Welcome to Santiago, Chile, i.e. the IE of South America

Welcome to the IE. This is a red alert day, no jogging, no speed walking and no playing on the jungle gym.


Santiago, or The Cleanest Biggest City in the World, outside of perhaps Singapore, which I've never been to, but I can vouch for the fact I did not see anyone caned in 4 days in Santiago and in my book, that makes it's cleanliness all the more impressive. In fact though, it's ironic, because though little trash resides in the streets and I would honestly debate implementing the five second rule in their subways, it apparently is one of the ten most polluted cities in the world, according to one website linked from the CDC (1). More importantly it reminds me of an especially developed, not to mention public transit riddled, Inland Empire, (minus the raised trucks, Independent logos, good Mexican food and rampant racism) which means I felt right at home.

Santiago is in a bowl located between three sets of mountains. This helps to create staggering views of the 5000 meter mountains rising in the distance, but also a safe haven for smog and other airborne toxins. This means that the 16 or so million people--no different, really, than is the case with much of South America, around 1/3 of Chile's population lives in or around the capital--live in a cloud of their own making; Whereas the IE lives in a cloud of their own AND LA's making. Needless to say the haze directly affects the views, leaving the surrounding area in a kind of pale, washed out, overcast drearyness.

The city itself is lively, full of the hustle and bustle you would find in any large western city, and unlike in Argentina, everything does not shut down during the four hour siesta. However, the speed of life has lent itself to a fast food culture not nearly as prevalent in other places we've been. Taco bell, Burger King, Mcdonalds, Pizza Hut and KFC all have strongholds throughtout the city, especially in the abundant malls found throughout. Yes, we ate at Taco Bell and the sauce is the same, thank god. But Beth was heart-broken by the lack of mild sauce and the use of "much-too-salty" black beans as a replacement to their "heavenly" pinto counterpart (veggies seem to be prone to hyperbole when their only culinary outlet is beans. No pun intended).

French fries and burritos = dual kitchen glee.

The city center (aka tourist area) is incredibly navigable, in particular by foot. So, we walked, and walked and walked some more. We managed to make all the tourist sites, and even a few off-the-tourist-trail markets (2), some of which were a bit seedy around dusk, but saved us over half the price on produce and gave us glimpses into the imperfections and, based on the smells around the area, the toxins underlying the city.

The markets are like an IKEA gone wrong. 1,000's of stalls, no conceivable way out, the only difference is they serve delectable seafood instead of microwaveable meatballs and $0.50 hot dogs.

I think what we found most endearing, however, was the people. We've really only encountered niceties throughout our trip, but here the people are genuinely friendly. They smile, ask questions and bear with you when you don't understand their pigeon Spanish (3). It was refreshing and I'd have to say the best part of our all together enjoyable, if sleepy, visit to the capital.

Note: damage from the earthquake near Concepcion didn't seem at all obvious. Granted we stayed tourist for the most part, but our only encounter was the closed basement, and a few other wings, of one of the main museums. That's not to say there was none, simply that it wasn't significant enough to be visible.

A giant statue of some saint sits upon a hill overlooking the city. A local tried to compare it to the giant Jesus of Rio, to which I scoofed, with a smile. At the top, Beth saw a girl crying and I saw a guy with shaved legs doing the old "spectacles, testicles, watch, wallet" routine after his run to the top of the hill.

Yes, it's true, this is no Arlington Park, but it's pretty damn close.



There were sculptures and street performers all over the city, including this guy pretending to be a sculpture.

Nightlife is big in Santiago, with people leaving our hostel at 1am to go out and returning with the break of dawn, but since we wore out our dancing boots in Mendoza, this was the closest we got. Please notice the building on the left.




This is tha full-frontal of that building. Apparently cell phones are much more pervasive here in Chile than in the states. I asked the security guard if you could play snake on the backside of the building. Unfortunately, it's not possible.

(1) a brief visit to the site to investigate whether Beth should drink the water proved inconclusive. Apparently no organization travels the world testing cities municipal water--someone definitely needs to do this soon, because I'm getting more worried about being the king's taster, aka Beths water loro, especially the more north we go. Ps Santiagos water did not make me sick.

(2) The on-the-beaten-path markets were equally as impressive. It was like a more intense version of Pike's Place in Seattle, a place which the cast of real world Seattle, if transfered to Santiago, would no doubt have found jobs slinging fish between stalls, slapping each other over osos, and getting to enjoy the many mini-kitchens located within booths throughout the market.

(3) Chile is apparently notorious for cutting words short and leaving "s's" and, oftentimes, "t's" out of their vocabulary, making it an even more difficult transition from Castellano Argentina.

Mendoza: Under the Influence

After two weeks of farm filth coupled with iceberg- melt baths and sleeping in closet-sized accommodations with 8 fellow (smelly) volunteers, nothing says "Happy Birthday" like a hot, clean shower and a private room. Bienvenidos a Mendoza, Argentina, home to some of Argentina's most affluent citizens, blatantly apparent by Pac heights/ Bell Air-sized homes and a modern, popping downtown that leaves little to distinguish itself from the financial districts of any major US city (save the Spanish business names and cleaner, more well kept streets). But the real draw to this place for two booze-loving little gringos is the wine, which flows like Kid Dynamite or the tears of Giants fans after 2002. With enough wineries and Malbec (Argentina's most famous wine, the Malbecs quite live up to the hype. We even paid a couple of dollars to share a glass of one of the best wines either of has had tasted. Delightful.) to drown yourself in, we found ourselves a lil' diamond in the rough.

Cheers!


With the Andes' Aconcagua (the highest peak in the Americas and second-highest peak in the world, reaching 6962 meters) looming over us in the background, we spent our time strolling the cosmopolitan streets, eating in pay-by-the-kilo vegetarian restaurants (que bueno!) and relaxing in the sun in the city's many green parks. Part of the allure of the city is its fascinating insection of the hustle and bustle and vanity of Western-civilization business culture combined with a lackadaisical, not-a-worry-in-the-world, I'm-gonna-take-my-mother-fucking-nap, siesta history. The result? A combination of plush, modern homes amongst beautifully traditional Spanish architecture with absolutely no sign of life for 4 hours midday, when the business suits disappear and everyone naps snuggled up in their designer sheets inside the walls of their state-of-the-art home, complete with modern security system, white picket fence, dog and 2.5 children. The American dream lives on, my friends! The American dream lives on!!!

Some of the liquors Mendoza had to offer.

Desafortunadamente, life can't always be roses. No, some days you must wake up and, against your will, turn old. And though this human condition plagued me during my stay in Mendoza, it's symptoms (continuing painstakingly slow and painful deterioration of internal functions, such as idealism, liver, and ambition ) were effectively treated with the wave of funny, heart-warming, and thoughtful emails I received. I spent the first few hours of the day crying: from laughter, from happiness, and from feeling greatly appreciative (though far from worthy) of having such a amazing combination of people in my life.

Mr. Hugo!

Jason.... not on the farm (as you might have guessed), but all "cleaned up" for our fancy wine tasting day in one of the vineyards.

The following day we celebrated my fortune by testing out our BUI skills. (Mom, don't worry- That's totally not a crime here. Not a crime= not a problem! Woohoo!) About a 30 minute bus ride out of the city, we started the morning off right, with a plastic tumbler full of wine courtesy of Mr.Hugo, el señor de alquilar bicicletas. And although we encountered nearly 75 other winery- visitors throughout our day, we did not hear one, single word of Spanish. (Maybe not the most culturally authentic experience we've embarked on to date...)

No, this is not Napa (though you might possibly forget this after one two many glasses. This place was about as posh as they come.)


For juxtaposition, this is what another one of our stops looked like. All the flavor, with less the pretentiousness.

We did, however, exercize our livers and legs by pedalling around tree-lined, dirt streets to seven wineries, rewarding ourselves with different treats at each winery ( including Absinthe, several varieties of wine, chocolate, fruit, and Dulce de leche liquors, champagne cocktails made with some delicious rose liquor, and homemade beer). And what did Mr. Hugo have waiting for us when we showed up slightly late with his bicycles??? More wine! In the all-you-can-drink varietal (my personal favorite!)

Chao chicos! Te amo!

Farmville, Part III: A Fruity Life

Here's the straight dish: farmin' ain't easy.  Life on a farm is neither easy, nor glorified (unless it's a two week voyouer tour) and surely not monetarily rewarding (at least for Peregrino).  Rodrigo, the dry-witted son of Anna (the Matriarch), has a girlfriend who is essentially part of the family.  She astutely, if rather cynically, pointed out that unlike us [tour-voyuers] they [farmers] had no choice to be on the farm, they were in fact born into it and would continue on as their family had in the past.  Both Beth and I agree that they do have choices and that the rest of the family would generally not take that approach, but the fact is that though neither poor in health or soul or even a sense of genuine happiness, they are not taking baths (in $100 bills) anytime soon, and their choices--as with most financially challenged people--are severely limited.  

In fact, it's literally impossible for them to take baths at all, considering they don't have one.  No, they are not animals, they do have a shower (cold, but for the first couple of the day, which are luke-warm at best) and they do clean themselves, it's the voluntarios that are less fortunate.  Beth's first two "cleanings" took place not indoors, not under a spicket, not from a hose, but in a river.  The same river (really it's a rather shallow irrigation canal, which is highlighted on Sundays when the "river" doesn't run because it's the farm's upstream turn to water their crops) that is used to irrigate their crops and rinse the vegetables off from dirt and other things, but the bath is located upstream.  I should point out a few important things: 1) the water is glacial melt, thus ice cold.  2) presumably farms upstream use the river for similar functions.  3) we don't know how many farms are organic, but chemicals flow downstream too.  4) there were no rules against soap and shampoo in the river (just in the house).  5) the river bath did have a place to hang your clothes and set down your bath supplies--an old, white lawn chair gave it a sense of wash-closet legitimacy.  6) lastly, beth used it multiple times, I used it zero.  The submerging-yourself-in-ice-cold-water was the biggest deterent, but there is something incredibly disconcerting about bathing in farm run-off water.  I abstained, and though I regret it, I'm equally convinced that it was the right choice.  

Here's the other bizness, though incredibly tough and besides the fact that after two wereks we were ready to go, it's incredibly rewarding work.  You literally see the fruits of your labor.  I mean we were living, breathing and, most importantly, eating that saying.  We also juiced it, a lot (1).       

But, the most interesting and in fact, arguably the most important practice of this farm is their belief in permaculture, or more broadly and simply, sustainability.  I think for a small operation such as this it is nearly impossible to seperate their belief in a sustainable way of life being derived from choice or necessity(2).  However, you might argue that it is irrelevant, the fact that they are nearly self-sustaining is what is important.  Besides practicing organic growth they also build their own homes from the earth, predominantly from the organic products found on their farm, be it horse poop, wood, flower derivatives for color, olive oil (actually bartered from a neighboring farm) or illegal wine bottles found near the voluntarios hut (perhaps organic does not apply here, but it is recycled, so I'll count it).  All these things are used to build beautiful and aesthetically interesting homes, that are the most Eco-friendly homes you could build, not to mention homes that are theirs--I can't imagine the feeling of living in something that you actually put the effort and creative thought to build, it must be the most rewarding feeling (I did once build a doghouse, but never had the pleasure of living in it...).     

After all this, I enjoy the comforts of modernity and simplicity and would be hard-pressed to say that someday I'd like to be a small, organic farmowner working for pennies and at the mercy of my crops.  No, that wouldn't be true.  But what I can say is that stepping on that farm felt real, it felt good, it gave me at least the tiniest bit of insight into farm life, and even more insight into this particular families beliefs in regards to organics and the value on which they place on a healthy diet. A diet in which you don't have to worry about scrubbing your apple for fear of ingesting some unnameable chemical (though I'd guess contracting hepatitis is possible, so maybe scrubbing is a good idea).  A life in which you appreciate the food which you eat and are forced to respect the land in which you get that food.  A feeling that you have a connection to your basic necessities, from food to shelter and cleanliness and water to where you deposit your excrement (ever imagine where all that flushing goes, outside of sewage treatment plants, of course?).  All of these things are important, yet easily lost in daily life.  So though I wouldn't necessarily live on farmville, I would definitely do it again and maybe even grow a few (organic) vegetables when I get home--mostly because I won't have the money to buy my own.  


  
(1) The juicing process is actually quite simple, though more easily understood with pictures we can't upload.  In any case words will have to suffice for now.  
Step 1: pick apples, dumping them into a palate sized crate approximately 3 feet in height.  When full, the total is about 500 kilos of apples, or 1200 pounds.  A rough estimate of the total number of crates up to 40--red apples only.  
Step 2: lLoad apples into giant plastic tub, similar to a poor mans doughboy, for the purpose of cleaning, or rinsing the apples.  It doesn't strike me as the most effective cleaning device, but then again the apples are organic and have managed to steer clear of all fertilizers simply by being above groundlevel.  Step 3: Hand load apples onto conveyor belt.  The conveyor belt leads to a grinder, which roughly chops the apples (think graded potatoes, but chunkier) then feeds these apples using another conveyor--this one being a giant plastic tube--through a hole cut into the wall.  The cut apples are deposited into an old bathtub, while any excess juices crestrainer strained and drained through the hole at the bottom of the tub.  
Step 4: manually heave all apple biproducts onto slated wooden boards covered in cheesecloth.  It's imperative that cheesecloth is excessively large so as to be able to cover the apples in full.
Step 5: Repeat step 4 between 7-9 times, or until your stack of wood/apple/cheesecloth mixture is about the same height as...
...Step 6, which is taking the apples bookended by the aforementioned wood and using what is essentially a giant vice (or press) to squish the living juice out of the roughly ground apples.  The juice drains into a covered basin, which is then pumped up through a hose into a topless barrel (not as scadalous as it sounds).
Step 7:  Tub, barrel, squishing contraption and bottling agents are all located inside a mini-wherehouse, or galpon.  The topless barrel is near the roof, and has a tube connected to the bottom.  This tube is attached to a not-so-complex pipe used to fill empty bottles with the juiced apples.  That's step 7, filling the bottles.
Step 8: Cap bottles.  Almost Exactly the same tool Raman and Zach use for capping beer.
Step 9: Sterilization/Pasturization..  Yes, there are some standards of cleanliness and health here.  They have four more old tubs, all covered in adobe, which are like ovens.  Underneath are big holes for fires.  Put water in tubs, then capped, filled appley bottles and heat to 90 degrees centigrade.  
Step 10: Remove.  Let cool. Place in giant apple juice cellar. 
Step 11: This is actually steps 2-9.  Drink as much juice as possible because once everything is bottled Familia Peregrino no longer gives you access to the fruits of your labor.  Your real payment is neither experience or inner gratification, it is the four days of goirging on pure, raw, glorious, semi-filtered apple juice.    

(2) Maria told us the first couple of years were terrible and the apples were terribly pock-marked by worms, maggots and other creatures.  Their neighbors ridiculed them and said it would be impossible to grow apples without pesticides.  However, a few years into their experiment a funny thing happened, THEY started having beautiful apples while the other farms quality began to detoriate.  Apprently the pesticides didn't kill just the worms and maggots, but killed their natural predators.  So, as Peregrino began to self-adjust after years if pesticides and nature balanced itself out, other farms suffered.  This is not to say most organic farms have had the same luck or fate, but I thought it interesting that going organic actually saved the farm in the long-run (15 years long, at least).

Farmville, Part II: Day Labor

Lazy day on the farm...

After the first (sleepless) night on the dirty piece of dilapidated foam that was our mattress (and the mattress of many a spider and other biting insects that kept me up that night and further caused me to ring in my 28th birthday with the crater-face I managed to bypass 14 years earlier), we reported to work at 8:30 sharp for our first shift as day laborers. We were introduced to many lovely farmer's amenities, like the zapa (something resembling a hoe and resulting in a buff upper body and hand blisters) and special bags as large as your body that you tie around your neck and waist and fill with kilos and kilos of apples as you waddle from tree to tree. Best of all, we were introduced to the family of El Peregrino. Though they may be dirtier than the children in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang or even the Garbage Pail Kids, what they lack in hygeine they make up for with amabilidad (kindness, in Spanish.)

While handpicking 25 hectacres of apples, one has a lot of time to reflect. Despite their lack of creature comforts typical of our own daily lives, it is not hard to come to the conclusion that these people have been able to maintain something truly quite special, something that may float further and further away as societies develop further and further from our true necessities (which we all too often forget are very few.) We have become adept at complicating our lives and needs. In fact, therein lies the root of this experience...

Not to say the work is "easy". Our work days were long, 8:30 to 1:00, when we would eat lunch, rest for 30-45 minutes and return to work until the sun went down at about 7:30. I'd love to tell you about how we herded sheep on horses or about how I singlehandedly saved the lives of a sounder of pigs by lassoing the big, bad predator (picture a fierce, snarling puma or, if you prefer, Jason after being vegetarian for two weeks), but our work was less romantic, though presumably as rewarding. About 80% of the first week was picking apples and about 80% of the second week was juicing them (6000 liters in 3 days, an all time, farm history record BOO YAH!) Other tasks included: hoeing, weeding, picking squash, lettuce, tomatoes, and several varieties of peas, preparing produce to sell at the farmer's market, and sensing when to disappear as to avoid being assigned the task of diaherra-bucket-emptier. (Because of the irony of the freshest, most delicious food prepared in the dirtiest of conditions, each day several volunteers were sick.) Our free time was filled with far too much usage of the outdoor tiolet, sleeping (thank God for overworking your free laborers to exhaustion), trying to speak Spanish (however poorly), walking "the very, very short distance" (so we were fooled) of 15km roundtrip to fight with teenaged, war-hungry video gamers to use the Internet on our day off, and smuggling and illegally drinking wine (alcohol, cleaning or otherwise, is banned from the premises) with a few fellow friendly volunteers.

Want more info on the juicing process, family, or other volunteers? Your comments will be personally addressed in the comment section. I just wasn't sure how much you'd all be interested in the details.

In the meantime, have your pets spayed and neutered (it's a damn shame bob barker couldn't get the price is right translated down here...) And remember, we love you.





Maria, the woman behind the curtain, posing with a piece of corn that, ironically enough, looks like a double helix. She is all of five feet tall and maybe 80 pounds and can definitely out eat me. I´m sure if there were a vegetarian Nathan´s dog, she could outeat Joey Chestnut. She also has that unique ageless look, at moments she looks no older than a teenage kid, while at other times she looks like an incredibly young grandmother.


Beth is happy, mostly because at this particular moment she isn´t picking apples.




Who farted?


My mom is worried about this picture circulating through Arizona, as she is sure this will lead to my inevitable deportation.


Manpris.com.ar: For men who like three quarters length pants, farming, alabaster legs and hay, lots and lots of hay.

Beth hoeing???

WWOOF

No, this is not some poor excuse for me to use an onomatopoeia (which I wouldn't put past me, next to palindromes there's really nothing better in the English language, or any language for that fact, sincerely you shouldn´t need to know the language to understand, which makes it of even more particular interest to me considering my current living situation, but enough of this tangent...) no, WWOOf actually is an acroynm, an organization even, which stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms(1). It's quaint, especially for something inclusive of the entire world. It's also derived from a good ethos, one of not only health, but general long-term sustainability. And best of all, and most importantly if they really want to get their word out, it comes with the sentiment of sharing: food, housing, work and experience. Which is to say that it is now on my list of "One of the cutest goddam things I've ever seen."

The general idea, for those of you who haven't been versed in the organization's ways, is this: a farm--organic--pays a small due, gets their name in hippie-farm-craigslist, which can be purchased by prospective volunteers (read: free day laborers whom the farm unfortunately has to house and feed, and who are generally much more voceforous than their normal group of farm animals), who then email/call/write-letters-using-homemade-paper-and-reusable-ink requesting the ability to work on the farm, for free. The farm responds, and the "farmer" then makes his/her own way to said farm to work for some predetermined period of time. As far as I know that prearranged time frame is not binding, but I wouldn't want to tell a pitch-fork wielding, organic carrot eating farmer I was leaving earlybecause hefer blood made me queasy or computer hands are too sensitivefor apple picking. No sirreeee.

Beth and I, being both jobless and transient at this time, decided that this sounded like an interesting experience. Neither one of us are from particularly agricultural backgrounds and both of us tend to view food--its origins and its inevitable impact on us as humans, people as a whole and the earth, not to mention the pure and beautiful act of gluttoning--as an incredibly vital part of our day-in and day-out lives. So we (Beth) wrote out an email in Spanish, had our billingual hostel rep correct the grammatical errors (believe it or not, only slightly worse than what you're finding here) and sent it out to all the farms on the WWOOF list. We jumped at our 2nd opportunity, working on an apple farm near Mendoza, Argentina (2).

(1) I have a brilliant plan to popularize WWOOF in North America by changing the name to MEXICO, mostly because irony is an effective recruitment tool for jobless transients in search of an interesting and unique experience (Mission: Engaging Xgringos In Crops of Organics--it took me five minutes and that's the best I could do, maybe it won't be as effective as I imagine. My original acroynm--Mangy Elitist Xperiencing Idealistic Crops of Organics--seemed a more cynical, thus much less effective choice.)

(2) the first opportunity was to help make wind chimes at some guy´s farm out in the middle of nowhere, which sounded more like experiencing a sweat shop in the woods, except at least those people got paid.

. . .

Farmville: Part 1

When I think of life on a farm I usually conjur up a couple images of "The Grapes of Wrath", dry, dusty and poor dominating the landscape (not to mention two solemn, old, wrinkly, and severely depressed farmers, the man wielding an ominous looking pitch fork). Eventually my mind adjusts historically and a horse or oxe or some other beast of burden materializes with Michael Landon prancing in the background planting seeds with happiness and gratification. Finally, the modern farm, dinosaur-like machines with tires as tall as Shaq and as wide as a train of midgets, emerges. These images were dancing in my head (especially the train) as our bus driver ushered us off the local bus very near the middle of absolutely nowhere.

As we approached the farm our nerves creeped to the surface. The family speaks no English, we speak little Spanish. They are farmers, we've both killed more plants than we've managed to nurture. They work with their hands, we don't have jobs. Completely different spectrums colliding and during the most important time of the year for an apple farm, harvesting and juicing time. What in the devil are we doing this for again? And more importantly, why do they want a couple of inexperienced and essentially deaf mutes to help them out (yes, sometimes I feel like im a south American Lifetime story waiting to happen--"How the deaf/mute gringo lived without Words--a heartwarming tale of idiocy.")? Soon enough we were to find out, but not before we met the family and were introduced to our sleeping and bathroom arrangements.
I'm a dirty person. I'm unorganized. I even enjoy a bit of cluter, it's kind of homey. And I'm terribly unapologetic about it. Beth hates these things, but is more tolerant than is probably fair. My first instinct, after a slight dizzying sensation after entering the"bathroom," was to renege on my email-clad agreement and catch the next bus out of town. I think Beth actually vomitted a bit in her mouth. John Steinbeck could not have done this place justice. It's not so much filthy as it is chaotic. Brooms, soap, seperation between animals and people (bugs included) and hot, clean water are all thrown out the window under the simple precept that "as long as everything is organic, it can't hurt you," or the more widely used "god made dirt and dirt don't hurt". And thus it was that dirt was everywhere.

It wasn't just dirt, however, there were more evil, more bile, substances pervading throughtout the farm. The aforementioned bathroom was in fact my favorite introduction. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. I should mention that the farm itself is in fact quite cute, as long as you are not locating yourself in the living areas. Many of the structures look incredibly surreal, like they picked up "Alice in Wonderland", read it, and never realized it wasn't some architectural manual. Everything is smooth edges, mushroom tops, reds and yellows, even the occassional old wine bottle set in the wall to allow for more natural light. It's stunning really, even more so when juxtaposed with the internal upkeep. Which is why it was so mentally wrenching when I first saw the inside of the Cheshire Kitty litterbox, aka our bathroom.

It's beautiful, until you realize that inside evil occurs. There is a bucket, above a seat, with two holes. One is small and goes very deep into the ground and is a receptical for urine. The other is larger, resides 6 feet above the bucket and is for death, specifically all that has been completely destroyed in your stomach. Problem 1) Why is there a bucket and not another extremely deep hole? Problem 2) Why is their a bucket of dirt next to the toilet? Problem 3) How does that bucket get unfilled? Problem 4) Why did I eat that clearly tainted hamburger hours before arriving on a farm with a compostable toilet? Problem 5) When they say compostable, where and what does that compost do? All these were answered in due time, most thoroughly unsatisfactorily, even heinously, but nonetheless answered. For you, I'll say it goes something like this: poop, wipe, clean with a dash of water, dump two scoops of dirt on top (for smell and compost). Repeat until filled. Get cheap (read: free) labor to take bucket out, empty in field, but in a specific spot every time. Clean bucket, replace in center of hole. In two months return to field, take excrement, spread on crops. When ripe, harvest crops, rinse in river (more details to follow about said river), don't wash hands or dishes with soap, serve food to family and/or laborers. And that's the WWOOF organic litter box, not to mention almost the end, before it began.

But it did begin, and it was good...

(A point of clarification: We are incredibly behind on posting. It's been about two weeks since we've been on the farm and right now we are actually in Chile. However, we are planning on finishing our three part farm series in the next few days as well as posting about Mendoza and Santiago. But first, the farm, then the rest.)

Bariloche is to Aspen as Harry Connick Jr. is to John Tesh

I've never been to Aspen and I don't think I've ever come across a John tesh CD at Amoeba (or more recently iTunes), but in my imagination, in the hypothetical world I live in, these are the perfect comparisons (not to mention Lonely Planet told me so).

Without further tainting the name of the saintly John Tesh, I'd like to present to you Bariloche, Argentina: Land of the lakes and Home of the jurassic dog, milk chocolate, natural beauty, 80's souvenirs, the aerosilla and the greatest choripan on earth.

Us. Bariloche. Mountains. Pretty.

St. Bernards are as much a part of the winter culture as they are a part of the tourist culture in Bariloche. Locals bring their dogs as well as their cameras to the city center and for a nominal fee you can become the proud owner of a picture of you and the monstrosity that is St. Bernards. That is, unless you are Beth, who just sneaks photos of the dogs when their owners are distracted. This particular giant lives at the campground we stayed at, he and his 200 or so pounds are only 8 months old.

Both of these pictures are of Lago Guttierrez about 15 kilometers outside of Bariloche and deserted at this time of year. We camped a few kilometers away and took a ¨hike¨ along the shore of this lake. Part of the reason that Bariloche is such a big tourist destination is because of the extreme amount of snow fall in Winter. We heard that at the end of the season they can get up to 2 meters of snow fall.

We camped right next to a quaint little river. Just before (or during?) dawn the outside temperture is cold enough to cause the river (fed by glacier melt) to steam up.

The city center plays up the woodsy, yet abnormally classy, Aspen-like architecture. It´s really quite beautiful, but feels completely contrived, which it probably is. On the left you can see a St. Bernard and it´s opportunistic owner waiting for some less-than-savvy tourist to come along. In the center is a clock tower with the wood and stone construction typical of Bariloche. Just underneath that you can make out some white paint. The day before we took this picture there was a peaceful gathering protesting the lack of prosecution of the perpetrators behind the Dirty War--http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dirty_War--in which people painted white bonets on the ground memoralizing friends and family who ¨dissapeared¨at the hands of the goverment.

On the left: Choripan. On the Right: Hamburger. Dead Center: Bliss. This 5 peso Choripan is perhaps the greatest culinary achievement since the Double x Double. It´s amazing, it´s cheap and you can lather it up with homemade chimichurri and freshly pickled vegetables, which I did with abandon. Please feel free to make your own double-fisting joke here.

It´s a ski town, it´s full of lazy tourist, and epic views. Why not run the ski lifts in the offseason. For the record, we hiked up the hill, but because we are cheap, cheap people who plan to stay in South America as long as possible. Those are the Andes in the background.

Just in case you wanted to see what all the postcards, billboards, advertisements and tourist information offices look like. National Geographic says that this is one of the ¨Ten best views in the world,¨and when I say National Geographic I mean a brochure that claims National Geographic says this, it´s unverified at this point.

Important Note, directions to the Choripan Man: Go to the main center square.  You'll know you arrived when you feel like you've just entered Abraham Lincoln's house on steroids.  A series of Log Cabins doubling as a city center all surrounding a square.  From there head away from the water towards the janky craft market beyond the left hand side of the plaza (left if you are facing away from the water).  A block up there will be a diminuitive man wielding a spatula inside of a gas grill on wheels.  go up to him and immediately order two choripans.  Once delievered slather in chimichurri and pickled vegetables, then devour.

187 Bariloche

This is dedicated to all the Fidos and Pollys out there in the world.  RIP.

It was a sad day when we left El Bolson.  An ominous day, one might say.  But it didn't start that way.  As usual our flighty feet left us content with a week long stay, so excitement to get back on the road was the dominant sensation when we boarded our bus out of hippie heaven.  As is life, the bliss from one moment just as quickly can turn to bile, or at least that is what I expected  to happen after our bus howitzered through a presumably stray dog in the street.

The road to Bariloche is beautiful and scenic.  It's also windey and slow, but for the few straightways in which the bus seemed to speed up, either to gain enough speed to carry us up the next hill, or to make up time for all the stops made for the locals.  Thus it was as we rounded a corner and began the acceleration for the next straightaway as we'd done for the last thirty minutes..  But this was different. This time two dogs were playing in the middle of the highway.  When Beth and I saw them we were still far enough away that they could move.  We both waited, expecting the dogs to to use their doggie sense and get somewhere safe.  Nothing.  Just rolling around like two little puppies.  

To our drivers credit he beeped his horn multiple times when we were far enough away to avoid tragedy.  To his forever blackened soul, that is all he did.  We first beeped 600 or so meters away, we also last beeped then, but more importantly the bus maintained a constant speed throughout the process.  Not even the slightest decrease, no letting off the pedal, and surely no braking.  Full speed ahead.  A deadline (no pun intended) at the end o' the line.

And that's how it happened that a harmonious gasp erupted from the first three rows of seats.  I've never run anything over in my life-though I have hit a few immovable objects-and it's weird how fast and underwheming the sound is.  Then you realize that you just ran over a cute little dog, probably someones animal, best friend even.  And then the real sounds, long and draining, begin. Beth cried off and on for about the next thirty minutes, and a few more times later that day when she would periodically ask me if I thought the dog who survived had other friends--which I replied to with a resounding "No." (C'mon, I'm not evil.).  And that's how every dog we passed in Bariloche came to receive a special little present, a word of warning from our own little dog whisperer, Beth: "Cuidado, liitle perro."

As for Polly, on our way out of town a bird, I like to think of it as a dove, swooped right in front of our bus and that same sound reverberated throughout the steel frame, but this time everyone was asleep, so only the driver and I echoed the gasp of five days earlier.  And that was how Bariloche became known as 187 Bariloche to Me and Beth.

Note: some of you may be thinking to yourselves, "why did Jason spend so long explaining the dog accident and just a sentence for the bird.". Three reasons: 1) I'm a dog person, 2) the bird flew into the bus, the bus ran into the dog, 3) We've posted some pics of dogs we met along the way, but had none of any birds we met...