Ushuaia, Argentina: On this morning I had food in the refrigerator and in a box in the pantry. I fixed a 3 egg omelette with cheese, onions, peppers, an avocado and Argentina’s version of Spam. Before it came off the burner I had an audience so I shared those eggs with my new friends and started another omelette for myself. They watched intently as if the secret was in the spatula and I told them, if there was a secret it was simply a low, slow fire. I pulled the pan off the fire and let the eggs finish out in their own heat but that must have seemed irrelevant to folks who cook everything hot and fast. I felt smug in the fact that I knew the secret even if they did not.
Outside it was sunny still the streets were in shadows. With the sun low in the north, shadows reached down slope, south to the water. Shadows had been confusing for me from my first day off the plane and it only got worse. I went into a tienda (shop) that sold a wide variety of goods but had little or no inventory, typical. If you wanted something, a clock, a pocket knife, a flash light, you bought the item on display as there would be none in back or under a counter. The vendedor would order a replacement and when it came, it would go on display. There was a charango hanging in the window. I first saw one in Lima, Peru at the air port. A busker was playing for coins at the gate when we changed planes: then again in Santiago’s subway and again in El Bolson. It’s a musical instrument similar to a ukulele with 5 sets of double strings and a bowl shaped body carved hollow from a single piece of wood. Glue on a spruce top and strum away. I found them for sale but vendors didn’t know anything about the tuning or chord shapes. I looked at the charango but had no clue as how to progress so I thanked the guy and walked. That was my first full day in town and I was still looking.
I was on the high side of San Martin Ave. walking down toward the waterfront. Coming up the street on the other side was an old, gray bearded man with a felt hat and top coat. With him was a young man carrying a guitar case. Tucked in the crook of the old man’s arm was a charango. Like jumping onto a moving train, either you leap just in time or miss it all together. I hurried to the next corner and had to wait for the light to change. While I was waiting, they had crossed and were making good time up the hill. By the time I got across they were turning into a building half a block ahead of me. I didn’t run but I did hurry after them. Searching inside, they had disappeared into a doorway or up or down stairs. My gut said “Down” and I shuffled down the to next level. Looking in open doors, moving door to door I found them talking to an official across a counter.
I stepped up, off to the side a little and looked at my man, watching him talk in too-fast Spanish. While I pondered what to do next, the man behind the counter sensed I wanted the other man’s attention and stared at me which in turn alerted the gray beard. He turned to see what it was and we made eye contact. Ready or not, the ball was in my court and I had to do something. “Lo siento,” I said, I’m sorry. “Quiero aprender sobre el charango.” I want to learn about the charango. Obviously I had pulled him away from a conversation that was important to him and there I was, a strange Gringo interrupting them. At about the same height, eye to eye, he paused for a few seconds, looked me up and down and replied. His English was about as solid as my Spanish. He said, “I am a busy man. I have no time for you.” He paused again, then, “Can you come to my home tomorrow?” I was taken aback. I said, “Sí, Yes I can.” He nodded, spoke to the man behind the counter, turned on his heel and was gone.
My jaw must have been on the floor. The guy behind the counter was laughing. “I am Martín Gunter,” he said as he started writing on a piece of paper, “I work here at the bureau of tourism. That was my father Miguel and my brother Benjamin.” He handed me the slip with an address on it. “You will need a taxi, directions would be impossible to explain.” His English was perfect. “He wants you there at noon tomorrow. Any questions?” Of course I had questions. They were all musicians. Miguel was retired with a small pension, still taught guitar lessons and played several gigs a month. Martín, besides his day job at the bureau of tourism played base in a local band, ‘Vodevil’. I thanked him again and he dismissed it saying, “I’ll be there tomorrow too, see you then.”
Down on the wharf, harbor taxis picked up and dropped off private sailors who were anchored out in the channel. Too cold for going ashore in a dingy, the taxis were busy. From all over the world, thousands of sailors live on their boats, sail one ocean to the next. One of the big, sailing ‘Bucket List’ adventures is to sail Cape Horn. With solar panels, GPS and satellite phones it’s not as risky as the old days but they still have to wait on good weather. Ushuaia is where they hunker down to wait. Even in winter, not the best time to sail around the Horn, a few fearless, cold natured vagabonds spend time in Beagle Channel before slipping out and up the coast to lower latitudes. Earlier, at the Beagle Hotel, I met a couple from Denmark who had been anchored there for a month. They apologized, said they wished they could invite me out for dinner but it was too cold for company. They loved showing off their boat but if you couldn’t be outside, it wasn’t any fun. They were spending the night at the hotel, a good night sleep and shoving off for Buenos Aires.
Back at Fireland that evening I took my guitar. One way or another I needed to practice before going to Gunter’s house the next day. Someone was celebrating a birthday and I crashed the party, sampling cake and ice cream. Zoe introduced me to her cohort Paúla and their boss lady Madeleine even joined in. She had e-mailed the old German at La Montana in Bariloche who endorsed me as a good guy. They had a game night once a week where all of the students, young and old, beginners and advanced come in to socialize in English. It was still 3 days away but that’s when she wanted me to tell story. I got ice cream, cake, a Story Telling gig and hang out with cool folks, all in the same deed.
Madeleine’s husband was an adventure outfitter. In season he guided sportsmen on whitewater kayak floats and salmon fishing trips. The rest of the time he did marketing online and spent time with his friends. I was surprised they included me in their man bashing session. She talked terrible about her husband; Zoe and Paula went along with the insults and axe grinding. It all jelled with what I had seen in Santiago and the stories from Bariloche. Husbands were womanizers and worse; women get the short end but they made an art of getting even. Madeleine invited me to drop in at lunch time and chat. She liked talking Gringo with a native speaker. She really wanted to get the accent right. She torqued her face like she had something too hot in her mouth, reaching for that Mid West sound. I could see the gears turning behind her eyes. It was easy to forget that my skill set was rare in Ushuaia. I spoke Midwest USA.
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