Argentina: Where the Culture is as Pungent as the Mate

Bariloche:

The bus ride through the Andes to Argentina is beautiful, especially from our panoramic seats in the front row of the top floor. We arrive in Bariloche at night and shack up at one of the institutional HI - Hosteling International - hostels. In the daytime, we move to a hostel two doors down that's not as clean but a little more relaxed. Both hostels have bidets in the bathrooms, but, as it turns out, they're in pretty much every bathroom in Argentina and Uruguay. For those of you who don't know, a bidet is a basin with a spicket, right next to the toilet, that cleans the genital area and the, uh, inner buttocks. Apparently they're quite popular in a lot of South American and European countries, but I'll just stick to my regimen of using toilet paper and cleaning well in la ducha, the shower.

Bariloche is a resort town smack in the middle of Argentina's lake district. Saint Bernards sit in the square, with small barrels around their necks, waiting to pose for photos so that their owners can make a few pesos. Chocolate shops, the most popular of which is called Del Turista (for the tourist), serve dulce de leche-flavored ice cream, and chalet-type hotels accomodate summer tourists like us and skiers in the winter time. Is this Argentina, or did I somehow end up in Switzerland?

We take a bus out of town to one of the many lakes, sit beside it and eat our packed lunches, and do a hike through the forest to a small waterfall. Unfortunately, our Ecuadorian friend Henry is not around, so we can only look at the waterfall - no repelling today. Back in town in the evening, I watch some skaters at the ice rink that sits just above the lake, reading my book and thinking about tomorrow: my 24th birthday. Wanting to rest up for the occasion, I put myself to bed early but am aroused at midnight when the guys barge into the room singing ¨Happy Birthday¨. Insisting that we go out for at least a drink, they take me down the street to the casino, essentially a banquet room that, unlike Vegas, is brightly lit and relatively quiet. The guys buy me a Whiscola and give me a hundred pesos to play Black Jack. When we leave the table I am up thirty pesos (roughly ten dollars), and it seems my birthday is off to a good start.

The next morning, a little sad about being away from home and with few expecations for my birthday, I am, needless to say, ecstatic when Stephen surprises me by taking me to a five-star hotel called Edelweiss, where a suite with views of the lake awaits us. I spend most of the day in the robe and slippers that come with the room; I undwind in the jacuzzi tub; I watch ¨Ghostbusters¨and U.S. television programs; and I drink a free bottle of champagne, compliments of the hotel. It's the perfect break, just about halfway through the trip, from the bunked beds, dirty bathrooms and paranoia that come along with the hosteling way of life. In the evening, Schuster, Stephen and I go to meet Sam, his girlfriend, his girlfriend's sister and her friend at a restaurant on a street called el 20 de febrero, my birth date. As we approach the restaurant the power on the block goes out; I sit in the candlelight eating my delicious steak dinner with a few friends and a few near-perfect strangers, and I must say that it's not half bad for a 24th birthday in Argentina.

The morning after we enjoy the plentiful American-style buffet and the swimming pool at the hotel, savoring the last moments. It's back to hostel world mid-day, but the transition is easy because Sam and Schuster have found one of those jewel hostels. It's lakefront and clean, and it has a bar that brews its own blonde and stout beers. A short afternoon trip to Lago Llao Lao and the Llao Llao resort is the perfect topping to the day.


El Bolsón:

Schuster, Stephen and I say farewell to Sam, who's now in the hands of his girlfriend, Kate. Then the three of us go farther south to El Bolson, a magical little town that makes me feel nostalgic for Boulder. Located in a mountain valley, it's full of artesans (hippies) and microbeers. It's in Bolson that the Argentine culture starts to become apparent - the mate (mah-tay) gourds, the crazy pant styles (some with Rasta stripes and some with really baggy inseams that I call ¨poopy pants¨), the rat tail hairdos, etc. Our trio sets up camp at a campground on the parameters of town, makes foil meals for dinner and watches a couple of hang-gliders floating next to the flatirons that disappear into pink clouds. After dinner we go with the couple from the campsite next to ours - an Argentine woman and a glassblower from Eugene, Oregon - to the microbrewery down the street. The only disturbance in Bolson are the birds that screech at night while we sleep. One screech comes from a distance and another comes from the next campsite, and then suddenly it sounds like there's a god-awful bird inside the tent. I feel like I'm in a Hitchcock film.

On day two in Bolson the boys tackle a big hike, and I decide to do something more mellow. After spending a few hours using wi-fi at a cafe, I'm supposed to meet the couple from the campsite (the Argentina and the Oregonian) at the bus stop and do a small hike with them to the Enchanted Forest. I wait for them for a while and just when I come to the conclusion that they're not coming, an artesan (hippie) approaches me and asks me if I'd like to join him for a walk down to the river, where he's meeting his friends. I have nothing else to do, and the weather is perfect so I say, ¨Porque no?¨ Beto the Hippie and I cross the river on a pedestrian bridge and walk along a footpath for about an hour, speaking in Spanish the whole way. I keep wondering where he's taking me and if it was a bad idea to go along with him, but then I tell myself that he's pretty sedated and shorter and skinnier than me - I can kick his ass if need be. We reach a swimming hole and take a quick dip, and pretty soon we're in the little hippie commune where he lives. It's made up of a dilapidated house, a bunch of tents, some puppies, and a ring of friendly hippies who are passing around the mate gourd. I say hello to everyone and purchase a ring from Beto, not necessarily because I like his jewelry but more because I'm helping him toward purchasing his bus ticket to Mendoza. The two of us walk back to the main road and grab a ride in the back of a truck to the center of town. I say farewell, to Beto's dismay, but I spot his dreadlocks later in the evening when walking with Schuster and Stephen to grab some pizza; he's barefoot and juggling in the lawn of the main plaza, fraternizing with the other artesans.


Parque Nacional Los Alerces:

The three of us venture farther south to the national park that sort of falls beneath the radar for most people. It´s great news for us because we're able to camp for free just next to the lake, and we see all but a handful of other people the whole while we're there. We swim in the crystal-clear lake and make foil meals for dinner again, and at night, the star show is quite possibly the best I've ever seen. It's even more stunning for Schuster, who's been under Los Angeles smog for most of his life. On day two we do a hike through a forest full of bamboo up to a series of waterfalls, and then we head back to Esquel, the town closest to the park. I make a last minute decision, after having been on the fence for a couple of days, to go ahead with Schuster to Buenos Aires instead of going to see the glaciers and Ushuaia with Stephen. My money is starting to get low, and I've already had to cancel Colombia out of my plans for this trip; the bulk of Patagonia will have to wait as well. Schuster and I say bye to Stephen, who will meet us in Buenos Aires in a couple of weeks.


Puerto Madryn and Peninsula Valdez:

Puerto Madryn is lackluster. In fact, the only thing to speak of is the nearby Peninsula Valdez. We take a tour to the peninsula, despite our typical opposition to guided tours, and we see a variety of wildlife that make it worthwhile. While we didn't have the fortune of seeing beached orcas (it's feeding season for the orcas, and there's roughly a three percent chance that you will see them snatch sea lions up off the beach), we did see roadrunners (or the Argentina equivalent anyway) and armadillos, and a large number of sea lions, penguins, and elephant seals.


Buenos Aires:

After the peninsula tour, Schuster and I go for about seventeen hours in two buses to Buenos Aires. The pampas outside of the city are beautiful, and the gauchos that occupy them are just as intriguing. On the edge of the city are shanty towns or villas miserias, but they quickly give way to high-rise apartment buildings and other signs of affluence. After just a couple of minutes, I can already tell that I'm going to be head-over-heels for this city.

In Palermo, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Buenos Aires, we go to the 23rd floor of an apartment complex to meet Daniela and Marcelo, Schuster's aunt and her boyfriend slash husband. The two of them take us in with open arms and show us to the guest bedroom, where, for the first time in months, I am able to take the things out of my pack and put them in drawers - what a feeling!

I stay with Daniela and Marcelo - kind as they are - for just over two weeks, during which I confirm the fact that Buenos Aires is a city after my own heart. Not only do I experience the hospitality of two very warm and interesting people; I also experience the culture that oozes out of the city's pores, and I even take some Spanish classes. Daniela and Marcelo give us keys to the apartment and show us (mostly me) around the city. They treat us to ice cream and other delicious foods, and we cook for them a few times in a meager attempt to repay them for their kindness. Marcelo is a die-hard River fan, in the rivalry of the city's two futbol giants, and he speaks to me in extremely fast and colloquial Spanish, explaining to me that I will learn better that way. Daniela takes me to one of the places where she does the tango, and I am mesmerized by the dance's rituals and seduction. I am endeared to Daniela because of the way she smokes cigarettes without inhaling and because of the way she, when speaking English, always says ¨he¨and never ¨she¨.

Spanish classes are great because, unlike the way I was in most of my college courses, I am eager to learn. I have several individual lessons, which are mostly conversational, and several group lessons, which only have three students: a German guy who speaks Spanish with a French accent, a smiley guy from Monterey, and me. Before and after classes, I spend my time poolside at Daniela's apartment; getting to know Schuster's family, including his two grandmothers who live in Buenos Aires; catching up on American cinema (a nice return to a little bit of normalcy); checking out the city's modern art museum, parks and tree-lined avenues; and dabbling a bit in the nightlife.

I must say that I've discovered I fit into the park culture of Buenos Aires more so than the nightlife culture. Most Argentines start partying at midnight, hit the boliches (discos) around 2:00 or 3:00 and then party until 7:00 or 8:00, or until 11:00 if they feel like going to an after-party; they then sleep away a big chunk the day and go at it again. I tried it a few times but never made it past 3a.m. and never saw the inside of one of the boliches; who knew I was such an old lady at twenty-four? The park scene can be experienced at ¨normal¨ hours and, in my opinion, is just as exciting. One park is full of groups of teenagers with mate gourds and thermoses in-hand; break-dance circles; competitive soccer games; old men playing chess; dog-walkers with twelve dogs at once; and the list goes on. Why not spend the day at the park and then go to ¨Palermo Hollywood¨ for a nice steak dinner? Or there's always the option of drinking a bottle of whiskey, going out to a midnight dinner at Middle Eastern joint called Sarki's and then calling it a night once you're so full of whiskey, wine and hummus you can barely walk.