Parting Shot | Back Home
Parting Shot
If you haven’t already guessed, I’m already back home… in fact, resting in a condo in the Colorado Rockies near Keystone. Here are some black & white images of my last day in Patagonia from the streets and from the plane.
Last day in Ushuaia
Ushuaia
Images from Ushuaia on my last day in Argentina, and a long journey back home.
Tierra del Fuego: National Park
Tierra del Fuego National Park
A leisurely hike in Tierra del Fuego National Park, accompanied by Carole from Bern, Switzerland.
Beagle Channel
Cormorants in the Beagle Channel
Too tired to write today. Partook in one of those mass-tourism cruise and bus rides, but it was worth it for the limited time I have in Ushuaia and the surrounding area. Getting tired and hiking tomorrow, so I’ll keep this list short and dry:
- Spying on Cormorants
- Trying not to smell sea lions
- Paparazzi-style on Magellan Penguins (locals call them Jack-ass penguins)
- Visiting Estancia Harberton
- Spotting a beaver dam (beavers are not native to South America)
- Spoiling lazy house cats
- Making friends with Otto, the Siberian husky
- Walking along the Ushuaia waterfront
Lo-Fi: Tierra del Fuego
Beagle Channel
I heart Tierra del Fuego. I couldn’t break out the big gun (the Nikon D90) to take photos of the archipelago upon our descent, so I had to do my best with the iPhone built-in camera. Enjoy.
I would have gladly traded my 3 nights in Bariloche, for an extra 3 nights in Ushuaia – even if it would have snowed or rained. Ushuaia carries a more genuine character than the more worldly Bariloche. I’m almost sad to be leaving Patagonia in just 3 days… <sniff>.
Sunny Bariloche
Sunny Bariloche
“Te gusta mucho Bariloche?” taxi driver asked. (Did you enjoy Bariloche?)
“Si! Me gusta mucho,” I lied and smiled. “Es muy linda… (when it’s not raining),” I added in English.
“De China? Japon?” he asked where I was from. I’m not sure why it does, but I am always offended when every “foreigner” asks me whether I am Chinese or Japanese. I have nothing against the people. Then I was reminded by a Chinese tourist on my flight to El Calafate.
“Please, all passengers must be seated during our ascent,” the flight attended politely made a general statement but was clearly directly her comment to the turista who stood up two minutes into the flight. The plane was already rising at an angle, when he took off his seat belt, and raced for the overhead compartment for his camera. Damn… he’s justifying the stereotype, I thought.
She repeated the directions in Spanish. The other tourists tried to grab his attention, but he came to this country speaking neither Spanish nor English. I looked outside at the beautiful mountains that were getting progressively smaller. I started to wish I could claim blissful ignorance and start shooting away.
Damn you, Bariloche. Only when I finally realize my escape plan out of this hell hole, she reveals her beautiful mountains.
Near-bored-to-death Experience
Raindrops
I found myself taking photos of the rain drops frozen to the window pane. “Am I really this bored?” I’d ask myself. Simyon caught me in the act, and started to laugh. There is absolutely nothing to do in Bariloche when it rains.
(Warning: The remainder of this story is somewhat vulgar.)
This hostel has a remarkable ratio of pretty girls, though perhaps committed or too young to realistically pursue. I sit at a table by the window in the canteen eagerly awaiting dinner. It’s already 8:30 pm, but they eat dinner rather late in Argentina. A young Irish man takes a seat at the opposite end of the same bench, we nod in mutual acknowledgement, and he resumes reading a worn paperback book. At the other end of the dining room, I see a young attractive Polish girl approach the table. She scans the table and deliberates whether to sit nearer me or the other guy, but she’s already marked her target. On the prowl, she smiles at the guy and sits directly across from him. I can’t help feeling like an anxious 3rd grader in gym class being the last one to be picked for a team. I come in last.
Her name is impossible for an American or Irishman to pronounce, so he asks her if he could just call her “J”. He recounts his adventures, and she laughs after every thirteen syllables.
“… but it was snowing by the time we got there… ,” he describes.
“Teehee. Hee hee hee,” she interrupts with overtly flirtatious giggles.
Was that really funny? Our long-awaited dinner finally arrives. The staff sets her dish before the caballeros – “ladies first” after all. Tonight’s dinner was a frighteningly large, dull-colored sausage nestled in a bowl of mashed potatoes… still-steaming in all of its glory.
Saluting them with my fork, I smile and greet them: “Buen provecho!” (Equivalent to “Bon appetit” in Spanish.) But on the inside, I burst out laughing. Had I no manners, I would ooze mashed potatoes from out my nostrils. I sink my fork and knife into the kielbasa and quickly shred it to bite-sized nuggets.
Transit Day
View enroute to Calafate
I felt like a rodeo cowboy on a bucking bull, as I gripped the handle bar with my left hand and aimed (or tried aiming) for the toilet with the right. My shoulders alternated banging between the narrow walls, and my feet shuffled to stay upright. The toilet closet was located at the back of the bus, and nature called while the back of the bus jostled on the rocky dirt road of Rt. 40 – along the stretch of highway that ran between the Chilean and Argentinian border. It was like shooting an arrow while riding a mechanical bull… but I kept my pants dry.
After hiking in Torres del Paine for almost 5 days, Puerto Natales and the immediate area started to seem like a dead end. The weather reports promised rain in most areas, and boats and buses to adjacent points of interest – Ushuaia, Puerto Montt, etc. – required a few days of waiting in Puerto Natales before their departure. Staying an extra day to visit a cave with a replica of a prehistoric giant ground sloth was tempting, but there were other sights to be seen and hiked elsewhere in Patagonia.
Gan and Simyan concluded the same decision as I did to leave Puerto Natales by bus back to El Calafate on the Argentinian side of Patagonia. My flight for Bariloche leaves in about 3 hours, where I hope to escape wet weather. Now, just sitting in another locutorio (internet/Skype shop) passing the time. Ironically, it´s mild and sunny with happy, puffy clouds in the sky. Rather than hiking, we spent half the day sitting in a bus. It´s a transit day.
Mirador: Torres del Paine
Las Torres
Everyone has a favorite word in their non-native language. Jack´s was ¨hardcore¨. Jack was a solo world-traveler from Amsterdam, who has been traveling since August 2009. He recounted stories of his travels in southeast Asia and South America, while I took note for my own future aspirations. We shared itineraries.
¨So why did you choose to visit Patagonia?¨
¨Well, it was number 2 of my top 3 places to visit before I turn 30… or die. (Whichever may come first.) I try to pick remote places with lots of outdoor activities… and as few Americans as possible. I´ve already done New Zealand and now Patagonia. Now that´s left is Mongolia.¨
¨I´m glad you said Mongolia. It´s also on my list,¨ Jack smiled. He probably had a penchant for even more ¨hardcore¨places than I did.
My favorite phrase in Spanish was ¨No Importa¨. It means: ¨No matter. No problem.¨
The hut doesn´t have blankets: No importa.
We can´t refund your bus ticket: No importa.
The river water may give you diarrhea: No importa.
This hike may kill you: No importa. The narrow trail staddled a very steep slope, then meandered through a forest, before heading almost directly upwards to the ¨mirador¨ – the viewpoint of Las Torres, iconic granite towers in Torres del Paine national park. I was back in the park one more time to finish the segment of the W-route that I cut short due to rain just a few days ago. Now it was shining brightly with blue skies. My calves, however, also screamed: ¨No importa!¨ They didn´t care about the scenery, but only the lactic acid that instilled burning sensations in my legs. Despite 3 days of straight hiking, I was surprisingly fatigued.
We reached the summit in no more than three hours total rewarded with an amazing view, to which one of the other visitors at the mirador remarked: ¨Maybe only once or twice a month do you get this kind of weather up here.¨
On the way back down, I ran into Gan and Simyan – I good and awesome pair of hikers that I met on my first day in Torres del Paine while riding the catamaran across Lake Pehoe. It was good to see familiar faces again, and we met again the following morning on our return to Puerto Natales.
Thanks to Jack, Gan and Simyan for all the funny stories. I´ll write more when I arrive in Bariloche. Surprise!
Lluvia: Escaping the Rain
I layed in the top bunk staring at the ceiling. The hut roof was slanted allowing not only winter snow to slide down but for 2 three-tier bunk beds and another two-tier bunk to fill the room. It was 11:30 pm and the wind roared outside. It shook the entire hut with its fifty or so occupants. The two Coloradan girls and I were betting who would die first if the wind ripped the roof off from its frame. Given my position closest to the ceiling, I bet I would be the first to go.
There was a 2 foot x 3 foot plexi-glass panel in the ceiling that let in some sunshine into the room during the day. I stared through it, and realized the stars were out again. The rain had stopped, but the wind raged on.
The forecast for the third day of the trek was grim – rain for another two days. Although I was confident I could finish the W route accordingly to my original five-day plan, it was unlikely I would even see the famed Las Torres.
(next morning)
¨Why is my entire torso soaked?¨ It was raining and no more than 45 F. I wore a cheap plastic navy blue poncho with a hood over my soft-shell jacket. It fit like a poofy dress and covered everything but my forearms. There was no obvious reason for my jacket to be the least bit wet. I was wishing I had not lost my high-tech rain jacket during the hike to Mount Fitzroy.
I looked down. There was a giant tear near the collar of the poncho. Water collected on the hood and was dripping down my chest. I still had two more hours and 5km more to hike, and it appeared useless to continue wearing the poncho. I wanted to look like the blue, wet, ugly mess I already was and kept the poncho on anyways. At least it would give passing hikers some amusement on this cloudy day. I was a banner proclaiming: ¨Yes, it really is raining and miserable! Viva Patagonia!¨
My boots were surprisingly dry, I thought. Then I stepped into a bog. Water plus gravity equates to hiking trails turning into temporal streams. Where the trail reaches a low point, especially surrounded by bare dirt and grass, the water pools and creates a short-lived mini-swamp. My socks for the first time in three days was wet. This only fueled my legs to press on faster than before.
I waited at another refugio for the shuttle to transfer to the bus back into Puerto Natales. My wet bare feet balanced on the cold bathroom floor, but I was thankful to be changing into drier clothes. I was edging towards hypothermia as the warmth from hiking started to subside.
I´ll return in sunnier days. I got an updated forecast for the entire peninsula – Patagonia including Tierra del Fuego. Snow. Rain. Sleet. Clouds. Now I just have to figure out how to kill 10 days in Patagonia.
Valle de Frances
A flash of yellow – someone´s tent was flying above the low-growing Patagonian beech forest, as we watched from the comfort of the wood-stove-warmed mountain hut. A few seconds later, flashes of green and red followed. The tent´s brightly-attired owners weaved through the trees to chase down their 8b lb 4 oz abode. ¨Ultralight gear¨ is great on the back, but flies like a kite in the Patagonian wind if you don´t stake it down properly.
¨That´s unfortunate,¨ commented the Dutch couple next to me as they warmed their hands around a mug of hot tea. They were of course concerned, but couldn´t find the words in English to express it… better. We were waiting for the refugio staff to serve dinner.
The hut was especially full tonight, and some late arrivals were forced to camp outside the refugio tonight for lack of beds. The refugio was full of french, dutch, scotts, kiwis… and Americans. Americans, especially a group of six American college girls, can get somewhat rowdy. I haven´t seen another American in five days . But two of the girls were from Colorado; we intended to facebook eachother. The Americans that I have met were usually from the active-lifestyle states – Colorado, Alaska, Washington, Montana. Not another soul from New Jersey.
While I was heading east to Las Torres, this group was heading west to the Grey Glacier. Inexperienced hikers seemed alarmed that I was hiking alone.
¨Are there other hikers heading in your direction?¨ asked one of the couples, who was here for their honeymoon.
¨Yes, I know there´s an Israeli and German heading in my direction. And I´ll usually see another hiker pass every hour or so,¨ I answered.
¨So if you break a leg, you just have to wait an hour to get help?¨
¨Yep.¨ I didn´t think long about the comment. It was a calculated risk, and I did bring duct tape 
Torres del Paine is quite crowded, and I wasn´t veering off the trails except to commune with nature no more than twenty feet away from the trail. (Read: ¨commune with nature¨ = ¨potty break¨)
My thoughts ran back to the yellow tent in flight. Just hours ago I was hiking on an exposed ridge in Valle de Frances in my own battle against the wind.
(6 hours earlier)
¨F*$K!!!¨ My head peeked above treeline as I approached the exposed ridge in the center of the valley. A sudden and unexpected gust kicked grains of sand into my eye. I turned around to blink the offending particles from my eye, but another gust ¨kicked¨the back of my knee. I fell ass-first onto the granite.
They don´t kid about the Patagonian wind. I was trying to reach the end of this 12km hike, but nature wasn´t playing nicely. I learned to listen for what sounded like a train in the distance rolling down the mountain side. As the sound got louder, I ducked behind and below the low-growing beech trees that also were clinging for their lives rooted firmly into the fissures in the granite. I imagined a mass of air colliding with the massif on its windward side. The pressure building as the air accumulates and crawls up the windward face. As the air reaches the tipping point, the mass barrels down the leeward side of the mountain unleashing a force that can known a hiker down.
The guidebook exclaimed that the hike into the Valle de Frances was not-to-miss. However, having hiked in Colorado and having just hiked on the Argentinian side I admit I was a little underwhelmed. Then it started snowing.
I looked to the west at the Gran Paine massif. Against the dark rock capped by hanging glaciers, I could see that the snow blew sideways. I continued on. Along the way, I drank water directly from several moss-lined streams and waterfalls that carved troughs in granite. I haven´t been in wildernes this clean since New Zealand.
I was going to finish this hike expecting to see nothing. An assortment of precipitation – snow, sleet, rain, fog – had clouded much of the panorama that was promised. At times the faint silhouettes of the mountains and Los Cuernos would reveal themselves through the veil of snow. Then for no more than five minutes, a gap in the clouds lended a glimpse of the mountains that encircled the valley.
The Southern Cross
The stars appear different in the southern hemisphere. In place of the familiar Orion and Big Dipper constellations, is the souther cross...here shining over Lago ("Lake") Nordenskjöld.
I fastened my camera to the tripod set atop the foundation of a new refugio (mountain hut) that they were building as an extension to the Refugio Los Cuernos where I was spending the night. I pointed the lens up with the focal length at infinity. Click. The shutter would be open for the next few minutes, capturing the billions of stars that filled the night sky here in the southern hemisphere. It was weird to look up and find no big dipper, Orion or polaris. The only collection of stars that I could distinguish was the Southern Cross.
From time to time, I would flash my head lamp into the trees surrounding me, either to spot any lurking pumas or scare them off. It´s rare for pumas to attack or eat people in the park, as they´re aware of the dangers of humans. Nevertheless, I was on the lookout. Behind me was the vague outline of ¨Los Cuernos¨ – the granite monoliths that resembled horns and towered over the refugio.
Torres del Paine: Los Cuernos
"Los Cuernos" near Lago Pehoe in Torres del Paine National Park
Today is the first day of the W-route multi-day hike in Chile´s Torres del Paine National Park. The route can take up to 5 days and abbreviates the normally 8-day Paine Circuit that circles the mountains of Torres del Paine. The route can be done in either east-bound or west-bound directions: Night 1 at Las Torres, Night 2 at Los Cuernos, Night 3 at Lago Pehoe, Night 4 at Lago Grey and finishing back at Lago Pehoe to catch the cataraman across the lake and then to connect to a bus back into Puerto Natales – the nearest town.
Given the grim forecast in later days, I prioritized my hike to focus on Los Cuernos, which lies in the middle section of the route. When sunnier days return, I would come back to finish the Grey Glacier segment in the west, from where I can already see clouds start to roll in from the Pacific.
I hike the 12 km to Refugio Los Cuernos from the dock at the western end of Lago Pehoe, with a late start at 1pm. I´ll be sleeping and eating at the refugios – also known as mountain huts, where there are beds and warm meals available.
Drogas y Dolores
“Se tiene Pepto Mismo? Tengo un dolor de estomago.” Do they even know what that pink stuff is in Chile? I informed the pharmacist of my stomach pains. She started to speak too quickly but I picked out the words for ant-acid and vomiting. “No, para pena del ‘stomago o diarrea?” I tried to keep my voice low so as not to announce to the entire barrio of my predicament. She handed me a somewhat no-frills box of “Dipatropin”.
“Y para ella, dolor de….” I paused. How do you say nasal decongestant? Jenica could barely breathe last night. However, that chapter in high school Spanish class was no up-to-date with the current miracles of medicine. “Para nariz. Compressada.” I tossed out words like “nose” and “compressed” hoping she would catch on. “Ahh.. si.” She handed me another box of “Piretanyl”.
“Gracias.” We inspected the boxes from a bench outside. Unlike the encyclopedic American labels with it’s paranoid legal disclaimers and list of appalling side-effects, the labels on these Chilean over-the-counter drugs were recklessly simple.
“I really hope she gave us the right drugs,” I joked with Jenica. I didn’t seem to find any Spanish words for “spontaneous bleeding” or “death”.
“Do you think I’m supposed to chew these or swallow?” Jenica wondered. As she put the tablet in her mouth, I could only think: “I sure hope these aren’t suppositories.” I waited for her to ingest it before I disclosed the thought. “Uso Oral,” this must mean “use orally”. Safe.
“Se tiene Pepto Mismo? Tengo un dolor de estomago.” Do they even know what that pink stuff is in Chile? I informed the pharmacist of my stomach pains. She started to speak too quickly but I picked out the words for ant-acid and vomiting. “No, para pena del ‘stomago o diarrea?” I tried to keep my voice low so as not to announce to the entire barrio of my predicament. She handed me a somewhat no-frills box of “Dipatropin”.
“Y para ella, dolor de….” I paused. How do you say nasal decongestant? Jenica could barely breathe last night. However, that chapter in high school Spanish class was no up-to-date with the current miracles of medicine. “Para nariz. Compressada.” I tossed out words like “nose” and “compressed” hoping she would catch on. “Ahh.. si.” She handed me another box of “Piretanyl”.
“Gracias.” We inspected the boxes from a bench outside. Unlike the encyclopedic American labels with its paranoid legal disclaimers and list of unbelievable side-effects, the labels on these Chilean over-the-counter drugs were almost recklessly simple. The boxes reminded me of the small cardboard ones in which they sold fireworks at summer fairs.
“I really hope she gave us the right drugs,” I joked with Jenica. I didn’t seem to find any Spanish words for “spontaneous bleeding” or “death”.
“Do you think I’m supposed to chew these or swallow?” Jenica wondered. As she put the tablet in her mouth, I could only think: “I sure hope these aren’t suppositories.” I waited for her to ingest it before I disclosed the thought. (Just kidding, Jenica!)”Uso Oral,” this must mean “use orally”. Safe!
Valparaiso & Viña del Mar
“Nos encontramos aqui en la misma punta de dejar in veinte minutos.” She explained again but this time to the English-speakers. “We meet at this same spot in twenty minutes.” Our tour guide weaved in and out of English, Spanish and sometimes Brazilian-Portugués – like the Chilean taxi drivers through the trafficked streets of Santiago. Her well-trained English accent was startling. Was she from Santiago or Miami? Jersey City? But by day’s end her tired and twisted tongue would slur her speech into betrayal.
A gargantuan Technicolor-green mothership negotiated the all-too-narrow streets of Valparaiso and deployed a swarm of thirty curious (and curious-looking) emissaries. A tour bus. “Visitors.”
The bus loaded and unloaded this motley bunch from point-to-point of interest in unnaturally regimented twenty-minute intervals. Don’t be late or end up like E.T. desperately wanting to “phone-home”… at an appalling two-dollars per minute, of course.
We visited frequented highlights of two adjacent coastal cities: Viña del Mar and Valparaiso.Viña del Mar consists of beach-front properties draped across the rocky slopes that cascade into the Pacific. Valparaiso to the south, is in contrast, charmingly run-down. The guide books compare it to the city of San Francisco, though no where near as large.
According to the Dos Equis commercials, the most interesting man in the world “once had an awkward moment… just to see what it felt like”. I have never been on a tour bus until until today. I hope today’s will be the last. Tour buses are limiting to exploration and crippling to photographic opportunities. Apologies in advance for the über-touristy photos posted today.
Lunch in Portillo
"The Three Brorthers" as seen from the lodge in Portillo Ski Resort
Our private guide and driver took us two hours outside of Santiago into the Andes, where we had lunch in Portillo Ski Resort and saw the remnants of their ski season.
Viña San Esteban
The Grand Wine Cellar at Viña San Esteban in Chile's Aconcagua Valley
Cabernet. Merlot.Carménère? Neither Jenica nor I have ever heard of such a type of wine. Yet even Chileans were not aware of this variety growing in their own vineyards until 1994 when a oenologist from France confirmed that the vine was indeed Carménère. Carménère was practically obliterated from Europe during a plague in 1867. Since then it was believed to have disappeared completely, but unknowingly survived in Chile where it was cultivated and marketed as Merlot. So explains our guide Maria-Jose at the Viña San Esteban vineyard.
Jenica – our cultural-experience coordinator on this trip – insisted that we do a wine tour. I obliged since Chile has become world-renowned for their wines in recent decades. The lovely and bilingual Maria-Jose takes us on a private tour of the vineyard, the grand wine cellar and their production line. Viña San Esteban employs a staff of approximately sixty workers throughout the year, with an additional sixty seasonal workers during harvest season.
Viña San Esteban is situated in Chile’s Aconcagua Valley, making it the highest-altitude winery in all of Chile. The region’s warmer and drier climate makes it ideal for table grapes (the kind you buy to eat from the store), but not ideal of white wine varieties. However, the hillside vines of white wine varieties such as Chardonnay are cooled by the adjacent Aconcagua River.
We end the tour with a taste of their Chardonnay and their Carménère. Their tastes tempted a purchase of an entire case, but the logistical challenges downgraded the souvenir to a bottle of their Carménère. We’ll be enjoying this during our last few days in Chile.
The Packers in Chile?
It never occurred to me that there would be an NFL following in Santiago, but here we are. At the California Cantina an American-owned bar 5 miles from our hostel in a very cosmopolitan part of town, we sit inside a surf-inspired room watching the Packers vs Vikings game on a large projection screen. Everyone here – either expats or students – is from the states, including the owners. It should have been no surprise then that we were greeted by a guy with a clear Californian accent. “Hey Jenica, I think they speak your language here,” I joke with her.
To those who know about my effort to lose weight on this trip, be assured I took the verbal abuse in the room for ordering the Ranchero salad while watching the game.
For those of you still working on the project in Princeton, know that Jenica kept the Monday On the Border tradition alive with Mexican food and beer.
Good call by Jenica for finding this place with her iPhone. Thanks to the iPhone for allowing us to give the cab driver directions to the bar. 
This blog post and LoFi photo posted to you live from my iPhone with full Chilean 3G.
Buenos Aires: La Boca
Famous Colorful Buildins in Buenos Aires barrio of La Boca
Señor Tango
We went to see a tango floor show on our first night in Buenos Aires at 350 Argentine pesos (about $100) per person, which includes the food, the show and the door-to-door shuttle service. Unfortunately, they did not allow photography at anytime, so there is not much photography to display today.
Senor Tango. http://www.senortango.com.ar/
Street Crime within 2 hours
17:42 | Common bathroom at Hostel Suites Florida
The stains appear darker than the black material of my jacket. But the smell is stronger and hard to get out. I apply some bar soap and start scrubbing.
10:45 | Terminal A, Ezeiza Airport in Buenos Airport
I find Jenica sitting against a column on a bench in the crowded Terminal outside of the International Arrivals exit. She’s reading an eBook.
11:15 | Hostel Suites Florida
Jenica and I check into our hostel on Avenida Florida. At the center of a commercial district with a long pedestrian walkway. We walk aimlessly around town, and enjoy the architecture and the weather.
12:37 | Avenida Belgrano y Chacabuco
The sun shines in the blue-bird sky. It’s 68F with a gentle breeze. Some families are out on a walk enjoying the spring Saturday.
Jenica looks up and then at me: “Did someone just throw something at us?”
I look up. No birds. No air conditioners precariously hanging from the edge of a window sill. No children with water balloons. “No. I don’t think so.”
Suddenly a strong odor hits. A fresh yellowish-gray stain on her right shoulder. I glance behind, and there was an indigenous-looking woman (whatever than means), with dusty clothes and carrying a yarn-knit bag walking jut several feet behind our pace. She appears to be somewhat concerned for us and rambles something in Spanish.
“<F>”, I thought to myself. We’ve been targeted. “Jenica, just keep walking.”
Suddenly a short indigenous-looking man paces quickly alongside us. He’s dressed in humble clothing with an American baseball cap. He glances up and points to the sky. He rattles something off in Spanish, but all I hear is the word “… caido…” – “fallen” in English.
“Don’t stop.” We pick up the pace and keep walking. <S> is about to happen. “Do you have tissues? I’ll wipe it off.”
“No.” Jenica holds her gaze firmly ahead. She dares not make eye contact in the direction of the stranger.
“Hey!” The stranger tries to call our attention. “Hey!” as if he was concerned and keeps pointing upwards as if to explain.
My mind struggles send my mouth the signals to say, “No nos molestas,” but Jenica raises the back of her hand to them as we walk away. An “<F> off” gesture without wasting a breath.
The strange woman and man team give up. We find refuge in the nearest cafe. At first just for some napkins, but the server greets us and asks, “para dos?” (Two?).
“Si, gracias.”
She seats us at a nice table outside. Jenica takes off her purse.
“Turnaround.” Jenica’s back is covered in what smells and what we eventually discern to be mustard. Mustard. The rankest mustard I have ever seen, like 10-year-spoiled grey poupon containing real “poup”. I wipe the spots with the minuscule napkins found only outside of the U.S. those just too small to really clean anything. “Take the inner side of the table.”
As I take my camera bag off my shoulder, we notice there’s mustard all over it. “Jude, it’s all over the back of your leg.”
We stink. I notice the waitress glance at belongings and then our jackets. I wanted to explain that we were OK, but I just gave her a smile and a nod. “Buenos. Sta bien.”
A middle-aged woman passes by from the cross walk and notices the stain… and the smell. “<blah blah blah>… son robados?”. That was all that I could make out. “No, fortunadamente.” And I sit down and scan the menu like nothing happened, but I wasn’t really reading.
The waitress came back with a large moist cloth. She knew what just went down, and that we were lucky enough to avoid the scam.
The bastards managed to take nothing from us. “We were lucky. That guy and lady was a two-man team trying to feign concern that birds pooped on us and then they attempt to offer help by wiping it off…. while they rob you. No one is that enthusiastic about helping someone else that they yell at you to come back.”
We order “cafe” – that can mean almost anything. The waitress returns with small shots of espresso and seltzer water. A tourist bus cruises down the street from whence we came behind Jenica. I start to laugh from an image in my mind.
“You know what would be funny? Mustard vigilantes. If we got bottles of mustard and targeted mustard thieves while riding on the upper deck of a tourist bus.” I made the comment hoping to lighten the mood, but perhaps just a device to make myself feel better.
(Want to know more about the mustard scam? Here’s just one of hundreds of stories from similar victims. http://www.travbuddy.com/travel-blogs/26844/Victims-pickpockets-Mustard-Trick-222)
