Pucon to bariloche
Trip Start
Unknown
1
Trip End
Ongoing
Pucón, Araucanía, Chile
Friday, July 30, 2010
Chile to Argentina por autostop
The morning started as they all had for the past four days; coffee, let the dog out, attempt to speak in Spanish to my host. Gonzalo does have infinite patience for my ridiculous mumblings, often aided by a glass or two of wine. Yet today will be different, I am leaving today, no more morning wildflower walks, blackberry gathering, done are the late night cooking sessions. Did I mention Gonzalo is a chef? I am having trouble motivating myself to leave this sleepy tourist town. At this point I had already crafted an image of life here. Days of painting, hiking, to be sprinkled with the company of other resident artisans, a motley assortment of refugees namely from chaotic Santiago.
Nevermind, once I have my backpack on I’ll be ready for the next adventure. The goal being to get to Bariloche Argentina from Pucon Chile, today. The woman at the tourist shop told me it was a full days bus trip, we discussed km routes, best companies. With a distance of 216 km between the two cities I fail to see how it appears to take so long to get there. The realization that many of the roads may be mountainous and perhaps difficult has struck me, but over a day to travel 134 miles? I may have neglected to mention to the eager travel agent that I intended to hitchhike.
Gonzalo had offered to drive me to town and help find a collectivo to the next city, Curarrehue. I am really going to miss my quirky Chileno host and impromptu Spanish teacher. No more handle bar mustache to laugh at my pitiful attempts to pronounce the “rr” in Spanish, essentially resulting in a noise somewhere between a cough and lisp. In 10 months of travel I will definitely count these past few days as some of the most memorable if not largely for the fact that now I seem to be able to have a full conversation in Spanish. ‘Cayate! ahora estas como un loro, vomitando palabras sin parar a respirar quite, now you are like a parrot, vomiting words without stopping to breath’, had been the response last night to my incessant story telling. I think it was when I had been trying to explain why buttercups, taza de mantequilla, were called as such. Somehow my gestures of placing the little yellow flower under my chin, while explaining the reflection indicated a persons love of butter, hadn’t quite translated as desired. Gonzalo’s bemused look had merely held a hint of regret at teaching me Spanish as he now had to endure such trivial pointless stories. I still woke up every morning thinking of the previous days discussions in English until I realized that was impossible, Gonzalo doesn’t even know a word, moreover he refused to learn. Ideal for my current goal, you’re in South America, learn the language!
So we went, 5 minutes to drive to and say goodbye to the lake, with its impressive active volcano Villarica, then on to the bus station. Heavily jacketed huasos, the chileno version of a Virginia mountain man meets cowboy, cradled tiny cups of coffee, whilst waiting for the next collectivo to fill. Why do they make the coffee so small anyway? Could it be my skewed American perspective of size influencing this? Luckily the collectivo was only a few pesos as my funds were thin. Truthfully I’d rather have stuck a thumb out and begun the journey from there, but Gonzalo had insisted on me taking transport to the next city. At least to gain a better chance of making it across the border, Although, I haven’t really figured out how far that even is from Curarrehue anyhow. ‘hasta la proxima until next time’ Gonzalo said and with a kiss on the cheek I was off.
Collectivos are simply small vans that hurtle you from town to town, cheaply. Noticing my lone status as the gringa aboard I thought about my chances of reaching Bariloche tonight, pretty good with a 7am start. Hmm, the Chileno next to me seemed to have taken an unecesary interest in point blank staring at me. What if he talks to me? I can speak Spanish with Gonzalo, but strangers? I don’t think so. Too late, it began, “Que lindos tus ojos” my companion said as greeting. The Chilenos just love a blue eyed brunette. I find myself asking where he is from, where he is going, telling him my travel plans.... Espera, estoy hablando en espanol? Wait, I am talking in Spanish? Como un loro...As it turns out Sebastian appears a genuine individual as do his two companions, although I think the young one might be slightly petrified. They are headed toward the border for a construction job and offer to take me as far as the job site. Perfect! Nevermind how far the job site is from the border, there will be plenty of cars I can try and hitch with I am sure.
Our arrival in Curarrehue was signaled by a handful of houses on a sidewalk less street and the owner of apparently the only store shouting out prices for the usual minute cups of coffee. Nice country town, give me a horse and a farm life here wouldn’t be so bad.
‘We stop here guapa’
“here” being the front of what seemed a lumber yard. I milled around waiting for the wood to be loaded, wondering if it was the best idea to be getting into a work truck with three Chilenos, one of whom managed to turn every sentence into some kind of flirtatious comment.
‘How far is it to the border from where you work?’
‘Not far, a few km, I think.’ Replied Sebastian. It was the I think part of this that bothered me. Nonetheless we bundled into the truck, the four of us sardined into the cab resulting in curious looks from passing huasos. I couldn’t help but notice the young one, too shy to share his name with me, smelled like the department store cologne. I suppose it makes sense, you always have to be at your best form even on the way to work, afterall you may end up sitting next to a single gringa traveler.
The scenery had begun to change as the mountains started their growth. I haven’t been to the western United states yet I imagine it to be something like this, devoid of development save a few log cabins here and there. Streams calling to the fly fisher and mountains to challenge to avid outdoorsman’s hiking prowess. It couldn’t have been more than 20 minutes before we stopped across the road from a narrow gravel drive. Confused I asked if we were at the work site.
‘I don’t see any trucks, are you working here?’
‘No linda, but we must wait until the friend comes to take us to the site, come you wait at the house with us.’ Glancing at the watch I realized I had time, why not, I was enjoying Sebastians rambling about his family, work, life in el campo. Home turned out to be a rustic hunting cabin type structure with bunk beds and sparse furnishings. Definitely not where the family lived. I was rather fascinated by the homemade water pump carved from a whole log. Upon questioning how this wood didn’t rot with continued dampness I learned of Pellin, a wood from the south of Chile that retained enough humdidad (humidity?) to be used for such purposes.
‘come, we make a coffee’ and I was beckoned to sit at the obviously handmade wooden breakfast table.
My hosts prepared the usual Nescafe favored by so many Chilenos and hated by many American tourists used to a strong drip coffee. I had developed a fondness for it, simple, fast, cheap, perfect qualities in a backpacker beverage. In truth the young one prepared the drinks while Sebastian continued to stare at me. I turned the opportunity into a Spanish lesson, peppering him with questions in broken Spanish. In order to learn an action I would usually act it out followed by the question ‘como se dice el verbo para esto, how do you say the verb for this?’. I found this to be for the most part successful, although sometimes I would get two or three different responses for the same action. Assuming them to be synonyms, I used all my newly acquired vocab freely.
Mate tea and some homemade bread with manjar, I believe they call this Dulce de Leche in Argentina, followed coffee. The heavy caramel like substance had proven mildy addictive and I would definitely be taking a jar home with me. After turning down the offer of remaining as their permanent cook I realized I needed to get on the road as 9am seemed the perfect time to catch a car across the border.
Sebastian offered his number for when I come back to Chile. Honestly I'll probably call, these guys have been great, and I'd love to spend some more time exploring Chilean countryside. Hoisting my pack upward, all 18 kilos of it, I headed toward the main road and started walking. Ok, not so bad so far, beautiful scenery, good excercise. Although I am beginning to wonder why all the cars are going in the opposite direction. A small sedan approached heading up the mountain, only to continue past its driver hardly glancing my way.
Seriously? A girl alone hitchhiking, who doesn't pick her up. Oh well definitely the next one, maybe I had to smile more.
Passing a group of young roadworkers the looks I received ranged from appreciative to what appeared to be expressions of downright confusion. Why was this girl trudging up an apparently rarely traveled road with a huge pack? Their glances seemed to be saying there are cars to get to Argentina you know. The weight of the pack got the best of me, hence I employed a new technique; sit on backpack until a car is in view then stand, smile, and hope for the best. Apparently this was what it took as a truck full of 20 something road workers slowed beside me.
'adonde vas? Where are you going?'
'la frontera, I am trying to get to Bariloche.' I replied.
'We are only going a few km up the mountain but we take you, ok?'. At this point I was happy with any sort of help, whether it was actually to the border or a few hundred yards. Introductions were made and astonished looks exchanged upon my informing them I was traveling on my own. The oldest couldn't have been more than 20, I wonder how he would have felt about his girlfriend alone with only a backpack walking toward the Argentine border.
'It's ok you know. I have a machete'. I don't know why I told them this, but I was actually toting a large iron machete purchased from a Vietnamese farmer. Perhaps an impulse buy, yet well worth the bemused looks I received from guards at border crossings.
Upon reaching a narrow gravel road it became apparent this was my stop. We were engulfed in trees, on the righthand side of the path I made out a worn sign stating 17 kms to the border. I was beginning to have misgivings about reaching Bariloche today. My lift waved good bye, wished me luck, and vanished back toward the construction. I supposed it was back to my second technique, sit and wait. Really beautiful forests here, the type that national geographic lists among top outdoor destinations.
One of the tour companies mentioned to me by the eager travel agent had been Andes Sur. The bus from Pucon to Bariloche costs around $40 with a changeover in the picturesque town of San Martin de Los Andes. Spending $40 on a full days bus trip didnt appear such a grand expenditure, I could have possibly put it one my credit card. So why was I hitchiking? Sitting on my backpack in brisk winter weather in the middle of a forest, no tent, no flashlight, no phone reception. Yet I knew exactly why I was doing this, for the chance to meet people like Sebastion and the boys in the truck, to be able to speak spanish, to get to know a side of Chile that perhaps the classic tourist didn't always see. Had I taken the bus directly to Bariloche there would have been no stop in quiet Curarrehue, no homemade bread with manjar, no chance to walk silently along the mountain road, and perhaps no chance to end up sleeping in the woods as I was beginning to contemplate the possibility of this.
My musings were interrrupted by an approaching tour bus, most likely the one I had chosen not to take. As the bus stopped, opening its doors, I wondered if they wanted to sell me a ticket.
'What are you doing out here alone?'
'Hitchhiking to Argentina'. I decided not mention I was going all the way to Bariloche. The strong Chileno accent and my lack of vocabulary led to a momentary confusion as the young assiatnt alighted, attempting to load my pack into the front next to the conductor. I didn't actually have the money to pay for a ticket and fought a losing battle to keep my pack grounded until I realized they were going to take me to the border! Perfect, it had certainly never entered my mind to hitchhike with a bus.
Up I climbed, perching in between conductor and stairwell, definitely not a seat but a more than welcome change from the side of the road. I wonder if they are allowed to pick up bakcpackers? My questions of do you speak english were greeted with a resoundant "no". I realized my conversational spanish was becoming quite the useful commodity. Ignacio and Mattias, my rescuers, were interested in knowing how a beautiful girl such as myself came to be traveling alone in the woods hitchiking of all things. Of course I had to be beautiful, a Chileno man would be doing a woman a diservice if he didn't manage a way to insert a compliment into every sentence. For the sake of simplifying matter I told them I was on my way to meet my boyfriend in Bariloche.
'Alone, he let you travel alone? You maybe should trade for a new boyfriend?' This came from Ignacio behind the wheel. I haven't yet figured out why every fifth Chileno I meet seems to be named Ignacio, it is almost an epidemic.
As we approached the border I took a new appreciation for the landscape, largely due to the volcano looming ahead. The men were kind enough to stop the bus so I could take a picture, another luxury of traveling off the tourist track. Were I in the back behind the plastic door with the rest of the crowd I doubt the same courtesy would have been afforded. The Araucania trees dotted the landscape. I am able to insert this name due to my recent lesson in botany courtesy of Ignacio.
The border stop requires all passengers to depart and proceed on foot into the office to have their passports stamped. The bus company provides a list of all the passengers crossing, a list which I was not on. I hoped this would progress smoothly as the concept of leaving my chatty unofficial tour guides was not a welcome one. Whispers between Ignacio and a rather large Argentine in military garb did not seem promising.
'....encontramos en el bosque....esta sola....estados unidos.' Something about an american they had found alone in the woods. I began to feel more like a lost puppy than a backpacker, well if it gets me across the border why not. I struck up a conversation with the remaining guards, still rejoicing in my new found spanish speaking abilities and turning down offers of cigarettes. Border guards always have an air of intimidation. Perhaps its knowing they have the power to refuse you entry, to place you in the between country limbo as they clasp your passport. Yet today it felt different, I wasn't the usual tourist herded into the main office like cattle. Today I was special, today I was the machete toting American girl swapping stories with burly firearm laiden Argentines.
The passports came back and yes I had a stamp! Perfect, the road to Bariloche began to feel once again within my reach. As the passengers were corraled back into their respective seatss I became aware that we had taken on one more, a young border guard. He may have carried a gun, yet his face reminded me more of one of my high school students who had forgotten there was an exam today. Did I mention I used to be a teacher? Sergio, as I later found out his name to be, was on his way home to San Martin and being carless we were doing him the favor of providing a lift. I managed to get a great picture with me wearing his hat, I think I'll send it to my grandmother. Maybe I'll say that it was right before I got arrested.
Minutes turned into hours, Bariloche would not be happening tonight, but hadn't someone back in Santiago mentioned I should visit San Martin de Los Andes?...........
