We joined the festivities for the final day of music and bronco riding (which we decided should be called horse torture.) Local bus schedules and our North American sensibilities got us there in time for the opening of the gates at 6:30 p.m. We then waited...and waited... and waited...as the huge stadium slowly filled with people from the shady side outward. Loud-mouthed vendors plied the growing crowd with bonbons, empanadas, bottles of wine, and mickey mouse cushions for the rough cement bleacher seats. We bought Tremayne an Argentine flag t-shirt with its big smiling sunshine on the front since he had chosen to stay at home, claiming he didn't like folk music or horses. Every now and then a group of gauchos on their horses would saunter across the field and pose for cameras and it became obvious that most of the people around us, dressed in fancy fringed ponchos, wide felt hats and pleated embroidered pants, were tourists just like us and acting out their cultural mythology.
Around 9:30, as the sun was setting, the music began, starting with large youth groups belting out traditional rhythms and folk tunes and moving on to professional bands with sharp costumes and ear-numbing performances. (Why were we the only ones plugging our ears?) Since the event was televised, people paid as much attention to the cameras as to the musicians and whenever one pointed their direction they would climb on the seats to wildly wave their placards. Inbetween each act, a few horses would be led across the field from the packed pens at one end to three padded cement posts at the other, where they were cinched up and sent off to dispatch their riders as dramatically as possible. We didn't feel particularly sorry for the riders as they limped off the field or were carried away in an ambulance, but we did feel sorry for the horses who clearly were not enjoying their job and tried desperately to avoid their fate.
The finale was at 2:30 a.m. when Argentine folk singer Leon Gieco appeared and the crowds poured onto the field to dance and sing to his revolutionary songs, many of which were familiar to us from La Lucena campfires. At 4:30 a.m. we left the stadium with the music still ringing in our ears and the crowd still high on wine and patriotism. Colby was nearly asleep on his feet, but we roamed the congested and muggy streets, thick with the smells of freshly-tanned leather and carcasses roasting over open asado pits, until the 5:40 a.m. bus back to La Pampa, feeling slightly overwhelmed by our first real sense of culture shock since coming to Argentina.
|
Here in the Central Andes that was not a problem. The rivers cutting through these imposing rocky peaks were muddy brown, like thick chocolate milk sloshing along deep gulleys, churned into a frothy foam that almost looked delicious in a very different way than the clear waters of Patagonia. At 3000 meters (10,000 feet) the border crossing had David feeling dizzy from the altitude and the hairpin turns down the other side kept our stomachs slightly queasy as we tried to ignore the absence of guard rails. It did not have the same troubling effect climbing up the switchbacks on our way home through this pass two weeks later. Our last taste of the mountains then was trying to make it back to the Mendoza bus station for our connection to Cordoba and wading through the knee-deep muddy mountain waters as they overflowed the gutters into the streets after a thunderstorm.
 
After a brief stop in the town of Talca, where we met up with Wes and Lori and visited with some North American lay missionaries working on Maryknoll projects in the area, we headed up into the nearby mountains to the small town of Vilches. Here we were graciously hosted by another family associated with Maryknoll, Ted and Maruja Gutmann-Gonzalez. In the beginning stages of setting up their second eco-spirituality project while they participate in the daily responsibilities of a rural community, they shared with us their life and many meaningful conversations. Their home provided a wonderful place for us to reconnect with Wes and Lori and get the news from Finland, as well as work through our thoughts about the fledgling community forming at Round River Farm. Colby and Tremayne particularly appreciated the family's 7 cuddly cats and well-stocked book shelves. 
While in Vilches, we went on an overnight trek into the nearby Reserva Nacional Altos del Lircay with Ted, two of his daughters and some friends. Colby joined the other teenagers on five riding horses plus there was a local guide and two more pack horses. The adults and Tremayne (remember, he doesn't like horses) hiked in the lingering dust of all those hooves. Walking alone is often nice to be able to focus on the trail itself and not on another person's heels in front or to feel rushed by the sound of footsteps behind. On this path, walking alone was the only way to be able to catch a few molecules of clear air. The soil here was a fine gray powder that had been layed down by volcanoes, poofing out in a little explosion with each step and hanging like a haze in the air. It took 8 hours to work our way up to tree line and along the vast ridges until we arrived at a serene lake in a protected bowl of towering rocks. We washed away the grime from our long trek in the coolness of the melted snow and made camp near a shallow stream that slid over the gnarly gray boulders. The next day we took an even longer trail back down, stopping at a geologic formation rumoured to be an extra-terrestrial landing site, where a large plateau covered with geometrically-shaped stones perched over a 1200 meter deep valley that reached up to a looming "beheaded" volcano. Condors soared above us and a fox hunted on the slope below. It was a magical journey even though it wore off another layer of our boot soles and a few more millimeters of cartilage in our knee joints.
 
 Tremayne juggling, as he did at every stop along the journey 
 Colby in the refreshing lake, flowers emerging from the dusty rocks 
 
We camped at the edge of an island across the river from the German college town of Valdivia. The place was celebrating its annual bierfest and crew boats rowed past shipyards along the riverbanks. We left a sunny and hot morning in town, taking a local bus to the coast and a ferry across the river mouth where we scolded ourselves for not realizing that the cloud bank we had noticed on the horizon was the cold ocean air waiting to greet us. We were like the tourists from sweltering southern towns who come to visit Lake Superior and freeze in their shorts and tank tops. We tried to just appreciate the chill.
 
 
 
And, as usual, we found a local free-lancing canine to accompany us around the city. All she needed was a moment of eye contact and she knew she had generous companions for the day. We continue to be amazed at the organized and intelligent lives street dogs seem to live here. They have their well-defined territories, which our friend hesitantly crossed once and was quickly chased back to her side of the park. They are well-adapted to human boundaries as well, seldom even attempting to enter any doorways and waiting patiently at the crosswalks for the pedestrian lights to turn green.
 
 
 
 
Wes and Lori had strolled down the mountain earlier than us to rent mountain bikes for some more exploring. We teased them about training for a triathalon as they joined us for a quick swim before we caught the night bus back up to Santiago, where we parted ways until we meet again in Minnesota. We returned to Argentina utterly exhausted but also inspired by the incredible experiences we stuffed into those last two weeks of January.
|
|
