Friday, August 12, 2011

Today was a long day.

I have just returned home to a small, relaxed town called Cafayate. The shops are closed for siesta and the streets are empty. Before sitting down to write this I showered and wrung the water from my clothes. The bathroom floor is covered in mud and my knee is bleeding but it feels good to be clean and dry. This morning I heard of a hike called the Cascades. I was told I needed a local guide because the trail was unmarked, but I decided to try it without one in the interest of frivolity, masculinity, and adventure.

The trail starts eight kilometers from town so my friend and I tried to rent motorcycles to get there. We were told we needed motorcycle licenses.

No, we said, you don’t understand. There’s only one driver’s license in the U.S., this is it.

They weren’t convinced.

We did the next best thing, rented two bikes, and set off around lunch. Getting there was one long, extended climb. The seat on my bike was broken, but the road was too steep to sit down and pedal anyways. The altitude left my friend dizzy and disoriented, and after a series of increasingly long breaks he decided to cut his losses and turn back. I grabbed my book and a bottle of water from his backpack and he went off. I was on my own.

The rest of the climb was long and hard and the day was hot. The lack of oxygen didn't help. Several people on motorcycles passed me. They seemed like they were enjoying the hill-- smug bastards. Eventually I got to the river. I hid my bike in some reeds on the far shore and headed off on what seemed to be the path. It wound past some shanties and as I came around a corner I startled a donkey that was lying in the sun. He struggled to his feet when he saw me and neighed. I asked him if I was on the right path but he just swatted at a fly with his tail. I went on but I had to cross back and forth over the river often and the going was slow.

I found four tiny goats on my path and realized it was much easier following them—- they chose better routes than I ever could-- but then they decided they didn’t like being followed and started to run. I jogged after them for a long time and made good progress but alas, I am no goat and eventually they lost me. An hour or so later I came across a guide with two serious looking German tourists. He said that yes, I was on the right path but I shouldn’t go much further because there was more climbing and the rocks were slippery and dangerous. As I went around a boulder and passed them he just shrugged his shoulders.

The river wound up into a canyon and there was a series of successive pools and cascades. If you climbed a cascade you got to the next pool. The rocks were wet and high but it was fun and exciting. For the most part, I was able to shimmy and climb along the edges of the pools or the cliffs around them but the second to last pool was huge and its smooth walls went straight up on all sides: there was nothing to do but swim. I took off my clothes and shoes and put a foot in the water. It was absolutely freezing-- there is not much sunlight that far back into the canyon. I stood on the shore for a while debating what to do. I told myself that I had to do it. I told myself I didn't want to do it. Then I jumped in and under.

The cold hit my nervous system like an electric shock. I couldn’t control my limbs and jerked my way to the far shore with a spastic sort of doggy paddle. It took me a long time to pull myself out of the water and onto a large flat rock-- I couldn't get my arms to do what I what wanted them to. I also couldn’t breathe. My chest strained for air and I lay back on the cool stone, unable to do anything but wheeze. Soon my gasps became breaths and from where I lay I looked upside down at the sixty foot waterfall crashing down beside me. The mist from it filled the air. I felt cold and very alive; it seemed like I must have been the only person to have ever been there before.

After a long time I swam back, dressed, and left.

Going down was horrible. The wet rocks were slick and you couldn’t see where you had to step. Skirting around the edge of one of the shallower pools my book fell out of my pocket and tumbled down the side of the rocks towards the water. For a moment it seemed like it would stop on a precipice right before the pool-- then it fell in. In the name of literature, and overpriced English books in this country, I jumped in after it and banged my knee on a rock that was hidden under the water. The book floated out of my reach and I had to wade downstream after it. So much for staying dry; Philip Roth, you owe me.

Book in hand, I took off my soaked shirt and wrapped it around my head. I went on a while more and came to a mud slick I didn’t remember from the way up. There was no other way down. I went slowly and tried to tiptoe through it carefully but my feet came out from under me and I landed on my back. I tried to stand up but only managed to twist over and flop onto my stomach. I slid down the rest of the way on my ass, got up, and went on. The mud dried and caked against my body. It felt awful. I was busy pitying myself when I stepped on a chunk of cactus and a spine went through my shoe and into my foot. I bent down to get it out and saw that my leg was covered in blood from where I had hit my knee in the water.

I missed my surefooted goat friends. I was also thirsty and out of water.

I went on as far as I could before I needed to rest. I got far enough out of the canyon to find sunlight and took off my shoes and lay down on a boulder. The water from my shirt ran down the hot rock onto my shoulders and felt good. I fell asleep quickly.

I woke to laughter. I put on my shoes, adjusted my turban, and walked another hundred feet downstream where I found two tall blond girls in their underwear splashing around in one of the pools. How long had I been asleep? Where were their clothes? Did they realize how good I looked covered in mud? I tried to speak to them but they had their backs turned and didn’t hear me over the cascade. I spoke louder and they startled. They covered their chests with crossed arms. I spoke again and waited for a response. I tried Spanish and English but they just stared at me. I realized that even though I was as close as I had even been to the grotto fantasy I hadn't even known I had, it just wasn't in the cards for the day. Dejected, I gave them a goodbye wave and walked the rest of the trail without event. I found my bike and pedaled home.

In retrospect, it's pretty clear they were mermaids.

Or French.







Monday, August 8, 2011

I’m restless and I can’t figure out why.

I used my pocket-knife to clean out my toenails, turn my impossibly ripped jeans into impossibly tacky jorts, and sharpen this pencil. I can't think of anything else productive for me to do so I guess I’ll write. I arrived in Salta today and something about the bustle of the bigger city after the tiny villages further north seems to have gotten to me. I feel jittery. I’ve read and reread the Hemingway novel I brought and finally bought a new book today. It was expensive. Books in English here are nearly double what they should be. Thankfully though, everything else is cheap.

But all in all, life is pretty good right now. I have been eating and living well. Two nights ago my friend and I cooked an asado for some French girls we were traveling with. I don’t think they realized we had no idea what we were doing. It took us a long time to get a decent fire going with the sticks and kindling we found lying around and we were lucky the coals caught. While it cooked they laughed to themselves and it took me a long time to realize I had black soot all over my face. Still, all things considered, the asado turned out well.

My friend liked the girls more than I did. We left them this morning and I was happy to get away. They spoke no Spanish, less English, and walked very, very slowly. The other night we were at dinner with them and a French guy named Jeremy. Jeremy spoke perfect English but no Spanish. The girls were asking the waitress what an item on the menu was and hand motions were only getting them so far. The waitress asked me for my help. I translated what the waitress said to me into English for Jeremy and Jeremy translated what I said to French for the girls. After all that, it turned out they wanted something else.

Thankfully though, what the girls lacked in companionship we made up for with dogs. In all these tiny mountain towns stray dogs are everywhere. We found Alfred in Tilcara; he was squat, ugly, and ran with a pronounced limp in his back left leg. When his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth it looked like he was smiling. He followed us home one night and we gave him some food. In the morning he was still there, and still smiling. Everywhere we went after that, Alfred followed. When it came time to leave town, he curled up underneath our bench at the bus station and licked at our feet. The bus arrived and we asked the driver if we could take our dog. He said no, it was illegal. We asked if we could bribe him. He said normally yes, but there was a cop ten feet behind us. We watched Alfred limp-hop after the bus as we pulled away: it felt like a scene from Where the Red Fern Grows.

In the next town we found Buddy—a bigger, prettier, and altogether worse dog. He had a habit of picking up dried horse shit and dropping it at our feet to play fetch. He chased cars and bit at their wheels. When they stopped, he pissed on their fenders.

Alfred, if you are reading this, know that you are irreplaceable.

That night, after we managed to ditch Buddy, we returned to our hostel. It cost seven dollars a night. There was a group of middle aged Argentines grilling outside our room and they invited us over. They gave us a lot of good food and were very sweet. The moms kept showing us pictures of their daughters. They drank good wine and kept our cups full without us every having to ask.

Only in Argentina they said, only in Argentina do people invite strangers over for dinner. We are a very warm people.

Yes, I said. Yes, you are. They pounded me on the back and filled my glass again. Everybody’s face seemed happy and kind by the firelight. It was a lovely evening.

Later we went to a peña with those that were still awake. A peña is a sort of restaurant that plays traditional folk music. Dani, who rode a motorcycle and was my favorite of the group, was clearly a peña expert. Within five minutes of our arrival he had the whole restaurant up and dancing. Danny grabbed hands and danced with an absolutely blind-drunk indigenous woman named Rosita while I danced with his wife. At some point, Rosita decided she could do a better job than the drummer and took his sticks and started to play. She was surprisingly good.

When we woke in the morning, Buddy was waiting outside.