Jenny In Frolic Land

Much like Alice, we have wandered into a strange alternate universe. The atmosphere of 1960s San Francisco and Katmandu is still alive in El Bolson Argentina. In this magical land, ripe barriers fall from the sky, fresh produce and hand crafts are sold at the farmers market 4 days a week, the wildfire prevention agency is called S.P.L.I.F, ponies prance in the park, hippies play drums and banjo in front of the world famous ice cream shop and so much more….

The town itself reminds me a lot of Telluride or Crested Butte, without the pretension of the rich. We arrive on Tuesday, one of the four market days. Empanadas stuffed with beef, chicken and my personal favorite; cheese+ tomato + basil soothe our hunger. Why not grab a giant glass of fresh raspberry juice as well? After perusing the selection of jewelry, hand-made cheeses, herbal tinctures, mate gourds and pressed flower artwork, we are ready to take a seat in the park and enjoy the mountain view.

Several other travelers had spoken highly of Rio Azuel. We had to go check it out for ourselves. The taxi takes us 20 minutes outside of El Bolson. After arranging a pickup time, we jump out of the taxi and stroll down to the river. Our first glimpse of the water sends chills down my spine. Yes, this section is shallow, but I can see every single rock below the surface all the way across. We walk along the river until we encounter a bridge. We had been warned about the condition of the bridge, but travelers tend to exaggerate. A large sign prohibits more than one person making the river crossing at a time. I stand poised to take my first step and realize that the rumors are true. This is a very sketchy bridge. A series of tiny planks of wood are suspended by thin rusting wires. Chunks of each piece of wood have broken off, many planks are barely clinging to rusty nails. Not only does the bridge sway ominously, but each plank gives a little under foot. I struggle to maintain my balance, praying that the wood holds each of my steps. I make it across.

We stroll along the river taking notice of the bleeding-heart flowers that line the bank. After scrambling over some rocks and under tree branches we find the spot that we heard about; El Paraiso. It truly is paradise. The canyon narrows in this location and the water deepens. The glacier that rests only a few miles up-river releases turquoise water. Peering over the side of the rocks, I see trout a foot in length floating and flipping through the crystalline water. I exhale with all the strength in my lungs. This moment is why I am here. The site of the river washes away memories of hauling a backpack, 26 hour bus rides, etc. I am at peace. The sun warms my shoulders, the air smells of pine and I am reminded once again what a truly beautiful world this is.

Though I know that this is glacial melt, I have to swim. My spirit wants to wrap itself in the purity of this place, to be submerged in nature. All of these wondrous thoughts are shocked out of my body as I hit the ice cold water. It grabs at the breath in my lungs. I can feel every hair follicle on my entire body tighten into chicken skin. My brain switches over to survival mode. Intentions of graceful freestyle swimming have been left in the sun on the rock I just jumped off of. In an uncoordinated, jerky, dog paddle, I make my way to the rock in the middle of the river as quickly as possible. I gasp and sputter as I drag my shaking body from the hypothermic water. I stretch out on the rock like a lizard, allowing the sun to warm me.

Having already come this far, I decide to venture further up the river to the small waterfall. I cannot see it from my current location, but I can hear it. I am still wet and cold, I might as well swim up a little further. The swim looks a lot shorter than it ends up being. The current strengthens as I move up river. I swim with all of my strength from rock to rock. I pull myself out on the larger rocks to give my body a chance to warm. A Colorado girl at heart, I know that I can’t allow my core temperature to fall too much. It’s all fun and games until someone gets hypothermia. It takes me a while to work my way up the river, but finally I am rewarded. I struggle up the side of a large rock. Once atop, there is a beautiful view of water poring over a rock incline. I am the only person who has come this far. I am alone and for a few brief moments, this part of the river is all mine.

The rush of water fills my auditory senses. The bubbles caused by the churning motion of the fall float along the surface in a winding path that indicates the fastest part of the river current. Two fallen tree trunks rest on the rocky river bed like sunken ships. The sun shines down the center of the canyon. Each molecule of water transforms its light into a slightly different shade of aqua marine.

The swim back is thrilling. I launch myself into the strongest part of the current and feel the power of the river pull my body. Within moments I have returned to where I left Julie reading her book.

More Pictures of El Bolson:

Bariloche Argentina

What continent am I on? A-frame houses, endless chocolate shops and Saint Bernard dogs roving the streets. Is this Switzerland?

Taking Chances

Ah the joys of having a bad back. Ever since my hike at Machu Picchu, my hip has been out. For over a month, I have enjoyed shooting pains every time I stand up from a seated position. It usually takes several tentative steps before I am able to walk at a normal pace. I have been self -treating this infliction with a hot water bottle that I purchased in Bolivia. The idea is that the heat relaxes the muscles. Yes, it is one of those water bottles that your grandma fills with boiling water and places at the foot of her bed on cold nights. It looks like an enlarged whoopee-cushion both in color and shape. When I go to fill it in the hostel kitchens, I usually make friends who want to know what on earth I am doing. I have been called a “crotchety old lady” on more than one occasion.

Finally, I find myself in desperation. Many people from all over the world fly to Argentina for healthcare (mostly to the capital of Buenos Ares). The doctors are good and procedures are about a fourth of the cost of that in The States. It’s time to find a chiropractor. I search the yellow pages in Mendoza for chiropractors. I find one. Julie calls to set up an appointment for that evening. The appointment is made and I am drowning in a sea of emotions. I am excited and hopeful that I might find a bit of relief. But more than comfort, I am scared out of my mind. A spinal fusion at 15 has made me a veteran of doctor’s offices. From orthopedic surgeons to physical therapists, I have been fortunate enough to meet some outstanding healers. I have also had the misfortune of putting my trust into the hands of qualified individuals who have absolutely no idea what they are doing. In the best of times I leave a doctor’s office with a new outlook on life, reassured that my situation is not all that bad and will only improve. In the worst of times, I am diagnosed with a new set of issues (vertebra degeneration, arthritis, etc). There have even been occasions where I have left feeling worse than before the visit. One extreme case; after an adjustment I experienced a numb face for a week. As a result, I am hesitant to visit a foreign doctor.

Julie accompanies me to the office, she is my translator extraordinaire. The taxi drops us off at a building with a sign that says “Galeno Rehabilitacion.” We walk into the reception room that consists of a wooden desk with a folding chair positioned behind it and two long padded benches lining the walls for waiting patients. There is no computer at the reception desk, no posters depicting the various bones that make up the spine, no wellness brochures and no display of nutritional supplements. Okay, I can manage this. A man enters the room wearing jeans and a while collared button up short sleeve shirt. He sits down behind the reception desk. Julie explains that we called this morning and are here to see a chiropractor to help me with my hip. The man behind the desk smiles and tells her that he remembers talking with her earlier on the phone. He then asks what my symptoms are. My Spanish is at a point where I can understand most of this, but answering the questions is another story. Julie tells him that my hip has been hearting every time I stand up. In response to my symptoms, he asks where we are from.
“From The United States” Julie replies.
“ Oh wonderful, I went to Disney World a few years ago. I couldn’t believe how long the lines were….and Orlando, what a city.” For a solid five minutes in rapid Spanish he speaks about his trip to Disney world. After we have agreed that Florida is a beautiful place he asks “where is the pain in your hip.” At this moment, I can not figure out if this is the receptionist or the doctor. What the hell is going on? My confidence is plummeting.

I am escorted back into a separate room. The equipment is not state-of-the-art by any means; in fact the appearance of the room would suggest that I have traveled back to the 1970. I remove my shoes as I have at every chiropractor I have ever visited. Through Julie, I am asked to put my shoes back on. This is strange, but okay. The usual back examination techniques, walk in a line (barefoot) so we can see how your body moves, sit in a chair, stand normally, etc. None of these are utilized. I am not given a range-of-motion test, not asked to bend forward to fully expose the extent of my scoliosis, nothing. The unsettling grip around my stomach tightens. The unknown is always more terrifying than the know. This man has not started work on me, but my apprehension is overwhelming. I am asked to lei on my stomach on a piece of equipment that I have never seen before in a chiropractor’s office, gym or torture chamber (not that I am all that familiar with torture chambers, but the movies provide some cues). There is other equipment in the room around me. The only piece that I recognize resembles the Nordic Track that was sold on infomercials far before the invention of such exercise equipment as the elliptical machine. Actually, I am fairly sure my parents have a similar piece of machinery tucked away in the basement, a relic from my early childhood. Lying face down, I realize that this man is indeed my doctor. No one else is going to swoop in and declare the pre-examination complete.

Going with it, I lie on my stomach. I am asked to bend my knees so that my shins are perpendicular to my body. Lifting my head, I look into the mirror that spans the wall in front of my face. I can see that my right foot falls a full inch below my left foot. Well fabulous. The man who I have just now recognized as my doctor, stands above me and explains to Julie that he is going to try something called the Thompson Technique. I have never heard of such a thing, but before I know it, his hand is wedged under my right butt cheek applying ample pressure. Suddenly, the table below me gives way with a grinding clunking metal sound. My hip falls as well, forced by the pressure of the doctor’s hand. I have experienced similar treatment in the states, but never with this much noise involved or atop such an archaic chiropractic table. This is repeated several more times.

I am asked to sit in a chair. I know what is coming and I am inclined to vomit. Sweaty hands are placed on either side of my face. He is going to crack my neck. As he holds my head in his hands, I flash back to previous episodes of unbearable pain and loss of feeling in my extremities. Do I stop him? Or do I trust? The moment of consideration is gone with one swift twist and crack, repeated quickly by three more in succession. Please God, Buddha, Allah, Sheba, please do let this man mess me up. He pulls away and asks me to stand.

Okay, so there is a bit of pain in my mid back, a bit in my low back, but overall I feel okay. Even better, the shooting pain in my hip is gone when I stand. Good enough. Thanking the doctor we leave.

As I sit in the cab, I can’t help but feel grateful. Grateful to be able to stand again without shooting pain. Grateful that my face is not numb. Grateful that I found one of 7 chiropractors in the entirety of Mendoza. Grateful to have one more day. For me, there may not be so many more days that my body will sustain such travel torture. I must enjoy this while I can.

Mendoza Wine And Bike

The bus ride through the city to Maipu (pronounced My Poo) leaves us with three new Israeli friends. The “what stop should we get off at” conversation on the bus has tied us together. No longer strangers, we move off in a group to find our tour operator. We intend to rent bikes to ride around visiting the different vineyards that offer tastings and tours. Mr. Hugo’s bike rental is about 100 yards from the bus stop.

As we walk into the bike shop Mr Hugo himself hands us large glasses of wine and tells us to wait a few minutes while our bikes are readied. We make it through two glasses of wine before even mounting a bike. Already buzzed, I am secretly scared of the samplings and tastings ahead. Luckily I check my breaks within the first 100 meters. My back break does not work at all. Visions of flying over the handle bars persuade me to return the bike for a new one.

Round two is more successful. My water bottle and purse are in my handlebar basket. We are off. While riding to our first stop, I learn that one of our new Israeli friends, Illi, aspires to join the Navy Seals. He was so inspired after reading an autobiography about a navy seal who sacrificed himself for his friends/team, that he plans to join the few and the proud. He is even wearing socks that sport the American flag.

We veer off the road and park our bikes at the wine museum. Giant wood barrels stretch out before us. I am handed a glass of wine to drink while I tour the historical collection of machines and instruments used to transform a grape into vino.

Thank goodness I brought a giant cheese sandwich with me on this little excursion. I scarf my food before mounting the bike again and departing for the next vineyard. With a full stomach, I feel more stable as we ride off as a group. We peddle along the poplar lined road winding our way through grape fields.

The view from the terrace at the furthest winery we visit is amazing. While we sample three glasses, we have more opportunity to chat with our random Israeli friends. We learn that Itay, is a self proclaimed ladies-man and that Ellad is of Brazilian descent, but was adopted by an Israeli family. He is on a mission to find his birth mother in Brazil. Who are these people that we have found ourselves spending the day with?

As the wine keeps flowing, we make friends from Germany, Canada, Norway and The States. We chat, of what, I could not tell you exactly. Around 6pm, the winery kicks us out. Back to the bikes. The ride back is concentrated. I take care to watch my speed, every bump in the road and every car. Drunk on wine and riding bikes sounds like something the parents would frown upon. I should be careful. Once we hit Mr. Hugo’s bike shop I sigh with relief. I managed to avoid drunken death. Horaaay.

The Desert

The day starts as any other travel day. Our plans include renting bikes to ride to some ancient ruins in the morning and touring the Valley Of The Moon in the afternoon. The afternoon tour is to be the first of two tours we had already paid for. The second tour taking place the following afternoon is the one I am the most excited about. We will see salt fields and deep turquoise lagoons that we will have the opportunity to swim in. The salt flats specifically are on my “top 5” things I want to see in South America. With our two day stay planned out, I feel quite content. We even have our bus ticket to Argentina booked.

After breakfast, we pick our bikes from the rack of options at our hostel. Julie and I are off. Neither of our bikes are in pristine condition. We joke about their overall shitiness, but feel sure that we will be able to complete the 3km journey on any bike. It’s only 3km. The road is slightly bumpy with washboard conditions in places. However, it is a beautiful day and we can see one of South America’s tallest volcanoes in the distance. We are sure to get some good views as the ruins sit atop a large hill.

We have been riding our bikes all of 7 minutes and are congratulating ourselves on finding the right path when we come to a river. I am surprised by the amount of water for the desert. The red muddy flow is moving quickly and appears to have taken out the dirt road. After looking around for a minute, we spot a make-shift bridge that we are able to walk our bikes across. On the other side of the river, we jump back on and continue to peddle. Less than three minutes later there is yet another river cutting through the road. After looking around for a moment, we realize there is no bridge this time. Pedestrians approaching on the road from the other side have stripped off their shoes and socks. We decide that the river does not look too deep and we should be able to wade across while pushing our bikes. We laugh at the predicament, while we remove our shoes and socks. The water comes to our knees, but we make it across safely. We sit on the side of the bank letting our feet dry in the desert sun. When most of the water has evaporated we reapply our socks and shoes. Off we go again. Less than a minute further on, another river crosses the road. This river looks a little more daunting. A truck is stuck half-way across and the water covers the bottom third of the passenger doors. We are close, we can see the ruins in the distance. We walk up and down the river bank looking for the shallowest place to cross. After about 15 minutes of speculation and watching another more daring biker make the crossing, we strip off our shoes and socks again and cross the river. This time the current pushes at my bike as I cross and I almost fall several times. But finally, with feet soar from the river rocks, I make it. Again, we wait for our feet to dry before putting our shoes back on. Though it has taken us 45 minutes to ride less than 3km, my mood is good. What an adventure. Rivers in the desert. We find it amusing that no one in town, not the woman we rented the bike from, none of the people who we asked for directions had thought it important to mention the two river crossings.

We arrive at the ruins and they are very cool. We also have excellent views of the volcano.

The way back goes much more quickly. Knowing the path that is the shallowest, we cross the first river without much difficulty. We don’t bother to put our shoes back on between the two rivers. The second river is a piece-of-cake and the total time it takes us to get back from the ruins is about 25 minutes. I congratulate myself and Julie on being adaptable travelers. The morning was an adventure and lunch tastes that much better because we worked for it.

Our afternoon tour begins in the rain. Julie, myself and a man from France are the only people of 16 who decide to brave the rain to walk through a desert canon. The rest of the tour group remains in the van. I feel blessed to have the rain. Not only does it suppress the overwhelming desert heat, but I feel alone. The place is not over run with tourists and I find such a sense of peace amid the canon walls.

At our next stop the rain has lightened and more of the group decides to join in on this part of the excursion. We scramble up a mound of sand and salt for a gorgeous view of the strange rock formations that were created by an ocean hundreds of millions of years ago. We notice instantly that our hair is standing on end. The guide explains that the ground is rich in minerals and that this is a place of high energy. Atop the hill, we have a breathtaking view. I can only imagine that this is the closest landscape on earth to that of Mars. Cliffs drop abruptly and the ground is crumpled. Our hair stands on end even more. Lightening strikes in long bolts on the distant horizon and thunder reverberates off the rock. The atmosphere contributes to the otherworldly feeling.

One of our fellow tour members raises his hand above his head. A sound of strong static pierces the air. I try. As my hand shoots up into the air, I can feel a disturbance of energy and my body too produces the tingy sound reminiscent of an outdated radio that is struggling to find a signal. Now everyone is raising their arms and laughing at the sensation and sound. In a moment I am overwhelmed by the energy of this place. I can literally feel it, see it as it pulls at Julie’s hair and hear it every time I extend my hand. As I bring my arm in closer to my body the sound stops. I move my arms in and out realizing that the threshold for the sound occurs about a foot outside of my body (the range of the aura according to most energy workers). I feel happy, happy in a way that I have not felt in a long time. I am part of the energy of this place, connected. I am here, feeling this and it could not be more real. All of my senses are heightened.

The guide explains that he has never seen this before. He assumes that the phenomenon are a product of the rain and lightning. I feel incredibly lucky. For whatever the reason. I, we, these people I am with are blessed to have this experience. We are all laughing together as we raise our arms over our heads and check out how ridiculous we look with our hair standing on end.

We get back in the car and drive off to have a look at a salt mine, some more strange rock formations and salt deposits. These too are quite interesting. My mood is very cheerful and I chat in broken Spanish to the Chilean social workers that are part of our group. We all have a good laugh when I mix up words and accidently insult everyone calling the landscape dirty (sucio) instead of dry (seca).

As we drive back from the tour we chat about our plans for the rest of the time in San Pedro de Atacama. As it turns out, many of those on this tour plan to take the lagoon and slat flat tour the following day. It is at this time that our driver turns around and lets us know that the road to the lagoon and the salt flats has been closed due to the rain. “It hasn’t rained this much in at least five years” the driver explains. He assures us that we will get our money back. In an instant I change. It is as though my mood has been struck by lightning. What? I am not going to be able to go see the white salt fields (it doesn’t matter that I have just seen brown salt fields) and swim in the turquoise lagoons. Dread falls over me. I am suddenly pissed. No one else in the van appears to be fazed by the news. They are still smiling and joking. I try telling myself that I should be happy. I just got an experience that undoubtedly few people get. But no, I am not happy. The smiles on everyone else’s face only make me angrier. How the hell can they still be happy after hearing such news? What is wrong with them? I am pissed at myself too. I could have visited the white salt flats and lagoons in Bolivia, but had been told that the trip on the Bolivian side is very dangerous. 13 tourists had died on the trip in the last 2 years alone. I had decided against the excursion in Bolivia because I knew I could see very similar landscape in Chile and it would be much safer. But no, I would not be able to see it here either.

Back in town we all depart to our respective hotels. Power is out in town due to the lightening. Icing on my cake. It takes all of my energy to hoist a smile on to my face and wish my fellow travelers luck as we all say goodbye.

As we walk in the dark back to our hotel, I feel attacked. The world hates me and even worse, I hate me. What kind of a dumb ass am I? I should have visited the salt flats in Bolivia when I had the chance. I should not have let my hopes get so high. Furthermore, I hate myself for feeling this way. How can I let the lack of one experience so fully piss on another beautiful and unique experience? Tears well in my eyes.

The next morning I wake up pissed off. I am angry because the people next door have woken early and are making an enormous amount of noise as they pack to catch their bus. When I get up to pee, I find that both of the shared bathrooms are full. I stand in my pajamas and wait for ten minutes before someone finally vacates one of the bathrooms. I hate them for taking so long. By the time I brush my teeth, I am in tears. All of this over a canceled tour? What kind of 27 year old world traveler am I? I don’t have to go to work today. I can read and lounge around. Today’s tour is canceled, but I still have innumerable cool things ahead of me on this trip. Why can’t I let go of this one thing? Why can I just relax and roll with the punches? I have been in high spirits for most of the trip. Why now am I falling apart? A viscous cycle is underway. I grow more angry at myself for being angry.

After moping around and a bit of crying I decide to jump right in and be pissed off. I go for it. I fling myself into bed and cry. I tell myself It’s okay to be in a bad mood. It’s okay to be pissed. Maybe it has been too long since I have experienced the dark side of myself. Maybe the overwhelming joy of the day before tipped the scales too much. I am in the desert both physically and emotionally.

The moment I give myself permission to feel like shit, to be pissed at the world is the moment I start to feel better. Not great, but at least not a crying wreck of a person. I am in the desert now, but tomorrow, I board a bus off to somewhere new. This is travel. High highs and low lows.