Quick iPhone Post
Bohinjisko Jezero
Quick post from iPhone as there are some severely limited Internet cafes in this area. Speaking of area I’m in Bohinj Jezero, Slovenia; a rugged but spectacular mountain retreat in the heart of Triglav National Park. The hotel is a family run chalet with a specatcular view of Lake Bohinj. Got in yesterday after exploring the far reaches of this little country I checked in and was quickly met with a rainstorm of biblical proportions, seriously intense dousing. I got to my room and quickly thought “Where the hell am I?!?” It was pouring rain, I was alone, there was nothing to do. I began to regret my decison of making this trip to the mountains; I am no hermit and even worse, there was no one for me to talk to (oh no!) i figured I’d hit the hotel bar for some dinner and hopefully to meet some new people but my efforts were severely hampered after I spilled balsamic vinegar all over a humorless German and then inadvertenly offered her husband peanut oil for his salad instead of the more common olive variety. I sat down at my €5 included meal of grilled turkey and potatoes, cracked open my New Yorker fully expecting to be avoided like a bad looking dessert: I was. I called my Dad and my girlfriend to get ny hopes up but the effects were temporary. I was miserable. But. I had a car. A way to escape my escape. So at 8pm I fired up my rental Renault and set off with no destination in mind. My hope was to find a deserted stretch of mountain road and drive. I had GPS so getting lost was not a possibility unless some terrible calamity were to occur. After a few meandering twists through some Slovenian mountain towns I came across the sign I was looking for: a yellow triangle with a black squiggly arrow in the middle. I started my ascent to God-knows-what and by chance came across what must have been “heep-chhop” hour on a local radio station. Who knew hairpins and 50 Cent could be so cathartic? My frustration had melted away into the thrill of driving some of the most insanely unsafe roads I had ever been on: 200 foot drops, tight hairpins, dips, drops, swerves all with guardrails made from chicken wire. I couldn’t have been happier with my new friend, even it was a rental.
A Country Hvar Hvar Away
About a two hour ferry from Split, the string bean shaped island of Hvar (pronounced Fhar) is thought by many to be the “next” Ibiza/Mykonos/Marbella. I haven’t been to any of those places but based on their reputation I can say that Hvar is a class below those…and that’s a good thing. Hvar is more quaint and far less “sceneny”
We got to the island a few days ago and checked into the Hotel Amfora: a Communist looking structure with recently updated room that feature a super modern look and 1920’s air conditioning technology. But, the location is excellent with a nice 10-minute walk into town and the best beach on the island (and by best beach I mean the beach with the smallest sized rocks on it). We headed into town right as dusk set in with the harbor packed with all types of sefaring crafts: ferries, dinghys, motorboats, sailboats and yachts. The three of us had some fish for dinner and the Greg and I set out to take in the nightlife. The first stop was Carpe Diem, the “see and be seen” place on the island where I guess people go to “be seen” dancing like morons in window sills. The euro-techno was blasting and the crowd was a solid mix of creepy old Eurotrash and backpacking hostel hoppers. After a few drinks we headed to the next loudest place on the harbor, a place with no name but with some of the loudest techno you could possibly imagine. We walked in and were met with 100% humidtiy and sweat. Mix that even more alcohol for Greg and I, a bartender who would routinely light the bar on fire (no joke) and a shirtless DJ spinning tracks with inexplicable sirens in the background and really deep voices saying things like “The system, is broken…ENHANCE!” and “Dragons, are in the lair!” and you’ve got yourself a quintessential but surprisingly fun Euro dance party. Greg started kicking some game to a local blonde as I watched little brother in action and after a few deeply probing questions (“So, are you from around here?”) and even more interesting answers (“No, I am from Split”) we were told that the best night club in town was Lavendera which was a few minutes from the harbor. We followed the crowds up the hill, paid the 50 kuna cover and partied ’till about 4 with some intermitent and somewhat spasmodic moves on the dance floor. The only shocking part happened on my first trip to the bathroom where I was greeted with an Aussie guy sprawled out on the floor and a girl with seemingly very limited medical skills holding his foot in one hand and a steak knife in the other. Major SurgeryFAIL but great times all around.
The next morning, with a mega-ranging-huge hangover, was our tour of the Hvar Town. Nice, quaint and quiet we all hiked up the hill and took in the major fort that surveys the entire town. On the way down Mom stopped into a local butcher shop where she started chatting with the owner, Ivo, who spoke excellent English (and German) and gave us a thorough explanation of the island and the stuff to do there. With two of his sons living on the island with him, he invited us to meet him and his family for dinner at his friends’ restaurant later that evening. Mom purchased some local cheese and wine (honestly some of the best swill we have ever had in our lives) and we set off.
Greg and I then took off on a driving tour of the island and took the Opel to a few thousand feet above sea level in the surrounding lavender fields and through a few villages. Spectacular scenery was in full effect as we took turns driving on the ribbons of tarmac draped across the sparse but striking mountainous geography. Greg uncovered the car’s Sport Mode functionality which made the countless hairpins that much more exhilarating.
At about 10 we headed out for the restaurant that Ivo had suggested. As walked into the garden we were pleased to see Ivo and his family still in the midst of their meal so we joined the table right next to them. Knowing the full menu, he kindly ordered everything for us, including the booze. Well after a few hours (and more than a few drinks) we started getting stories from Ivo and his family. Everyone at the table next to us had a story about his or her role in the “the war.” Ivo and his eldest son were soldiers while his wife was a nurse. Some of their stories were what you’d expect to hear from a 5 year war that virtually coined the phrase “ethnic cleansing.” Their youngest son, Ivan, was not old enough to fight but he changed the subject to the topic of his own son and the origin of his name Matia where I teed up one of the more egregious faux-pas in my traveling career.
Ivan: Yes, my son’s name, Matia, is an old name, from Croatia, and is very honorable.
Me: What does it mean?
Igor: Two peoples are the cause of the name. The first is a great Croatian warrior who conquered the islands and scared off the Italians (I’m drunkenly nodding as he’s saying all this). And the second, is this man from our village who, how you say… (as he places his open hand parallel to his nose)
Me (interrupting but trying to help Ivan find the word in English): The village idiot?
Greg: (immediately starts choking on his lamb shank)
Me: Ummmm…I mean
Ivan: No, no…not this.
Yes, I inadvertently asked Ivan if he’d named his son after the village idiot of Hvar. Oops! But no harm was done as everyone seemed to laugh off what they must have thought was a translational issue.
We kept the drinking going till midnight, sampling the various local specials and finally turned in around midnight with a flush red face and an already throbbing head. Unfortunately for some of the readers, not much debauchery.
Dubrovnik to Split to Hvar
Huge in Dubrovnik
Our final dinner in Dubrovnik was at the terrific Potro. Considered one of the better restaurants in town we dined on fresh caught shrimp, Greek salad and a delicious John Dory (which was fun to see on the bill as it accounted for half of the final tab…oops!). Greg, Mom and I then took in the Old City at night for some Slavic people watching. Young girls in dresses the sizes of postage stamps meandered around the cobblestone streets while we sat roadside and kicked back a few beers. A few lefts and rights took us to a random red carpet laid out in the middle of the street and a few marginally important looking people with passes around their neck conversing. Greg and I took this and ran, telling the people that we wanted a photo with them so we can take the pictures back to the US and tell our friends that we partied with the biggest celebrities in Croatia. Of the five people, there were two Swedes, a German, a Pole and a Greek guy who smelled like olives. Mom took the pictures, and BOOM! we were Huge in Dubrovnik!! for the night.
Things ended up around 1 am when we headed into a cab manned by a driver who kept imploring us to visit the local strip club (which was never a consideration). Clearly two young men would seem like the target audience for such an excursion but with this driver clearly being paid to take guys like us to places like that I channeled my inner Dan Akroyd and started to ask him some questions about purchasing all of the women at which point his responses went from an enthusiastic “Come on. Is Friday night. You want girls? They dance all over you!” to a more alarmed “Ehhhh…I don’t know answers to questions I am just driver!”
Quick summation of Dubrovnik: Yes, you should go there and you should be prepared for the many crowds. The Old City is special and the locals are clearly proud of their heritage. The sparkling Adriatic only adds to the charm but there are a few quirks.
1) The most obvious thing is that Croatia is a country in transition. Clearly the ways of Tito have taken their toll and the service reflects that. The people in the hotels try but a smile here and there would certainly help. Ordering a beer and being met with a cold stare is a little unnerving and makes me wonder if they’re spitting in my food.
2) There are no beaches. Only rocks. That sucks. While I don’t particularly enjoy having to wash the sand off my body when I get home from the ocean replacing that with the application of Neosporin on the many little cuts you could potentially get from all the rocks is even worse.
3) Dubrovnik is cruise ship central. The Old City is packed to the brim in the morning so if you’re going to go, show up around mid day and walk around with a few less crowds. Take a seat in one of the many cafés and enjoy the peace and quiet (there are no cars allowed).
Up early yesterday morning with the goal of taking the 2:30 ferry from Split to Hvar, the three of us packed into the Opel and headed up the coast. Manning the wheel with Greg as co-navigator, the winding slopes and dips and turns were something of a problem for Mom who almost instantly got carsick. While extraordinarily fun to drive these roads are not for the faint of heart and with a 130 gerbil-powered engine under the hood, passing the many trucks along the way proved to be something of a challenge for both driver and passengers. After a few hours we stopped by a roadside fruit stand and purchased some freshly picked figs. Mom struck a conversation in German with the father of the owner who pulled out a bottle of homemade Schnapps and offered us a tipple. Not bad stuff but I wouldn’t buy it. We got back in the car (with Greg marginally buzzed) and flew up the very empty highway to Split where we caught our ferry and made it to Hvar at about 5.
Day 3: DUUUUU-brovnik
Quick story before we get the rundown going: For those that know me, you probably realized that I’m not the most delicate person in the world. In fact, I’m somewhat hazardous to be around because sharp things may start flying around at any time and without warning. So it should come as no surprise to anyone that when Greg and I went snorkeling the other day, our guide Anton quickly referred to me as “Za Destruktor” after nearly breaking the straps on the flippers that he rented out to me. Excellent. I travel 2,500 miles and I still can’t shake my rep as a menace to any society!
Anyway, picking up from yesterdays post. We got a disappointing start to the day after waking up to some crummy weather: overcast and cold; just the way you want to get your day on the water started. Hopping into a cab that would take us to the Old City (or Stari Grad) was even worse when our driver told us of the miserable traffic that lay ahead. What should have been a 5 minute ride turned into a 20 minute one so Greg, Mom and I jumped out and walked the last kilometer through some of the winding residential streets outside the walled city; a surprisingly nice turn of events (no pun intended) that give us a glimpse into life outside of the tourist mayhem of Stari Grad.
Tourist mayhem is no joke either. Approaching the entrance to the City was a mashup of languages 20 people deep. German, French, Spanish and lots of the indecipherable Slavic languages that dot this area were all being spoken by the anxious tourists awaiting their turn to mosey around one of the more striking classical architectural cities left standing. The fact that it’s standing at all is pretty incredible given that this place was under near-constant shelling by the Yugoslavs up in the surrounding hills during the regional turmoil that took place here about 15 years ago. But, the story is the Yugoslav army wanted to keep the Old City intact so they only aimed for the surrounding areas. Eek.
We took in the sights and strolled around for a few hours. The spiraling streets have a very videogame like feel to them, with hidden corners and random staircases popping up at any moment. This would be the ideal place for paintball but I have a sense that the UNESCO people would take some marginal offense to that suggestion.
We setup shop at an outdoor café and dined on some fried smelt, squid and a few beers and then headed up to the city wall to circumnavigate the entire city. Greg certainly was not prepared for this is as his constant complaining (“Couldn’t they have more than one exit?” and “This sucks.”) made us hurry along. Still, the sight above the City is magnificent with orange tiled rooves and charming little gardens surrounded by this massive beige, stone wall and propped up against the Adriatic Coast. Pictures are aplenty.
We headed back to the hotel and Greg and I planned on taking another snorkel trip around the buoys when we convinced Anton to take us on a 40-minute scuba dive on the shore. He finally gave in and after a very, very brief safety walkthrough, Greg and I were at the bottom of the sea surrounded by fish and the undulating underwater landscape. Aside from our guide inadvertently tearing off the leg of an octopus (oops!) the dive was uneventful but thoroughly enjoyable.
That’s going to wrap up the post for today as we’re heading out on the 3-hour drive in the Opel wagon to Split with a 2:30 ferry to catch. Dinner details to come for the foodies in the house
Živ Dubrovnik , posrijedi je najprije pošta!
This time change is a piece of cake. Haven’t had a problem with it since we landed in London a few days ago which is fannnnnnnnnnntastic. But enough about my Circadian rhythms, let’s get down to the nitty gritty.
Got into Heathrow on Wednesday morning with no problems at all, hopped off the plane and headed over to the Franks’ place (big ups to Peter and Vivian…keeping the family in check across the pond) and had some breakfast/fired up the Rocky soundtrack to get my inner-shopaholic going with Mom and Greg. The three of us took off on the Tube and made our way to Baker Street for a few errands. Weather was nice and warm and afterwards we set up shop on some of the lawn chairs in St. James Park and noshed on some Marks and Spencer sandwiches which Greg had been clamoring for. Tasty.
After ‘a spot of lunch’ we headed to Bond Street a serious shopping extravaganza. Poste, a shoe store in the area, was excellent. Great pairs of sneakers and funky leather shoes were the plat du jour and Greg and I had a field day by snatching up two pairs of Nikes: same styles, different colors. Then to Selfridges where Beans picked up a few outfits for his Morgan Stanley gig. Place felt like Bloomingdales which was slightly unsettling (All this travel for a repurposed Bloomingdales!) and certainly gave more credence to the UK becoming the 51st state.
Back to Peter and Viv’s for some dinner and oyster shucking, where I stabbed myself in the hand with a knife, and at about 11 we were picked up by our cab to be very swiftly taken to our hotel in Gatwick Airport. Mom nearly got sick on the ride over but everything else was fine
Sleeping in a hotel that is in the airport is certainly a little strange as our commute consisted of a 2 minute monorail ride to Gatwick’s South Terminal, a massive and unappealing transport hub clearly built by people with who would be better suited for chicken farming. How hard is it to put a sign up that says “Croatia Airline: Check In Area D?” Furthermore, how can you employ people who can’t even spell ‘cat’ let alone point you in the right direction.
Me: Excuse me, can you tell me where the check-in for Croatian Airlines is?
Man in the very bright, yellow pinnie: Over there (gestures towards the men’s room).
Me: By the men’s room? But the check-in desks are over there (gestures opposite the men’s room)
Man in the very bright, yellow pinnie: (Smile, nods his head and walks away)
Luckily the highest functioning person in the airport happened to be a friendly baggage handler and we eventually got everything we needed and took off for Dubrovnik.
The flight over was painless but I should point out that the man behind me kept complaining about me using the recline function on my seat back, which also happened to me on the flight to London. Both parties were appropriately rebuffed and I enjoyed my flights in peace.
After landing in Dubrovnik and enduring the 1-hour-plus it took Mom to rent the car from the sweet but limited Hertz girl, we packed into our Opel wagon and set off for the 20-minute drive up the coast to our hotel: Dubrovnik Palace. The drive itself wasn’t without the occasional argument between Mom (who took objection to my driving) and me (who took objection to Mom’s objection to my driving) but everything was set aside as each bend in the elevated and hairpin-laden seaside road was met with magnificent Cypress trees and absolutely stunning views of the Adriatic and stari grad Dubrovnik.
Check-in put us in the seaside, po-mo room 903: spectacular view, strangely communist-inspired furniture. Greg and I hit the Adriatic for some coastline snorkeling while Mom read and the afternoon moved towards the evening with dinner in the hotel which was an odd experience. Despite surprisingly delicious food and Mom’s incessant inquires regarding the locality of all the items on the table, the ambiance was, um, lacking. Note to former member-cum-owner of hotel who clearly majored in Awkward Seating Arrangements at Eastern Bloc State: Omnipresent fluorescent lighting mixed with a shrieking Baltic woman describing her long, lost donkey as a soundtrack don’t mix very well. That said, the Mediterranean sea bass and the cheese salad was superb.
Post-dinner, Greg and I hit the nightlife with a quick cab ride to the beautiful Old City. Architecturally it’s a medieval mix between Paris and Prague. The cobblestone streets lead to quiet bars and thumping nightclubs with everything in between. Greg and I set up shop outside the Hard Jazz Troubadour, enjoying a pivo while listening to some very lively (and oddly sung) renditions of The Beatles and Michael Jackson (which was doubly odd given that we found out he passed away about 5 minutes after leaving). Note to ESL jazz singer: The words to Billie Jean are not “I’m just the son, but you know I’m not the one.” After a solid half hour we took a stroll around Stari Grad and took a cab back home around 1, just as it seemed the night was heating up for the locals.
Back to Stari Grad today for some sightseeing and walking around with a full report to come. Get at me with any suggestions.
Link to Pictures
“Two F***ing Seconds!”
I thought my adventure was behind me. Resigned to a trip home from El Calafate I thought that the exhilarating part of my trip took place on catamarans and Andean glaciers. Boy was I wrong…
I showed up to the airport in El Calafate at 11 to catch my 11:54 plane to Ushuaia in Tierra del Fuego only to find out that the flight had been pushed back two and a half hours to a 2:30 take off. By my calculations this would have put me in Buenos Aires at 8:00 pm, giving me more than enough time to catch my 9:30 flight back to JFK. I willed away the hours by exploring some of the lesser played sections of my iPod and spent an inordinate amount of time in the gift shop perusing mass produced indigenous crafts that were supposed to look unique. I was bored, frustrated and couldn’t wait to get on the plane and get back home.
The boarding finally came and with my iPod plugged in, head nodding to Lil’ Wayne, I made my way on to the Boeing 737 bound for Ushuaia and then continuing to Buenos Aires International Airport. The flight took off normally and headed south to the “Southernmost City in The World.” Things were going along fine until we hit a little turbulence during our descent. The rule of thumb when flying into Tierra del Fuego is that the flight path has to follow the contours of the low lying valleys. If the pilot tries to fly over the mountains the plane may get violently tossed around by the intense winds that are commonplace in that part of the world. I held on and waited for the bumpiness to pass but the turbulence then turned into a full fledged drop as the plane fell a few hundred feet in a matter of seconds. Passengers began to scream and gasp as the plane was thrown around like a rag doll in the ocean. Then things took a turn…literally. The turbulence became so angry that the right jet engine let out an awful and cranky mechanical groan. The engine then stalled and the plane began a sharp nosedive to the left. Sitting on the right side of the plane, I could see the mountains become nearly parallel with the window-sill. The screams of the passengers were quite audible and some even began crying. I gripped the seat as hard as I could and began breathing infrequently. We were losing altitude very quickly and thoughts of my demise became a serious reality in my own mind.
The pilot managed to regain control of the craft and pull up a few hundred feet but just as things began to get better the left side engine gave out and the plane entered the same death roll it had done just seconds ago, except this time at a much lower altitude. The cabin was now in mass hysteria and people began screaming en masse. I began to think what it would be like to die in a plane crash in this part of the world: Could I possibly survive and if not how long would it take to find my body? How long would this last? Would the pictures that I took of my glacier hikes be preserved? Would it hurt? I began to take on an eerie calmness, almost resignation. I didn’t barter with God or pray for help. I merely told myself that this was beyond my control and whatever the outcome was, I’d have to accept it. Much to my surprise, the pilot managed again to take control of the plane as the left engine fired back up and the plane shot skyward at a very sharp angle.
After circling around the airport to get our coordinates, the pilot came on the air and apologized for “the little bumpiness back there” and promised we’d be on the ground soon. The second approach, while still choppy, wasn’t nearly as intense as the initial attempt and we managed to get all wheels on the tarmac as the passengers cheered with glee and relief.
Because it was a stopover we weren’t allowed to get off the plane so I made way to the restroom. As I was waiting and watching the faces of the panicked passengers, the man behind me started making small talk. This was the essence of our conversation:
“What’d you think of that landing back there?”
“That was about the hairiest moment of my life but at least we made it,” I replied.
“Well I’m a flight engineer for Boeing down here on vacation and can tell you a few things. First, I fly a few hundred thousand miles a year and that was as close a call as I can remember. You see, when the plane loses power like that, the direction the nose is heading in changes and as a result the plane becomes increasingly harder and unstable for the pilot control. I reckon that if we were in that roll for two more seconds we would have crashed.”
Seriously…
That is what the guy said to me. Point blank. No bullshit. I was two seconds from having my body being fished out of the Beagle Channel by the Argentine Coast Guard. Two fucking seconds. I just started laughing.
I could tell you what happened to me afterwards. That my plane got rerouted to the domestic airport because of the fires the farmers have been setting outside Buenos Aires closed the international airport. That the kid sitting next to me on the flight to Buenos Aires stole my iPod. That the police at the domestic airport got my iPod back from the kid after I pleaded with them to listen to me and just check him after a woman said she saw him pocket it. That I got a private taxi, along with another kid (Sam), which got us to the International Airport. That the taxi dropped us off at the wrong terminal. That it was too late for me to check in and had to go through a makeshift border patrol, customs and security clearance. That Sam, my newfound brother in arms, had a hard time getting through security with an ice axe in the bag that he was originally planning on checking. That I sprinted to the gate and made the plane at 9:58 knowing full well that the doors were going to close at 10. I could tell you all of that but the reality is that I can always get another iPod or another flight to New York. But even through all of that, I couldn’t get the thought of “two seconds” out of my head.
Think about that…
1…
2…
(fill in the blank)
I’m happy to say that I’m here and that I’m safe but whatever luck or karma I may have had 24 hours ago certainly is a little more depleted today.
Adios Patagonia
Wow…
Incredible…
Fantastic…
(insert adjective that conotes amazement here)…
A great trip that has given me so much more that what I´ve written here.
Back to NYC to get the damn photos uploaded on the interwebs.
Dad: I´m on flight AR1300 (Aerolineas Argentinas) that´s supposed to get into JFK at 7:15. I have my cell so I´ll call you when I land.
Peace!
Day Deis: You May Be Flashing Your Ice, But I´m Walking On It Son
So the final day of the trip. The culmination of all things Argentina. It is…The Big Ice Adventure!
What is Big Ice? Very simple, it´s a tour of a glacier while you´re on the actual glacier. Just like Dr. Evil would say ask about “real freaking lasers?” this is a “real freaking glacier.” And the name of this glacier is the Perito Moreno, one of the very few advancing glaciers in the world. 5k wide, 100 meters tall and 60k long, the Perito Moreno is the jewel of Los Glaciers National Parc. Here´s what went down:
The standard 5:30 wake up call was in full effect. Got my day going with some really old and crappy coffee and a few trips to el baño (I´ll spare you the deets). The pick up was for 7am and unlike yesterday the bus was actually on time for a change. One thing about being in Patagonia during this time of year is that the sun doesn´t rise until 8am so I conked out and slept for the 50km trip out to the glacier.
I was awaken up by the lovely Roxanna who made us fill out the standard issue health form when we got inside the park. It was nothing major aside from lying about having any previous ankle injuries. We then made our way to the main lookout point where you can view the glacier in all its glory. It was 8:30 in the morning as we pulled into the lookout point and my initial reaction was (hide the women and children) “Holy Shit!” I had seen the Spegazzini and Upsalla glaciers yesterday from the boat but that was from a few hundred meters away. It was a totally different experience seeing the glacier from just over a hundred yards away. It´s a sheer wall of jagged and angry ice that moves a few meters a day into the Lago Argentino. The face of the glacier is a milky white with ice blue striations that line across the view point. In the summer time the glacier calves on a very regular basis (calving is when giant chunks of the glacier fall into the lake resulting the icebergs and various glacier related detritus). Lucky for me, I managed to catch a rather sizeable piece fall into the water and caught it on film. The sound is eerie, picture a lightning bolt hitting a phone pole with the resulting sound of giant waves crashing against a pier. It was complete nature: unbridled, fierce and awesome.
We left the lookout point and I remembered thinking to myself “I´m going to actually walk on that thing?” The answer: yes. We were taken by boat across the lake where many pictures were taken of the sun rising above the mountains and made our way to the hut that would serve as our jumping off point for the hike. Both groups were there: Big Ice (my group and the decidedly more advanced undertaking) and the Minitrekking group which seemed to be made of invalids, old people and pussies. I was in the right place although I sense some of you would disagree. Paula introduced herself as our guide and told us that we could take everything out of our backpacks besides lunch. We were also told to empty our water bottles, a curious comment that I at first thought I´d misinterpreted through her broken English but I´ll get to that a little later.
After a very brisk 10 minute hike up some forest we stopped at a little clearing and were given our crampons for the hike. For those who may not know, crampons are spiked, metal attachments that are bound to the bottom of your boots/shoes with nylon straps and provide grip on the glacial surface. We were then guided through a rather strenuous 30 minute hike on the side of the glacier where we would then attach our crampons and take on the Perito Moreno for ourselves. The whole hike up there was filled with total anticipation: the weather appeared to be agreeable and everyone in the group moved quickly and eagerly through the stones and rocks that had been deposited along the side of the glacier over the past thousands of years. Even a waterfall with a drop-off point hundreds of meters in the air failed to grab anyone’s attention. The mission was as clear as the ice we were to walk on.
We reached our point of glacial entry, a clearing filled with dead trees and branches where we all sat and placed our crampons on with the help of the guides. The hike up had given me the chance to connect with a few other travelers, notably Javier (from Buenos Aires), Mike (a Kiwi) and Iza (Polish-born but Pennsylvania-bred). The four of us served as each others photographers during the 4 hour trek but I have to admit that I probably had them take more pictures with my camera than the three of them did combined.
The first stop on the glacier was a chasm the cracked and bubbled with deep blue glacial water. It was at this point that Paula told us that all the water on the Perito Moreno was safe to drink. An intrepid Colombian couple was the first to take a sip and after a resounding affirmation of their actions, the rest of us joined it. The water was cold (duh!) but delicious. Much crisper than anything Deer Park or Poland Spring could claim, this was water straight from the source with no BS to boot.
The group was then taken to a rock pit, or at least I think that´s what it was called. It’s a giant hole, 6 feet by 10 feet wide that is filled with mountain water and descends 70 meters into midnight blue darkness. I tested this out by dropping a nearby stone into the abyss and after a few seconds it was gone. For anyone thinking of taking a dip in a glacier at any point in their lives, may I suggest you refrain from dipping nary a toe in one of these rock pits. Standing on the cusp of one of these things elicits a chilling fear, literally and figuratively. This brings me to my next subject: The Weather.
The guides had told us that if the weather stays nice, which it was at the time, and then we would be able to have lunch in the middle of the glacier. But if things started to act up we would have to cut short our hike and take refuge in a nearby tent setup for just this type of occasion. One thing was for sure, if I had to step into that tent I would have been pissed. We were told that the hikers yesterday were met with the same glorious early morning conditions but just as they got out on the glacier the rain began to start and the hike quickly turned into a death march. I can think of few places on earth I´d rather be during a downpour than a glacier. Not only is there no shelter but you move with the speed and agility of drunk turtle and everything around you is cold and wet already with things setting up to only get worse. Lucky for us the weather was simply magnificent. So fantastic that we started shedding layers en masse. I was decked out in a long sleeved poly-pro undershirt, a microfleece, a regular fleece and my rain jacket and by the end of the day I was wearing half the layers I had on in the beginning of the day. I can´t even begin to tell you what this meant in both group morale and the resulting photographs that I had taken: I managed an arthritic index finger inducing 312 photos and movies by the end of the day.
Hiking around the glacier for a few hours, Paula directed us to a lagoon that sat on the surface of the ice where we would take lunch. You know when you buy a computer and it comes pre-equipped with photos of beautiful places that you can use as either a screensaver or a desktop background? This was one of those places. Blue water flowed into the lagoon through a makeshift waterfall and the surface of the snow was pocked with marks that resembled acne in their appearance. This almost lunar landscape was the setting for easily the most incredible lunch location I´d ever had. And what did I have? A Power Bar and a turkey sandwich that Iza was kind enough to share with me. Yeah, classy, I know thanks.
We then headed back to the jump in point where my energy levels started to dip. All that walking in the bright sunshine (that reflects off the snow and makes things a little dicey at times) had made me somewhat weary. That said, I was still trucking along and just taking everything in. Fantastic.
We reached the point, took off our crampons and made our way back to the boats. Photos and videos were taken on the hike back and I just had an ear to ear smile the entire way down. This is what I had come down here for. To explore the wilds and ruggedness of Patagonia. To test myself, albeit not that much. And to have an adventure that would be more than just the run of the mill ski trip or beach vacation. I left the Perito Moreno knowing that I had achieved my goal. The boat ride back was met with celebratory whiskey on the rocks (legitimate rocks as they were ice chunks taken from the glacier itself). Photos of the group were taken and I exchanged information with Mike, Javier and Iza. It was a momentous day and truly the cherry atop a trip that has made me a new person perhaps.
My flight takes off tomorrow at 11:54am where I start the 21 hour journey back to NYC. I´ll let this experience marinate a bit before I choose some closing thoughts but let me make one thing clear: Do yourself a favor and go on a trip. It can be a day or it can be for a year. It doesn´t have to be to Argentina but go somewhere different. Somewhere you haven´t been before. You´ll be amazed how clear your mind will be when you return.
Hasta La Vista,
Zooooooooooooooooooooooooooooob
Day Nueve: I See You Flashing That Ice
Wow…
Seriously, wow…
I’m in the Patagonian outpost named El Calafate right now and I just can’t explain how incredible this place is but I will do my best.
I may have mentioned this already but I woke up this morning at 7am and headed to the reception desk where Justina, the very sweet and somewhat attractive desk lady began yelling at me having never even met me before…You are in room Maracaibo yes? Your bus leaves in 10 minutes for the glaciers! You must get dressed immediately!” Not knowing that I had made reservations, I ran back to my room and began packing as if there were a nuclear explosion. I had no idea what was going on seeing as I had made no arrangements whatsoever yet but thought that perhaps I was at a hostel that planned everything for you. I sprinted around my room and made it back to the reception area having not showered or brushed my teeth which I’m sure made everyone with clear nasal passages really happy. After sitting there for 20 minutes, Justina came over to me and informed me that she had made a mistake; it was the room next to me who was supposed to be at the bus and that I should just relax and enjoy myself. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I like to take my time in the morning. I like to have my coffee, I like to read and I like to spend an inordinate amount of time on the throne. Not having been afforded any of those opportunities put me in a grumpy mood but I managed to organize the day regardless.
Justina set me up with a causal 2-hour horseback ride that would take me to the top of some hills that overlook Lago Argentino and some of the surrounding mountains. After napping for a few hours in the living room I was picked up by my cab at 11:15 for the 10 minute drive to the stable.
The stable itself is a bit rundown but it exudes gauchoness. There are horses, dogs and cats everywhere and everyone that works there has the air of someone whose body was forged not from a womb but from stainless steel. The men were hard but kind. After exchanging pleasantries with our gaucho, the very funny and charming Fernando, me and 4 others set off on our trip. Joining me were Mario and Hillary, a newly wedded couple from West Hartford (who we’ll get to a bit later) and an Italian mother daughter combination.
I hadn’t ridden a horse in years but much like a bicycle, it didn’t take me long to get well acquainted with my steed, I think his name was Paquao. We started off heading towards one of the shrubby hills that blanket this landscape and were met with head swiveling views of epic mountains and crystal blue lakes. The omnipresent and sometimes violent wind kept my hands alternating for spots under the saddle while my idle hand held the reigns. Upon reaching one of the many vistas that overlook the town and the mountains we stopped for pictures. It was a remarkable spot that was somewhat compromised by Fernando’s horse rather potent and audible flatulence. We continued onward for another 45 minutes until we reached our intended destination: a bluff that sits about 200 feet about Lago Argentino, resulting in a steep drop into the lake. Many, many pictures were taken and we made our return back. The landscape here is almost Martian and no plant grows higher than a few feet. My guess is that the constant wind coupled with apparent nutrient deficient soil makes for poor agricultural conditions. The only economy this place has going for it is tourism which is both a blessing and a curse.
Up until a few years ago, El Calafate was a dusty outpost where Argentines could come to convalesce on the banks of Largo Argentino and perhaps visit the nearby glacier, Perito Moreno. That all changed in 2000 when the municipal government completed the new airport that was meant to service daily flights from Buenos Aires, Punta Arenas, Puerto Natales and Ushuaia. With this increase in available capacity comes a need to improve the current conditions of lodging and hotels. The result is a major construction boon that, while bringing plenty of dollars to the region, could ultimately have an irreparable effect on the natural surroundings. One of the joys of coming to Patagonia is experiencing the untamed landscape and harsh conditions that make up the climate in this part of the world. That may all disappear if the government doesn’t take steps to stem construction and cap the number of visitors that come into this town. I don’t have much hope but it’s not too late to make a change.
Mario and I had been chatting for the duration of the ride. He’s from Puerto Rico and his new wife hails from Ireland and having just been married 10 days ago, they were spending their honeymoon here in Argentina. We began talking about the respective places we have been and as the ride wound down Mario was kind enough to invite me for lunch and we took almuerzo in a regional restaurant in town. After a portion of blood sausage, I took my main course of a delicious local trout while Mario and Hillary split a portion of lamb. The serving style here is certainly unique as they don’t spend much time on presentation and instead, focus on the quality of the mean which is sublime. We downed a bottle of local Malbec and parted ways but not before exchanging email addresses and the like. A wonderful couple and one of the many people I hope to keep in touch with when I return home.
I was planning on renting a car and exploring the surrounding landscape but lunch lasted longer than expected so I made my way to the Internet cafe where I type right now.
Observations:
1) The Internet connection at every place down here is extremely slow. So slow that I think their version of email involves an Andean Condor transporting your message from El Calafate to Buenos Aires, only to then have the message put into the computer and sent to its intended destination. It’s somewhat frustrating but I didn’t come down here to play video games and write JavaScript so I’ll deal, even if it costs me $2.50 pesos every 15 minutes.
2) This town is obviously a tourist oriented kind of place but still retains some regional charm. I like it and there is a prevailing odor of baby powder that emanates throughout the entire resort. It’s kind of weird but it’s better than having the whole place smell like burnt rubber (ehem…Buenos Aires. are you listening?)
3) Driving from the airport last night was kind of an interesting experience. It’s 14 miles away from town and we didn’t see a light until I pulled into the hostel parking lot. If you need any confirmation that you are at the end of the earth, just fly into the airport and drive around for a while. You’ll see nothing more than asphalt, dirt and shrubs. That’s it.
4) Uncle Lammie: I didn’t have time to get your bag, I’m sorry but I’ll make it up to you by having a great time while thinking about you. That’s fair, no?
If you think I took a lot of pictures today the I suggest you hold onto your 1GB memory sticks because tomorrow is glacier time and the Canon SD1000 will be put to the test.
I’m heading back to the hostel and plan on chilling out for the rest of the day. I may do a night post after dinner but I have to be up so damn early tomorrow that I may just wait ´till tomorrow afternoon to get everything out.
One World!
Das Uber Coog
