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...
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