Mendoza, Argentina: I had a week to take care of all my unfinished business before my plane took off, Santiago to Miami. I knew on the front end, itineraries are like underwear, change as needed or wish that you had. On the day your plane takes off, you need to be on it. I wanted a couple of days in Mendoza, 5 or 6 days to wrap up things in Santiago. My unbridled explorer still wanted to go to Bolivia. I had the money but while on Navimag, between Puerto Natales and Puerto Montt I did the math; Bolivia would have to be the one that got away.
As a bird flies, Mendoza to Santiago is about 150 miles but it’s up and over a 20,000 ft. mountain range. The bus has to stay on the road which adds another hundred miles. There was a seat on the bus for the next day and I was about to count out the money when the agent explained the caveat. It had been snowing on the pass for several days and it closed the day I arrived. When the weather closes the road over the mountains, there is no way to know when it will reopen. They have snow plows but it is not the Interstate system. The road can stay closed for weeks. In that case, the only way to get across is to fly or go back around, the way I came. When that happens the air fare from here to there goes up x3. I could buy the ticket and know it is good for some day, maybe soon, maybe not. Then as a last resort I could get a refund.
Walking down town from the bus station meant crossing the superhighway at a nearby underpass. I picked up a map at the bus station and plotted my course to a mid-city park, near the business district. I shopped a little with nothing in mind. The long ride from Bariloche left me needing some exercise and the walking was good. Mendoza had a feel, a different kind of culture than anywhere I’d been on this trip. The pace was slower, people were more patient than in Santiago. Avenues, boulevards and even side streets were lined with mature sycamore trees. There were parks everywhere with lots of marble, white painted walls and wrought iron fences. After a token comparison it was a no-brainer; New Orleans with it’s monuments, parks and live oak trees: just different coordinates and culture. I walked until I’d had enough and headed back to check on the snow, up on the pass.
At the bus station the man at the information desk must have thought I was just another self obsessed gringo and he would have been right. I wanted detailed information on snow, the road, the plows, the weather forecast; that he didn’t have. The mentality there is a little different than Michigan where no news is good news. In Argentina, no news simply means they don’t know. All he could tell me was, the road is closed. I went to an internet café, checked the weather and confirmed that it was snowing on the mountain. The forecast was more snow on the mountain, right! Jephthah and I asked our Inn Keeper about getting over the mountain and she deferred it to God’s hands, if not God then, the Gods. In Mendoza we were wearing sweaters but unzipped. The mountain pass might as well been on another planet. Only foreigners want to go to Chile; so why not stay a few more days and spend your money here!
I took my guitar across the street, sat on a table top in the park and practiced. Tuning by ear, I broke the high E string and was upset with myself. Earlier in the day I had walked by a music shop and would take it there. I didn’t have a crank handle to spin the tuners or a wire cutter to trim strings. I figured I’d have them all replaced and tuned. Evening was coming on, Jephthah and I discovered a produce stand tucked in a little alcove on the street. We got mangos and went back across the street to the park again. His work with Amnesty International was a thin cover for running away. He just wanted some separation from overbearing parents and a girlfriend who wanted to get married and make babies. Déjà vu; I thought of Jos, my Dutch amigo from Ushuaia only forty years removed. Jos had been there with reservations about going back. Jephthah was wary from the start. He was meeting lots of people, developing a Latino network and traveling, in no hurry to assimilate the stereotype, American dream. We got along very well. Back at Casa Pueblo my bed had a new, at least a different mattress. It was sleepable, made me feel special. Before turning in I walked over to the bus station and got the latest information. I knew somehow that it wasn’t snowing in Santiago and my plane would take off on schedule.
The next morning Jephthah had a long list of things to do; we had coffee together, I took my guitar and headed back down town. New strings and a setup, 400 pesos, about $14 American and that was a good deal. I had to pick it up after siesta and that was good too. Siesta in Mendoza was observed, at least wherever I went. I found the best way to deal with it was to take a nap. On a park bench, nobody bothers you. At city center, there was a big park full of big trees with sidewalks that divided it into quarters and then circular walkways that subdivided the quarters. While I sat, people arrived with push carts, began setting up booths and stands. There would be a festival beginning that night. I had nothing better to do so I waited, treated myself to empanadas, orange soda and watched.
With my guitar on my back I wandered neighborhoods; I was in the high rent district. Big, three story, stone and brick homes on the same block with impressive buildings of similar design, museums, government offices; it felt like I should have a ticket to be there. Back at the park, I approached a young woman who was babysitting a peddler’s booth. The articles for sale were necklaces, leather cords with silver pendants, crystals and incense. I asked her name and she said, “Wing”. I moved my arms like a bird and she laughed, told me, “sí, como un ave.” Yes, like a bird. She was watching Leo’s stand until he returned. Leo was the artist, a silver smith. We talked, she knew enough English to help but it took several attempts to accomplish any real communication. What was remarkable was the tattoo on her left forearm. It was a dragon in flight with one wing and tail running up to the elbow, the other wing fanning out on her hand and fingers, the head turning under her wrist, consuming her palm and thumb. No matter how she moved, the dragon articulated in a dragon-like way. When Leo came back I asked about a particular design of a silver cross. I called it an Inca cross, commonly found in Inca art. He said he could make anything I could draw so I drew it. “Come back in an hour and a half,” he said and took off. Wing knew everyone who came by, introducing me I had more new friends in a short time than I could remember.
Wing started helping customers, taking money and wrapping packages. I went wandering, first one circle-walkway and then another. There were buskers at the cross-walks and a gazebo in the very center with a native, panflute band. The weather cooled and fog settled in. When I got back around, Wing had gone and Leo was back. Two of his friends were there gabbing, they weren’t shopping. He opened a small box and there was the Inca cross, just like I drew it. I was delighted with it, asked, “Cuantos?” how much? He shook his head, “Nada”. It was the first time he had seen the design, said he would make more and sell them easily. If he wouldn’t take my money for the custom piece, I would buy something else. I chose a silver, Patagonian Thunderbird, mounted on a carved piece of coconut shell.
Leo’s friend had been eyeing my guitar case. He asked, “Tocas?” You play? In Spanish, the word for Play is Jugar and it’s not used with making music on an instrument. You do not play the guitar, the word is Tocar, to touch. I nodded in the affirmative but included a disclaimer, needing help with the vocabulary: A beginner “Un principiante.” His eyes lit up, “Toca algo”, play something. So I strummed through the 12 bar blues, noodled a little with a lick inside the B7 chord and repeated a couple of turn arounds. It was cool, several strangers stopped to watch. My new amigo, in perfect English; “May I ?” With Leo it was, what you see is what you get. But the other two were toying with me. Their English was very good and he wanted to see my guitar. I turned it over to the young dude and he schooled us all in the blues. For a solid 2 or 3 minutes, without a pause he performed stuff that would hold an audience at any Kansas City blues club. He was genuine, showing off for sure but in a cool, warm way. He loved the instrument and I thought, ‘I am very ordinary but that little guitar is special.”
At the bus station, “No cambio en la montaña?” No change on the mountain? They man said, “Oh sí, mucho cambio, mas nieve.” Oh yes, lots of change, more snow. I figured I had one more day; if the bus couldn’t run I’d have to shell out the 8,000 pesos to fly, roughly $250 American compared to $35 for a bus ticket. Then it occurred to me with so many people flying, would there be a seat left on the plane? I slept alright but woke up with the gloomy prospect of missing my plane.
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