The asado grill at America del Sur.
The Argentines
Our room was a very comfortable private room with a view of town and Lago Argentino, the largest lake in the country. We immediately noticed the heat and rather than complaining, were thankful for the warm interior and — no joke — heated floors! How a hostel in the middle of nowhere that charges $12 a bed could afford heated flooring while the rest of the world screams in fury from energy spikes, I could not comprehend. Instead, we took off our shoes and went back out for our tour.
We visited the dining area where the all-you-can-eat asado (barbecue) took place for dinner. When we expressed interest Rodrigo and Annabella became very excited. “All right! You eat with us? We’re going to have a huge, huge fiesta tonight, amigos!” And right then he broke into a dance. I got the impression that “tonight” wouldn’t be much different from any other night for Rodrigo.
They pointed out which kitchen was for the staff and which one for the travelers, but then Rodrigo quickly whispered into our ears that we could use whatever spices we wanted from the staff kitchen. After the communal fridge and free Internet stations were pointed out, they took us to the impressive duplex portion of the house which contained a lounge area scattered with beanbags and couches.
“This is the only place where smoking is allowed,” Rodrigo said very seriously, “So, if you’re not a smoker, you’re not allowed to go in there.”
After a quick pause, he howled in laughter. “Ah, juss kidding, man! Ah! Ah!” he said, pointing as if he really got us.
Annabella sighed and moved on, carrying that look of someone who’s heard the same joke a million times before. But we still laughed because Rodrigo just had that way about him where you wanted him to get his punchlines.
***
Eventually, we sat down in the dining area with sunlight pouring into the open map in front of us. Along with the emoticon e-mail, the hostel had very conveniently sent us a list of all the tours and activities in the area, so we already knew that we wanted to do the glacier boat tour and the Minitrekking hike which would involve us strapping on crampons and walking on the Perito Moreno Glacier.
The hostel took care of all the hassles of reservations; We’d get picked up right at the door and pay one big bill when we checked out. The prices weren’t any more than if we were to go into town and spent time making these arrangements ourselves. Rodrigo and Annabella were encouraging and helpful, pointing out which tours would be too demanding or too easy, when to bring a packed lunch and to make sure we had the national park entrance fees in pesos (not dollars). On our map, they circled the banks, supermarkets, their favorite restaurants, and even a nearby laguna where sometimes it was possible to spot flamingos.
“Sometimes they are there, and sometimes you will only see some grass and rocks,” Rodrigo said, shrugging. “That is the life, you know? No guarantees.”
The lone flamingo at Laguna Nimez — El Calafate, Argentina.
Later, we would find out in a previous life he worked at a marketing firm in Buenos Aires, and like so many of the people we met living in El Calafate, one day quit his job and moved away from city life. The whole town was full of people like Rodrigo. Another employee of the hostel told me that he had been living in El Calafate for over three years and had yet to meet someone who was actually born there. Him and his fiancé, who had also moved from B.A and worked at the hostel, were in the process of planning their wedding and then backpacking through South America for their honeymoon. It wasn’t different from anywhere else, really. City Vs. Country, as Jonathan Richman once sang, it is one of those eternal and universal struggles.
***
The wooden structure of the house and the large windows letting in natural light gave the hostel the cozy feel of a ski lodge in the mountains. There were only a handful of guests in late May, but even then it would by far be the liveliest place in town. (We knew this because for one of our tours, the bus would stop at every other lodging in town and they were all super cheezy or über-expensive and full of retired couples.) From my experience, after you check in at most hostels, you can’t wait to stash your stuff and then get the hell out of there to see the actual sights. Here, after our long journey, we were content to just relax and let Rodrigo and Annabella tell us what a wonderful time we were going to have.
I inquired about the possibility of renting a car. I have always been a car romantic and after reading up on the famous La Cuarenta (Route 40) highway that runs the entire length (some 5,000 kms) of Argentina, the bulk of it parallel to the storied Andes Mountains, I wanted to at least dip my toes into it.
“No, no. You don’t want to drive. The bus is much cheaper,” Rodrigo said, quickly dismissing the thought of it.
“Yeah, but…”
“There’s already ice on the road,” Annabella interjected. “And most of the road is not paved. It is very dangerous if you have a flat tire or something. You might not see anyone for days!”
“Yeah, but…” I wasn’t about to let a little snow and bad road conditions collapse my dreams of a Patagonian road trip. “What about to El Chalten?” I inquired about the famous trekking town four hours to the north. “Can’t I drive up there for a couple of days?”
“Chalten! Hmph!!!” One of Annabella’s arms flew into the air.
Again, Rodrigo shook his head. It was fascinating how his role had shifted and now he was the calm, reasonable one and I the douchebag.
“There’s nowhere to drive. Chalten is inside the national park. It’s just walking.” He made the gesture of walking with his index and middle fingers. “Your car, it will just sit there–”
“Forget it,” Annabella said, dropping her hands to her lap. “He wants to drive. Let him drive!”
She shook her head as a frustrated mother would do after her toddler still peed in his pants after heavy training.
“You want to drive? Well, you can drive me to my house!”
I backed off. Annabella looked even more gorgeous when she was angry.
“So, how do we get to the laguna from here?” I said, changing the subject. “It looks kinda far on this map. Should we call a car?”
“NO!” They screamed in unison. “YOU WAAAAAAAAAAAALK!”
- Next: The Spaniards.
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