Bariloche, Argentina: On my way south I had spent a week in Bariloche when my plan was two days and move on. In that week I’d seen about everything. Buying chocolate would take an hour at most so I stopped by Escuela De Montaña. My former teacher Arianna wasn’t there but the old German school master was. A hand shake didn’t take long and I was out of things to do. When everything’s new, even gloomy weather has an up-side. Without a purpose, the second time around is just the same old place. Bariloche was still a cool place but boredom comes easy. Getting my card punched and moving on was my reason to be there.
There was a different lady at the chocolate shop. I didn’t know if the first one would have remembered me anyway so there was no joy in retelling the story. Two kilos of new chocolate in the old tin, I packed it carefully in my backpack where I could keep it safe. I did splurge however, ate half a dozen chocolates, rationed out over a couple of hours but there was a chocolate high.
We had omelettes later rather than early. Herman booked my bus ticket for that night, over 800 miles north to Mendoza. It’s a big city, over a million people in the metro sprawl. On the dry, eastern slopes of the Andes, it is to grapes and wine what Iowa is to corn. If you buy a bottle of Malbec anywhere, if not a California knockoff the odds are that it came from Mendoza. Herman wanted to know if he should book a hostel for me but I thought, no, I’ll wing it. We shot pool after lunch and watched the clock. The bus ride to Mendoza would be an all night, all day marathon. I don’t remember much about that except that we spent a lot of time on bad road, slow going with long delays at scheduled stops.
The bus station in Mendoza was big, full of people, busses lined up in the street waiting for a place to unload. There was none of the organization and courtesy you find at baggage claim in an airport, it was push and shove, drag your stuff through people clamoring to reach their own bags at buss-side. When I emerged on the other side of the scramble I thought; OMG. We were deluged by hotel and hostel hawkers. I was used to hawkers but in Mendoza it was like having fleas. A dozen, maybe more, men waving brochures, all of them in my face, trying to get closer, trying to out-shout the guy in front of them. If I took a step back they all stepped forward. Obviously I was a gringo and gringos all have lots of money, everybody knows that so I was the bullseye.
I started with a polite rejection but they were not listening, only competing for eye contact and my attention. I laughed for a while, made faces at them, turned and tried to walk away but they outflanked me easily. Some rattled off Spanish so fast even a native would have to hear it again. Others, some whose English was no better than my Spanish just added to the din. I looked the nearest guy in the eyes and asked, “Comprendes no?” Do you understand? Quickly followed by, “Respondeme!” Answer me! After a few repetitions the guy would acknowledge that he did understand. Then I said, “Entonces dejame solo, vayas” Then leave me alone, go! Then I made eye contact with the next guy, second verse, same as the first. By the third guy they got the message, turned away and left me alone. My plan had been to check out the message board where all of the hotel, hostel business cards and flyers would be posted.
The crowd on the platform thinned out and the noise subsided. I pinned my duffle and guitar between me and the message board, you don’t let go and look away. If you’re not holding on to everything you own and look away, something will be stolen. I had a pencil and note pad in my pocket, started writing down addresses. As I made my way over to the information kiosk an inconspicuous, unassuming lady beckoned me. She had been leaning against the wall under the “Information” sign. I read her lips, “If you need a room, I can help.” I did and she did.
Across the street from the bus station was a park that took up the whole block. Looking through the fence and across the next street you could see her place. The walk was short, the price was right and I had a bed. In my 2-bed room I discovered a long hair, hippy type room mate from Massachusetts named Jephthah; he worked for Amnesty International. In our conversations the best I could glean was that he answered to a supervisor in the States and basically did what he was told. He was trying to get some legal assistance for an Indian tribe farther south. Who would have ever believed, European immigrants were trying to steal their land.
My bed was awful. It felt like bed slats in a sack. I can sleep on hard and smooth but sharp and pointy was a bad deal. I went back to the lounge and slept fully dressed on a couch. The desk clerk in the morning was afraid I might be a vagrant, not very friendly but I showed him my receipt. He apologized but couldn’t get it. If you paid for a room, why sleep in the lounge. “La sala estaba bueno,” I said, “pero la cama esta malo.” He still didn’t get it and my Spanish was close enough. I went back to English. “Only a gringo would understand.” He didn’t get that either. I felt much better after a shower and change into clean clothes.
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