hasta el juevo

She just showed up one morning, hungry and skittish outside our doorstep. The fridge was empty, save a few onions and an egg. Nick fried up the egg and thus El Juevo she became. She scumbags the pueblo by day and comes home to howl at vegetable trucks and waning moons by night. So now we have a dog in Argentina.

I met David coming back from town, juggling two kilos of potatoes and three bottles of whiskey on a crowded bus. Nick and I had decided to host a Thanksgiving asada, so I went into Lujan to see what traditional foods I could find. Not so much, no turkey, no yams, not even good ketchup. Anyways I was coming home when I wound up sitting with David. It only took a minute to forgo our broken Spanish for some good ole red white and blue American. David was traveling alone after his failed attempt to rekindle a love story. He showed up on her doorstep unannounced after 5 years of silence. It was a luke warm reception followed shortly by the "I'm just not that into you" conversation. Thus he was wandering about with a backpack of river gear and a plan to head somewhere south. David came to the party and stayed awhile.


Our Thanksgiving celebration was whiskey wild. We served freedom fries and a couple of chickens to celebrate the greatness of America and its rich history of distracting folk with food and games while raping and pillaging their lands. Asadas are built on the communist mentality-- no plates for serving individual portions but rather chicken cooked whole and eaten with fingers. But similar to the pitfalls of the socialist agenda it encourages lazier folk to show up just as the chicken is ready and take more than their share. Argentine style, we ate around midnight and partied till dawn.


The first week of December Nick and I visited Aconcagua (that's Mexican for big 'ole mountain). It is the highest peak in the Americas at 22,834 feet, standing a few hundred feet taller than Denali. We spent the day hiking about the edge of the park with an old timer from Potre named Paco and two Slovenians passing through town. The five of us had lunch on long forgotten train tracks paralleling El Cueva, a busy creek carving through rock beds and land bridges atop natural hot springs. We ended our trekking excursion at Puenta del Inca, a popular display of iron colored rocks and bubbling pools, exemplifying the delicate balance of eroding rock formations and centuries of spring thaws.

Work is slow, money's tight, and so passes December. Feliz Navidad, y'all.

--nickiD

On location 12/1/2010

Seems like we had one good stompin rain in the fall of 2010, some parts of Western North Carolina received as much as 9 inches of rain. It was one of those occasions when everything was running and probably too high. I decided to hike down into the Narrows and see what a high water Green looks like, I knew it was going to be high but i didn't expect to see the notch under water. I'm down here in Key West layin low for the holidays, really diggin the beer drinkin and no shirt part.

Cheers

arlyn-

rat tails and man kisses

Expect a whole lot of both if you plan on visiting Argentina. A kiss on either cheek with a bit of tail in between.


We camped beside Lake Mendoza our first few days in Potrerillos. After a chilly evening we awoke to the harsh rays of desert sun against red rocks and crackling creek beds. We had expected an oasis of vibrant wine vineyards but as the sun burned through the mountain breeze we found ourselves in an arid valley similar to the canyons of Utah. Apparently the region's renowned wineries are not due to natural environment but rather to its system of irrigation canals dating back to the Incas.


That morning we walked along the lake to Rios Andinos (about five miles from town) to find no one had heard of any nicks. The owner, who had said there was work, and the head boatman, who actually doles out the work, hadn't spoken, so we were greeted by a somewhat polite 'who the fuck are you?' (en espanol). After a few minutes of awkward explanations we were informed they didn't need any guides but to come back in a week to see if Nick could check out as a safety kayaker. At this point I thought it wise not to mention I was looking for work as well.


For the next couple of days we walked around town and looked for a place to rent for the season. It was late on the fourth day when we stopped into a kiosco (think NYC bodega) and the owner offered to show us the two vacant houses next door. We decided on the smaller of the two- a one bedroom cabana with white washed brick walls and a slanted wooden roof. The senora seemed surprised we wanted to move in without gas or furniture but we assured her we didn't mind and settled into our summer home that evening. Just as we closed our front door the wind began to howl and the temperature dropped dramatically. The next morning we awoke to frosted windows and a crown of snow covered peaks outside of town.


Unwelcome but here none the less, we established our presence in Potre. The following week Nick went to check out for work, but after a bit of confusion the head boatman realized they were a guide short. Nick volunteered having never seen the river and was cleared to guide after the trip. We were invited to our first Argentine asado that evening.

Argentine time has little to do with hours and minutes. If they tell you 7:30, you're going to look like a schmuck if you get there before 9. And 9 o'clock is when they start burning wood for coals so don't expect the first piece of meat until 11. Anyways old man midget hands and I showed up just as people were waking up from their afternoon siesta, and already a bit silly from nipping the bottle of whiskey on the walk over.


Folk ain't so down with the brown here so our dinner contribution remained untouched while Nick and I became acquainted with the Argentine national drink, Fernet (thick and bitter, similar to Jagger, drank with Coca-Cola). We didn't make it to dinner that night. Just as they were heating up the brick oven outside we stumbled home a bit hungry and a bit drunk but better prepared for our next midnight meat feast.

--nickiD

los gringos nics

We met in Bogota on October 28'th after being sniffed down by drug dogs. This was coming into Colombia. Huh. The next morning we arrived in Santiago to a crowd of Chilean taxi drivers hustling their services in a cacophony of Spanglish shouts. It was cold, with a fresh halo of snow capped peaks encircling the city. After 20ish hours of travel our driver dropped us off at a dive hotel to rest before venturing into the full throttled metropolis outside.


Around lunch we headed into the heart of Santiago. The streets were busy with vendors of all varieties-- ice cream stands next to underwear tables smelling like the whole array of undefined street meat. Greasy teenagers and weathered city folk grouped beneath clouds of smoke, the bitter stench of tobacco clinging to hats and scarves. We ordered cigarettes with our cerveza in a late night cafe and set the alarm for the early bus out of town.

The first bus to Curico left at 7am. After three hours of driving south, we crossed town with our backpacks, kayaking gear and guitar to another bus terminal where we piled our luggage between the driver and captain's seat of a riggidy microbus. Within a few kilometers the pavement gave way to a gravel road heading into the Andes.


The bus dropped us off in front of the Hosteria (think bed and breakfast) just outside the small town of Los Quenes. It was Turbo's second season working for Todd, a fellow gringo who found his way to Chile 10 years ago from the rivers of Idaho. We set camp uphill of the Hosteria, nestled in a grove of trees opening into the mountains.


We were there a week. We spent three days on the water, kayaking the Rio Tano and Rio Claro. The glacial rivers were sharp and shallow with sections of class 5 rapids. Turbo introduced us to his Chilean caballeros, a dude from Patagonia who goes by Petey, and a local kayaker and his lady- Gonzo and Fran. Petey led us on a full day excursion for views of volcanoes and condors and spectacular tales of combustible plants.


Gonzo drove us through the fertile foothills of the Chilean coastal range. There were remnants of last year's earthquake everywhere. Most yards sported a government financed hut hastily constructed amongst the wreckage of homes-- the Chilean double wide for disaster victims.


The following weekend we left for Argentina. After two bus rides and a full morning of shuffling bags we were in Santiago to catch another bus across the Andes. Two hours outside of Mendoza the driver dropped us off on the main highway and told us this was Potrerillos. It was dark; we knew no one and had no place to go. We didn't have a phone or a number for the rafting company, nor the Argentine currency in a town too small for a bank or an internet cafe. Thus, los gringos nics started their adventure into summer yet again.

--nickiD