Tafí del Valle

A good down sleeping bag is one of the best purchases I ever made.

The capital of the Tucumán province could be one of the shittiest cities in Argentina/ever, so we decided to leave as soon as we arrived. Within an hour we on a bus north to Tafí del Valle. After a slow, bumpy ride ascending through the mountains in a lush green forest that reminded me of Peru, we came over the final crest to a drastically different landscape. Lush, but treeless, Tafí del Valle is set in a beautiful and spacious valley with a large gleaming lake set in the center and mountains looming over like guardians on all sides.

Day one. Spirits high.

July is the low season for tourism, it being winter in the southern hemisphere, and when we arrived to the town’s enormous municipal campground we found ourselves to be the only occupants. We soon discovered why as the sun went down and our teeth began to chatter and our bodies began to shiver. We made dinner over a campfire that teased us with it’s warmth and headed to bed with full bellies. I was toasty in my new bag and slept like a baby, for I had learned my lesson after many cold, sleepless nights in Patagonia. Rob on the other hand was more prepared for a breezy fall afternoon. He didn’t sleep much.

We wanted to hitch out of town the next day, but circumstances left us with a very late start and by the time we got to the highway it was already late afternoon. The traffic was sparse and the crucifix that welcomed visitors a bit disheartening. As the sun dropped below the mountains, the temperature and our spirits did as well.

The cold was creeping into our bones and after a couple of hours we swallowed our pride and took the last bus out of town.

The North

I had to be in Santiago, Chile on the 3rd of August to catch a flight back to Yanquilandia, which left me one last month of vagabonding before heading home. This time around I would be accompanied by a Mr. Robert Bottomley, a fellow ex-patriot known for his cute, quiet sensibility, and his ‘uniform’ consisting of one pair of Levi’s skinny jeans, one white T-shirt, and one navy blue hoodie. A good friend and a brilliant writer, Rob is the author of the wonderful quote that closed my Patagonia stories. We had little time and set our sights on one place: Bolivia.

Bolivia, known for it’s powerful nature, political instability, and strong indigenous cultures is one of South America’s gems set in the heart of the continent. It is also know for it’s extreme cold, for much of it is at altitude, and Rob and I were heading there in the dead of winter.

Our plan was such: Get on a bus to the capital of Tucumán, from where we could start hitching. Make our way through the desert in the north of Argentina to the Bolivian border and get as deep into Bolivia as time allowed before splitting up, Rob catching a flight in Buenos Aires, and myself exploring a bit of Chile before my departure.

It didn’t quite work out that way.

Leaving

On July 1^st, 2009, a little more than a year to the day of my arrival, I left Buenos Aires for good.

I had left before, but this time felt different knowing that I wouldn’t be coming back. I didn’t know how to put into words the mixture of emotions running through me. The city, though it be one of my favorites in the world, was devouring me. The constant stimulus. The late night—which often became early morning—partying. The noise. The pollution. The dog shit.

Home was becoming a reality. It had been in my head that the day that I would leave would never come, and throughout most of my time spent there, I didn’t want it to come. But a shift had happened. I now had a solid date, and a flight home, and as that reality came closer and closer I started to look forward to it. I was ready to go home.

The city had changed me. The people had changed me. My friends had changed me. I could not have asked for a better experience, for better companions, for a better city. To those of you whom I met, to those of you who taught me things, to that wild city and those of you who shared that year with me, thank you.

The Exodus

The city was beckoning. It was already the first of March and school started for Haukur and myself on the ninth. Four months of travel were coming to an end.

1600 kilometers lay between us and Buenos Aires. Hitching as a team of three would take time. Time, we didn’t have. A brainstorming session of our options left us with the resolution to split up. We were going solo, but with a little flair.

We would race. A no holds barred hitchhiking race. No public transportation. No paying, or offering to pay for rides. Thumbs only. It was a mission, as Pétur would say.

Haukur:
Haukur never waited for more than fifteen minutes. He wasn’t even trying when he got his first ride. A car simply saw him walking out of Bariloche and pulled over.

Halfway into the first day a sedan pulled over. A middle-aged Argentine man offered to take him to Tres Arroyos, a few hours from Buenos Aires. A long ride. Night came. They pulled into a small town for some rest. They dined together, and afterwards the Argentine offered to buy Haukur a drink before bed. One drink became many. With alcohol in his veins the Argentine couldn’t suppress his desires. There was a transvestite prostitute in the bar that had struck his fancy, and, promising to get Haukur in the morning; the driver went off with him/her to a local motel. Haukur was drunk and alone. He had nowhere to go, and found the ground behind the bar to be a suitable bed.

He was awoken with a stir early the next morning. His chauffer was ready to get as far away from that town and his own shame as quickly as possible. They never talked about what happened.

From Tres Arroyos it was a massive, pot-bellied trucker that took him the rest of the way to the Capital Federal. A father of four, the trucker loved his children, hookers, and heroin. Stopping for food, the trucker bought half of a roasted pig, and ate the entire thing whole while flying down the highway, the grease dripping on his belly.

Haukur arrived in less than two days, covering 1600 kilometers in an unprecedented 42 ½ hours.

Christopher Brendan:
The morning was chilly when I started off, with clouds in the distance threatening rain. I walked several kilometers to the border of the Rio Negro and Neuquen provinces. I would spend eight hours at that border. No one stopped. By mid-afternoon the rain came. I had no jacket. I stood by the road soaked and cold, the wind chilling me to the bone. Evening arrived, bringing at last the sun and more hitchhikers.

Natalia and her seven-year-old sister, Antonia, were on their way home after spending a weekend volunteering, building natural and self-sustaining houses for the less fortunate living outside of Bariloche. We teamed up. Between us we had enough gear and food to survive the night. Our worries were needless. Twenty minutes after meeting, the three of us were in the back of a pickup truck, heading 400 kilometers to the capital of Neuquen.

Huddled under sleeping bags in the truck bed, we talked of consumer society and how we were going to change the world with a certain romanticism that only people our age have. Antonia slept cuddled between us as we watched the sun go down and the stars come out one by one.

I hopped out of the cab at the bus terminal in the town of Cipolletti. Feverish from the rain and cold, the ground outside the terminal was where I laid my head for the night.

The next day was hours of walking along the highway until a couple of short rides left me in Villa Regina, essentially nothing more than a truck stop. Forty kilometers outside of town, in the direction I was going, the highway workers were on strike, shutting down the highway between four and eight P.M. everyday. I arrived at three P.M.

At seven that evening a VW hatchback pulled over with two young guys in it. They were on their way to Buenos Aires, but had to finish working and would be heading out around midnight. I was welcome to come along; I just had to meet them in front of their hotel before they left.

Ecstatic, and thinking there was no chance of anyone beating me; I celebrated with a hearty dinner and a beer.

I decided to catch up on some sleep. So not to miss my ride; I lay down in front of the hotel where I was to meet my new friends. I was awoken to blue flashing lights. Apparently, the “homeless man” sleeping outside was making the guests uncomfortable.

The guys showed up on time as promised. It was a nineteen-hour ride in the back seat between two suitcases and my backpack. I slept for fourteen hours straight. We pumped reggae and maté the rest of the way until the smell of exhaust and dog shit led us back into the city.

Walking into Plaza de Mayo around 8:30 P.M. I arrived with a time of 56 and ½ hours.

Pétur:
Pétur is good with the ladies. Pétur is horrible at hitchhiking. He had no phone, no map, no Spanish, and two months without shaving left him looking like a 40-year-old-rapist. Haukur and I heard nothing from him for five days. When the weekend came, we assumed he was dead, or in Bolivia.

His first day he only got 50 kilometers and was left once again in Confluencia, the wonderful little town that had already called the police on us (Bariloche, The Valley). We don’t have a good reputation there, so he spent the night in a cave off the main road.

He slept under trees and bridges, hitched two motorcycles, shared coco leaves with a trucker, and got picked up by a family who not only made him dinner, but let him sleep at their home, and drove him back to the highway the next morning.

After five days on the road he was let off on the side of the highway 60 kilometers from Buenos Aires. The cars flew by at 150 kilometers and hour. “Fuck it,” he thought, “I’ll just walk.” A family driving past saw him stranded on the road and, like Haukur, pulled over for him. Their van had no seats in the back and Pétur enjoyed the final part of the trip on the floor with four kids, playing with them in broken Spanish.

109 hours. Pétur didn’t even come close.


























































We were finished. I cannot sum all this up with some profound conclusion, so I leave you with the words of a friend.

“Travel is such a funny thing. It’s a wonderful idea filled with adventure and romance- romantic ideas of places and all the wonderful things to do there with all the people to meet and all the people to be.

The truth is that a place isn’t anything until you invest something into it and live and walk and feel it. Be in it. Until then, it is all just a romance story written by some sleazy novelist for widows and housewives. Or small kids with big plans and even bigger ideas about big places where big things happen to big people.

Travel is bigger than the places, bigger than stories and certainly bigger than I can re-tell or summarize- it is the act of being lost mentally and physically without regard or worry to find a destination.”

-Robert Bottomley

In Patagonia

The whole time we were down in the South, Pétur was lugging around his camera with the intention of making a documentary about the trip. He is a talented filmmaker and already has a couple of short films available on his website for Trailer Park Studios, (I posted a link on the side of the blog a couple of weeks ago.) We filmed everything we did and are now in the painstaking process of putting a film together. Recently, we completed a couple of trailers that you can view here. They are available for download in High Definition and there are links for viewing on YouTube. We hope you enjoy them!

Also, there is one final story left to be posted that I am working on currently. I expect to have it up by the end of the week.

-Chris

Bariloche, The Lake

Lago Correntoso. One of the many bodies of water that span Argentina’s famous Lake District. Famous not only for being beautiful, but expensive. Full of quasi towns that popped up like weeds for the sole purpose of accommodating the hordes of tourists that visit year after year, we had a hard time finding a place without any human presence. Lago Correntoso served us well.

We set up our temporary homes a stone’s throw from the shore. We had a forest to keep us out of the sun and our own private beach. Picturesque, one could say.

Few days were left before our lives in the city were to begin again. We took advantage of every moment. The sauna that we failed to construct in the valley was up and ready to cleanse our dirty pores by early afternoon on our first day. Rocks were heated in the fire for hours as we eagerly awaited the steam bath. When they were finally good and hot, we dragged them into the sauna along with a kettle full of water to pour over them. Unfortunately for Haukur, one of the rocks had landed outside of the hole we had dug for them in the center, and his tiny, white little buns found their way on top of it. The fist-sized third degree burn that resulted made his sauna experience slightly less than pleasant.

We fished, unsuccessfully. Everyday we took an afternoon dip in the lake. Haukur baked fresh bread in the fire, and Pétur even made a harpoon out of the crossbow we had bought. Still, no fish. The evenings were spent in silence by the fire, until slowly we dozed off in the open night air.

It was our last time spent in the wilderness. Four wonderful days without a human in sight.

Bariloche, The Valley

Fifty kilometers from Bariloche, on the border of Parque Nacional Nahuel Haupi, lies Valle Encantado. It’s a climber’s paradise, filled with rocky spires that sprout out of the ground like the fingers of God. It’s also private property.

It was to be our most ambitious mission. The goals were as such:
1) Build a raft.
2) Float down the river on the raft, camping as we travel. A modern Huck Finn tale.
3) Build a sauna in which to relax after a day of raft construction.
4) Don’t get arrested.
We failed to realize any of them.

To get to Valle Encantado we first got a ride to the ‘town’ of Confluencia, two kilometers north of the valley. Confluencia consists of a gas station, a bridge, and, on the other side of the bridge, a hotel. We left the gas station on foot.

Immediately upon arriving we met some of the climbers.
“What are you guys doing here?” they asked, with skeptic looks at our packs.
“We’re gonna camp in the valley and build a raft so we can float down the river,” I replied proudly.
“Oh…” and with that he walked off.
In fact, none of the climbers would give us a second glance. We didn’t know why, but they hated us. It turns out that, unbeknownst to us, the cops had come to the area the previous week to kick campers off of the property. The owners didn’t mind the climbers, as long as they enjoyed the rocks during the day and slept somewhere else. Now, due to the amount of people that camped there regardless, like us, there was talk of threats to close the property to everyone.

We crossed the river in little plastic boats. The loathing that the climbers had for us went so far that, as some of them were crossing the river at the same time as us, I offered my hand to assist them as they docked. They refused to take it. At that point we decided it best to get out of their territory and headed into the woods in search of a place to camp.

After hours of hiking, our packs weighing us down with tools and a week's worth of food, we finally settled on a site that would serve for our labors. It was right by the river, and hidden enough that we wouldn’t have to worry about being noticed by the police. The problem was, the highway was right on the other side of the river, and it killed the wilderness ambiance that we were looking for.

A hearty dinner with rice and whiskey led us to our sleeping bags.

















The next day we had to prioritize our goals. The day before, as we hiked through hours of thicket and thorns, I had lost my rain jacket that had been strapped to the back of my pack. Luckily, Pétur had another thing in mind, which required him to backtrack as well. During our search the previous day we had come upon a rocky cliff that dropped off into the river. Pétur wanted to jump off it. After months without snow our adrenaline addict had to do something to get his blood pumping. Ryan, a guy from New Jersey with whom I had crossed paths with numerous times, had joined us for the week and he was feeling man enough to take the leap as well. Haukur and I decided to watch.

The cliff was 32 meters high, over 100 feet. We didn’t know this until afterwards.

It was all set. We had checked the water to make sure there was a good landing, Haukur was set up to get it all on film, and I was at the bottom of the cliff to serve as medic in case anything happened, all they had to do was jump.

Pétur, of course, was the first to go. I didn’t actually see him jump, but the gunshot like sound he made when hitting the water was hard to miss. The impact had knocked all of the air out of his lungs and when he came up to breathe the noise that came from him was similar to that of a death rattle. I was shaking, not having any idea if he was okay, but he swam to shore and brushed it off like nothing had happened. He just wanted a high-five.

Ryan was still building up the courage. Two or three times he signaled to us that he was ready, and two or three times he stepped back to think it over again. The fourth time he jumped.

“Oh my Goooooood!”
Boom.
“HELP!”
I looked back and screamed at Haukur and Pétur on the nearby cliff where they were filming, “FUCKING HELP!”
I stripped off my clothes and was in the water faster than David Hasselhoff. The impact had taken everything that Ryan had and he couldn’t swim. I dragged him to shore and laid him on the beach where Haukur and Pétur where waiting. He was alive, but hurting. You could see the worry on his face.

By late afternoon Ryan was still in pain. It was best that he sought medical attention. The team comes first, so we abandoned all plans and Haukur swam across the river to get help while we packed up camp. An hour later, sitting on the shore with all our gear, we saw Haukur get into a raft, using a shovel as an oar.
“Well, we’re in trouble,” he said as he floated towards us.
“What kind of trouble?”
“The police are waiting for us on the other side.”

Haukur had arrived at the opposite shore and went to the gas station in Confluencia. They told him they had no phone, nor raft and couldn't help him. He ran across the bridge to the hotel. They refused to help as well. They did call the police though. Of course, once the police were there the gas station was more than willing to help and offered Haukur the raft that they didn't have before.

After a brief interview with Neuquen's finest, Ryan and I got in the back of the squad car and we headed into town.

Everything, like always, worked out fine. The cops were hilarious. We listened to Manu Chao in the car and they just laughed when Ryan told them what happened. The Argentines think we're crazy. A quick X-Ray at the hospital showed that all of Ryan's bones were in the right place. We returned to Jorge and Ivan's place.

Haukur and Pétur were already there, Jorge and Ivan had come to rescue them. They thought we were crazy too.

Bariloche, The Beginning

Go to Bariloche, get a good night sleep in a bed, and head to the lakes for a couple weeks of camping. That was the plan.

We found a hostel as we walked into town. Cheap, small, and cozy, the owners were two brothers from Bariloche, Jorge and Ivan. Over the next couple of weeks Jorge and Ivan's place became less of a hostel and more of a friend's house. The circumstances of our travels were ever changing, as I will soon relate, and we passed through their establishment quite a bit during our time in Bariloche.

It looked as if rain was to come. We couldn't cross the river where we intented to set up camp in bad weather, and a couple of nights in a proper bed was a tempting offer. We would have to wait until the weekend to head back into the wilderness.

Bariloche is the tourist trap that we had expected. With the exception of going into town for supplies, we spent the days in the hostel. There was a small backyard with a cabin where the four week old puppy, Coco, lived. Every night after dinner we retired to the cabin, us, the brothers, and the multitude of Israelis that came and went. Alcohol filled our bellies and music filled our ears until sleep called us to our beds.

El Bolsón

El Bolsón is dangerous. You can be trapped there if you're not too careful. We thought we would pass through for a day or two. We stayed a week.

The story goes that back in the 70's El Bolsón became a haven for the hippies of Argentina and Chile. It still is today. Every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday there is a fair in the main plaza. Part farmer's market, part handicrafts, the fair packs the plaza with people the whole day, strolling through the stands, watching the preforming clowns, or listening to the various bands that play throughout the day. For our part we spent the week there in the plaza, laying in the grass and watching the people pass by. The mood was light and everybody was friends. People came and went, we would share a beer and talk about how wonderful life is.

El Camping de Mario was our home for the week. Essentially someone's large backyard in the poor part of town that had become a campground, our companions were many of the people who came for the summer to sell their wares. They came from all sides and for the summer they became a makeshift family. Every night was spent by the bonfire together, singing, passing around a jug of wine, or listening to Haukur explain what Iceland is like.

There was Mare, the Chilean girl who taught us how to make the delicious, and warm, Vino Navegado. There was Negro and Javiera, whom I spent a rainy afternoon with, cooking pasta for them in their tent so they could relax as the mushrooms kicked in. There was Lapa, the clown who had a presence in any room he was in. There was Flor from Bariloche who, with the assistance of others, spent endless hours one night doing my dreadlocks while we all sat in the community hut, avoiding the rain and telling riddles until dawn.

El Bolsón rejuvinated us.

Haukur Sigurðsson

A quick interlude...

A lot of people have been sending me compliments about the photos I post on here. It should be known that I did not take these photos, I just do the writing. 99% of the pictures you see on this blog are taken by Haukur Sigurðsson, our little blonde photographer. Haukur is truly gifted with his lens and has the eye of a professional. If you want to check out more of his stuff go to his Flickr site. It´s amazing work.

-Chris

El Bolsón

Pétur?

Pétur didn´t arrive to El Bolsón until the next night.

He, like us, had no luck in Tecka, only he got tired of waiting and left the town on foot. By the time Haukur and I passed him he had already walked several kilometers.

Eight hours of walking and still nothing. Frustrated and exausted, he saw some Ostrich-like birds in the distance and gave up trying to get a ride to chase them down for a shot.

Night came. He had a tent, food, and a camp stove. Haukur had the pot. For Pétur this was only a minor problem. He found a rusty tin can on the side of the road and cooked his dinner in it. A hearty hobo meal and a day in the sun had left him wiped out. He slept like a baby amongst the desert brush.

It was another five hours of walking the next day. Finally, a Chilean traveling from Punta Arenas to Santiago stopped. There was already two hitchhikers, also from Chile, in the cab who played bongos and made bracelts for Pétur as they made their way down the road. They were obviously heading for El Bolsón as well.

Haukur and I, while Pétur was stuck in the desert, were laying in the grass in El Bolsón eating waffles, drinking artesenal beer, and talking to beautiful hippie girls. We had to arrainged to meet in the plaza and when the sun started to go down we began to worry. We were heading back to camp when a band preforming on the street caught our eye. We stopped to listen when, walking in front of the band, Pétur appeared. High-fives, stories, and bed. We did it.