The Cycle

The Gringo Trail of South America is, as far as backpacking routes go, fairly well defined.  Many of the travelers follow a strikingly similar path, the differentiating factor being whether one goes through Brazil or not.  For those in the No Brazil camp, the Map section of this very blog shows an accurate approximation of the most popular route. Start in Bogota, zigzag your way north to that beautiful coast, meander southwest until you hit the Pacific, become a beach bum until you’re forced inland by the draw of Machu Picchu, enjoy the slow traveling that the cheapness of Bolivia allows, then head due south into the wonder of Argentina, ending up Buenos Aires, wondering where the time went.  Or do a similar route, only in reverse.

There are variations, to be sure, as there will always be when the planning of something is in the hands of such an erratic group as backpackers.  For instance, some people trade the mountains of Patagonia for the diving offered by the Galapagos, others aren’t so intent on staying near the coast and take trips east into the Amazon from northern Peru or Ecuador.

But the general adherence you find to this route means a lot of people are either starting or ending trips in Bogota or Buenos Aires.  They are the two natural, international-airport-equipped starting and ending points for the long-term South American backpackers.  And as every backpacker knows, the start and end of a long trip are two vastly different things.

At the beginning of a trip you’re full of bundled energy.  Everything feels strange and vividly colorful and new.  You’re excited, fascinated by the people you’re meeting, fueled by nerves and exotic alcohol that seems impossibly cheap.  It’s like you’re finally being allowed off the sidelines into a game you’ve always wanted to play.  People with strange accents are giving you rapid-fire tips and, while you realize you’ll hardly remember any of this advice, you agree that all the things these incredibly alluring people are describing do sound “fucking awesome”.

When you’re one of those bright-eyed, almost manic, backpackers right at the start of an adventure to come across someone at the very end of their own long trip feels strange and disconcerting.  Especially for the aimless, figuring-out-life vagabonds, its like looking into a future you’re not ready for.

 “You’re going home?  Tomorrow morning?  Holy shit man.  After 10 months?  Back to real life?  What are you gonna do?  Are you gonna like get a job?”

You try not to be too obvious in your pity of this dead man walking, too overly giddy that you’re not in their position.

 “Well alright man, have a safe flight.”

You leave the dorm and feel like you can finally breath again, now that you’ve got some distance from the dude with Going Home Disease.  You go join the other newcomers.

“Did you guys meet that Canadian guy in the dorms?  He’s going home tomorrow.  After 10 months.  Whew.”

A pause, a moment of silence for the fallen comrade.

“Alright!  Did you guys hear about this place Palamino??  With the rafting and the crazy bar?!?  The Kiwis told me about it.  Sounds fucking awesome!”

It feels like you’re never going home.

And then there’s a blur.  You’re a few thousand miles north or south or east or west.  You’re tan, in a faded t-shirt and beat-up flip-flops.  You’ve got about a hundred new Facebook friends, some of whom you have no recollection of ever meeting, others of whom you’ll never forget.  You know places, the places you’ve just been, intimately well.  You know where all the best things are, the cheapest things, the crazy local characters, the unique road discoveries.  You’re telling people about them, the people that just got off a plane from their home countries.  You know you’re speaking too quickly and randomly, that you’re overloading these new backpackers with too much information, but the telling gives you a chance to relive the times you spent in those little towns and you can’t help yourself.  Your trip is almost over.

You’ve become one of those people, the elder statesman of the dorm room with only a few days left.  You’re savoring things, and highly conscious of “lasts” now – the last meal you’ll have from a favorite street vendor, the last wild night out, the last hour spent with friends from across the world.  The new people you meet now view you with that kind of fearful pity.  But, at least in my experience, you realize their compassion might be undeserved.

Everyone starts a trip for the same basic reason – a desire to discover things.  For all the diversity you find in the hostel bar, there is a shared current of curiosity running through the travelers.  They launch out into the world hungry for newness and in this way, in only this way, they are all the same.

Yet just as there’s a communal motivation to start a trip, trips end for reasons totally unique to each traveler.  There is no uniform emotion felt by all those with booked flights home. Some people act like they’re escaped convicts being dragged back to prison.  Others can’t wait to get off the road, to stop lugging all their stuff around, to sleep alone in a room.  Backpackers get worn down or burned out or go broke or get hurt.  They have family obligations or jobs starting or classes to attend.

When you’re new to the road and crossing paths with someone on their way home you assume they must be your emotional opposite, the negative trip-ending bitterness ying to your positive trip-starting excitement yang.  But, in reaching the end, you happily realize that’s not the case.  As hard as it is to imagine at the beginning, you may look out onto one more spectacular view, side by side with your fellow wanderers, and, instead of dreaming of The Next Place, you might think about going home.   And be as content with that thought as you were in any moment of the whole adventure.

At least that’s how it was for me.  It was time.  My camera was full of photos, my bag weighed down with the things I’d collected. I’d gone farther and longer than I ever thought I would, spent months in entire countries I had never planned to visit. I’d done the trip on my own terms and at my own pace.  If I liked a place I stayed.  If I didn’t, I moved on.  I saw some things hardly anyone gets to see and I met some people I’ll always remember.  I passed the time in some of the most beautiful places on Earth with an international crew of traveling all-stars.  But I missed home. I was ready.

The last people I met were a pair of Australian brothers.  Fresh off the plane, flush with money from long stints as ranch hands, they were like bulls just out of the gate.  These two were high on anticipation, on the possibility of things, and I couldn’t blame them.  They were headed north.  I knew what awaited them and it was all wonderful.

We went out and went wild in Buenos Aires.  I woke up hung-over but content.  I packed my bag for the last time, paid my final tab, and then ran into one of the brothers on my way out the door.

“I’m out.  Good times man.”

“Yea.  You headed north or south?”

“Neither, I’m going home.”

“Oh shit mate…sorry.”

“Nah, it’s alright.”

“Yea?”

“Yea.  Yea, it is.”

“Alright then.  Safe travels.”

“You too.  Enjoy it man.  You got a good trip ahead of you.”

We shook hands and I suddenly realized that we pitied each other.  He pitied me for leaving this, this fantastical exotic wonderland that he’d just discovered, for home, which in his mind at the time still equated to a dull grey wasteland of repetitive experience.  And I pitied him, for being blinded to what home really was and is, for believing that there is only value in novelty, for requiring so much distance in order to appreciate things.

But he’ll learn.  Wandering, like he’s doing and I’ve done, can’t help but change a person.  A few months from now he’ll be in the north somewhere, suddenly realizing that it’s time to go home, and being unexpectedly pleased with that idea.

And I’ll be at home, desperate for the start of a new adventure, longing to be back out on the road.

Flying Out of Patagonia

The first step on the long way home.

Raising The Bar

I've always wanted to be a "regular" at a bar.  I'd walk in to nods from the staff and other regulars, order "the usual", get hassled by a gruff but lovable bartender about my ever-increasing tab, all that stuff.  In making plans, friends and I wouldn't need any clarification about where we’d meet, just "The Bar."  If someone I didn't know was looking for me, people would say things like “Check The Bar.  He practically lives in that place!”, like in the movies.  I’d have a regular bar stool that out-of-towners would sometimes accidentally sit on, only to get drunkenly berated when I found my seat occupied.  It’d be the whole Cheers-home away from home-situation and it would be glorious.

The problem, of course, is finding a place worthy of such a commitment.  For a place to become The Bar you need, among other things: a menu diverse enough not to get bored but inexpensive enough not to break the bank, drinks that veer towards the cheap but a few dusty bottles of quality booze for special occasions, an in-for-the-long-run staff that you can develop that classic “lovable bar fly” rapport with, and a reputation that makes it accessible but not too accessible to the public.  But, while important, all of that is actually secondary to a characteristic far more difficult to capture.  The Bar needs to have the right vibe, that homey feeling that personally suits a person so well that it makes sense for them to spend large amount of time there.  And that’s obviously different for everyone.  For some, that’s a dingy dive bar to commiserate with like-minded souls about an ill-fated sports team.  For others, that’s a classy upscale place where you can loosen your tie and order martinis.  For me, it’s something like this:

Look at this place!!!  Comfortable, warm, a nice open layout.  An eclectic-cluttered design with books everywhere.  A place to sit and have in-depth discussions and fiery important arguments but also a place to have too many drinks and give long-winded toasts and celebrate things!!

Honestly, the only thing I can think of wrong with this bar is the fact that its 6,206 miles away from Baltimore.

Yes, forgive the pun, but Borges y Álvarez in El Calafate has raised The Bar.  This is the leading contender, the standard by which all future potential The Bar candidates will be judged.  I will continue my search, wandering into bars around the world, looking for an open seat to call my own.  But if in that long global exploration I find nothing as good as this?  Well, then you'll know where to find me.  I'll be arguing about my tab in Spanish with the bartender at Borges y Álvarez.

The Ice Field

The Perito Moreno glacier in Patagonia.

It's Arrested Development

Sometimes I get emails from my friends about how they're getting married and think "Wow, we're really growing up!"

Then I go pick up my 'dinner' and think "Well, some of us are..."

The Way of the Gaucho

The gaucho (cowboy) is a celebrated figure in Argentinian culture.  He is the link to the wild, rural past of a rapidly urbanizing society. ((More than a third of the total population lives in Buenos Aires and less than 1 in 10 citizens now live in rural areas.))  He is the pre-European Argentinian, a relic of a time when the people were proudly untouched by outside influence.  He is the pure and gallant icon of a complicated history - forever roaming the plains, providing for his family and defending his land.

The modern Argentinian sees himself in the gaucho.  He may have moved to the city to work in an office building but he retains his gaucho spirit: proud and noble, self-reliant and generous, courteous but fiercely defiant if challenged.

And yet, the gaucho is no mere frozen stereotype.  These men still exist, albeit in far smaller numbers, and I recently got to spend some time in their natural habitat.

I only had about an hour on the ranch, but in that short time I took as many photos as I could.  Theirs is a fascinating way of life.  Simple, rustic, and fulfilling.  These are happy people.  They work hard but enjoy a good, rich life in return.  They've simply found no reason to adapt to a country that's changing all around them.  I can't blame them.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m the luckiest guy I know.  But these gauchos have it pretty good too.

Note to Vacation Home Owners

These are deck chairs.  The incredible Patagonian sunsets are made even more enjoyable sitting in these casual seats of luxury.

Bonus – This is a fox terrier named Tristan.  I’ve debated on how best to describe Tristan’s unique personality and I keep returning to one word: polite.  This is by far the most polite dog I’ve ever encountered.  I sit out on the deck chairs reading and inevitably start imagining what Tristan would sound like if he could speak.

“Yes hello, if I might just come inside for a moment…oh, I’m not allowed to?  Oh, I’ll just stay on the porch then, quite alright…probably for the best.”

“Is someone opening the door again?  Hello, well, I was just asking another fellow, if I might just come inside for a brief moment…oh, no?  They’ve told you I’m an outside dog?  Oh, well yes of course.  No trouble really.”

“Oh I see you have a few French fries there.  If I might just trouble you for one…I would really be indebted to you…the food they’re serving me, well it really is dog food!  Oh you really are too kind…”

Far From Home

Yea, these distance indicators might be a bit cliché.  But I think most travelers enjoy seeing them. They scan down to get a reference point near their hometown and you can see a small smile cross their face.

“Fuck yea – I am out there.”

To the Fitz Roy

A Journey in Pictures

Why is this a Laundromat?

I challenge you to find a more interesting looking laundromat than the one pictured above.

Oh I have so many questions for the owner of this place.  First of all – why is this a laundromat?  Was this built to be a laundromat?  Is that the original use of this building?  If so, why would you possibility design it in this way?  If not, why did you choose this place to buy and turn into a laundromat?  This is the perfect building to turn into a cool little artsy hostel.  Have you ever seen a laundromat?  One floor, one big rectangle room.  This is a ridiculous layout for a laundromat in almost every way.

Two floors make absolutely no sense, but that’s not even the most absurd thing about this structure - it’s those little alcoves.  There’s not one big space for all the machines to be located, which necessitates the constant lugging of wet clothes from washers to far-away dryers.  And the plumbing must be a nightmare!  Running separate water lines to the alcoves to feed into the washing machines is yet another inconvenience in a building full of them.

This is literally the most ill-suited structure I can possibly imagine becoming a laundromat.  If you were going to design a laundromat, this would be a lesson in what not to do.  Wait…that’s it!  I think I get it!  The point is that this doesn’t make sense.  It’s a comment on fundamental architectural ideals!  It’s saying form does not follow function – function follows form.  It’s a plea for creativity in an art form paralyzed by efficiency, a monument to design at any cost!  It’s like designing a doctor’s examining office with floor-to-ceiling windows, an open air bank, a prison made of balsa wood!  It’s a statement saying that a building should always be aesthetically pleasing, even at the expense of its own efficiency!  That must be what’s happening here.

I had my whole architectural theory speech ready to go when I walked up to this place but alas, it was closed.

Town Placement

Nerd alert: for about 5 months last year a few friends and I became obsessed with a board game called The Settlers of Catan.  I won't bore you with all the details, but a large part of the early game involves the placement of settlements, from which you try to build a civilization capable of dominating your opponents.  There's a great deal of strategy involved in placing settlements - you want access to a wide variety of useful natural resources, a network of ports to facilitate trade, and enough isolation that you won't be encroached upon by the expanding empires of the other players.  Well-placed settlements set you up for a swift victory, granting you bragging rights over your vanquished opponents. ((As long as all girls are out of earshot....))

The founder of El Chaltén would have made a strong Catan player.  Excellent placement!  Right at the fork of two rivers, in the shadow of a beautiful mountain range, multiple sources of fresh drinking water within a short distance of town.  Plus, it's only a short connection to Route 40 - Argentina's Longest Road. ((And at 3,107 mi, one of the longest roads in the world.))  Very well-played.

Waterfall in the Woods

The cold, clear water of Salto El Chorillo.

El Chaltén

El Chaltén is a place that seems like it’s perpetually gearing up for a big storm.  It’s a place of wood and stone, where everything looks simultaneously sturdier but somehow more worn-down.  The people, locals and travelers alike, are always checking things: straps on big backpacks, jeep tires, window shutters, climbing ropes.  They test their strength, frown and turn up their collars, then walk over to check something else, quickly and with purpose.  Even the dogs, huskies and German Shepherds, don’t wander up friendly and curious.  They run in packs through town, anxious to get somewhere.  The land has weeded out the uncommitted.

Emptiness

The road ahead in Patagonia.

The Wind

Like the Eskimos with their snow, if someone told me that the people of Patagonia have a hundred different words to describe this wind, I'd believe them.  It's constant, overwhelming, all-encompassing.  But a few adjectives don't do it it justice.  Here are eleven ways I've come up with to try and convey what this Patagonian wind is like:

It’s tears-in-your-eyes, blow-your-hat-off wind.

It’s a suffocating blanket of bitter cold.

It’s always as strong as wind can be, until it becomes stronger, then remains at maximum strength, until it becomes stronger yet again.

It’s a wind of lost maps, ruined hair-dos, slamming doors, unintelligible conversation, unlit cigarettes, thick soup, and double socks.

It’s the wind that makes it make sense that birds can fly.

It’s one of those inanimate things you can’t help but humanize, only so you can curse at it angrily into the turned-up collar of your deficient coat.

It’s a harsh mother shooing a child back from an edge.

It’s a wind that makes you nervous about the strength of the roof and the weight of the car.

It’s a wind that forces itself into the beginning of conversations, an element so strong and omnipresent that it must be commented upon, vehemently and passionately, when you first start speaking with someone.

It’s a wind that strips away any attempt at image enhancement – a woman who is beautiful in this chaos is truly beautiful.

It’s a wind that lets you know you’re near the end of the earth.

Impressionism

Taken from a bus barreling down the famous Route 40 into Patagonia.

The movement and lack of light blurred the image into what I thought would be an unusable photo.  But, when I saw that the camera had still captured some vivid colors, I realized the result looked a bit like one of those impressionist landscapes people pay so much money for.  So, I’m happy to throw this in a frame and call it a painting if anyone’s interested.