Sweet Idleness

It starts out as a brilliant day. I take a book along and sip a doble at Havannah café, an Argentinian chain, and also a freshly squeezed jugo de naranja with an ice cube. Noone says a word as I linger over an hour at my table on the pedestrian mall under the sycamore trees. I get up finally and mill around town and settle in the park to continue my general laziness and its sweet.

Towards midday I migrate south of town in search of a renowned lomito (an Argentine style steak sandwich) joint. As appetizers I get bowls of peanuts and potato chips and my usual Fanta. The main course is a lomito on a toasted long roll topped by tomato and cheese, a sweet thousand island type dressing and a couple of fried eggs. I find another park in the center of town and lay beside the fountain and continue reading.

At first I’m not sure if the stray drops falling on me are diverted from the fountain by the wind or coming from the sky. But the grey clouds tell me what I need to know. I high tail it to the gelateria down the street. As I cross the street towards the shop a young man holding fliers looks up and smiles at the rain. The customers eating their gelatos stare at the downpour as if it hasn’t rained in years.

In the commotion of securing the outside seating from the rain, the waiter never takes my order, but I get shelter out of the deal, if not another sundae. My bus for Puerto Madryn is leaving in an hour. As I mount my backpack on my shoulders, the downpour renews itself with and even more torrential reincarnation. I wait underneath the pavillion of the Facundo Parilla for the rain to abate. It never does completely, but after weeks in the desert I can use a little watering.

Aconcagua

I do force myself up, somehow, at 5 and I’m out the door walking briskly across the deserted city except for a popcorn stand that for whatever reason remained open throughout the night. I get there early. We pile on the bus, a few tourists, but mostly locals. One of the river guides from my raft trip takes this bus to work.



The barren foothills gradually transition into towering Andean peaks over 4k meters. We pass a small ski resort and then stop at even smaller Puente del Inca with a small Quechan souvenir market with llama wares and a few crystals thrown in.



I walk to the orange creamsicle mineral formation this site is renowned for. There are barriers blocking entrance to the site and with the gaping holes on the boardwalk leading there, it becomes apparent why. I walk back and find a small market selling provisions and purchase fruit juice, bananas, tangerines and a salami and take off for another unknown destination. Another group of travelers stop me and ask if I speak English. When they ask if I know what I’m doing, I shrug.



I meet what turns out to be a group of four Israelis on the road again. They found out about a small lagoon on the way to Aconcagua, so I join them. They’ve been to most of the places I’ve been so far, but stopping at Cachi and Calfayate as well. The tall one hands me a brochure for bikes and wines, an organized bodega tour, but I’ve had my fill of bodegas and bikes for now.


A valley opens up to give a clear view of Aconcagua, caked in an impermeable layer of ice and snow. It’s a month and a half until trekking season which doesn’t seem like enough time to melt much more of the snowpack. Footpaths weave up the valley, so it appears reasonable to follow and assume they lead someplace and they do. We take a break and the Israelis share a roll filled with dulce de leche with me. They urge me to see Puerto Madryn and the whales since the mating season is winding down within a month.



The sign I spot for the ranger station makes it official, we are on the right path. A large St Bernard belonging, aparrently, to noone in particular follows us, comically walking in and out of my path and body checking me. The red headed girl asks me if I ever saw a dog with such a big head before and I shake my head incredulously.





We reach a snowfield and the Israelis start snapping pictures. The tall one tells me there is a single mountain in Israel that gets sufficient snow to support a ski area. The St Bernard, meanwhile, is having a blast. First he eats the snow, then he rolls and writhes on it. He runs full tilt around the snowfield looking as if he was about to plow down one of the Israelis.

At the ranger station, a young female ranger emerges and hands us maps for the kilometer trail around the mountain lagoons. The wind funnels through a gap in the mountains with such intensity that it is hard to walk at times. It picks up bits of gravel and dust that blasts our faces. We reach an Aconcagua lookout and the St Bernard poses with some schoolchildren and then abandons us for a younger crowd.



We explore up the trail further and a German couple directs us to a large snowfield one kilometer more. The tall Israeli hopes this is a good place to take pictures. And they do take picture upon picture, at one point trying to take one of the reflection of Aconcagua in a pair of sunglasses. I feel compelled to head up the mountain further, as far as I can in the time that’s left, but I quell that impulse and practice being satisfied with the moment.



Back down at the ranger station, a new ranger explains why the way to an intermediate peak is closed. Originally, the Israelis were going to trek and camp here, but the season for doing so is almost two weeks from starting. The search and rescue is not fully staffed and only they have access to emergency equipment. The ranger himself has summited Aconcagua many times, the first time when he was 16.



I go out ahead of the group somewhat anxious I won’t make it back in time to purchase a return ticket. But I get to the ticket kiosco, that doubles as a souvenir stand, in plenty of time. I linger on a bench waiting for the bus and watch groups of retirees and schoolchildren in turn walking to the puente and through the souvenir market pawing the crystals and crafts and returning to the tour buses. Clouds gather and the wind picks up again and I put on every piece of clothing I brought that day. The Israelis sit in the snack bar, but I feel a little alienated at this point.

A long, strange ride to a bodega

In the morning, I go in search for a ticket to the base of Aconcagua. I begrudgingly buy one that departs at 6am. At first I can’t understand the ticket salesman’s Spanish and he gets frustrated. He tries to drive home the point that the ticket costs 13 pesos long after I understood the fact. I’m exasperated by the time the exchange is complete, but I reason that its all part of the journey, the only way to cross the barrier, the only way for me to learn to deal with the human race such as it is.

Its getting late and I still haven’t found a bike to rent, so I cut to the chase and find a leaden mountain bike, that I wouldn’t trust on a gravel road, at my hostel. Both tires are flat and the brakes rub against the rims, but I’m willing to try anyway. The concierge and I take turns pumping the tires up with a tiny portable pump until the tires are semi-inflated and just about out of time and patience, I leave it at that. Negotiating the chaotic traffic of Mendoza proves to be interesting, but not as daunting as I feared. The cars, despite all appearances from the sidewalk, work with you. I reach the highway to Maipu, the town central to the bodegas.

Along the way, I pass a constant stream of garbage and a putrid smell, road kill. Dog carcasses in varied states of decomposition lay rotting on the side of the road , some partially wrapped in garbage bags, some not. I pass several bodega signs but continue several more fruitless kilometers on my plodding wheels. I turn around certain that I’ve gone wrong, then finally pick up the exit in question.

I make yet another wrong turn on the road towards the bodegas and add another 8km to my tour. I finally reach the sole bodega I will visit that day, La Rural. I take the tour along with an older American gentleman sporting a Virginia University hat and accompanying a young, shapely, Latina. She is either his interpreter, escort, guide, mistress, or adopted daughter. He affects awe at the most mundane operations of the wine factory and his companion takes pictures of every detail. To my untrained palate, the wine we try is excellent and with that I remount my bike to try to find my way back home, pedaling hard, but feeling like I’m going backwards. My knees are on the verge of exploding.

I sit in the gelato shop and savor an incredible banana split, my desert preceding my not so spectacular dinner that night of bland fettuccine and salmon in cream sauce. I look for an alarm clock to aid me in getting up the next morning at 5am. I think I finally locate one for the unlikely bargain of 7 pesos, with a radio to boot. The salesman records my information down to passport number. I take a stock number to the checkout, and the price he tells me comes as a shock, sesenta y nueve. I take another look at the price tag, and confirm that I looked at the wrong number. I should know to always look for the higher number hidden in the margins, especially after working retail. I have a good laugh and leave the store.

Primero Rio

A white tourist van picks me up at the hostel. We stop at hostel and hotel until the seats are full, and we go a few dozen kilometers up a canyon below the cordillera which is crowned by Aconcagua, the highest peak in the western hemisphere. We don wet suits and river boots and pick out helmets. We take a bus ride to the launch and push off into the river. I have fun on the rapids and the waves that are full of fresh glacial melt are more than invigorating. One of the three young Englishmen flips out of the boat and disappears for what seems like minutes. He finally emerges and the guide pulls at his lapels and gets him back into the boat. He got stuck underneath the boat for a time. The guide directs him to sit in the middle of the boat while he regains his wits and catches his breath.


The rest of the way goes off without a hitch. We pass some particularly turbulent rapids. Our guide tells us that these will be much bigger in a month or two once the summer melting intensifies. The diminished rapids of late spring are fun regardless. We purposely shoot them backwards and surf a wave by turning the boat sideways on the crest of the wave and the raft is churned as if going through a wash cycle. The icy water splashes into the boat with each churn and I’m chilled to the bone.



For a finale, we shoot rapids that border on class IV and then row into port and start the drying process. The Englishman makes good on our pact: anyone falling from the boat buys everyone a beer. He pours out glasses of weak Quilmes lager. I take a nap by the pool at the rafting headquarter, still hopelessly behind on my sleep.


Back in Mendoza, I try my second super pancho, a long but bland hot dog, and spread on some sweet mustard, and pass on the optional ketchup and mayonnaise that are commonly added. I vow that this one will be my last. I acquire a bodega map for tomorrow, when I plan to independently tour the wineries by bike. I eat at one of the many parillas lined up along the street in front of my hostel, and the waiter chuckles when I refuse wine.

Next Bus

Today is another travel day. I talk to a French traveler embarking on an expedition atop a 20k volcano for the bargain basement price of $60, a promotional offer. I skip the much needed sleep and look for a ticket to my next destination. I can find no more reason to stay in San Juan. Valle de Luna would be a nice excursion, but its so much like the scenery in Arizona, presumably, that I think its better to move on. I easily find a bus to Mendoza leaving later in the morning.

I hoof it to Winca’s hostel from the bus station. I decide almost immediately to get on the river and white water raft. With an expedition company every third store, this is not a problem. I find one for $40. I visit a restaurant that is reviewed as having the best pizza in Mendoza, but I’m not so sure. It goes down like Pizza Hut. Days behind on my sleep, I call it an early night, preparing for an early morning aventura.