Backwater Barreal

And exactly what kind of place Barreal is, I’m not sure. But its all up and becomes increasingly beautiful. The snow covered Andes emerge above the foothills. I am the only Gringo, or tourist for that matter, on the bus. I bring warm clothing with me and contemplate finding a cabana for the night, but decide not to. The Andes come into clear view and everyone on the bus has a specific place to go but I. I’m told I’m in Central Bareal, to my surprise, so I get off and cross the length of town. All the shops are closed for siesta at one pm except for one kiosco. I buy an ice cream and a liter and a half of water and I walk towards the mountains.


I pass farms and cabanas advertising expediciones. Motorbikes and rickety bikes go by along with the usual packs of dogs. I weave past farms with horses, chickens and roosters towards the mountains. I hit a crossroads. Mary is there, enclosed in glass. I follow the road through an impromptu junk yard to an impasse, a rushing river fed by snowmelt. It is frigid, wide, fast flowing and insane if not impossible to cross by foot. I follow upriver hoping to find a bridge or a narrow crossing.


Nothing exists. I leap across several tributaries and wade across a wider crossing nearly rendering my feet numb. I find a place to lay down in the grey sand amongst the rocks and take a short nap. I return in the darkness. My timing is perfect for 9pm dinner. I gnaw on tough lomo topped with cheese and ham and drink a liter of Quilmes dark, to pass the time. At nearly 11, I can dawdle here no longer and I go out in the chill air to take a walk. I’m tired to the point of exhaustion and not sure how I will while away the next four hours. I hit a crossroads and afraid of getting lost, turn back. I take a nap in the park until I’m awakened by a brisk wind and the cold. I huddle behind a wall in the central square and hug in my knees to try to keep warm.



Time passes slowly as I check it on my camera every few minutes. Chilled to the bone, I finally notice 3am pass. Several people gather on the streets waiting for the same bus. Mercifully, my seat is on the back of the bus where I can spread out and sleep for most of my journey back to San Juan.