Bariloche-El Bolson-Bariloche

Hitchhiking back up to Bariloche from the El Bolson Ruta 40 on-ramp. Check out that sign craftsmanship. I found a piece of cardboard in a ditch and and scribbled desired destination with a piece of charcoal from the previous night's bonfire. As always, I overestimated writing space but the scrunched up result gives it character, no?

I am lazy and tired and will provide a hasty, brief description, copy and pasted from another email, that does little justice to the greatness that was the trip from Bariloche to El Bolson and back to Bariloche to catch a bus to Puerto Montt, Chile. It will have to do. I got up at 6:30 am this morning so I could catch a ride with Steve into town so I could use the internet and update this blog and now I'm a tad cranky and will have to remind you that some of the greatest memories are better kept in one's memory. Also there's some guy waiting for his friend to finish on the computer next to me and he's standing right behind me, hovering over my shoulder and he smells like a yeast infection. I'm pretty sure he's reading what I'm writing and I want to stab him in the eye.

"... While on a hike in southern Argentina, I met a girl from Manhattan, a self-described sound artist visiting community radio stations on grant money awarded to her by IBM, who stopped mid-conversation, then giggled an apology and said she just had a “happy-to-be-alive” moment, and I totally understood. I feel like I've had an overdose of those moments in these nearly 8 months abroad. More than in my time spent at Western. Maybe more than all my years in the States. I'm glutinous with them, almost to the point of vomiting from feeling unworthy of this self-contentment binge (metaphorically). Am I abstractly rambling again? I think so. I'm reading Love in the Time of Cholera by Garcia Marquez and his writing is really that way so I think it's influencing my descriptions. While on the road and now living near Puerto Montt, virtually untouched by the quake, in a pretty isolated area I haven't been able to update my blog. I feel obligated just because there was so much greatness and madness in the trip, but I feel like I can't for the same reason. So much greatness, the task is too daunting. I met so many interesting characters, all wonderfully friendly and open to sharing their lives and views and open to hearing mine and affirming them. I stayed with CS hosts the whole way. There's Jorge the gay school teacher looking for love in places he knows he'll have his heart broken but like me he's victim to his lusty whims, Phillip the red-faced,outspoken, crass English successful I don't remember what who's taking 2 years to travel the world, Renato the Brazilian magnetics engineer still living with the girl who dumped him but keeps renting out of friendship and the hope that his lingering affections will burn out over time, an Australian-Irish couple who fell in love because she could drink more than he, Aliza the ukele-playing Manhattan sound artist recording stories for a hyphenated identity project, Tim the post-grad quarter life crisis fellow-leo who escaped Queens for Buenos Aires, Alejandro the rock n' roll patron and PR man who picked me and my friend up at the turnpike and floored it to the bus station so I could catch my bus to Puerto Montt which I did even though I was 15 minutes late, Daniel the Berkeley physicist, Fede the old taxi driver who lives with his mother and daughter in a one bedroom house that has seen over 300 couchsurfers from all over the world, the list goes on.
Highlights? Before hopping the bus to Bariloche, my wallet was stolen. Luckily my passport and a spare credit card were in my backpack. Canceled stolen card, only $10 in cash in the wallet, saved concerns for annoying DMV procedures for later. The earthquake in Chile hit while I was at a bar well into the night and well into countless beers while I danced with my CS host and his friends. I hitched I ride further southward from the friend of my Bariloche host and we took a detour to a hidden lake that was so peaceful and secluded it could have been our discovery had it not been for the few families camping nearby. In El Bolson I met various other travelers, played in waterfalls, drank homemade beer, hiked mountains that curved with the river as blue as the Caribbean islands but cold because of it's Andean glacier source. Hitchhiked with a friend back up to Bariloche with a cardboard sign I'd found in a ditched and scribbled on with a piece of charcoal from the hippied-out bonfire the night before- itself a festive occasion replete with joints, guitar sing-alongs, and conversations well into the night. Those are just a few happy-to-be-alive moments. A small small fraction of that one week and a half..."

Bariloche

Hiked up a big hill and voila the view. Looks a bit like home.

Bariloche sits beside a giant lake and it is pretty and you can sit on the rocks and think and not be bothered. Rad.

Driving to El Bolson

I was able to catch a ride from Bariloche to El Bolson (2 hours south) with my Bariloche CS host and his friend Leo. It was a perfect little trip with clear skies, bongos, crystal clear lake detour, and a joint.

Alright road trippin'!

Lago Steffen, a road trip detour

Renato, me, and Leo finally got to El Bolson

El Bolson and the best hike of my life

My El Bolson CS host Fede lives in this humble abode with his mother, daughter, and however many travelers happen to be passing through

Fede's attic where I crashed. Fede sleeps in a tent in the attic. His daughter, in the closet.

Fede and a couple French girls walking into town

My new friend Tim, enjoying the bumpy ride we hitched downhill

The 11km hike that kicked my ass and spat me into a diamond

Will you look at that water. Will you look at that fucking crystal blue water.

After that all day up and down hike we finally made it to this refuge in the middle of the forest where Tim and I split a pizza and some homemade beer. Exactly what one wants after 5 hours of ass and thigh toning.

Aw nature and new friends.

Boludo and the beso (Mendoza, Argentina)

Cycling is the only way to see, taste, and smell a vineyard

Crossing the Andes to get to Argentina

Harvested Syrah grapes

A legit wine tasting. After hours of biking under the sun before finally arriving to this small family-owned winery I was already working up a sweat. After the cheek-warming qualities of red wine and feeling totally incompetant during the tasting (carefully trying not to "swirl" the glass to hard, and hold the wine in my mouth for long enough but not too long, and getting away with arbitrarily applying ambigious wine terms to wines when they all tasted the same to me), I constantly had to wipe the perspiration from my forehead.

After taking an impromptu winery tour and tasting, just me and the guide since I arrived alone, I learned a bit about their particular process and was caught off guard (sort of) by a very friendly farewell advance. Here's the story I regaled to a friend in an email:

"...After a few glasses, a piece of steak, intense stares from the tour guide while I was dripping in sweat from the wine, strenuous bike ride, desert heat, and wine idiocy self-consciousness, buying a bottle beyond my normal price range for my CS host, suppressed sexual tension throughout, my winery tour guide kissed me. I think he was married but as I said goodbye and thanks for everything he kissed me on the fucking lips and that shit was prolonged. The booze dulled my reflexes and even though I half-wanted it I turned my head after a few seconds of delayed realization and disgust and flattery so his lips slid onto a cold cheek. So drunk with stars in my eyes, pedaling back to the rental shop alone I laughed hysterically like a madwoman about the whole silly, housewife fantasy, movie-like encounter..."

A Trapiche vineyard, one of Argentina's biggest wine producers, and just about anyone can pedal or walk through and try their grapes.

Another nameless vineyard I stumbled upon en route to a winery. I stopped here for a chocolate break.

Jorge, my loveable Mendoza Couchsurfing host making tomato and cheese tartlets

At the bus station about to take off for Bariloche, moments before realizing my wallet was stolen. Luckily I had my passport and a backup credit card in my backpack. One of the smartest travel tricks I've learned.

Shake it like uh...

Santiago, Photo cred. Loretta Van Der Horst

I just spent the past week and a half traveling southward from Santiago through Argentina and back into Chile where I am now in Puerto Montt, the capital of the Lakes Region.

I'm paying for these minutes on the internet where I have to punch each key with a stabbing vengeance so I'll just say for now that the trip was incredible, crammed full of "happy to be alive" moments (a term I adopted from a new friend made while hiking), and uh...timely.

The 8.8 magnitude earthquake that rippled from Concepcion, Chile on Feb. 27 and wreaked havok on much of Santiago barely tapped my soles when the seismic waves finally found me. I was in a tiny bar in Bariloche, well past the 6th beer and too surrounded by dancing and loud music and dim lighting to notice things shake one shake more.

When I can, I'll post pictures and stories of my most recent trip and an update of what I'm doing now in the waterfront pueblo of Panitao just outside of Puerto Montt.

Besos!
kg

For more pics of the frontlines taken by friend and fellow intern Loretta, check out her blog:
http://Lorettavanderhorst.wordpress.com

Headin' south

The beginnings of my greenhouse project. Picked, packed, and ready to be planted south.

The Santiago Times staff is taking a week-long vacation. Since February is a "slow news month", the ST will shut down until March 1st. My boss, Steve and his family are moving to their 140 acres in the Lakes Region of southern Chile. They have a large greenhouse that needs to be worked and Steve requested that I take on the project. Exciting! I can apply what I've learned in the organic gardens in Caleu to their larger empty greenhouse in the south.

So in a couple days, I'll be making my way south. I also need to renew my Chilean visa, so I'm going to take my "week off" to travel down the Argentine side of the Andean spine and then cross the border to Puerto Montt, the closest large city to Steve's southern property. Couchsurfing hosts have been contacted, lodging secured, route mapped out, warm clothes and rain jacket packed. It's a ripe time for introspection since I'll be traveling solo through thought-provoking, breath-taking scenery. Or for catching up on all the sleep I lost from going out every night while in Santiago.

In preparation for the move, I've packed up some seeds for Steve and his family to transport south so they'll be waiting to be planted when I arrive next month. Carlos and I harvested seeds of arugula, lettuce, chard, and more from the gardens, and separated them into jars labeled by yours truly.

On the move again. I'll work my way from Mendoza (Argentine wine capital), to Bariloche, to El Bolson, then over the border back into Chile to Puerto Montt. Sorry for the confusing, scribble-ridden map.

Steve's parcela is about 30 minutes from Puerto Montt, right by the sea. I'll be living in the barn (I think a downgrade from the shed in Caleu) for 1-2 weeks depending on how long it takes to develop the greenhouse. Although Steve and his family will be living there, once again I am the only volunteer. Considering how much larger their southern homestead is, lack of internet and electricity in the barn, and rainy cold weather, living here may pose a greater challenge in adapting to solitude. Once the greenhouse project is complete, I'll return to Santiago where I'll most likely live my last week in Chile on the farm in Caleu. Wow, heavy.

Vineyard visits

Organic champagne in the wine cellar of the Raab Vineyard

Chile's Central Valley, where Santiago is situated, enjoys a temperate Mediterranean climate. This means short winters and long, hot, dry summers. It also means ideal conditions for most types of agriculture, which explains why Chile is a top exporter of produce and of course, wine.

Before coming to Chile, my knowledge of wine was..ehh...on the crude side. I knew my way pretty well around the bottom-shelves, the $2-$6 labels, the boxed persuasion. My favorite wine is Pinot Noir because it's easy to drink and I like saying "Pinot Noir". But living in the middle of Chilean wine country and suddenly having to write a feature story on the country's organic wine industry for The Wine Times (a monthly Santiago Times off-shoot), it was time to get viticultured (oh snap did I just wordplay viticulture? I totally fucking did).

In the last couple weeks, I did some hard research. I took notes off of wikipedia articles, memorized wine glossary terms, and of course, visited some vineyards. Through a lucky connection I was able to visit a modest organic vineyard by the coast that specialized in organic champagnes and talked to the owner over a bottle. Through another lucky connection (telling the next-door bike tour company that I would write a profile spotlighting their wine & bike tour for Revolver Magazine [for which I also write] if they let me take their tour for free along with my photographer/friend Loretta), I visited another organic vineyard in the Maipo Valley, also talking to the owner over wine and cheese.

There's still a lot of the grape to bottle process that I don't get. I mean a lot chemistry is involved and I fell asleep through most of that class in high school. But wow, so much to know about the ancient tradition of grape-growing and wine-making. And there's something about vineyard landscapes that I totally fucking love. With the same googly-eyed Thoreau-esque admiration I had for Colombia's Madalena Valley, with its rolling coffee plantations. Corn fields just don't do it for me. But if you can comb the hills with coffee beans and grapes, I'd say there's indescribable beauty in repetitive, monochromatic rows as far as the eye can see. I'll post the Bicicleta Verde wine tour article and organic wine feature story once they're published.

Daniel Raab's organic vineyard. On the other side of the hill is the Pacific Ocean.

Daniel pops open a bottle of his prized champagne. Instead of synthetic fertilizers, he uses manure from the zoo next door. The zoo saves on disposal, Daniel nurtures his terroir, the soil stays chemical-free, everybody wins.

Our first stop on Bicicleta Verde's Bike & Wine tour: Family-owned Cardanal Vineyard in the Maipo Valley

Fermenting tanks at the organic Huelquen Vineyard. Some exhausted cycle-crazy travelers ready to booze it up- straight from the tank spigot
After a long day of wine-tasting and cycling, my photog Loretta, me, our gringo tour guide Mac (who has a very endearing Nashville twang) and a van full of drunk tourists sang along to 70s romance ballads with the windows rolled down.

No seas fomeee, huevon

The guest list---"VIP Golden Section""Who's Tom Jones?"...6 hours later, cracking jokes with Tom Jones and humming "It's not unusual" all day

Last week was a strange one. I'm crashing at the apartment of a couple intern friends on the trendy "Capital Hill" of Santiago. Living in the city has been a pretty stark contrast to living on the farm in Santiago's rural outskirts. Although I miss the farm and its slow days, clean air, and not having to shower every day, my stay in the city has been entertaining to say the least. Especially with good company.

A fellow intern knew one of the roadies for Tom Jones so a bunch of interns and myself met up with TJ and his band at a bar. We got on the guest list for his concert and hung out backstage. The concert was held at the Movistar Arena, which used to be a tennis stadium until die-hard fanatics started ripping out seats and chucking them at the opposing players. In the VIP lounge, I stuffed some complimentary granola bars in my purse. Why am I always the only one who gives a shit that there is FREE FOOD BACK HERE PEOPLE.

After the show we hung out poolside at their hotel after party. There, I ordered a club sandwich, beers, and a screwdriver on the sound guy's tab. The sound guy- Matteo, gave me an impromptu geography quiz because he said my "physiognomy" suggests poor world geography acumen. Well I called his bullshit with my ability to pinpoint the location of (semi)obscure Russian fishing pot Vladivostok. After a few, I got talked into jumping half-naked into the pool, got passively scolded by hotel security before we could, and on the way home I suffered through our taxi driver's 9/11 conspiracy theory lecture right before he hit a cat.

Loretta, me, Laura, and the drummer (for Tom Jones and 20-yr Pink Floyd drummer) on stageDrinks in Bellavista with Tom Jones and crew

Apart from the "Almost Famous"-esque high the other interns and I have been on while the ol' crooner was in town, I've felt pretty unproductive in Santiago. Mostly writing beat articles for the Santiago Times and hangover recovery. Technically I'm not getting any less "work" done in the city than if I were on the farm. I feel slightly more tense in general and lose patience quicker. When my laptop was being exceedingly slow, I folded 5 origami lilies to calm my nerves and keep from throwing the computer out the window. I ripped the first two.

I miss the farm, but I'm enjoying the prevalence of booze and friends to drink with. One of the few things I couldn't bare to see my life without.

My high school friend friend Amy and her sister came to visit me on the farm last weekend. My first guests! Great long conversations, yummy fresh food, red wine, and some tips on biking through New Zealand.

more farm gorgeousnessI gave Amy and Sarah a walking tour of Caleu. We took a shade break at the rodeo .

For letting me crash with them, I made a couple friends (and fellow interns) these bookmarks. Chilean expressions hand-stitched with love: Cachai? - Ya know? Que Fome - That sucks/How lame.

happy valentine's day friends and family <3

Bibimboopoopidoop

Here's another take on the Korean bibimbap, fresh from the farm.

rice
egg
zucchini
carrot
red lettuce
sesame seeds
gouda cheese
lemon
soy sauce
olive oil
salt

~cook rice (lightly salt), for salad chop lettuce, shred carrot, cut cheese into cubes, toss and sprinkle with lemon juice and salt, thinly slice zucchini, on med-heat sautee zucchini in olive oil and salt, when cooked, add dash of soy sauce and sprinkle sesame seeds (take care not to burn seeds!), place salad, zucchini, and rice in bowl in sectioned thirds, top with fried egg. It's likely there will be a bunch of toasty sesame seeds still in the frying pan so scrape those out on top of everything, add bibimbap or siracha(sp?) sauce to taste, enjoy with chopsticks and iced tea with dallop of organic honey from the lady you interviewed for your rodeo feature story whose husband owns a bee farm~

Where am I?/What am I doing?/When will I take my future "seriously"?

Most of you (all 3 or 4 of you) already know I currently live in Chile for a journalism/organic farming internship. At the beginning of last year, as my university career was coming to an end, I felt the impulse to slow that train down.

I love being a student, I love the freedom and forgiveness and benefits the sub-profession affords me. It's not the homework or lectures I love, but the societal recognition that you're young and optimistic enough to be pro-actively discovering and open to discovery. I love the title. I can deal with the borderline poverty and occasional feeling of aimlessness that college often entails. Also, I couldn't register for the thesis seminar required for my history major until the following Spring quarter (this upcoming March), so I had some time to kill. It was senseless to stay in school during the 6 month gap until I could finally take that damn class, wasting money on credits I didn't need. So instead, I got an internship with the Santiago Times, which a good friend and fellow Buenos Aires expat Natalie suggested I apply for. A lot of people don't get why I'm doing this internship if it "has nothing to do with my major" and I want to tell them to fuck off...but instead I recite the following spiel: I've been interested in but ignorant of organic farming/sustainable food production for a while and what better way to learn about it than hands-on and in a foreign country where I can simultaneously improve my Spanish. And though I dropped a possible journalism major my freshman year, I enjoy writing and see the value in acquiring newswriting experience (historians and journalists need to perfect the same skills: investigative research, effective communication to the public, story development, etc.). I'm killing a lot of birds with one stone here. (Or as Argentines would say, "matando dos conejos con un palo", killing two rabbits with one stick).

tempting college life alternative (freshman year, photo cred: Sarah Mollner)

After pulling together earnings from sushi waitressing tips, a salmon cannery stint, and a garage sale, I threw some belongings into my school backpack and started the nearly 4-month trip towards Chile from Baja California. That trip itself was quite the whirlwind. Since I got to Santiago, Chile over two months ago, I've been living on the newspaper editor's small organic farm a couple hours outside of the city, working on the farm and for the English newspaper from there.

To be honest, I can't even remember what compelled me to do this, but it makes perfect sense now. I can confidently say I'm fluent in Spanish, I know how to create and maintain an organic garden and greenhouse, and I have over 40 (and counting) news articles published. All of this while practically on "vacation". After almost 7 months abroad I've spent roughly $3000 (less than $300 since I started living in Chile since I don't pay rent and most of my food is garden-grown). Compared to the more than $6000 (rent not included, which would add another $2000) that would have been spent on two quarters at school (with probably less applicable knowledge attained and higher blood pressure from academic stresses), I think I made the right choice. Am I bragging? Maybe so, but mostly I want to (re-)clarify to myself and the masses why I haven't graduated already. And dammit that's okay.

I currently reside in a tiny, isolated pueblo called Caleu. To give you an idea of where "home" has been lately:

Located in Central Chile northwest of Santiago. Santiago is roughly in the middle of the brown "Region Metropolitana". This is from a little "About Caleu" booklet Carlos lent me.

From the daily bus that takes me from Stgo to Caleu

I live in the Lo Marin part of Caleu- perfectly nestled between two big hills

This is how sparsely populated Caleu is. From Steve's farm you don't see other homes or farms. You see this.

death, she dreamed

my "family tree"

Last night I had a dream. And this dream had meaning. I'm not one to psychoanalyze my dreams (I guess you could say I'm a latent subconscious realist), but every once in a while you have a dream that screams relevant life metaphor. No matter how skeptical you are, you can't help it, the epiphany will not be ignored. The romantic in you sees a message. This was my dream:

My mother, sister, and I were walking up a winding dirt road atop a mountain with a few other people (random travelers I'd met in real life). As with most dreams, there was no provided context as to why we were there or how we got there. We just were. A van was passing by and the other random travelers and myself thumbed for a ride. The van stopped, slid open the door, and as we got in I yelled for my mother and sister to join. My mom shook her head in classic conservative mom fashion, saying hitch-hiking was unsafe, how could I just get in a car with strangers, etc. I rolled my eyes, got in and shut the door, smug with my own adventurous nature that would get me to the unknown destination faster and through such "unconventional" means.

The van was packed with a generic mix of friendly, multi-national travelers. Soon the road narrowed and the winding nonguard-railed path turned fatal (literally). The van was going one mph too fast and one blind turn would find us off the path and yep, falling to our death. The driver let out a deadpan (with a hint of eerie cheerfulness): "Oh, are you serious?" But rather than a rapid shot down to a climactic crash, the van stayed suspended for a few seconds, and proceeded to fall slowly like a drop of molasses a la Alice down the rabbit hole (maybe time slows like this when death is so imminent?). The van was silent, each passenger tacitly viewing their entire lives projected onto the insides of their eyelids. I was the only one in the van without a friend/partner with a hand to hold so I went ballistic for a few seconds in my lonely mind and with dulled reluctance, accepted my fate. As we neared the ground with the same repelled motion as a landing hovercraft, I lit a cigarette, took a drag, and said plainly and calmly to a deaf audience: "I'll miss my family."

Contact.

Wait, we're still alive. Incredible! It's hard for me to recall exactly how the rest of the dream went from here, but I'll describe the end in the same vague way it stands in my memory. We all got out of the van and walked into what seemed like a border crossing. A derelict building with tall ceilings, flickering lights, and sullen, taciturn folk in a giant waiting room. There was an impression of dragged out bureaucracy, but I couldn't be too sure. Everyone who was waiting seemed like they'd been waiting for ages and were now just "waiting" out of habit. It was cold and dark and stank of hopelessness. It was utterly depressing and there the dream ended.

I wonder if people who know me can draw their own conclusions as to what all this nonsense might mean in relation to my life. Is it too obvious? Too ambiguous?

There are dreams where you're like a character in someone else's dream- your actions aren't yours, your thoughts aren't typical of your own personality, as if you were acting out a script by an unseen stenographer. And there are dreams where you control your own character, where you are comparatively more concerned with your role in this imaginary world, you (at least the subconscious hologram of you) give a shit about what's going on (not to be mistaken for lucid dreaming, where you're aware that you are in a dream). In this dream, I took this latter position.

What struck me most, were my supposed last words. At that moment before I thought my life would end, I said something I honestly didn't think I would. And the words left my mouth before the thought even materialized in my (dream self's) mind. Like a premortem reflex. "I'll miss my family." Nevermind the blatant continuity error - that I don't smoke - but that at the end of my short (but I think fairly fulfilling) lifetime, rather than bask in the glory of my meager life accomplishments, or of happy moments I'd spent with friends (with whom I've opened up to and shared much more than my own family members), or that one lie that's haunted me since third grade, the one thing that fell out of my soul was this sentiment. Not only is there the implication that I cherish my family, but that in whatever beyond I was catapulting towards, I recognized the tragedy that they wouldn't be there. Don't get me wrong, I love my mum, my daddy, my two little sisters. Despite minor conflicts we're a pretty loving, functioning unit. But my actions, my general selfishness, affinity for independence, stubborn wanderlust, would suggest they're not really a priority. That I take them for granted. I have for a long time, but lately I've been trying (halfheartedly) to correct this, without sacrificing my goals, which usually involve being away for long periods of time. Which is why the hitch-hiking scene is poignant. I'm chasing adventure and some elusive, undefinable goal but at the displeasure of my family and at the cost of quality time with them. Only to find myself at the terminal result of this reckless chase, alone and missing them. It was a heartbreaking realization. I could only really decipher the end as entering some kind of purgatory...but ehh maybe later.

Families are weird. At least the normal ones are. I've had countless disagreements with my parents and sisters on really everything. I could list in an instant the flaws I self-importantly disapprove of in each of them (which is no doubt reciprocal). But they've been the one constant in my life and that alone is pretty invaluable. All my friendships and ex-boyfriends and lovers and pop idols and literary protagonists and ideological heroes pale in comparison to my family's staying power. Despite my absences, they never go anywhere, and they never let me forget that. Despite my absence, home never leaves me, and I should make a better effort to not let them forget that.

This doesn't mean I'll stop traveling, that the chase has ended. But that dream (I hope) did mark a perspective shift. When I say "I'll miss my family" I don't want it to mean I already missed them.


Sorry to my aloof friends who found the above repulsively over-sentimental. It wuh'nt written for you. *sassy finger zig-zag*

Cut up my family x-mas card (sorry mum)
I was working on random stuff last night and took a moment to think. When I did, I got a good look at my desk and thought what a mess, then- hey this kinda looks cool. I think peoples' workspaces can be pretty interesting. The gradual accumulation of whatnots.