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>.
Snow & Hike to Cerro Torre
Cerro Torre stands in the distance behind a veil of wind-swept snow.
He looked through the window pane at such an angle that the restaurant on the other side of the street reflected off his thick glasses. The sky was white. His focus shifted between the fast-moving clouds and some loose sheets of paper inked with his thoughts.
[SinglePic not found] I kept my glance down at my plate as I spread the ration of butter and jelly on a roll. After slicing the bread in half, the stale crumbs fell and scattered across the table. They managed to tumble either onto my dirty hiking pants or to the foot of the towering carton of “jugo de naranja” – orange juice.
It was snowing – whiteout conditions with visibility no more than a few hundred meters. The wind howled fiercely, and banged a few unfastened shutters against aluminum siding. There wasn’t much else to look at or do. I decided to strike first conversation with the guy, “Se habla espanol?”
“No. English,” he said in the accent of the empire. “I’m from India, but I’ve been living in New Mexico for the last few months. I’ve been working with the radio telescopes out in Socorro. I’m an astronomer.”
Interesting already. We exchanged advice about hikes we’ve done in the park. He glanced again through the panoramic window. This time, his glasses reflected gaps of blue in the sky and snow-capped mountains in the not-so-distant glacial valley.
“Ahhh. This was the forecast for this afternoon for 12:00.” He examined his watch. “11:20… early! We might have chances to hike after all.” He ran outside. I looked through the window pane. He stood there out in the cold, gazing in the distance, calculating the risks… the likelihood that it was safe to embark on an 8-hour hike at this time of day. He looked back in, nodded and smiled. The hike is on.
I had decided to post some photos online before heading out for the hike to El Lago de Torre – a glacial lake with views of Cerro Torre – another towering piece of granite in Los Glaciares National Park. This cost me a few hours of daylight, as I didn’t start until 2:30 pm. Non-stop it should take 3 hours to get to the lake and 2 hours back on a sprint. If I timed everything right, I should be back by 7:30 with enough sunlight to spare. The sun usually sets around 8:00 pm.
Yesterday’s 10 hour hike to Lago de Los Tres left me in a more conditioned shape. I was practically sprinting up the steep portions of this hike. I had passed a young man and his father along the way. Two hours later, I arrived at the “mirador” – the viewpoint of the distant glacier and Cerro Torre. The gusts of frigid air that barreled down the valleys roared and almost pushed me over. The sun was still another 2 hours from setting. I looked at my watch. “F**k”. I weighed the risks and the rewards.
I decided I could managed the calculated risks. If a freak blizzard decided to present itself, I had enough insulation, fat reserves and an emergency foil blanket (Thanks, Karin!) to avoid hypothermia and outlast the storm. There were enough dead branches to build a small shelter and even start a fire. There was also a small camp at the end of the lake, where I might be able to pay someone for food and a share of their tent. “F**k it. If anything, I’ll die with a nice view.”
I had removed one of my under layers earlier in the hike. I poked my head just enough so the collar wrapped around my head just above my nose. It warmed my breaths, and shielded my exposed throat from the chill.
[SinglePic not found]I sprinted on, but the reflection of the mountains in a small pond captured my camera’s attention. Suddenly, the bright red jacket of the young man from earlier had managed to catch up.
“Hello. I decided to leave my father behind, so I reach el Lago de Torre before sunset”,” he said with a German accent yet pronouncing each Spanish word like a native.
[SinglePic not found]I was relieved to have a hiking buddy in such sketchy circumstances. This was an amazing kid and made for great conversation. I could tell he loved telling me about his adventures and practicing his English. Jan (pronounced “yahn”) was a 21-year old Frankfurter who decided to travel for five months in South America by himself. It suited his budget and he was also fluent in Spanish. He spoke to me in English without pausing to find a word. His father was an art teacher, his mother a photographer, and himself – he wanted to go back and study theater. His father came for a week-long visit, and he grinned as he told me how he went from eating and sleeping for cheap on less than 10 pesos per day to private room hotels and restaurants while his father is here. What an inspiring young character. A kindred spirit – he too preferred the outdoors over the drunken night-life style travelling in the cities.
We reached the lake just as the sun was setting behind Cerro Torre, but evening winds began to bring with it another round of snow. The top of Cerro Torre was veiled in cloud of suspended snow particles.
[SinglePic not found]“F**k man.” Jan looked at Cerro Torre in both disappointment and hope that the clouds would part to reveal the sun and the pinnacle of Cerro Torre. We waited 20 minutes before giving up around 6:00 pm.
We headed back and discussed more about life, philosophy, the NBA, and the juicing controversy of the Tour de France. 8:10 pm we approached the end of the trail. Only faint traces of day lit our way as the snow began to fall again. We shook hands and bid each other luck in our travels.
Buenos Aires: La Boca
Famous Colorful Buildins in Buenos Aires barrio of La Boca
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)
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