"In all the world, there is no one else exactly like me. Everything that comes out of me is authentically mine, because I alone chose it -- I own everything about me: my body, my feelings, my mouth, my voice, all my actions, whether they be to others or myself. I own my fantasies, my dreams, my hopes, my fears. I own my triumphs and successes, all my failures and mistakes. Because I own all of me, I can become intimately acquainted with me. By so doing, I can love me and be friendly with all my parts. I know there are aspects about myself that puzzle me, and other aspects that I do not know -- but as long as I am friendly and loving to myself, I can courageously and hopefully look for solutions to the puzzles and ways to find out more about me."
- Virgina Satir
Since returning from vacation nearly three weeks ago, my life has been changing, shifting around under my feet, rather dramatically. Decisions have been pondered over, agonized over, some made and others discarded. I have felt lonely, desperate, elated, strong, fearful, and useless. A whole rolling landscape of difficult emotions and even harder choices. I am struggling with resentment; trying to banish it from my mind. I am struggling with confidence; trying to woo it into my life. Most of all, I am wrestling with purpose; this idea that I should have one and should probably be a little closer to realizing what it is by now. But like the above quotation, I am really just trying to be friendly and loving to myself, all parts of me, so that I can courageously and hopefully start the next chapter of my life.
The truth is that I just don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Yet, when I look around me- at my friends, family, bosses, and students- I feel like I am already surrounded by grown-ups and I am just gate-crashing the party. When I look back on my life so far, I am starting to suspect that I made some ghastly errors when I took certain paths. Instead of leading me down the "wrong path", these errors have simply lead me to a dead-end road in the middle of nowhere. I wonder now, if I should have fought the pressure and chosen to eschew university right after high school. I had no clue what I wanted then, and I wonder if being forced to choose before I was ready has resulted in me having no clue today. I chose a major because my mother told me simply "just choose something and follow through". I chose my thesis topic by spinning a globe and picking a place in the world. I am still shiftless, uncertain, lacking ambition, drive and that always illusive sense of purpose. So what's next?
Love. Someone recently told me that I am living my dream. But the truth is I am just chasing a dream. Chasing a dream of falling in love, moving to a far-away place and living free. A dream of finding purpose through experimentation instead of school, a dream of "falling into" my perfect career by sheer chance. A dream of taking crazy risks that magically, mysteriously, turn into the best decisions of my life. I've been chasing one dream the longest: the dream of finding somewhere in the world that will fall in love with me, before I ever have to figure out how to love myself. This is the dream that underlies most of my choices in life. This is my one long-standing fantasy. I want to find a place in the world- some far-flung community- where I am loved, accepted, honored, included, without ever owning my faults and weaknesses, my failures and insecurities. And for a very long time, I have been chasing that dream: moving from place place (once a year!) searching endlessly for a ready-made haven from myself. Love. How do I fall in love with myself?
Although I don't yet know when we are leaving Argentina, it is clear that we have crested our climax point, and are now moving steadily downhill toward a homeward journey. As I come to terms with this fact, I often feel incredibly disappointed. This has not been the experience I was hoping for, namely: the culmination of that one constant fantasy. I have not found my haven here; not in my relationship with my partner, not in my relationship with this place in the world. I still have a lot of searching ahead of me, a lot of uncertainty and perhaps more crazy risks. But now that my wheels are coasting downhill, I have started to dedicate much of my time to the question of: What's next? Is there still room for love, acceptance, and understanding in my relationship with Pat? Is there still a chance that two lost souls searching separately for their purpose in life can be successful together? Is there still room to explore my purpose in this career I have pursued to Argentina? Is teaching a viable and valuable way for me live while learning to love myself? If so, to what distant corner of the planet shall I fling myself next?
If the answer to these questions is no, then what? It is terrifying to think of starting again from that all-too-familiar place where I am single, broke, with no where to live, no useful job, no one to put my trust in. Where I have to start loving the most miserable version of myself. I always seem to take the hardest road in life. Yet if that is the place from which I must begin again, I want to do it this time with a better attitude and less guilt. I want to be friendly and loving to myself first, so that I can seek out the answers to my personal puzzles with courage and hope. So that I can build myself into that long-sought-after haven and take it with me when I explore the distant corners of this world.
October 29, 2010
October 24, 2010
Into the Realm of Magical Things
Entering Puerto Varas, I swore I could smell the water. This beautiful little town sits on the shores of Lake Llanquihue, which is so immense that the sailboats bobbing in the surf along the town pier made me imagine that we were, in fact, in the Mediterranean. The lake is really a small sea, or would be if it were in Europe. However, the immensity of the South American landscape dwarfs even this huge expanse of water, diminishing it to a simple "Lago". Yet the scale of the lake lends the town a sort of marine environment, and along with fresh, cool breezes, Puerto Varas boasts some seriously good seafood joints. Like Bariloche on the other side of the border, Puerto Varas was settled by a mix of Swiss, German, and Chilean natives. However, Puerto Varas also throws a significant Swedish population into the mix, just to make it a little more interesting. After sharing a delicious seafood meal at a restaurant appropriately named "Mediteraneo", we found a seriously cozy hostel on the north side of town, where we gratefully found the best bed in all of South America, or at least in our experience so far. Hostal Compass Del Sur is run by a fantastic Swedish/Chilean couple out of a huge, ancient rambling house that features wood stoves on every floor, fantastic homemade bread, and (did i mention?) the best bed ever! After an extremely pleasant nap, we headed out in search of the microbrews that were rumored to exist here. It wasn't easy, but eventually we followed a tip from a local waitress, who instructed us to go to the "dark side of the lake" where the lights of the tourist restaurants and hotels faded away to reveal jagged black rocks along the shore of the lake. Eventually, we found a great local bar with an extensive selection of specialty brews. Along with seafood and microbrews, we also bought some of the best dried fruit and nuts I've ever tasted in Puerto Varas.
Munching on the world's most delicious almonds the next morning, we drove until Highway 5 abruptly ended at the termination of Chile's mainland. From here, the country dissolves into increasingly smaller islands until it eventually tapers away into the glacial tip just miles from Antarctica. Undeterred, we caught a ferry to the largest of these myriad islands: the mystical island of Chiloe.
Chiloe is a world unto itself, and like the rest of Chile, it is breathtaking. Roughly 180 by 60 km, Chiloe has a folklore, handicraft industry, and local cuisine all it's own. It is supposedly home to all sorts of magical creatures, from witches and gnomes to talking animals. The towns on Chiloe are all relatively small, although Castro, the largest, feels busy and important during the evening rush. Of course, we stopped for a picnic at the very first beach we could find on Chiloe, just outside of Ancud. The sight of the ocean after months in the desert made Pat positively giddy. We walked along this deserted beach until sundown, hunting for sea glass and shells among the bounty on shore. I even found a whole starfish for the first time in my life. Of course, true to South American standards of size, it was too big and smelly to put in the car.
We spent the first night in Castro, at Hostel Palafito, which was on pilings on the bay, as indicated by its name. Unfortunately, this place was a bit of a splurge for us, and we couldn't stay another night. We booked a new hostel online, then went on a search to locate it downtown the next morning. When we finally arrived at the discreet address, we found a ramshackle building with a definite 45 degree lean. Upstairs, the hostel turned out be little more than a family renting out rooms, but the dysfunctional shower, army of flea-ridden animals, and militant looking adolescent son gave me the creeps. The proprietor herself was a sweet, good-natured lady who I can only wish the best of luck. But we opted to leave Castro behind and go in search of the penguins.
As is typical of us, we got distracted by the forest instead, and ended up spending the day in Parque Nacional Chiloe. This preserve covers most of the western half of the island. It is full of ancient rainforest, isolated beaches, and hidden lakes. We opted for the beach, and had an eventful hike through forest, pastureland, and eventually ankle-deep cow muck, before we reached a beautiful, deserted beach that looked eerily like my home in Oregon. Huge dunes gave way to windswept waves and unique rock formations on the cliffs. It was cold, slightly gray, and I was wearing a windbreaker as we ran among the dunes looking for good place to hunker down out of the wind. I felt a strange feeling of homesickness well up in my stomach as I was bombarded with memories of running along the dunes in Oregon with my brother (mostly) hunting treasure, playing pirate, or whatever various games we invented in our secret world. Even now, I am tearing up as I remember how that far-flung beach at the end of the world brought me so incredibly close to home for a moment.
Still on a vague trajectory toward the penguin colony, we made our way back to Ancud, the nothernmost town on Chiloe. Here, we once again lost our way in the darkness, but eventually found a great hostel overlooking the ocean. In the morning, we were disappointed to discover that the penguins, although indeed currently nesting off the western coast, were viewable only by boat with quite a hefty fee. It would also take close to an hour of travel time to see the nesting penguins for just under 15 minutes. So, we hopped the ferry back to the mainland and started our long drive north to Santiago along Highway 5.
Although it took us nearly double the time to return to Mendoza on the Chilean side as it did to blow through the Pampas across the border, Highway 5 is so well- maintained and boasts plenty of sights on small detours that it definitely seemed worth it. We stopped to see Saltos del Laja, an impressive waterfall with delicious empanada stands out front. We also took a detour towards two hot spring resorts in central Chile: Panimavida and Quinamavida. These were both too expensive for actual soaking, but they gave us a chance to experience the lush volcanic wonderland and friendly, picturesque villages that lie along the Andes in central Chile. Our hunt for more chilean empanadas was rewarded gratuitously, and we ate nothing else all day. Around sunset, we hit Santiago, where I narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a mattress stranded in the middle of the freeway, and then drove on into the cactus farms around Paso de Los Andes. Making our way up the 29 switchbacks around Portillo in the dark was a treacherous but thrilling adventure, made all the more of both by the onset of slap-happiness in both of us road-weary travelers. We made it home by 1am: 7500 km covered in just under 7 days.
It was one of the best highlights of our time here so far and it also reminded us what it feels like to spend time together, having fun. We both realized that there are some serious deprivations happening in our lives in Mendoza, not the least of which is having time with one another. We have just one more epic road trip planned before we leave, when we head south into Patagonia again in order to reach the frozen glacial wonderland at Tierra Del Fuego: otherwise known as the end of the world. I can only hope that it will provide me with such a wealth of experience to share with all of you again.
Munching on the world's most delicious almonds the next morning, we drove until Highway 5 abruptly ended at the termination of Chile's mainland. From here, the country dissolves into increasingly smaller islands until it eventually tapers away into the glacial tip just miles from Antarctica. Undeterred, we caught a ferry to the largest of these myriad islands: the mystical island of Chiloe.
Chiloe is a world unto itself, and like the rest of Chile, it is breathtaking. Roughly 180 by 60 km, Chiloe has a folklore, handicraft industry, and local cuisine all it's own. It is supposedly home to all sorts of magical creatures, from witches and gnomes to talking animals. The towns on Chiloe are all relatively small, although Castro, the largest, feels busy and important during the evening rush. Of course, we stopped for a picnic at the very first beach we could find on Chiloe, just outside of Ancud. The sight of the ocean after months in the desert made Pat positively giddy. We walked along this deserted beach until sundown, hunting for sea glass and shells among the bounty on shore. I even found a whole starfish for the first time in my life. Of course, true to South American standards of size, it was too big and smelly to put in the car.
We spent the first night in Castro, at Hostel Palafito, which was on pilings on the bay, as indicated by its name. Unfortunately, this place was a bit of a splurge for us, and we couldn't stay another night. We booked a new hostel online, then went on a search to locate it downtown the next morning. When we finally arrived at the discreet address, we found a ramshackle building with a definite 45 degree lean. Upstairs, the hostel turned out be little more than a family renting out rooms, but the dysfunctional shower, army of flea-ridden animals, and militant looking adolescent son gave me the creeps. The proprietor herself was a sweet, good-natured lady who I can only wish the best of luck. But we opted to leave Castro behind and go in search of the penguins.
As is typical of us, we got distracted by the forest instead, and ended up spending the day in Parque Nacional Chiloe. This preserve covers most of the western half of the island. It is full of ancient rainforest, isolated beaches, and hidden lakes. We opted for the beach, and had an eventful hike through forest, pastureland, and eventually ankle-deep cow muck, before we reached a beautiful, deserted beach that looked eerily like my home in Oregon. Huge dunes gave way to windswept waves and unique rock formations on the cliffs. It was cold, slightly gray, and I was wearing a windbreaker as we ran among the dunes looking for good place to hunker down out of the wind. I felt a strange feeling of homesickness well up in my stomach as I was bombarded with memories of running along the dunes in Oregon with my brother (mostly) hunting treasure, playing pirate, or whatever various games we invented in our secret world. Even now, I am tearing up as I remember how that far-flung beach at the end of the world brought me so incredibly close to home for a moment.
Still on a vague trajectory toward the penguin colony, we made our way back to Ancud, the nothernmost town on Chiloe. Here, we once again lost our way in the darkness, but eventually found a great hostel overlooking the ocean. In the morning, we were disappointed to discover that the penguins, although indeed currently nesting off the western coast, were viewable only by boat with quite a hefty fee. It would also take close to an hour of travel time to see the nesting penguins for just under 15 minutes. So, we hopped the ferry back to the mainland and started our long drive north to Santiago along Highway 5.
Although it took us nearly double the time to return to Mendoza on the Chilean side as it did to blow through the Pampas across the border, Highway 5 is so well- maintained and boasts plenty of sights on small detours that it definitely seemed worth it. We stopped to see Saltos del Laja, an impressive waterfall with delicious empanada stands out front. We also took a detour towards two hot spring resorts in central Chile: Panimavida and Quinamavida. These were both too expensive for actual soaking, but they gave us a chance to experience the lush volcanic wonderland and friendly, picturesque villages that lie along the Andes in central Chile. Our hunt for more chilean empanadas was rewarded gratuitously, and we ate nothing else all day. Around sunset, we hit Santiago, where I narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a mattress stranded in the middle of the freeway, and then drove on into the cactus farms around Paso de Los Andes. Making our way up the 29 switchbacks around Portillo in the dark was a treacherous but thrilling adventure, made all the more of both by the onset of slap-happiness in both of us road-weary travelers. We made it home by 1am: 7500 km covered in just under 7 days.
It was one of the best highlights of our time here so far and it also reminded us what it feels like to spend time together, having fun. We both realized that there are some serious deprivations happening in our lives in Mendoza, not the least of which is having time with one another. We have just one more epic road trip planned before we leave, when we head south into Patagonia again in order to reach the frozen glacial wonderland at Tierra Del Fuego: otherwise known as the end of the world. I can only hope that it will provide me with such a wealth of experience to share with all of you again.
"You're Not Updating Your Blog Up to My Standards"
I know I've been slacking with my updates, but when Miss Sasha C. left me that ominous message, I knew it was finally time to take action. Thanks Sash, for keeping me on task!
The problem with not posting updates about your life is that life keeps going, constantly adding new things to the list of what I should discuss here which just makes it that much harder to finally sit down and write. Here are a few notable topics in my life since my last entry:
1- The overdue synopsis of my fabulous road trip.
2- The story of Sr. Leonardo Empanada, my new kitten, and how we came to be together under strange circumstances.
3-The details of summertime in Mendoza in order to make my friends in the Northern Hemisphere envious of my slowly tanning legs...
4- My plans for the future and why I've started feeling that I'm under voluntary exile.
5- My Mendoza Death Trip, which I still have not written about despite the utterly newsworthy aspect of the experience.
Now obviously, I cannot address all of these things in just one blog entry. Yet, by the time I get around to addressing them all, new things will have undoubtedly been added to the list. So, here's what's going to happen: I am going to discuss just one here today and then you, my loyal readers, will give me some feedback on what other topics sound important and tell me what to write about. Ok, diving in.
After a bit of a rocky start, our vacation was epic, fabulous, and ever-so-slightly life changing. When we left Mendoza on Sunday morning, we planned to take Route 40 all the way to the northern reaches of Patagonia, where we would stop for a few days in Bariloche. However, after reaching San Rafael, just a short 3 hour jaunt to the south, we lost the scent of Route 40: it just sort of seems to melt away. Now, this is certainly not unusual in Argentina, as the signage is...let's just say less than helpful. So we valiantly went hunting for the highway by asking directions in a few local gas stations. Here, we learned something interesting: Not only does Route 40 lack signage for nearly the whole of it's many-thousand kilometer stretch into Patagoina, but many parts of this "major highway" are impassable unless you are armed with something approximating a safari jeep or maybe even an army tank. How baffling! Since on any driving map of Argentina, Route 40 is not only the most consistently labeled route south, but also highlighted in a thick red line indicating, well, a highway. Once again bested by Argentina's constantly surprising lack of order or sanity, we were diverted east, into the strange wilderness of the Pampas for a grueling 12 hour drive through some of the world's vastest emptiness in 90 degree heat.
The road through the Pampas was not bad in and of itself, and the astonishing emptiness meant that highway cops, always scarce in Argentina, were non-existent for the whole of our journey to Bariloche. The road stretched endlessly through the scrubby grasses, armed with poisonous barbs even on the smallest plants, and the dust and heat created a constantly swirling sort of vacuum inside our non-air conditioned rental car. Occasionally, the dust gave way to a small road side petrol station or a one-horse town, but since it was Sunday, these were hardly thriving metropolises of friendly interaction. Fortunately, we were able to fill up the gas tank and occasionally our water bottles, but on the whole it was a long and lonely drive. After 6 hours, I was stripped down to just my t-shirt and underwear, Pat bare-chested until he started to get a sunburn. We stopped once to eat some salami and cheese on the side of the road, when Pat kindly reminded me that Argentina's native tarantulas live here, in the Pampas. After that, I was a bit more nervous to pee in the bushes.
Around sunset, we rolled into Patagonia, which was clearly demarcated by a sudden explosion of tall green trees, rolling hills, fruit orchards, and a lazy river winding through what surely appeared to us as the promised land. Like school kids on summer break, we pulled off at the first bend of the river, stripped down and dove into the crisp, cool water as picnicking families looked on in amazement (no, we weren't naked, just crazy). It was my first time in a river since leaving Oregon well over a year ago and it was delicious. The water cooled our core temperatures down to normal range and we continued on our way in much higher spirits. As we rounded the next river bend, we saw a horse grazing picturesquely near some fishermen sharing a bottle of wine and the whole scene appeared to be something out of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. At some point in the long, interminable night of driving that followed, we stopped to clamber onto the hood of our car and gaze in wonder at the Patagonian night sky, where stars and milky galaxies stretched from horizon to horizon under a huge blue moon.
Bariloche is best described by photos, as it is a place of breathtaking beauty and sharp contrast that is nearly impossible to capture with words. In the heart of the Lakes District, this little mountain town was orignially settled by a mix of German, Swiss, and Spanish settlers, which has created a strange and unique Argentinian culuture. The town is dominated by tourism, full of shops and restaurants, many of which are extremely high quality. Due to the swiss/german influence, Bariloche is also home to world-famous chocolate, artfully displayed in whimsical chocolate shops with mouthwatering window displays. Rapa Nui, a purple and chocolate-colored confection of a shop with whole cases of truffles, a chocolate fountain, and gold-wrapped parcels lining the walls, was by far my favorite. My only regret is that, due to camera failure, I could not document this little wonderland for my friend Sabina, who might just move in if she could see it. However, the true wonder of Bariloche lies outside of town, from the enourmous, glacial clear lake on which the town is perched, to the immense bamboo forests of Llao Llao, which we spent an extremely enjoyable day ducking our heads through. The countless mountain lakes, explosion of green forests, and towering Andean peaks looks more like Austria than Argentina. Perhaps it is appropriate then, that Bariloche is also rumored to be the heart of the post-war Nazi immigration to Argentina. It is hard to imagine Josef Mengele, the "doctor of death", among the purple confectionary of Rapa Nui, but according to some local experts, his residence in Bariloche is a well-documented fact.
Even the awesome beauty of Bariloche was easily rivaled by our next landing spot however: the incredible volcanic rainforests of Parque Nacional Puyehue. This Chilean national preserve is the unlikely gateway to Chile from the southern border crossing and it is one hell of a welcome mat. Huge, tree-covered volcanic peaks wreathed in clouds crown a landscape with such heavy vegetation that it seems improbable to stick your hand through. Tropical-colored flowers, Chilean parrots, and tiny Pudu all live here. Parts of the park are also home to small, weather-worn ranches, where the world's happiest-looking cows graze on small parcels of pasture painstakingly cleared from the cloying forest. The drive through the park is nearly 50 km long, and it is breathtaking all the way. Eventually, the road intersects with Highway 5, a proper, well-marked and beautifully constructed toll road that stretches the entire length of Chile. We took this south, to Puerto Varas, on the shore of Lake Llanquihue, the thrid-largest lake in all of South America.
To be continued...
The problem with not posting updates about your life is that life keeps going, constantly adding new things to the list of what I should discuss here which just makes it that much harder to finally sit down and write. Here are a few notable topics in my life since my last entry:
1- The overdue synopsis of my fabulous road trip.
2- The story of Sr. Leonardo Empanada, my new kitten, and how we came to be together under strange circumstances.
3-The details of summertime in Mendoza in order to make my friends in the Northern Hemisphere envious of my slowly tanning legs...
4- My plans for the future and why I've started feeling that I'm under voluntary exile.
5- My Mendoza Death Trip, which I still have not written about despite the utterly newsworthy aspect of the experience.
Now obviously, I cannot address all of these things in just one blog entry. Yet, by the time I get around to addressing them all, new things will have undoubtedly been added to the list. So, here's what's going to happen: I am going to discuss just one here today and then you, my loyal readers, will give me some feedback on what other topics sound important and tell me what to write about. Ok, diving in.
After a bit of a rocky start, our vacation was epic, fabulous, and ever-so-slightly life changing. When we left Mendoza on Sunday morning, we planned to take Route 40 all the way to the northern reaches of Patagonia, where we would stop for a few days in Bariloche. However, after reaching San Rafael, just a short 3 hour jaunt to the south, we lost the scent of Route 40: it just sort of seems to melt away. Now, this is certainly not unusual in Argentina, as the signage is...let's just say less than helpful. So we valiantly went hunting for the highway by asking directions in a few local gas stations. Here, we learned something interesting: Not only does Route 40 lack signage for nearly the whole of it's many-thousand kilometer stretch into Patagoina, but many parts of this "major highway" are impassable unless you are armed with something approximating a safari jeep or maybe even an army tank. How baffling! Since on any driving map of Argentina, Route 40 is not only the most consistently labeled route south, but also highlighted in a thick red line indicating, well, a highway. Once again bested by Argentina's constantly surprising lack of order or sanity, we were diverted east, into the strange wilderness of the Pampas for a grueling 12 hour drive through some of the world's vastest emptiness in 90 degree heat.
The road through the Pampas was not bad in and of itself, and the astonishing emptiness meant that highway cops, always scarce in Argentina, were non-existent for the whole of our journey to Bariloche. The road stretched endlessly through the scrubby grasses, armed with poisonous barbs even on the smallest plants, and the dust and heat created a constantly swirling sort of vacuum inside our non-air conditioned rental car. Occasionally, the dust gave way to a small road side petrol station or a one-horse town, but since it was Sunday, these were hardly thriving metropolises of friendly interaction. Fortunately, we were able to fill up the gas tank and occasionally our water bottles, but on the whole it was a long and lonely drive. After 6 hours, I was stripped down to just my t-shirt and underwear, Pat bare-chested until he started to get a sunburn. We stopped once to eat some salami and cheese on the side of the road, when Pat kindly reminded me that Argentina's native tarantulas live here, in the Pampas. After that, I was a bit more nervous to pee in the bushes.
Around sunset, we rolled into Patagonia, which was clearly demarcated by a sudden explosion of tall green trees, rolling hills, fruit orchards, and a lazy river winding through what surely appeared to us as the promised land. Like school kids on summer break, we pulled off at the first bend of the river, stripped down and dove into the crisp, cool water as picnicking families looked on in amazement (no, we weren't naked, just crazy). It was my first time in a river since leaving Oregon well over a year ago and it was delicious. The water cooled our core temperatures down to normal range and we continued on our way in much higher spirits. As we rounded the next river bend, we saw a horse grazing picturesquely near some fishermen sharing a bottle of wine and the whole scene appeared to be something out of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. At some point in the long, interminable night of driving that followed, we stopped to clamber onto the hood of our car and gaze in wonder at the Patagonian night sky, where stars and milky galaxies stretched from horizon to horizon under a huge blue moon.
Bariloche is best described by photos, as it is a place of breathtaking beauty and sharp contrast that is nearly impossible to capture with words. In the heart of the Lakes District, this little mountain town was orignially settled by a mix of German, Swiss, and Spanish settlers, which has created a strange and unique Argentinian culuture. The town is dominated by tourism, full of shops and restaurants, many of which are extremely high quality. Due to the swiss/german influence, Bariloche is also home to world-famous chocolate, artfully displayed in whimsical chocolate shops with mouthwatering window displays. Rapa Nui, a purple and chocolate-colored confection of a shop with whole cases of truffles, a chocolate fountain, and gold-wrapped parcels lining the walls, was by far my favorite. My only regret is that, due to camera failure, I could not document this little wonderland for my friend Sabina, who might just move in if she could see it. However, the true wonder of Bariloche lies outside of town, from the enourmous, glacial clear lake on which the town is perched, to the immense bamboo forests of Llao Llao, which we spent an extremely enjoyable day ducking our heads through. The countless mountain lakes, explosion of green forests, and towering Andean peaks looks more like Austria than Argentina. Perhaps it is appropriate then, that Bariloche is also rumored to be the heart of the post-war Nazi immigration to Argentina. It is hard to imagine Josef Mengele, the "doctor of death", among the purple confectionary of Rapa Nui, but according to some local experts, his residence in Bariloche is a well-documented fact.
Even the awesome beauty of Bariloche was easily rivaled by our next landing spot however: the incredible volcanic rainforests of Parque Nacional Puyehue. This Chilean national preserve is the unlikely gateway to Chile from the southern border crossing and it is one hell of a welcome mat. Huge, tree-covered volcanic peaks wreathed in clouds crown a landscape with such heavy vegetation that it seems improbable to stick your hand through. Tropical-colored flowers, Chilean parrots, and tiny Pudu all live here. Parts of the park are also home to small, weather-worn ranches, where the world's happiest-looking cows graze on small parcels of pasture painstakingly cleared from the cloying forest. The drive through the park is nearly 50 km long, and it is breathtaking all the way. Eventually, the road intersects with Highway 5, a proper, well-marked and beautifully constructed toll road that stretches the entire length of Chile. We took this south, to Puerto Varas, on the shore of Lake Llanquihue, the thrid-largest lake in all of South America.
To be continued...
October 7, 2010
Road Trip
Following two long weeks in which I was absolutely swamped with work, Pat and I are preparing to take our first real vacation since we arrived in Argentina nearly 6 months ago. Of course, this vacation is strategically timed to enable us to renew our 90-day tourist visas once again. But it is a bonafide vacation nonetheless. So what's the plan?
First, we are heading south (about 15 hours south) to Bariloche, famous for its breathtaking lakes and mountain peaks, its backcountry skiing and hiking trails, and it's chocolate. Ymmmm, yes. Chocolate! Although the allure of chocolate is always strong for me, we plan to spend just one or two nights in Bariloche this time, with the intention of hitting it up again in January when we finally trek all the way through Patagonia to the end of the world.
After a couple of relaxing nights in "romantic" Bariloche, we will cruise west, ever westward until we hit the Chilean coast and soak in a long-awaited view of the ocean. At this point, my main objective is to gorge myself on as much fresh seafood as humanly possible, while longing around beachside restaurants and haunting the local fishing spots.
Next, we plan to head yet farther south, where we hope to catch the once-daily ferry to Chiloe Island, the second largest of the scattered islands that make up Chilean Patagonia. This island hosts one of the oldest civilizations in Chile, and is called the "magic island" due to the company of elves, dwarves, and south american styled leprechauns it supposedly hosts. There may be some truth to the local legend of magic here, as Chiloe is the site of some strange happenings in history, including the epicenter of the Valdivian Quake of 1960, the strongest earthquake ever recorded at 9.5 on the richter scale. The western half of the island is wild, covered with the protected Valdivian rainforests, while the eastern half is home to a startling aray of wildlife, including Penguins! The local specialty is a kind of seafood luau, where the local catch is slow-roasted in a hole in the ground all day, then enjoyed at night around a lively campfire. Yum!
If we don't fall under the spell of witches or penguins in Chiloe, we will catch the ferry back to the mainland after a couple of days, then make our way up route five all the way to Santiago. Although this toll road is substantially more expensive than its Argentinian counterpart across the border, I have it on good authority that it is not only a vastly more pleasurable drive, but also boasts some more impressive scenery, namely mile upon mile of towering volcanoes. Chile is home to over 500 active volcanoes, a fact which continues to change the landscape and carve out new, breathtaking features. If we are lucky, we hope to locate one of the hundreds of natural hot springs that dot the volcanic landscape, with toasty, soothing waters warmed by all that fiery magma churning underground in one of the world's most active subduction zones.
Although we would love to linger in Santiago, or more likely the famed northern beach towns west of the capital, for now we will have to drive straight over the pass and on to Mendoza for our rendezvous with the real world. We plan to return to this portion of Chile in December, when we will once again need to cross the border to obtain that prized visa stamp. All of this is made possible by one very helpful connection here in Mendoza: I happen to teach the regional manager of Avis rental cars, who obligingly hooked us up with the "corporate family discount" and thus saved us nearly 1000 pesos with a single keystroke. A big, fat beso to you! Now, I am just keeping my fingers crossed that we don't break down in the middle of the wild on either side of the border.
First, we are heading south (about 15 hours south) to Bariloche, famous for its breathtaking lakes and mountain peaks, its backcountry skiing and hiking trails, and it's chocolate. Ymmmm, yes. Chocolate! Although the allure of chocolate is always strong for me, we plan to spend just one or two nights in Bariloche this time, with the intention of hitting it up again in January when we finally trek all the way through Patagonia to the end of the world.
After a couple of relaxing nights in "romantic" Bariloche, we will cruise west, ever westward until we hit the Chilean coast and soak in a long-awaited view of the ocean. At this point, my main objective is to gorge myself on as much fresh seafood as humanly possible, while longing around beachside restaurants and haunting the local fishing spots.
Next, we plan to head yet farther south, where we hope to catch the once-daily ferry to Chiloe Island, the second largest of the scattered islands that make up Chilean Patagonia. This island hosts one of the oldest civilizations in Chile, and is called the "magic island" due to the company of elves, dwarves, and south american styled leprechauns it supposedly hosts. There may be some truth to the local legend of magic here, as Chiloe is the site of some strange happenings in history, including the epicenter of the Valdivian Quake of 1960, the strongest earthquake ever recorded at 9.5 on the richter scale. The western half of the island is wild, covered with the protected Valdivian rainforests, while the eastern half is home to a startling aray of wildlife, including Penguins! The local specialty is a kind of seafood luau, where the local catch is slow-roasted in a hole in the ground all day, then enjoyed at night around a lively campfire. Yum!
If we don't fall under the spell of witches or penguins in Chiloe, we will catch the ferry back to the mainland after a couple of days, then make our way up route five all the way to Santiago. Although this toll road is substantially more expensive than its Argentinian counterpart across the border, I have it on good authority that it is not only a vastly more pleasurable drive, but also boasts some more impressive scenery, namely mile upon mile of towering volcanoes. Chile is home to over 500 active volcanoes, a fact which continues to change the landscape and carve out new, breathtaking features. If we are lucky, we hope to locate one of the hundreds of natural hot springs that dot the volcanic landscape, with toasty, soothing waters warmed by all that fiery magma churning underground in one of the world's most active subduction zones.
Although we would love to linger in Santiago, or more likely the famed northern beach towns west of the capital, for now we will have to drive straight over the pass and on to Mendoza for our rendezvous with the real world. We plan to return to this portion of Chile in December, when we will once again need to cross the border to obtain that prized visa stamp. All of this is made possible by one very helpful connection here in Mendoza: I happen to teach the regional manager of Avis rental cars, who obligingly hooked us up with the "corporate family discount" and thus saved us nearly 1000 pesos with a single keystroke. A big, fat beso to you! Now, I am just keeping my fingers crossed that we don't break down in the middle of the wild on either side of the border.
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