My fingers were freezing, as
one would expect fingers would be when dug into melting snow on the side of a
cliff. To my right was a
sharp rock, which may or may not have been attached to more sharp rocks, and
therefore, may or may not cause an avalanche and my painful earthly exit. To my left, a 40-meter crevice,
cut deep into the side of Cerro Lopez. In order to join the Danes, I would have to swing
myself across, putting all the weight on the fingertips of my right hand. If they had any feeling, they
would probably be petrified.
"Count of three then,"says Martin, holding Katrina's walking stick in
case the snow gives and I find myself close enough to grab it in
mid-plummet. "One, two..."
Patagonia, I am pleased to
report, is more than a brand of clothing found at your local camping shop. It is the southern quarter of
Argentina, where the population consists primarily of deep blue fjords,
snow-capped mountains with granite spires, forests, glaciers and lost tourists
doing their very best to not slide into crevices and never be seen of
again. Heavily
influenced by Austrian and Swiss immigrants, the towns of Patagonia mimic
Austrian and Swiss villages, complete with department store-sized chocolate
shops, fondue restaurants, sausage grills and the sound of yodeling echoing in
the hills. Add the renowned
passion of the Argentines, and Patagonia could be the bastard son of Julie
Andrews and Che Guevara.
Viva la' lederhosen!
Since I arrived in South America, I have been hearing about the beauty,
culture, food and women of Argentina. If I had a peso for every time I heard "Wait until you
get to Argentina!" from both travelers and locals, I would spend my fortune
immediately before the currency gets devalued. Again.
While prices were cheap in Bolivia, it's what you can buy in Argentina
that makes it dethrone Bolivia as the best travel deal in South America. Since the economy collapsed
a couple of years ago, the dollar goes a long way, all the way into my gut, to
be precise. A fillet
mignon (biefe de lomo) steak the
size of Mike Tyson's forearm, a great bottle of wine, fries and salad will
punch your lights out at $10.
Subsequently, I have eaten the arms of the entire heavyweight boxing
division this past week, a savage return to my red meat roots after seven weeks
of chicken. Eating meat in
Argentina is like drinking Guinness in Ireland - even though it is exported
around the world, here it just tastes better.
I had bid farewell to Chile,
catching a bus from Pucon to Argentina on a bumpy dirt road. If Chile strives hard to be first
world, Argentina's reputation as a second world country (where nearly 50% of
the population are currently living in poverty) was immediately apparent with
the rickety old bus, and the mustached border official typing E-S-R-O-O-C-H
with two fingers on an ancient typewriter. That typo might come back to haunt me, the way
Maradona's hand haunts English soccer fans. My destination was the holiday town of
Bariloche, on the northern tip of Patagonia. Forgetting my own advice about trusting the advice of
others, I missed my connecting bus and unexpectedly spent my first night in
Argentina in the lovely village of St Martin de Andes. Here I enjoyed my first feast of flesh,
perfectly grilled, my satisfaction delighting the four waitresses who could
have walked off a ramp in Milan.
"I am so happy to be back in Argentina,"says Yaron from Israel,"it is
like crossing a line and suddenly all the women are beautiful!" Not that the women of Peru, Bolivia and Chile were slacking
in the looks department, but the sheer numbers in Argentina are
staggering. Too many beers
later, I staggered myself back to an Israeli backpacker apartment, where I
concluded that bad late-night cable television is not only a North American
phenomenon.
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.
April 22, 2005
La Bolsa del Deporte
Bariloche