Bariloche blackberry tongue
Trip Start
Feb 14, 2012
1
27
39
Trip End
Apr 01, 2012
Where I stayed
Bariloche, Argentina
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Wandering around town, I saw roses everywhere. Gardens with white, yellow, pink and red roses. A good friend taught me to always stop to smell the roses, and I did. Along the side of the road, blackberries grow like a weed. I think that blackberries may actually be a weed. I picked apples and blackberries until my tongue was dyed black, because by picking I meant eating. Every rose has it{s thorn, and my legs are scratched up because those big, black ripe berries inside the bush are always worth prickles to enjoy. Berry picking, along with going to a shooting range, is one of my dream dates...for all those bachelors looking to woo me, take note. Again, by picking berries I mean eating berries. The greens apples I picked are quite green and quite bitter, so some butter (which really is better here) and some lemony powdered sugar I found in a cabinet make it like a dessert.
Hello Bariloche and hello hiking! The best part about Bariloche is getting slightly out of el centro and into the outdoors. Off we went hiking to Refugio Frey, a mountain on the outskirts of town. At one point, I was standing on the top of the mountian in Argentina but able to see the mountains in Chile. Leah and I spoke spanish the entire 12 kilometers to the top of the mountain, pausing only a few times to look up words in my small english=spanish dictionary only to find the word was not listed. Not just one, not just twice, not just a dozen times but many times we found ourselves finishing each other{s sentences. And we got creative, too. When I did not know the word for [breathe] I said [el air de mi boca] meaning the air of my mouth. She understood. This mountain is my least favorite type of terrain with mostly dirt and sandy uphill battles. I prefer the rock scrambles where I can show off my hippity hoppy moves. There were plants that intrigued me...que extraño. Looked like a wheat bamboo tree.
The top of the mountain made Leah{s day. Rock climbers willing to share their gear, their experience as a guide, a scrumptious meat dinner, and good company for the night. The leader of the pack, a Brazilian climbaholic named Gustavo, is staying on the mountain for a month to climb. He has heaps of food...dried, fresh, canned, plastic wrapped. While others cook dinner, he slowly but surely takes every single food jar, can, package, cup, and handful or food out of the storage container. He shifts through everything. Occasionally, he shows someone something but then puts it back. Or if he doesn{t put it back, he suggests we add it to the dinner which already has enough ingredients. Then, he puts everything back in the storage container in the same order. He does this with each food storage container, as precise as a baker lining up the exact ingredients to make bread. Along the way, he wants me to try what I think is crushed up honeycomb pieces. It tastes sweet, like dried fruit seeds. They described it as the part a bee injects in the flower. I tasted pollen, not honeycomb. The sweet taste turns into a slightly bitter and dry aftertaste, although not because I dislike the idea of trying pollen. That{s just how it tastes. I would try it again, perhaps in oatmeal. By the way, I really miss oatmeal. And hummus. I eat a lot of buttered bread these days. The butter is better here. Gustavo{s food process really confuses me...he has both a jar of raspberry jam and small peach jam plastic containers. Everyone must carry their own food up the mountain and their own trash down the mountain. How does he decide whether a heavy glass jar is worth it? Dulce de leche everyday? How much garlic? He eats well and is generous with his food, a character quality that I admire. Gustavo attacts the people he wants to be around.
The shy act works for me with our new mountain friends and it{s ok that I don{t understand everything because I listen attentively although with confusion. Ocasionally, I chip in with Spanish that is mostly understandable but definitely with a gringa pronunciation. But I try anyways and my efforts are rewarded. Gustavo gives me weird looks sometimes, but I pretend it{s because I am just a silly gringa.
I have mi novio in one hand and mi amor in the other hand. A kitten named Tomatillo and a bottle of wine called Santa Ana. Tomatillo is my boyfriend for one night only, a tabby kitten only a few months old who nuzzles underneath my arm so our hearts are near each other. My mom told me that cats like hearing your heartbeat because it reminds them of their mother. With my hands tied up with love, I am content with climbing, cats, and company. Up to bed. Everyone sleeps in the same room in the huts and I{ve got the top attic bunk.
The next day, refugio workers blast Bob Marley from the kitchen and the rest of the hike back home I have [No woman no cry] stuck in my head. It is a perfect song. They also called Fernet (the liquor) like I do in my head....FUR NAY. It is una broma, a joke. My new mountain girlfriends hike around la lagunas and head down in silence. The silence is like meditation with one foot in front of the other with the sprinkling rain in the last 2 kilometers. A Colombian girl, a German girl, and an American girl in a row.
A point I meant to mention for awhile...everyone{s hair is awesome. Awesome as in shaved on the sides and with rat tail dreads, but it looks good. Dreads are called rasta.
Comments
You are speaing spanish? bueno! i like the blackberry part and it reminds me of you in seattle on our last trip before you went off to college..picking means eating ..always and then as well.
MOM