climbing - it’s all spectacular in the summer. In winter, the Cathedral Ski Resort is rated the best in South America. There are dozens of parillas (steakhouses), Irish bars, funky youth hostels and swanky hotels. For tourists, it is a little slice of value-for-money heaven. I met many travelers who came for a few days, and have been here a few weeks. Although the leaves were burning red with the flames of autumn and the chilled wind was sweeping into town from Antarctica, I caught the last week of sun and decided to do something about it. Through a company appropriately named Aguas Blancas (White Water), I hit the grade three and four rapids of the inappropriately named Rio Manso (River Tame). The crystal-clear water snaked through a gorgeous canyon, rumbling over rapids with rainbow trout clearly visible beneath the raft. “In summer everybody jumps in,” says Pedro, our guide. Even with wetsuits and booties, the water was freezing, so jumping in was not an option. On the second rapid, Jenny, who I had first met in northern Bolivia, fell in the fizz. Such fun is the suffering of others. The raft ended right on the Chilean border, and after a couple of pictures with one foot in each country, Aguas Blancas treated us to a delicious BBQ. Says Shane, “Any more meat and I’ll be off to the loo to drop off the Cosby Kids.”

My youth hostel, La Bolsa del Deporte, is buzzing with backpackers and their travel tales. Australians, Israelis, Danes, Swedish, Irish, English, French - the hostel has free Internet, a BBQ, Cable with a DVD player, fully equipped kitchen, foozball, table tennis - it like being invited to someone’s house for a party. Actually, it is someone’s house, and it is a party. Sitting around the kitchen bar, I meet Martin from Copenhagen and he meets Katrina from somewhere in rural Denmark, and together we decide to tackle the Cerro Lopez mountain trail. Had I known that this steep 7-hour hike had caused more fatalities than any other in the region, perhaps we would have rented bikes and rode to the lake instead. Ignorance may be bliss, but it sucks when falling off a mountain. We meet rock climber Des from England, who is on an 18-month climbing trip around the world. He loved Squamish, and is wearing running shoes with airline socks. Scoring another unseasonably sunny day, we hiked up to the rustic Refuge, overwhelmed by the immensity of the view. In my daypack, I had a bottle of red Malbac for the summit, but thirty minutes from the top, the trail markings disappeared. “I’m going this way,”says Des, and perhaps in retrospect it would have made sense to follow the experienced mountain climber. Instead, I suggested we head right, up a steep crevice with loose rocks and frozen ice. I knew this was the right route because I am an idiot, and idiots know these things. An hour later I was stuck on a rock 40 meters from the summit, while Martin and Katrina were just stuck on a rock 10 meters below me. In the distance, I could see Des waving from the top of an adjacent summit. It was a good time to eat my tuna sandwich and ponder Argentina.

A quick lesson about Argentine history: Conquest. War. War. War. Coup. Civil War. Coup. War. Economic prosperity. Crash. Civil War. Dictator. Prosperity. Crash. Civil War. Democracy. Dictatorship. Andrew Lloyd Webber songs. Crash. Civil War. Democracy. Coup. Dictatorship. Coup. Civil War. Crash. Crash. Crash with 2000% inflation. Civil War. Democracy. Prosperity. Crash. Democracy. Esrock arrives in Bariloche.

“Three!” screams Martin, and I pull my Tom Cruise Mission Impossible II stunt, swinging over the ice like a highly paid stunt double. Fortunately my fingers held. I reach the stick, and he pulls me to the rock. Katrina was now panicking, but Martin guided us slowly down the mountains, involving a lot of reassurance to Katrina, and a lot of sliding on our bums. Finally, we reach the bottom, and I insist on opening the wine, because coming close to death always calls for a good bottle of dry red. Des literally runs down the mountain to join us, and we take the easy path down, well proud of ourselves for conquering Cerro Lopez (and finding an open store in a one-stray-dog village to buy big bottles of beer and get absolutely sloshed for the bus home). Alex at the hostel has been climbing the mountains of Patagonia for decades. When I tell him we got lost on Cerro Lopez, he tells me it is common, and is the major cause of deaths. Something to do with avalanches, ice, and idiots who think they know the way. He insists on taking me to the top of the Cathedral Ski Resort, which runs the gondolas in the summer to the fantastic restaurant at the summit, offering drop-dead views. Having lived through six decades of Argentinean history, Alex educates me on the country, its challenges, its people and its future. It all comes down to the corruption and greed, and the failure of one political party to unite the wealthy elite together with the mass working class. Just like everywhere else, but with great steaks.

Now that I’ve come to grips with the Argentine peso, the country’s culture and its beer, it is time to hit the mother of all South American cities, Buenos Aires. Bidding farewell to my new friends from Scandinavia, Israel, England and Australia, I drain the last pint at the thumping Wikenney Irish Pub, and catch another night bus to the future.

La Bolsa del Deporte
Bariloche

Gonzo Gallery for Hanging on the Edge in Bariloche

view full gallery

Tweet