... And so we continued onward! From Mendoza we travelled to San Juan, where we learned that our transfer bus to Valle Fértil was full. Un garronazo! Our journey would be postponed until later that evening. I attribute this delay to one stubborn motorcyclist, pictured below, who putted along in front of our previous bus at a wounded turtle's pace. Had the window not been separating us, I would have chucked my complementary alfajor at him.
What, we wondered, could we possibly do for an entire day, with our huge hiking backpacks, in a city we did not know? Thinking on our feet, we consulted our guidebooks: Lookout Tower. The epitome of all tourist attractions. It was perfect. With seven hours to burn, we headed straight for the tower. After enjoying the lovely scenery of the town and surrounding mountains from atop the tower, we went down the elevator, gathered our bags, and regrouped. Remaining time until departure: T minus six hours and 50 minutes. Hmmmmm. Ultimately, we did what any good Argentine in our situation would do: we headed to the central plaza, and drank mate for hours on end.
That evening, we arrived in a small town called San Agustín de Valle Fértil. As we pulled to a halt in what was essentially the middle of the desert, amidst a great cloud of dust, I silently considered whether the name 'Valle Fértil' (Fertile Valley) was meant to be ironic. I sure hoped so.
Soon after arriving at the tiny hostel, I entered into an an unforgettable conversation with Franco, an Argentine traveling around the country. After chatting for a while, Franco told me that he had never met a person from the United States. Until he met me, that is. Curious, I asked him about his impression of people from the U.S., a question which I realize was loaded, though quite important. I was suddenly faced with the strong anti-American sentiments I had heard and read about, but never actually directly encountered. His response captured all the worst stereotypes about people from the U.S.: fat, lazy, selfish, consumeristic, hamburger-crazed, imperialistic....
After he wrapped up this lengthy list of not-so-flattering adjectives, I was relieved, and even delighted when he added that our conversation had pleasantly surprised him. That I had changed his very negative impression of people from the United States. I hope that during my time in Argentina I can continue to challenge these stereotypes.
Perhaps, my new friend thought, they are not all like Homer Simpson, after all:
Our first morning in Valle Fértil we followed a rambunctious bunch of Argentines from our hostel to a nearby lake, where we enjoyed the view, chatted and, of course, drank mate.
Supposedly you could swim there, and hoping to cool off, we (that is, my friend Giulia and I) whipped out our swim suits. However, once I actually investigated the lake, I seriously doubted its swim-ability. Along the shoreline, I observed the murky water, and counted numerous snail shells, all curiously empty. It appeared, I told Giulia, that the snails had been poisoned by the water. Not wanting to suffer a similar fate, I decided not to swim.
Just when I turned my back, I heard a splash. Giulia had taken the plunge. (Perhaps, I thought, she failed to notice the dead snails.) But then rationality dissolved, and my thirst for adventure reared its daredevil head. I waded through some mysterious slime, and followed Giulia into the chilly, possibly poisonous water. On the shore our Argentine friends laughed, and took pictures of the crazy girls from the United States.
That same afternoon we left for Parque Provincial Ischigualasto, or Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon). This park, which takes it name from an indigenous word meaning 'land without life,' is filled with magnificent rock formations, 180 million year-old fossils, and two towering mountain ranges. The only way to see the park is by guided tour, and so we set out in a a winding caravan of vans, into this eerie desert valley. On the drive we amused ourselves and our driver by taking ridiculous pictures, and attempting (unsuccessfully) to jam on various instruments.
Throughout the day, we stood in awe of inexplicably awesome rock formations. Almost as impressive as the rocks were their names.
El Gusano (The Worm):
El Submarino (The Submarine):
Unofficially, 'the fat man lying on his back' rock formation. As you can probably imagine, Argentines are an imaginative bunch.
Valle Pintado (Painted Valley):
El Hongo (The Mushroom):
The Cancha de Bochas (The Ball Court). Interestingly, the existence of this peculiar field of 'balls' continues to stump scientists. Though I am no geology expert (I will openly admit that eighth grade Earth Science was a struggle), I offered a ground-breaking hypothesis: we were, I suggested, standing amongst the shot-put balls of the dinosaurs. I gathered from the group's astonished expressions that they were extremely impressed with my theory.
On the way back, our driver pointed out a duende. (This translates roughly to goblin or imp, but the word duende is just so amazing that I will continue to use it here.) He also suggested that there were other duendes inhabiting Valle de la Luna...
Naturally, we became obsessed with finding a duende. The little creatures, we concluded, must emerge at night. Luckily, we would ALSO be touring Valle de la Luna at night, by the light of the moon. The duendes didn't stand a chance.
In English, the word 'loony' or 'lunatic' derive from the same root as 'luna.' That is, the moon is very strongly associated with craziness. It was a nearly a full moon that fateful evening, and not surprisingly therefore, we were feeling quite wacky. As we explored what appeared to be the surface of the moon, we giggled excessively, and set out on our quest to find the elusive duende. Tragically, he did not reveal himself.
I did however, find the entrance to his home:
Our final day in Valle Fértil, we followed an enticing sign which apparently led to cave paintings and petroglyphs. Soon though, we found ourselves on an unmarked path, with zero idea of where to go. Accepting defeat was not a possibility, however. Instead, we opted for the more adventurous, though possibly imprudent option: we scaled a random, unmarked mountainside, in the completely desperate and unfounded hope that we would find the sought-after cave at its peak.
Here is the view from below, moments before embarking on our fool's errand:
At the top of the mountain we found no cave, and no petroglyphs. I did however, discover a large quantity very tiny, very hard-to-remove cactus prickles in my hands. As we sat upon the precipice, defeat sinking in, we heard the faraway call of a goat. Joking, and perhaps somewhat delirious from the climb, we began to call back. Maybe we hadn't found the petroglyphs, but that propitious day I learned a miraculous fact about myself: I speak goat.
The glorious creature galloped full-speed up the mountain in response to the call, took a seat on a nearby rock, and stared at us deeply. In that moment, we exchanged a profound look of mutual understanding (pictured below). We dubbed our new friend 'Carl la Cabra' (goat). He was re piola, and we chilled together for a while until we reluctantly headed back down to catch our bus. I will never forget Carl.
From Valle Fértil we bused to Uspallata, a small town near the Chilean border whose name I will never be able to pronounce, no matter how times I try. Our hostel, smack in this desert valley, almost seemed out of place amongst the towering multi-colored mountains and looming poplar trees. We spent the afternoon walking the ten kilometers into town, soaking in the the breathtaking landscapes:
The following day we went to Parque Provincial de Aconcagua, which boasts the western hemisphere's highest peak: Cerro Aconcagua. We unfortunately didn't have the required two weeks to reach the summit, but we did go on a spectacular all-day hike to the camp called Confluencia.
After our hike we checked out Puente del Inca, a natural arch which forms a magnificant orange bridge over the river. Because of nearby hot springs, this locale was once a resort and spa during the early 20th century, each room with its own thermal bath. Very swanky.
A very proud, possibly machista horse, Farolito liked to be in front of the pack, and would gallop ahead of the others to maintain his manly lead. Unfortunately for Farolito, his desire to lead was seriously undermined by the reality of his physical fitness. Farolito would run a short distance before he would begin to wheeze. Then slow down. And then, stop. In the meantime, all the other horses would cruise by as poor Farolito would struggle to regain his breath, realize he had been passed, and then ultimately gallop to the front. Repeat steps 1 through 4 for two hours.
Farolito was also a very hungry horse. He would stop at every possible opportunity to munch on grass, branches and even the occasional log. (It is also very plausible that this ravenous behavior was merely the horse equivalent of a tired soccer player 'tying her shoe'.) Here is a sampling of 'Farolito eating' pics. I had approximately 65 to chose from.
When I heard Giulia ask, "Do horses sweat?", I knew I was not the only one with a freakish horse. Giulia's horse was sweating so profusely that he appeared to have jumped in the lake. I struggled both to steer Farolito away from the tasty branches, and to stop him from bumping into Giulia’s ridiculously sweaty horse. Both efforts were futile, and I ended the ride covered in leaves, and coated in horse sweat.
Farolito and I only knew each other two hours, but we had bonded, and it was a bitter farewell. Bahía was calling me and it was time to return home.
