Mar 2006

You know, you try to be a responsible "journalist" and write an educational blog about history and nature and new cultures but then, in the end, all the uneducated masses really want is toilet humor (see previous comments). You should all be ashamed of yourselves. For all the people who wanted more about the girl with the digestive problems, thanks a lot, because you jinxed me. I walked into my random hostel in Santiago, Chile, and who happens to be my friendly dorm neighbor, but Toilet Girl TG herself. Nooooooooo! We ended up going out for meals together and, over a nice dinner, I got the full and uncensored details of what south american food can do to your stomach. I will be happy to email these details to any jerk that wants them.

Santiago is a relatively normal city with a beautiful centro of European style buildings and plazas that seem to succeed in covering its troubled past. The Paseo Ahumada, a long cobblestone pedestrian walkway, leads up to the Plaza de Armas, a large open air plaza with benches, trees, and artist stands, all bordered in by a gorgeous iglesia (church), the national post office, and various impressive museos (museums). Santiago is in the unfortunate position of having to compete with Buenos Aires, backpacker-wise, and most young tourists wave it off but I actually liked it. I arrived in Casa Roja, a mansion-converted hostel with high renaissance style ceilings and walls of bright yellow and blue, got settled in, and walked down the street to the vegetable stand where the old lady sold me some tomatoes and peppers (for Israeli salad of course!) and a bag of her homemade cabbage salad and sent me off, but not before lecturing me about: 1) carrying Argentinian money, and 2) travelling alone. Don`t worry, mama, I seem to have 150 different mamas yelling at me down here. The Chileans are mainly mestizos, a mix of the Spanish colonizers and the indigenous people. This is very different from Argentina, where 90% of people are of European decent and which has a very small indigenous population because of the Conquista del Desierto which killed most of them.

So the first day in Chile was spent walking in the centro, eating pineapple popsicles while watching the townfolk dance the cueca, the traditional dance of the country. It is a folk dance where all the old people twirl a white handkerchief in the air while courting each other in dance as huasos (cowboys) strum guitars in the background. It is very festive. After two (2) pineapple popsicles and one (1) bag of potato chips (ahhh...vacation), I walked to the end of the centro and climbed the Torre Mirador, a castle turned into a lookout point that oversees all of the city. I eventually met Michael, a French nurse overseeing health projects in rural Chile, and we had some hot chocolate at the intersection of Paris and Londres, two charming cobblestone streets that are blessed with nice big trees that sleepily protect you from the afternoon sun. It was getting dark so I headed back to the hostel, had some sushi with TG (see above), and then went out on the town with TG and Michael. We walked around Bella Vista, the boheme part of town where all the young people get drunk on pisco, the national alcoholic drink that tastes like a mix of 3 parts propane and 2 parts acetone, roughly. Please don`t try to make it at home.

On the way back, we ran into huge groups of skinheads and Michael explained that this was quite common in Santiago ever since the fall of the dictatorship. The young people were so desperate to express themselves that many turned to radical and/or facist movements as an outlet, without a real understanding of what these movements signify. At times like these, it's difficult for me to decide what to tell people my nationality is. Having my pick of the US and Israel, probably two of the most hated governments in the world, I always have to gauge which country will draw a less strong response. But most people I talk to are smart enough to know the difference between politics and people. That is, they like Americans but not the US govt...Israelis, but not the Israeli govt.

The next day, I visited the National Museo and got my first real sense of the strange identity of post-dictatorship Chile. The museo covered the country`s history from indigenous times of the Mapuches and Aymaras right up until 1973 when the Moneda (presidential headquarters) was bombed in a military coup, killing President Allende (this was also ALLEGEDLY backed by the CIA, you´re right Mr Sarat, I do have to be a responsible journalist). After that, the exhibit ended. The history museum ended its history in 1973. Absolutely no mention of the last 30 years and the only place where I saw the name Pinochet was on a plaque at the entrance dedicating the museum to him. So in the end, it seems that a surprising number of Chileans are still pro Pinochet...if you walk into some old people`s homes, you will see a picture of him hung on the wall. And the other Chileans, well, those that were not exiled, tortured, or disappeared during his term, remain quiet on the subject. In reality, neither side talks. This is just my sense of the country from talking to foreigners living here (you can`t exactly ask the locals). Of course, I`m an outsider who doesn`t know a whole lot, AND I`ve been here one week. Not exactly an expert

This blog is getting more and more serious, huh. Okay, let`s go back to fun things! I visited the Chilean stock exchange which I was expecting to be a flurry of sharp stockbrokers yelling angrily into white phones but was actually two old guys having coffee in a big empty room full of Dell computers. I was going to sit and watch them for a while to see if anything would happen but it was a bit awkward, just the three of us (can YOU guess which one was the third wheel?) so I left. I also ate Chinese food on my last night in Santiago. It took me exactly 12 minutes to describe Chicken Chow Mein. This is what happens when you have an Israeli American girl trying to speak spanish to Chinese Chilean old people. In the end, I got fried noodles with mushrooms. Hmmm. The next day, I caught a bus to Valparaiso, 2 hours north.

Valparaiso is easily the most beautiful city I've seen on this trip. A historic port that has survived many natural disasters, its colorful flurry of little houses were randomly built on steep hills that overlook the gorgeous bay. A great way to access these historic neighborhoods at the peak is to, get this, take these ancient ascensores (outdoor elevators) to the top. The elevators are pulled up the hill by a creaky pulley system and when you get to the top, you can walk around the cluster of sunny old houses, hippie art galleries, and cobblestone streets. This is exactly what I did my first day in Valparaiso, taking in the great views of the port and fish markets below. Back at hostel El Yoyo, owned by 22 year old Californian named Russ, we cooked, watched movies, made fish dinners, and just relaxed, which was so nice after so much travelling. Russ and employee Alejandro (Colombia) entertained us nightly by telling us funny stories of the hostel-renovation process: painting and hammering by day, protecting the palace by night, chasing burglars down the street with no clothes on, broken wine bottle in hand (Valparaiso while beautiful is one of the most dangerous cities in Chile). See this link for photos.
http://www.woodward.cl/chilevalparaiso.htm

The next day, I went with Alejandro to La Sebastiana, one of poet Pablo Neruda's lesser known houses. The house was at the very top of a hill, facing the glorious bay leading out to the Pacific Ocean. Each sunny room had an eclectic mix of everything Neruda had collected during his travels around the world: seashell tables, marble plates, wood carvings, glass goblets, and everything colorful you could imagine. Every room had huge bay windows that let the bright sun in, illuminating strange paintings, interesting corners, inverted bathroom mirrors. It was really awesome. Neruda loved the house so much that he wrote a beautiful poem for it, laying it on top of his table in the attic that served as his study. http://www.lasebastiana-neruda.cl/

After La Sebastiana, I went with Peter (Germany) for some empanadas and then a boat tour of the harbor, where Peter almost succeeded in getting us a free tour of the Chilean navy prison by taking pictures of the Chilean navy boats (strictly prohibited. stupid boys.) At night, I went to a karaoke bar and watched some pisco-drunk Chileans sing tearfully along to cheesy spanish love songs. I was able to follow along after a while and we sang with all our heart, until it was time to go home. And then the next day, after spending 3 whole days in Valparaiso, it was time to move on. Next stop, Horcon, a desolate fishing village 3 hours north. This was where my strategy of not having a guidebook, or a map of the country, backfired in a major way...whoops.

(Sorry! Long entry...)

The final leg of my journey toward the end of the world, otherwise known as Tierra del Fuego (Land of Fire), set out from El Calafate at 4am on Thursday. The plan was to take a 4 hour bus east, switch buses south for another 10 hours, and then take the final 3 hour bus to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. There, I had a very important mission: to get myself on a boat to Antarctica. More on that later.

For once in my world of south american transport, everything went ALMOST according to plan, but of course with a few aventuras along the way. First bus, no hitch. But on the second part of the journey, we had to travel through Chile for a bit of 2 hours, which necessitated going through FOUR border checks. Argentina customs-Chile customs-Chile customs-Argentina customs. Note that the Argentinian and Chilean customs people cannot even be in the same building together, the hatred is that strong (usual land wars), so they build two separate buildings at each border, making us poor travellers go through the one hour process four times. The rules are that you cannot bring fruit and vegetables to Chile, even en route, which is followed in a ridiculously strict way if only to simply piss off the Argentinians…hehe. This poor French couple had just bought bags and bags of fruit and had to enlist our help in hiding it in our clothing. Imagine a bus full of old ladies with bananas and apples in their sweaters.

The landscape looked more and more menacing as we continued. No more guanacos. No cute roadrunners. Just barren mountains. We finally drove until we could drive no more, that is, until there was water in front of us. What water, you ask? The infamous Strait of Magellan, which connects the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean, and was actually not discovered by Magellan but rather by his surviving crew of 18 men. (Do you like how I insert historical tidbits in fun paragraphs, just so you continue reading? I´m so clever.) We drove the bus onto a large ferry boat, along with 3 scary looking trucks (I asked in a very important way about weight limits and the captain pinched my cheek) and set out across the strait. The 3 meter high waves made for a rocky ride, but the gorgeous dolphins somersaulting next to us made it awesome. We finally arrived on the other side, drove through a snow storm in the dark, stopped at a weird pastry shop with beavers playing with a hose in the back room (what the…) and arrived in Ushuaia at midnight.

Ushuaia is set along the icy Beagle Channel and is completely surrounded by spectacularly white mountains, with a large port holding huge European cruise ships carrying wealthy people to Cape Horn and Antarctica. Up until 1947, it was home to a jail where many criminals, including political prisoners, were sent to suffer in the cold. You can still visit the old Presidio, creepy. My hostel was set on Avenue Antarctica Argentina (noone owns Antarctica....definite political play on words). Let´s talk about Antarctica for a bit.

In the world of backpacking, there is always a slew of mysterious rumors flying around… mysteriously. Exhibit A: Before arriving in Bariloche, an adamant Brit named Kip (why would I believe someone named Kip??) told me that I could take a 10 hour fishing expedition completely FREE of charge. Unless that is, I caught a fish, in which case I would have to fork over $250 US. Upon hearing this ridiculous story, I excitedly added fishing to my itinerary even though I have no interest in it with the plans of throwing back any fish caught before Sir Captain had a chance to see it. When I arrived in Bariloche, of course no free fishing, ma`am. Sigh. But I´m an optimist, right? So when I´m told in hushed tones in a dark corner of a hostel that I, cheapskate backpacker girl, can get to Antarctica, I know that finally only I, Silvana Joseph, have the scoop. This is purely underground knowledge. So here´s the plan, man. There are two ways of getting to Antarctica on the cheap. One: get a standby ticket on one of those $5,000 cruises. Someone always cancels. You then take a $900 15-day cruise with a lot of old people who have been researching snowboots their whole lives. The second? You contact the Chilean navy who will escort you to Antarctica and won´t even make you scrub the deck. Well, both of these sound great. A cruise is preferable but I know the chances are slim, so I prepare for the Chilean navy experience by recruiting two Canadian mountain boys named Clayton and Peter (!) to escort me onto the Chilean navy ship. The deal is that I charm us onto the boat and they provide us protection as only Canadian mountain boys can do (I don´t know what that means). We talk about this in a very excited way but we make sure not to tell anyone, because from this point on, everyone is…competition.

So what did I do my first two days in Ushuaia? I ran from tourist office to tourist office, trying to get us standby tickets to Antarctica. Which do not exist of course On to Plan B! I acquire the email address of the Chilean navy (the whole navy has ONE email address?) which bounces back, leaving me to wander around hassling every person dressed in a navy uniform and/or costume. No luck. What would you do at this point? Well, first I had some chocolate of course. And then I went to the only place that could give me comfort during this hard time. The Isle of the Penguins. Woohoo! We set out on a 1 hour bus through entirely dead forests (the gusts of winds are too strong for the trees) to arrive at Haberton Estancia, an historic ranch with access to the island. We got on a speedboat and cut through the icy waters to arrive at the island, where all the penguins were waiting for us with open…wings. They were so cute…waddling around…. swimming… looking all cute…you know, doing what penguins do so well. I wish I could tell you some facts about penguins but I actually wasn´t paying attention to the guide, they were just so damn cute. We crawled around the island taking pictures and then crept along the nesting grounds where all these stupid tourists kept trying to pet the penguins. And then it was time to go. They waddled goodbye to us and we sped off. I got to talking to our guide Luis who leads protests in Cordoba against the American companies that have been seizing farmers´ lands with the aid of corrupt local police factions…very depressing but important to hear. Unfortunately, I´ve heard this type of story one too many times from the locals in the last 2 months.

The next day, I went to the National Park with Olivier (France) and we hiked along the still lake, chased the hundreds of rabbits everywhere, took a nap on the pebbly shore, and then climbed small green hills where the rabbits dig their holes, which wind their way along dead forests and black lagoons. Absolutely gorgeous. The following day, I went with Eyal (Israel) to the Museo del Fin del Mundo to get our passports stamped with the official “End of the World” stamp, which is indeed very official and may get me banned from several countries. And other than that, I guess there´s not much else to do in Ushuaia. But a beautiful town and definitely worth the journey.

I calculated that I had taken over 70 hours worth of busses down here to Ushuaia and that it might be worth it to spend the extra $20 and take a flight back north. I was lucky enough to get a flight out that week (they say that the first thing you should do in Ushuaia is get a flight out of Ushuaia) and arrived in WARM Buenos Aires at 2 in the morning, with my taxista flying down the street at 70 mph, “skillfully” avoiding city buses and small children who shouldn´t be out. Ahh…Buenos Aires.

I had arrived just in time for the 30 year anniversary of the military coup that had seized the country on March 24, 1976. This coup (which was by the way supported by Kissinger and the US govt, in the name of “regional security”) led to the atrocious years of terror during which an estimated 30,000 Argentinian citizens, everyday people, were made to “disappear” by the government. This is the central part of the Argentinian identity….hopeful but eternally distrustful of government, wary of what the future holds. In observance of this sad day, there were demonstrations all day at Plaza de Mayo (where the head of government is located), by various orgs including the Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo (You may have heard of Madres de Plaza de Mayo, who protest in the plaza every Thursday in memory of their disappeared children). I watched a radical org covered in head rags and carrying bats burn down dummies of policemen in the plaza and the more hopeful Movimiento Popular lead songs about el Peronismo and Che Guevara. Politics aside, it was a very emotional day, even for us outsiders. A news team came to interview me (why me, why me) and I`m hoping that my Spanish mess made more sense than my famously dumb newspaper quotes back home. (October, 2002-- “I think literacy is…good.”) That night, we all went out on the town and got home at 7am, and a few hours later I caught a bus to Santiago, Chile.

Yes, Argentina is complete. What a trip! It´s time to start exploring the rest of this incredible continent.

Drawing upon my many years of technical experience as a Marketing Coordinator for the lovely VSUW, I have provided you with a high tech map of my route. Rebecca, are you proud?? Beto and Corrinna, I couldn´t figure out the whole editing in Paint...as usual.

I left Bariloche at 7 am, just when all the bars were letting out streams of loud young people. The sun was just coming up over the mountainous cordillera of Bariloche and it was absolutely beautiful…and cold. Thankfully, I had bought not one but TWO ski jackets from the thrift store down the street so I was able to burrow myself in. The minivan that was to take me for a 2 day journey toward the south squeaked down the street. It was a block of rusty metal with two bullet holes in the windshield. The first bullet hole was at the eye level of the driver, and the second was at the eye level of the passenger (in case he felt left out). Neither party looked too concerned.

We boarded the limo and headed down the infamous and unpaved Ruta 40, which actually goes all the way from north of Salta (very northern Argentina) to the very southern tip of the continent, Ushuaia, a mere 4,000 km from the South Pole. Once out of the city, we were pretty much in the middle of vast, endless plains, with snowcapped mountains looming over the horizon. The whole ride was bumpy on gravel and mud, and at many points, we drove on the ditch of the road because it was smoother. After a few hours, our only companions were packs of wild horses, condors, hundreds of guanacos (relative of the llama) and the occasional roadrunner, (which for the record can run pretty damn fast when there´s a rusty minivan with bullet holes barreling toward it…but it doesn´t say meep meep, sorry Navoosh). I made the mistake of befriending a Swiss/Italian girl who insisted on keeping me updated about her digestive problems for the whole trip. That night, we camped out at the “city” of Perito Moreno, a dusty one street town. The next morning, we headed out to Cueva de Las Manos (Cave of the Hands), the archaeological jewel of Patagonia (southern region of Argentina). It is a collection of handprints, geometric figures, and drawings of guanacos on a side of a mountain that are believed to be 9,000 years old. The drawings were made with guanaco blood and calafate berry juice. Yum! To see the drawings, visit this place http://www.patagonia.com.ar/santacruz/cuevamanos.php. I met Orin, an Israeli hitchhiking his way around the continent. In true Israeli style, he kept insisting that the site was a fake, yelling “how do you say STENCIL in Spanish?!?” but lordy lord, I believe it. After that, dusty and content, we continued down Ruta 40 the whole day until we finally reached the town of El Chalten at 11 pm.

El Chalten, another one-dusty-road town, was actually not dusty at all, but rather under 8 feet of mud, because it just wouldn´t stop raining…EVER. The plan was to hike up Fitz Roy, an incredible mountain with rivers and glaciers, one of the most panoramic treks in Patagonia, but when we woke up the next day, rain and mud and mud and rain. Not just that but also fog and 50 mph winds, howling like a tornado, it took 30 minutes to walk down the one road because the winds were so strong. I had befriended some really good folks, two hilarious Irish girls named Clare and Siofra, so we spent the day visiting the one chocolaterie in town, playing cards and eating…well…chocolate of course. Any day which involves chocolate is a good day, I think. Chalten is overrun by Israeli backpackers so we learned the Israeli card game that is currently taking the backpacking world by storm, Yaniv. Very addictive. I also hung about a nice Argentian couple, Fito, a forensic pathologist and Miriam, a librarian, who decided to adopt me as their own, with Fito lecturing me about the dangers of travel and Miriam giving me perfumy kisses and empanada recipes. The next day, we had had enough of the rain so we set out for Fitz Roy anyway, me, Clare, Siofra, and a grumpy philosophy PhD student named Igor. It was sunny and beautiful for the first 3 hours of the trek, we marveled at our luck, drank from the river, took nice pictures of the far off icy plains and then all of a sudden, BOOM, the storm of all storms. Monsoon rain, howling winds, the whole shebang. We were one hour from the top (not of the mountain, mind you, just one of its peaks. I´m not that hard core), at the refuge camp, and just had to turn around lest we get blown off into the abyss. The journey down was hard but Siofra and Clare brightened it up in their usual way by trying to teach me Irish rebel songs. I know it´s English but I had no idea what those two were saying so I resorted to keeping the beat by energetically clapping my hands all the way down (which also helped keep them warm). We finally returned to the hostel 8 hours later, soaking wet and cold and very thankful for the hot chicken soup.

The next morning, Clare, Siofra, Igor, and I boarded a bus for El Calafate, 5 hours south and more “cosmopolitan” than our lovable one-horse town. We arrived at hostel America del Sur, a big open space of a thing with heated hardwood floors and huge bay windows facing the wonderfully blue lake, Lago Argentino. The reason people come to El Calafate is to see El Perito Moreno, the most famous glacier on the continent and one of the few accessible by land. Well, it turned out that the week we arrived was the week the glacier was supposed to BREAK. This happens only once in a decade. When we arrived, the hostel was desolate because everyone had headed out to the glacier, hoping to witness the momentous event. We quickly booked a bus and headed out.

I have never seen a glacier in my life and it is one of the most incredible sights. Perito Moreno is 20 km long, 4 km wide, and 120 meters high. It is a surface of thousands of 20-story high icy peaks, white and blue and turquoise, that change color with the sun and the rain. There are icebergs floating all around it, which Clare aptly called “Nature´s Margarita”. When you first arrive upon it, you´re left speechless. We took a boat out to the bay that gets within 30 meters of the glacier. Because a large part of the glacier was about to break, chunks of ice (weighing several tons each, some the size of houses) were falling rapidly off the glacier. Every 3 minutes or so, you would see this huge piece of ice fall off into the water and then 4 seconds after, there would be a huge thundering noise all around the valley. It was absolutely amazing. We stayed there in the frigid cold with the news cameras until 8 pm and then we had to leave on the last bus out. The glacier broke 3 hours later. Apparently, there were only a dozen or so people there to witness it. Ahh…nature does not follow tourist visiting hours J To see El Perito Moreno, visit this page. http://www.argentour.com/PeritoMorenoe.htm

Days 3 and 4 in El Calafate were spent walking around, eating calafate berry ice cream (tastes like a mix of lemon and cherries), and trying with no success to keep Clare and Siofra from buying up every “indigenous” piece of art in the ritzy downtown area (Siofra bought something that ended up being made in China). On our last night, we visited Nibepo Aike, an Argentinian estancia (ranch) nestled on the border of Argentina and Chile. We sat by the fire in front of a window overlooking the sun setting against Lago Argentino, snowpeaked mountains, and a sliver of the Perito Moreno glacier. We then went out for a horseride by the lake, which was a major event for me because I´ve been scared of horses ever since the infamous Italian horseriding incident of 99 (Melissa and me in the middle of a ranch in northern Italy, her champion stallion sees a dog and gallops off, throwing her off into a mud puddle) but Octubre was very well behaved and even let me pet his hair. We watched the gauchos (cowboys) shear a fuzzy sheep and ended the night with a big dinner with a French Canadian couple and a Spanish girl who did the dubbing voice for Ann Hathaway in the spanish version of Brokeback Mountain. The dinner was a typical estancia asado of beef, sausage, and cordero (lamb). They spread the lamb carcass over an opèn fire pit and let it cook and smoke for hours. I know I swore off asados but this was my absolute last one. For real this time.

The next day, I bid Clare and Siofra farewell (back to Ireland for them!) and caught the 4 am bus to Ushuia, the southernmost city in the world, where los penguinos and Antarctica and the Beagle Channel all hang out. The 18 hour journey consisted of 3 buses, 4 border crossings, and one very rocky boat ride across the stormy strait of Magellan, but that´s all in the next entry. (Is that building up suspense? Huh?? Huh?? I need to work on those endings...)

My last few days in Mendoza were spent wandering around with no particular purpose, as a way to recover from my adventure travel fad. Back at our cute little hostel, the old timers, aka those of us who had been staying there for more than three days, had formed a little exclusive gang made up of 4 Scots, 2 Brits, 2 Irishmen, 1 Canadian, and me. We gambled bottles of wine on Connect-4 and UNO championship tournaments, compared travel horror stories, and shot dirty looks at the wave of Australian athletes that had just come in, whispering amongst ourselves "What are they doing at OUR hostel....".

Being that I renewed my room reservation late, I was banished to the basement, a dark room with no windows, where my roommate was Franco, a chatterbox Chilean/Canadian who tells lively stories where he is, suspiciously enough, always the hero. The main example of this was when Franco went whitewater rafting on Tuesday and some "Americano!" fell out of the boat and freaked out, forgetting to assume the safety position of pointing your toes toward the current. Quick on his feet, Franco grabbed the poor sucker by the shirt and yelled "Look at me, man! Look at me! There is a rock coming our way...you need to CALM down." This speech somehow had a great calming effect on the victim and Franco eventually pulled him to safety. I didn´t believe this story so Franco made us go to the travel agency and buy a CD of pictures of that day that show the heroic moment, shot by shot. On Wednesday, Franco and Claudia (Holland) convinced me to go to the zoo, where me and Claudia got depressed by the small cages and Franco kept getting lost looking for the tigers. We hit an incredible monsoon ONCE AGAIN (these things are following me), where we hid under a vendor´s umbrella as 1 inch pieces of HAIL slammed down onto the pavement. The storm lasted for 30 thundering minutes so we had to entertain ourselves by listening to a fellow zoo patron sing "I´m sigggneee in da rain!" and by staring at the elephant that was picking up falling branches and hitting himself over the head with them (not a good sign) so then it was time to leave. Leave Mendoza that is, I caught the 8 pm bus that night for Bariloche. It was the end of the week and I already owed a total of 9 bottles of wine (that´s 18 games of UNO, mind you), so I had to quickly skip town before someone came (to the basement) to break my knees.

I got on my Andesmar bus (because it goes from the Andes to the mar or ocean) and sat down next to Luis, a really sweet 70 year old porteno, and for the next 5 hours, he practiced his English and I practiced my Spanish. I learned that I have been mixing up the words for religious and hairy. We also played Andesmar Bingo, where the steward hands out Andesmar Bingo cards and when you have two vertical or horizontal lines, you have to yell out ANDESMAR BINGO! while everyone stares at you in contempt. The prize is a bottle of wine that you have to share with the rest of the bus. Neither Luis nor I won, so we went to sleep and woke up the next morning in Nuqueyen, my layover en route to Bariloche. Luis and I exchanged emails and parted ways. While waiting for the bus, I met Paula, a pastry chef from Rio Gallegos. We exchanged emails. I continued onwards south, where on my second bus, we played yet another exciting game of Andesmar Bingo. Well, lo and behold, I got two vertical lines so I mustered up all my courage and said quietly..."Andesmar...Bingo??". The steward didn´t hear me and continued calling the numbers in excitement. My fellow passengers (who had looked suicidal up to that point) suddenly found a cause, MY cause, and rallied to my defense, repeatedly yelling Andesmar Bingo! until the steward stopped the game and collected my card. Everyone held their breath. He shook his head sadly. If I had listened to the instructions, he said, I would have understood that I need to fill up the entire grid to win. All the passengers shook their head at me....poor turista...and the game continued! Onward to Andesmar Bingo!!

I arrived in Bariloche in late afternoon, to a stunning view of dozens of bright blue lakes snaking around green patches of forest, all against the backdrop of the snowcapped Andes. The weather was noticeably cooler, probably 60 degrees or so. While waiting for the bus, I met two Chilean hippies. They emphatically decided they would be my hosts in Santiago and we exchanged emails. This whole email exchange...it´s kind of silly...everyone does it but noone ever follows up. Maybe that´s a good thing? I arrived in Hostel 41 Below (that´s a reference to latitude), an awesome hostel run by a laid back New Zealander named Paul. Imagine a modern ski lodge with red leather couches, fully equipped kitchen, and Coldplay playing in the background. Snowboarder-Skater dude Miguel was working the front desk and, with zero pity for my 24 hour journey, he immediately sent me off on a trek up Cerro Otto, an amazing panoramic view of the area. But not before we sat down to drink some mate, the official tea of Argentina, the official hobby of Argentina. Everyone has their own nicely decorated mate cup with a metal straw, and you´re usually not allowed to drink from someone else´s mate unless you have permission. There are a lot of rules concerning mate. Miguel limited our lesson to yelling at me to not touch the straw..."You foreigners...you´re always touching the straw...just leave the damn straw alone." Okay, okay!

The next few days were pretty fun. I went white water rafting in Rio Mansu, a relaxing current with some pretty exciting rapids, all against the backdrop of the mountains. We all dutifully rowed and ducked when leader Alan told us to. Half of the boat spoke English and the other Spanish so Alan kept getting confused, and getting us confused, with the captain´s commands. Alto! No, stop. No, the left. derecha, derecha!! No, no, no!! DUCK!!! We ended the day with some hot chocolate and torta frita with dulce de leche in some random wood cabin in the woods. Very nice. The nights were spent hanging out with the hostel people, going out to jazz bars, and gorging myself on Bariloche´s famous chocolateries, most notably Mamuschka´s. On the third day in Bariloche, I received a dramatically mysterious note from Miguel telling me to go to El Boliche de Alberto, a famed Barilochean parilla, at 9 pm. When I arrived, Paul and his friend Daniel were there, fresh from the Chilean beaches, and we sat down to a steak dinner, eating 1800 grams of sizzling steak which Paul swore was served by white haired Alberto himself. We ate so much that I swore off steak for the rest of my life, which I´m pretty sure I can now do. I guess it was just a fad, sorry mom and dad. We went night clubbing to bad eighties music (think ABBA but none of their famous songs) and the next day, we visited the casino where I found a magic poker machine and the Villa Sofia spa, where we got one hour massages (I fell asleep so I guess it was good) and ran from the hot tub to the pool to the hot tub to the pool approximately 35 times. Paul left for good this time (I swear!) so it was sad to see him go but he´s excited about starting his own bar so we high fived and promised to keep in touch.

Tuesday was so bad that I have describe it in an organized way. I had signed up for a boat excursion out to Isla Victoria, an island that has the very famous Arreyanes forest with very old tree and plant forms. I was supposed to be there at 2 pm. The journey to Puerto Panuelo, the port where the ship is harbored, is a 30 minute bus ride. I left the hostel at 10. This is what happened:

10:00- I leave my hostel.
10:15- I catch bus #21 to Puerto Panuelo
10:30- I realize that I have 14 pesos on me. The park entry is 12 pesos. The bus ride back is 2 pesos. Too close.
10:45- I get off at Merito, a port with a huge kindergarten smack in the middle of it. I look for a bank. No banks.
11:00- I catch bus #21 back to the center of town. The winds are insane today, 45 mph. This cuts out all the electricity in every bank in town. The ATMS are out. I wait 45 minutes for them to come back on.
11:45- I catch bus #21 back towards Puerto Panuelo. It does not go to Puerto Panuelo, instead heading south through every dusty town in Argentina. At the end of the route, it is just me and the driver in an empty field. I say "Puerto Panuelo?" and he just laughs.
12:00- The driver has finished his lunch and we head on back.
12:10- 75 kindergarteners get on the bus. The bus capacity is 52.
12:45- I get dropped off at, you guessed, Merito, along with all the kindergarteners. The crossing guard helps us across the street.
1:30- I catch bus #20 toward Puerto Panuelo.
1:50- I arrive. Fernando will not let me on the boat, saying I am not on the list. "Sivan Yosef", I say to him repeatedly. He shakes his head. As I watch my boat leave the harbor, Fernando says "Oh...Sivan Josef?". I stomp off, wishing the worst for Fernando, that the milk in his fridge will go bad, or that he will get bitten by a monkey.
2:10- In my rage, I decide to hike up Mount Liao Liao, a muddy, jungly island which happens to be right there.
3:00- Still mad, I am stomping up the muddy mountain.
3:10- I hear a bear approx 3 meters from me. I run down Mount Liao Liao. I take back all the bad things I thought about Fernando.
4:00- The continous rain that has been falling for the last four hours turns into a shower. It is cold and I am wet. I find a church on top of a hill and hide out there in the warmth. I make a promise to find Jesus in exchange for a cup of hot chocolate. They are sweet, but there is no hot chocolate, so I decide to stay a Jew. They seem okay with that.
4:30- Home sweet home.
4:33- I learn that there are no bears on Mount Liao Liao.

After this day, the only thing left to do was to go to my magic poker machine at the casino, which did not let me down. 8 US dollars, baby!

The remaining days in Bariloche were unfortunately rainy so trekking was out of the question. One day, I explored the "unknown Bariloche" with Susie (USA) and Pablo (BsAs). We wandered around dusty streets which Pablo insisted were not safe. I tried in vain to explain to him my 3 rules of safety.

1. Look pissed off. I´ve perfected this look and I use it most of the time when I´m walking alone. This works for minor dangers, like when someone is looking at you.
2. Pretend you have a cell phone earpiece in your ear and start talking loudly. This works if someone is following you...they´ll usually walk away, either because they think you´re talking on your cell phone or because they think you´re a weirdo.
3. Find an old lady. This is for really unsafe situations. Just find an old lady and start walking with her, because noone, anywhere in the world, will ever mess with someone´s grandma.

I thought these rules were pretty damn good but Pablo did not seem convinced, especially after we passed a carful of boys sniffing glue, so he ushered us back to the main plaza. Sigh...

On Thursday, I said goodbye to the awesome hostel staff and boarded a 7 am bus to El Chalten, a 2 day, 32 hour bus ride through Ruta 40, a desolate, unpaved road that goes from Bariloche to El Calafate, the home of Perrito Moreno, one of the most famous glaciers on the continent. As I move south, the landscape is getting more and more barren, but also more spectacular. It is bitterly cold and the winds easily reach 60 mph...quite the difference from the tropical climate of Iguazu, huh. I´ve almost reached The End of the World...very exciting. Stay tuned!