I landed in Buenos Aires and the next day I went to Bariloche. Kent, the guide and owner of the fly-fishing lodge, met me at the airport. He had arranged a few things for me with a local Travel agent. At least he thought he did, because when we stopped to pick up the paperwork, nothing had been done: Mr. Prandi was the most scatterbrained, distracted, non-medicated, person I have ever met. After some effort to make the arrangements we headed of to El Bolson, the jumping off point for the lodge, which is just across the lake/border in Chile.
.jpg "El Bolson fishing hole")
The lodge is secluded and stunning. The young cook, no, the chef, Pablo, was charismatic, imaginative and talented. He wondered if going to Europe after finishing nutritional collage would be a good idea. I sincerely encouraged him. Eric, Kent’s good natured, if somewhat confused son helped around the lodge, and Jack the Labrador, Puffy the cat and a wild goose kept me company. Kent seemed entirely lacking in a sense of humor. He did help improve my casting.
After three days fishing, I had a day in El Bolson, which among other things is known for a large Hippy community. Unfortunately it’s not much in evidence except in a handful of craft shops, with actual crafts. It’s a quiet, little town, off the main tourist tracks, and friendly.
Hike far enough and you find the oddest things. There had been a fire in the hills outside of town years earlier and a local artist had arranged for artists from around the country to come and carve the remaining bits of trees, creating a sculpture garden. It is worth the hike to see.
I checked in the hotel in Calafate, my next stop, and the lovely receptionist greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. Mr. Prandi received silent thanks from me. I had a little passport problem getting to Torrence de Piene. I didn’t have it with me; not knowing it’s in Chilie. Rightly or wrongly, I blamed this on Mr. Prandi. I did manage to get out to some of the other sites. Calafate is right on the tourist crossroads so I stayed just long enough to see the main sights and headed south.
.jpg "Red flower, glacier background")
I have been on volcanoes in Bali, in volcanoes in Costa Rica, and through the Avenue of Volcanoes in Ecuador. I have taken the back road to Machu Picchu and happily hiked the Swiss Alps. I have never flown into anything as rugged and wild looking as the area around Ushuaia. The town itself is pretty laid back.
Ushuaia is the southernmost town in the world. There is a military installation farther south but I don’t count that. I took the train to the end of the Tierra del Fuego National Park, a car as far south as you can drive, and then walked to the end of the world. I met some nice people, some of them even tourists, but the more groups I encountered the more misanthropic I got. I made an observation on a train in the Tierra del Fuego: one of the reasons people are so fucking ignorant is because they are talking during the announcements. And what, by the way, is the point of hiking to the serenity of a clear pool with a charming waterfall if your're going to blunder around it bellowing at each other to take pictures? (Note: I make no mention of nationalities. I am aware of Italian sensitivities.)
After watching a particularly rabid bunch of “nature lovers” clustering to get a view of the penguins nesting, I had to suppress the urge to ask, “if penguins taste good?” during the question and answer session that followed.
Killing time in Ushuaia after my touring, I could have spent my day in one of the museums, but instead spent it eating a juicy steak and sipping wine, watching the people go by. Museums are the past, people are now, and I wasn’t in the mood for the past. Besides, a town isn’t just the architecture and museums; it’s also the businessmen, the pretty girls, the drunks and the noisy traffic. It’s also the kid with his knit cap pulled up so high that he looks a penis in a knit condom with a reservoir tip. Of course, that could have been a figment of my generation.
I booked, and paid in advance for, a 5 star hotel in Buenos Aires. Mr. Prandi however forgot to actually arrange it as I found out on landing there. I ended up in a mildewed, smoke-smelling, shit hole, where some boisterous maids were planning a revolution outside my door. Mr. Prandi personally came to town to refund my money, and that in hand I went exploring. Buenos Aires, with its slightly European buzz, quickly grew on me.
A restaurant and Cervesaria, right across the street went a long way to help. With what seemed five times as many women as men, the ambiance was particularly agreeable, and at $9 for a large plate of Jamon and 2 robust glasses of red, the afternoon was off to a good start. I went back for dinner, and lunch the next day.
I didn’t expect much from breakfast in Hotel Hell, but the next morning the breakfast room in Hell was overflowing with angels: participants for some Jazz Ballet event in town. And to top it off, when I checked out I was not charged for the room.
I liked Argentina. Unlike New Zealand though, I wouldn’t consider living there. Getting things done is a bit hit and miss, as I learned from Mr. Prandi, especially if you need to string a few things together. I love that South America still respects the old traditions. As I waited to board my flight to Santiago, I looked in despair at the mass of people clustering to board. I asked the girl on the ground staff if there was a Business Class line. I was surprised when she looked up at me wide eyed, and in an awed voice said, “Beeesss-neeess claaassss”. She grabbed my arm and escorted me through the throng, where she repeated the words, “Beeesss neeess claaassss” to the person taking tickets. The next thing I knew I was in my seat with a glass of Champagne in my hand. That is as it should be.
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