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
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