.. neither refers to a hidden pool of salt water in the mountains of Greenland,
.. nor to an apocalyptic scenario of Global Warming!

Here it simply describes the experience of a marriage made in heaven - well, almost. A marriage between the amazing stimulation of my tastebuds by the effects of lower atmospheric pressure at altitude and a seafood dish prepared in best Spanish tradition.

No, this time I was not cruising in First Class above the shores of the Mediterranean.
Terra firma under my feet today, or better: under my butt a comfy chair in front of a table weighed down with delicacies.

The cook had invited me spontaneously for an impromptu Sunday lunch. The cook is my friend Carlos.
In search of an affordable place to live where Ali and Lola, his two Labradors, were welcome, he ended up at 4000ft. In the cabaña of Julio, a retired doc, who had built a wonderful home on a spectacular site in the mountains.

"Bring a drink, a desert if you want; come around 12". It was 9:30 when the message popped up on the screen of my cellphone. Ah, the Argentinean spontaneity - this wonderful aspect of life here. Just come by, bring something to share and let's enjoy the moment.
No planning, no formal invitation three weeks in advance - life is now, caballero!

I found some gin, tonic and limes in the fridge and drove up that mountain.
Kuka was already there crushing menta in a mortar. Mojitos were the drink of the day, forget about my old fashioned Gin Tonic..
Now a Mojito is basically a very potent nutritional supplement - don't let anybody convince you otherwise! The inspiring power of freshly picked peppermint combined with the energy/push of raw, unfermented sugar and the fire of Cuban Rum provide about 500% of the daily allowance in energy enhancers and good vibrations.




After two highballs of iced up drinks at altitude I was all anticipation for the sea level part: paella mixta a la Carlos...

First it hit my nostrils with a scent of open sea floating on a cloud of 'herbes de Provence".
And as always when the nose sets off an alarm the palate gets excited. How easy it was for the shrimp to score the first points.

- - -


The Malbec Roble Julio had fetched from his wine rack was the perfect supporting cast. Faces turned mellow, tongues loosened up. Carlos II, a well read and travelled retired agro-engineer, began to tell stories and jokes.




I've heard some of them, this one seems to be an archetypal one, cutting right down to the essence of land and people :

Saint Peter, looking at the incredible richness and beauty of this huge land "of silver", asks the Lord: " Sir, isn't it a bit too much what you so generously bestowed upon this country?" God contemplates for a couple of minutes and finally concurs: "You have a point there, Saint Peter, I'm going to balance things a bit and put the Argentineans there!"


Well, my felllow lunchers here are not balancing anything in that sense and to see the beauty of the country I only have to move a couple of steps toward the ledge in front of the house.
There a vista opens up, stretching - in a way - from the Pacific to the Atlantic.

It turns out that right here we're on the roof of the Andes. Well, within reach anyway - let me boulder up the hill another 1500ft and I'm there.
To my left the creek Chapelco Grande heads for the swamp lands of La Vega and then turns west towards Lago Lacar which drains into the Pacific over in Chile. Hardly a mile to the East Chapelco Chico cascades down into Rio Quilquihe whose waters end up in the Atlantic more than 1500km away in the opposite direction.
Yes, this here is the Continental Divide - and just imagine: it runs right through your house, across the kitchen counter:
the Espresso cup on Atlantic, the Pisco Sour on Pacific and you on a barstool in the middle.
Mean Sea Level at 4003 feet!

Tags: english

Sometimes one has to react - like right now...
When an impulse builds up, an inspiration strikes,

or a snowstorm descends over Siete Lagos..

It happened last week.
First a slow, inconspicuous build-up: rain showers on monday, constant drizzle on tuesday, female rain (you know: the soft, permanent drenching...) on wednesday.
Then it got colder. "Agua-nieve" they call the mess which falls out of deep flying dark clouds here.
Early thursday the flakes were as big as a horses ear - never seen anything like that before.
And then I remembered: claro! - the Santa Rosa storm was preparing its annual show, right on time for the big Tetra (thlon) competition.

Well, the poor 'extremistas' had a terrible time, on the slopes, the mountainbikes (no chains allowed!), in the kayaks through hefty snowsqualls on the lake and finally 16km against the wind in running outfit!

But the day after - INCREIBLE!

Deep blue sky, all white above 3000ft.

Now it's fine to be out there, in there, to enjoy the miracle "Nature".
Getting the almost overwhelming impressions into the camera is an entirely different matter - all blue and white is kind of.. boring.

So forgive me if I played around a little - and let me know what you think..



Promise: next time I'll pick up again where jumped off today - week 28 will be next!

Tags: english

"Biscuit or bagel, butter or jam, water or juice?"

The words came out of her mouth as if she had swallowed a questioning machine: fast, monotonous, with a hollow, metallic sound. Then she stared at me waiting for an answer - three answers actually.
With the air rushing by at 485 miles per hour, barely one foot from my ears, I understood only half of her rap and had to ask her to repeat.
"Biscuit or bagel, butter or jam, … " she played the same soundtrack once more. Her face showed more than a touch of annoyance: Can't this guy hear me? Can't he just make up his mind, like right now? she seemed to think. With a brisk motion she dropped the breakfast tray with my selection on the foldout table and turned away.

Wow, what was that?
A new version of "Something Special In The Air"?
She couldn't possibly have been exhausted when she came to me. After all I was sitting in 3A and that made me her first customer, or client, or victim perhaps? 3A on this old MD80 was the foremost window seat, in First Class.
Yeah, you got it: I was flying First Class from Dallas to Denver.
I always fly FIrst Class - no more of this " buy your own water"-crap in Eco…

Just kidding, of course - but this time I really was flying in First.



Why and how? well, this is another story.

Anyway, I was somewhat confused, a little annoyed and definitely disappointed. What happened to the always friendly, most often even cheerful cabin crew? It was an eight AM flight, most likely the first departure of the day, but is that an explanation or excuse for almost rude behavior?

Was there possibly more blowing off than just temporary bad temper?

I had come into Dallas on an overnighter from Buenos Aires. Through the whole immigration shenanigans I had passed quickly, no grumpiness there. But then, out in the never ending corridors connecting hundreds of Terminals and Concourses with thousands of Gates, I sensed it again: a decidedly depressed, almost morose, undercurrent seemed to be flowing everywhere. People had sadness on their faces, worries in their eyes, they were hunched over half-empty paper-cups, talked absentmindedly into cellphones, dragged themselves and overstuffed carry-ons through the aisles. Their posture slouched, their movements jumpy, out of sync.
Nothing natural, fluid, much less elegant in their gestures.
An announcement added an aural aspect to that unexpected scene: " To all passengers: the level of security is orange…."
Was it the "security" which made everybody so preoccupied? the old American paranoia, the widespread fear of conspiracies?

I thought about it and then I realized: " It's the economy, stupid!"

Of course! All these confused ghosts were running around in stiff business attire, trying to project a busy-ness through clothing, accessories and behavior. How could I not have seen that right away?
It appeared as if everybody was driven by external demands - and internal fear of not meeting, not satisfying them.
Suddenly everything seemed obvious and consistent.

Obvious? Well, seen through my glasses, anyway, glasses which carried a distinct South American tint.
Had it perhaps always been like this?
Was it only a change in my angle of view after almost three years in Argentina which made this scene seem so unreal, so distinctly non-American?

Whatever it was - it definitely gave another spin to "Argentina is everywhere"

Tags: english

... that's nothing new.

Usually it lives a rather slow and quiet life. That's what most people think, when they take the time and observe it on any given day.

As pilot, especially as soaring pilot, one lives in the sky, lives with the sky.
And there are times when one wishes that this very sky should move on with his life, get going, live a littler faster, please - for example, when the sun takes forever to reappear from behind a thick cirrus shelf, when it takes her ages to reignite the thermals again.
And there are times when one wishes that this very sky ought to stop its show, pause its movie, leave everything as it is - until one has reached final glide altitude in that last updraft of the evening, the last wave before the front moves through.

But what one really wants is a little monitor, a secret page on the Nav-computer or the PDA, where one can put the motion picture called "sky" in fast forward and find out what the atmosphere has planned for the next 15 , 30 minutes.

Oh, a perfidious influx of cold air at low levels, killing all thermals in no time...

Ah, a slight change in windspeed and -direction leading first to the collapse of the wave system, and then to its reappearance in a different location....

More often than not we'd be surprised about all that can happen in no time - or all that's going to stay unchanged "forever"

Well, here's a movie of only 23 seconds on what does and does not happen in.....





...well, in how much real time?

What's your guess - first, spontaneous guess?

Tell me!

Tags: english

is for the stargazers on the southern part of the globe what the Big Dipper is for their colleagues north of the equator: the most famous constellation.
It is, however, more difficult to identify, it reveals the characteristic pole of the celestial hemisphere only to the curious, insisting observer. In that sense it is a typical constellation: "a group of celestial bodies (usually stars) that, to an individual observer, appear to form a pattern in the sky or appear visibly related to each other". (thanks, wiki...)
Keywords here are, obviously, ".., to an individual observer, appear to form...or appear visibly related..."

Thanks to this definition, I eventually understood, why I occasionally use this term "constellation" when trying to explain how something unexpected like sudden insight came to pass. It's nothing more than me, individually, seeing a particular combination of factors and their relation in the cause or outcome of an action, an event.

As, for example, the one about four months ago, when Carlos told me one morning that he'd like to have a video shot to advertise his Book-Cafe in the local movie theater. Didn't I own a camera? Perhaps I would want to shoot the piece?

Ah, the Southern Cross! Carlos as the pointing star Alpha Centauri, Truji, Curri and Brian as the stars of the Cross itself, all "constellated" in a way to point towards my Sony and me.

It took its time until we had identified this pattern in the nebulae of sparkling ideas, in the cluster of a thousand possibilities. Two evenings of wild brainstorming created the plot and a script, four weeks produced a raw tape, two more weeks and we had a first version of "Cinco Sentidos - the video".
All in all the "Making of..." took two months.



Now, we're waiting for the theater-admininstration to put it in action, here, in San Martin.

You, out there, can watch it here....

Tags: english

No way, Josay...

At least not for the photography I put here on "Photos of the Week".
I realized that today, once more! Just look at the photo of the panadero (he's the one who takes care of all my needs in breads and cookies, just 5 minutes by foot, 2 minutes on bike from the Baerenhaus...)
That photo is no masterpiece. It shows up in PotW simply because I was so ab-so-lu-te-ly amazed how well the digital dream-team of camera and computer managed the brutal contrast of direct sunlight and stark shadow.
Early winter - late afternoon sun, full power straight thru the window - man oh man, I thought, I hope it doesn't fry the chip.

*** ah - and as an aside: since my standard lens went finally south a couple of weeks ago, I used the ultimate manual lens in my arsenal, a 28mm f3.5 PC shift lens, with manual aperture preset and precise manual focus. And good old center-weighted metering. ***

A quick massage in photoshop was all it took.
Quite stunning. And rather unexpected, given the expert's statement that the biggest drawback of digital capture compared to good old film is its smaller dynamic range, its restricted latitude of exposure. And I can't claim to use the most modern sensor technology either - with my 'ancient' D70.

Ok, if one applies all the tricks of photo-chemistry in the fume-room, one or two stops of extra range can still be pulled from some films.

By the time my photography will show up in venues where that matters, I bet the chips have pulled even.

Tags: english

We're all heroes, in the eyes, the opinion of somebody, somewhere, sometime.
No need to get excited.
After all hardly anyone of us is honoured by a monument, cut in stone, in bronze, or marble. There is no appropriate societal context for that quality of public appreciation.
Fortunately, there isn't!
Firstly, because such a context could turn rapidly and entirely unexpectedly into a "controversialtext" when the contemporary perspective changes its viewing angle.
And secondly, not every city-walk has to be a slalom around statues.

Why am I getting into this heroe-stuff?

Not because I would have been able to navigate through Buenos Aires without any use of city maps, guide books or GPS assistants, soley by relying on statues.
But rather because every now and then I'd experience an encounter with heroes a la surprise.
Encounters, depending on point of view, of rather diverse quality.

Tags: english

It took me about 20 hours from late summer to late winter.

And equally as long from 40º South to 40º North.

I noticed, with a healthy dose of surprise, that Boulder, Colorado, lies almost exactly as far from the equator as San Martin de los Andes. On the other side, however. Consequently, a trip from SMA to BDR brings me in about 40 hours from summer to winter. And although I travelled at the end of the season, the difference was rather harsh. Dry and hot in the lower Patagonian Andes, eight inches of new snow and barely above freezing in the foothills of the Rockies.

But this wasn't the only difference, as a glimpse through the viewfinder reveals..
.

Tags: english

A boring grey in the sky? Light drizzle over the lake?
Where am I? What time is it, what day? Is this a bad dream?

I pinch myself, finger for the watch on the bedside table:

07:35 am, 3/13, Fr I read, when my eyes finally focus.

Well, that explains something: Friday, the thirteenth! This dreadful weather is nothing but a subtle hint in the sky of the black Friday.



Ok, for the less superstitious I offer a different interpretation: I'm "over the hill", geographically speaking.

On the western slope of the Andes, in Chile, the wind pushes the moist Pacific air up the mountains. And that means upslope, blocked flow, clouds, fog, rain. All well known from weather forecasts for the Alps, the Rockies, mountain ranges anywhere.
No reason to worry, all has its straightforward logical explanation.

An hour later Jeff and I are having breakfast. We enjoy our smoothies, warm brownies, homemade plum marmalade, and fresh coffee. Something Tchaikovsky wafts through the air - until a sudden "plop" and the sound of rushing water disrupt the idyllic scene. Is there somebody taking a shower in an upstairs room?
Two minutes later water comes running down the beams from the ceiling.
We're already moving chairs, couches and sound equipment out of the area of precipitation when the manager storms through the door. Stunned and bewildered she looks up. "El tanque, se rompió el tanque" she cries - the tank, the tank burst - and off she runs to close the valve.
Then we follow her up the stairs, through one of the guest rooms, up a ladder, through a hatch into the attic to the place where the catastrophe began. Everything is quiet - and wet. A short brainstorming leads us to the following conclusion: the repair patch of a leak in the tank a couple of days ago couldn't take the regular pressure delivered by the pump. Once Lilian opened the feeder line for hot water from the boiler the leak sprung up again.
Why did she open this feeder today?
Today, on Friday, the thirteenth?

Perhaps we should approach the drive back with an extra dose of caution.

As we reach the border station on the Chilean side there's no queue, not a single person ahead of us. We get our stamps from the lady at immigration and the guy at customs without any delay and five minutes later we're on our way through 10 miles of no-mans land. Over on the other side the Argentinean colleagues deliver a repeat performance. Incredible! We make record time to "chori-pan" (chorizo sausages in a roll) and our favorite lunch spot in Villa Angostura.
Is Fortuna trying to compensate for the water accident during breakfast? Is this dreaded combination of Friday and the Thirteen plain nonsense after all?

While waiting for traffic at a stop sign Jeff asks me to rev up the engine. Is there an unusual knocking sound? Normally this wouldn't surprise me, only two days ago Jeff had the valves adjusted.
But on this Friday?

At our next photo-stop the clack-clack got louder. Jeff believes.
I keep driving the way I always do and get us to San Martin without additional incidents.
At the first intersection Jeff asks me to turn right: " Let's just swing by my mechanic.."
Mauricio, the mechanic, doesn't believe in a misadjusted valve. " Could be one of the injection nozzles, or..., and the crankshaft appears to wobble a tiny bit, must have taken a pretty bad hit once."
That doesn't sound good, it seems like serious maintenance is called for, better now than later. Jeff makes an appointment and climbs in the driver's seat himself, just in case...

At least we'd made it home!

I move camera gear and bags into my car and drive over to Carlos' to schedule the next shoot for our video project. As I start the car again I hear - once more - a short "plop", just like this morning. No rushing sound this time, no water either. Instead, I can hardly move the steering wheel. Turn off the engine, open the hood, and check hydraulic fluid: everything ok. But why does the v-belt hang so loosely between the pulleys? It hasn't torn, where did its tension go?
Then I see the pulley under the car! The tension arm is broken!

"Can be fixed in half an hour" diagnoses the mechanic, whom Carlos had miraculously conjured up at 8pm this haunted Friday!

"Provided you find the appropriate spare part" he adds quickly.

Oh no! Not again!
The last time it took six weeks to find a part! And we just came back from Chile, where you can get anything at your friendly Ford dealer right around the corner!
Que mala suerte! What bad luck!
And today, of all days!

I leave the car in the parking lot and take the bus. Only ten minutes later I'm at my front door and turn the key in the lock. Well, I try to turn the key.
But no cigar - nothing moves. The key remains solidly in its vertical position. I rattle the key, the lock, the door, finally the entire house. Nothing moves.
It's 9pm by now! Do I have to wait another 3 hours for this damned Friday to pass? Will the key, the lock know then, too, that the Thirteenth has passed? Will they then give up their stubborn resistance?

I decide to look for an "alternate" entrance. And, lo and behold, I manage to make my way to a door on the balcony, which appears to be unlocked. I know that the alarm is set, but shouldn't I have the regular 30 seconds to enter the password?

Slowly I slide the door open and tiptoe in the kitchen,...YEWYEW-CHIPCHIP..the f@#$$ horn screams like it wants to waken the dead.
Twenty seconds later I have the code punched in and everything returns to silence.
Two minutes later the phone rings:" Hola, how are you? This is your alarm monitor, everything ok?"
The fact that I know the proper password convinces the guardian angel. He buys into my story and advises to call a locksmith first ting next morning.

Next morning?
On Saturday?

Forget it! Tomorrow the lock is going to work like it should!
Tomorrow I'm going to find the spare part for my vehicle!
Tomorrow the sky is going to be blue again!

But now, today? On Friday, the thirteenth?

No way I'm going to cook dinner - I don’t' want to burn this place down!
No way I'm going to take shower - let's leave the water tank alone!

Nothing but into bed and under the covers!

Tags: english

The other day I spent a whole day in "el pueblo" as they say here. In "downtown" San Martin, that is.
I had a full list of to-do's, running from drawing money at an ATM to spending same money at an agency for personal improvement (hairdresser) and everything in between: grocery shopping, checking with the mecanico if the spare parts for my "antique" had finally been found, getting photocopies of my passport at one of the print-shops (for the 7th time), more shopping, checking my POB and on and on.
All in all, I figured, it would take me the better part of the Argentinean business morning.
No such luck! At 1:30 pm I was not even half way through my list. Rather than driving the 10 miles back to the house and return for a second attempt in the afternoon I decided to stay in town until it was scheduled to wake from its 3 hour siesta around 5pm.
I hiked a couple of blocks to my favored take-out kitchen only to find the doors locked.
Sh.., of course, it was Monday, which for "Los Patos" is the day off. No lunch!
I opted for a couple of the excellent 'media lunas" - the local version of a small Danish - for a quick sugar boost instead and headed over to La Pasteleria Piamontesa.
Success! The sweet half moons were deee-li-cious.
Off towards the lake, camera at the ready. But nothing struck my photographic eye. The streets were deserted - claro! Siesta! - the sun hid behind a thick grey overcast - no more radiant sky, no colors at all - and even my most reliable protagonists, the street dogs, had disappeared.
The hours dragged along.
Five o'clock, finally. I called the mecanico. No answer. I walked over, in the hope that he was working in the electromagnetic shade of his hydraulic lift so that only his cell phone was incommunicado. Nada!
Slowly, but inevitably, the level of my frustration rose.
Next stop: post office. Dios mios! A queue of about thirty people! I couldn't even get through the door!
Was it worth the wait to ask for the key to my box? when the chance to find something was perhaps fifty percent? No! (stupid me - why did I forget my key at home in the first place?)
Enough is enough! I decided to call it a day. A pit stop over at Cinco Sentidos and then back to the Golf was the plan
As I walk through the door of my favorite bookstore/cafe in San Martin I hear Ella's "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" waft thru the air. Ah! music is going to save me - and the day - once more! Now a cortado and the world is back in harmony again. I pick a heavy photo book from the shelves for entertainment and climb the stairs up to the cafe. As the smell of coffee hit's my nostrils and stimulates yet another 'sentido' a memory flashes through my mind: isn't this here almost like another place I love some 80 degrees of latitude to the North? Books, pleasant music, interesting clientele, great coffee, more books - The Boulder Bookstore, of course! How many Java's, Darjeeling's, Mary Jane's and pumpkin bars have I consumed in the Bookends Cafe, enhanced by whatever songs the crew behind the counter sent to the speakers. Not that I needed to be rescued from deep frustration very often, no, not in Boulder. Instead it was - and still is - a place, which rarely failed to inspire me in some way or other.
There are a few other 'hot spots' in Boulder, which are definitely capable to put a positive spin on any given day. Hit one of them and the day will be a success, because you know that you'll find what you've been looking for. And if you're not looking for anything, you'll find something all the same. In my book three stand out: Eads, the empire of magazines, periodicals and newspapers, Liquor Mart with its unequalled selection of wines of the world and McGuckins, which calls itself a hardware store - in unsurpassed understatement.
The second sip from my cortado, which would be something between "ein kleiner Brauner" (a little brown one) in Vienna and a mini-cappuccino in Italy, pulled my mind back to San Martin: could anything be found here, which is vaguely equivalent to those four pillars of a successful day in Boulder? I asked myself.
Sure can! I was enjoying the supportive action of one pillar right at this moment: the soothing atmosphere at Cinco Sentidos.



Sitting above the bookshelves, nibbling on a ham and cheese tostada, checking emails or surfing the web on the gratis wifi, having a brief chat with Niko or Carlos who own and run the place and watching customers rummaging through literature and asking for recommendations, proved time and again to be the perfect time-out on a day filled with - mostly frustrating - chores downtown.

And then there is "La Piamontesa".



For little more than a buck one gets four small pieces of pastry. Absolutely the best in town. And, believe me, I've checked out all the pastelerias within walking distance from the usual parking spots, all of them! The perfect supplement to bring the glucose level back into "feel good" territory. Fortunately, "La Piamontesa" is about as far west as you can walk in San Martin. Therefore, to succumb to the sweet seduction involves a modest stroll almost all the way to the lake. Pick up your media lunas and enjoy them at the beach. This little deviation powers you through the remaining tasks as if on turbo..
Shopping is the prevalent reason to drive down from the Golf, and often it's the little things, which I desperately need. Paper for the printer, form such and such for a rental contract, batteries. Shopping is also definitely different here. The 'all under one roof' supermarket does exist and is called Anonyma (how about that for branding...!) but often one is much better off searching for those little things in small shops.
One such small shop is Nehüen Yavü, which in the Mapuche Indian idiom means something like strong fight. Nehüen Yavü is as much 'only' a stationery shop, as McGuckins is 'only' a hardware store. You find everything from needles to wrapping paper to laptop bags to telescopes in the unfathomable depth of the establishment. While you're on treasure hunt they copy all your documents in triplicate, replace the cartridge in your fountain pen and count out the 17 paper clips you wanted.



Ah yes, of course: the standard amount everything is sold in, and priced, is 1, one unit, one single piece. You want a box of 100 sheets of photo quality ink jet paper? How many do you really need? 23?, fine, so let's get you the 23 sheets. Very interesting business practice, saves the customer money, costs the shop time - but works somehow. Without Nehüen Yavü I'd still be waiting for my "Social Security"-id: a quick run over from the office and I had the five copies of my visa in no time, which convinced the bureaucrat behind the desk that I knew my way around San Martin and therefore had to have lived here for some time.
And without the "Yavü" more than one trip to el pueblo would have been in vain. When the queue at the banco, the office of migraciones, or wherever was too long for my patience, I went there and took a quick trip around the store and left with one piece of something that made the 20mile roundtrip worthwhile. So this makes three pillars.
"Caso Commercial" completes he quartet. Even in what around here is considered an upscale residence (my casa at the Golf) a lot of little details need constant attention. Some of the light fixtures, for example, date back to the late 90's - of the 19th century! - and have to be replaced. And when the wind picks up the curtains start to move, telling me that I'd better buy 'burletes' and seal the frames and windows.



It was Carlos who directed me to the Caso as the one-stop for all things house and garden. With the stuff in its historic warehouse - and archives - one could probably built the house from ground up, provided one understands the recommendations of the immensely competent sales people given in rapid fire local lingo.
So there you have it, the four pillars of a "successful" day in San Martin de los Andes.
Not that I have to rely on them every day, but I know they are there when I need them.

Tags: english

Time to swing that pen again. High time!
The first quarter of '08 is already past, as is a trip to Europe. Two weeks in Germany and Switzerland require three weeks on the road - traveling my way, that is. Add to that a couple of days to get organized and packed (- all more complicated and time consuming when 'embedded' in the Argentinean way of living -) and a couple of days to get back into that Patagonian rhythm and it leaves you with more than a month out of sync with regular activities. Like writing a blog.
So it was "back to the old routines" when I came back to summer after my long journey. Or so I thought. But those routines were nowhere to be found.

A couple of days in "my old neighborhood" had obviously been enough to flip a hidden switch back to its "Standard" setting. "Standard" as in "normal Swiss operating procedures", where published opening hours and time tables were not used as rough guidance but as precise criteria to organize the tasks of a day. Where one could simply buy whenever and whatever was needed and (therefore) achieve with reasonable reliability what had been planned for a given period of time. In short, my expectations had realigned themselves with the experiences, which I had gathered within the well-oiled Swiss system over more than two decades.

On my way back this change of paradigm survived two Atlantic crossings without noticeable damage. In Patagonia, however, it was confronted with a different definition of "Standard" or "normal": more than three weeks after I had dropped off my car at the shop it was still 'out of service'. I was annoyed, to say the least. It didn't matter at all, when Pablo tried to explain that my Explorer with its manual shift was a rather unique specimen and to find spare parts for it was high-level detective work. I just wanted my car in drivable condition! But now it looked like I had to go back into hitch-hiking mode again with the ensuing lack of flexibility.

Then the story with my "office furniture"..
A scant 24 hours before my departure for Europe a truck had shown up with my household goods from Switzerland! Finally, after more than three months! So now, there were things to do: assemble the mountain bike, set up the stereo, install computer, printer, scanner... and buy a table/desk and a small shelf and my workspace would be ready to go. I had seen something suitable in an office in San Martin. I went back there and asked the lady at the desk where she bought it. " Well, if you want to buy it, you have to go to Buenos Aires." she said. What? Is the señora trying to tell me, that I have to drive 1000 miles to shop for a simple office desk? Yep, that's what she was trying to - but she offered an alternative: "We had this one done by a local carpenter, takes about two to three months." Oh great!

Within a mere couple of days San Martin had dialed down my speed of living, had forced back the hidden switch to its "Patagonia" position.
It took almost a week until I had rearranged myself with the local rhythm, until I had accepted, once more, that a leisurely trot allows for a better view of roadside details than a full gallop, until I had truly arrived a second time.


Volcano Lanin

Well, there I was and realized that the quick back and forth between summer and winter had been a contrast enhancing experience. The mild temperatures in Switzerland in February should have made the transfer to the Argentinean summer easy, but the heat hit me with full blast. Not only me, the locals were complaining, too. Nobody could remember such an extended period of above 90F, the drought was t h e topic on the local station Radio Montaña. Heaven and earth assumed an almost New Mexico-like appearance: on the ground the grass had withered, whatever little humidity was left had retreated to the sky and boiled up in wild clouds. Boiled up, not boiled over: the occasional high altitude precipitation rarely made it to the ground.

- - - -
Afternoon clouds near the Chapelco airport - - - - - - and the evening "development" as seen from the porch

The perfect set up for what had to happen eventually, and quite "naturally": lightning provided the initiating spark and it took off from there. One evening a little bit of smoke, which seemed to have died off the next morning…then the wind picked up and in the afternoon the flames ran wild. The forest fire was about fifteen miles away but on its second day I had soot on the porch, the smell of cinder in the house and the visibility had dropped to three miles.


The fire at Lago Lolog in its early stage

Apparently, the Indians knew which dance to dance. The following day a front moved in and brought the first rain in about two months. It really poured, flushed the dirt out of the atmosphere and helped the guys at the forefront to gain control. About 2500 hectares of brush and forest had gone up in flames, all of it in the Lanin National Park; fortunately, without casualties or damage to property.

The two wet days didn't bring true relief, however. As soon as the last cloud had disappeared we were back to " high desert mode", sky clear, winds light and variable, temperatures in the high eighties and relative humidity at about 30%.

Well, this was about six weeks ago. I'm posting it anyway to maintain a somewhat coherent style - and also because I had to catch up with the "German-speaking" part of my blog - and link to new photos.

Tags: english

There is something to living on a golf course, even if one can't tell a number 2 from a number 7 iron and wouldn't know how to hit the ball off a tee with either one.
Above all it's the scenery. The carefully designed and 'built' landscape around the eighteen holes with their greens, ponds and bunkers resembles an expansive park, which constantly invites to a leisurely stroll. Discovering small, surprising details, like a fairway mirrored in the pond or the shadow from a row of pine trees cast across a green, makes one appreciate the creative thought that went into the layout. In the case of the golf course here, at the entrance to the San Martin valley, there's also the location in the hilly terrain at the foot of Chapelco Mountain, (from which the "Chapelco Golf & Resort" borrowed his name) which in itself is enough to create an almost magical atmosphere. From 'my' house, up on the flank of the hill on the eastern boundary of the site, I have a superb view, which, especially during the evening hours, is the best tele-vision show on any channel.

- - - - - -
Foothills of Chapelco, just south of the valley to San Martin - - - wave over my porch - - - burning clouds

- - - - -
my evening drink ( Mate tea) and evening clouds - - the last cumulus (for a change) - and lentis settling into the night

Secondly, there is a clubhouse. From its big saloon it affords magnificent views of lanes one, nine and eighteen with the mountains as backdrop and, as a kind of contrast program, one can watch the minors take their first swings on a little green serving as a kindergarten, while the majors battle it out between the hazards. Oh well, yes, of course, there is the food! This is a perfect place to get eyes and palate satisfied simultaneously. From the menu I conclude, that clubhouse and Hotel (five stars - Argentinean stars, that is) collaborate closely in the gourmet department: food and drink is excellent! Despite the upper class ambiance prices are very modest, at least when compared to a typical Swiss country diner.

So, theoretically, between working (writing stories, articles and blog entries), relaxing and eating, there is not much incentive to leave the place. In reality, things look different. A lot of those little errands, which I usually (in Europe or the US) took care of online, via phone or email, require personal presence in Argentina. Paying a bill, any bill, means handing over the dinero to the guy at the bank, the lady in the office of the phone- or insurance company. And for that one has to go downtown. Which is about 10 miles away. No problem, if one has a car. Most of the vehicles I see driving around the course are compatible with the upscale environment. Large SUV's, monster-pickup's and every once in a while something more sportive, a souped up Honda or a spiffy Beamer, 'spare'-mobiles should the family car require maintenance.
With respect to the automotive segment of the resorts inhabitants I fit in nicely with my '94 Explorer. I am lacking, however, the trendy ragtop to cover for the occasional time-out my "Big Blue" needs, when the oil needs changing or the wheels aligning.
And it's then, that there's something else to living on a golf course: the challenge to get around without a car.
The first time I had to take my car to Jorge, the mecanico whose grandpa lived in a small village near Luzerne, Switzerland, was about a month ago. So I dropped Big Blue off and took the colectivo downtown, had a coffee at my favorite bookstore and then took the bus to Junin, the next town about 30 miles east. I told the driver to add a stop enroute at the "golf" and from the gate it was a 25 minute stroll to la casa mia.

Of course, it was the other direction, which posed the real challenge. There is no official bus stop at the entrance to "Chapelco Golf&Resort". And since it sits at a long straight section of Routa 234, where everybody goes at least 70 mph one last time before hitting the brakes for the first S-turn down into the valley, there's little chance that anyone would see, much less stop for a lone hitchhiker. So the options are to somehow flag down the bus from Junin or to call a cab from San Martin, a 12 buck one way extravaganza, which I wanted to safe for real emergencies. I walked to the gate to inquire. The girls told me, that the bus would be leaving Junin in about 10 minutes and take roughly 20 minutes to get here. Why don't I sit down in their a/c-ed booth and listen to music on the Internet while waiting. With five minutes to go I walked away from Salsa out in the sun.

After a short while an ancient Jeep - vintage late fifties, I'd guess - came out of the gate, pulled up and the driver motioned me to "embark". The thing was painted in light blue - yes, painted, with paint runs and orange peel surface allover. Heavy shipyard-steel was welded in, where time and weather had eaten away the original parts. And, just like on a boat, there was a windscreen, but nothing one could describe as roof or cabin or doors. Only the roll bar made of heavy tubing didn't seem to fit the rather maritime appearance. I parked my backpack on a roll of heavy-duty steel rope and stowed my legs underneath two big loudspeakers dangling down on thin wiring from a steel plate serving as instrument panel and firewall. Then we got rolling. Up to about 30mph the Oldie accelerated rather smoothly, but then we seemed to hit something like the sound barrier. Our vehicle started to shake and rattle, vibrations ran through the chassis and I was glad I had a heavy bar right in front of me to hang on to and thus avoid going over board. Obviously it wasn't an atmospheric shockwave, which agitated the poor Jeep to such a degree, and the surface of the road had nothing to do with it either: only smooth asphalt. The way my driver clung onto the steering wheel and the cautious manner in which he lifted his foot from the accelerator pedal gave the clue: one of the wheels had started to run amok, due to an unfortunate resonance between spring forces in the suspension and the centrifugal forces on a rotating tire. After a hundred yards, the front axle had hardly started to behave, I felt the faint pressure of acceleration on my back again. The needle of the speedometer, the only instrument in the panel, approached in erratic motion once more the dreaded 30mph mark. I realized: my fearless pilot went for a second attempt to find a hole in the barrier - and by sheer magic he found it. This time our topless racer slid without even the slightest shiver across the critical threshold and reached an amazing 47mph.
Everything was cool. Almost everything. My chauffeur still worked that steering wheel like in frenzy but nothing much seemed to happen to the direction the Jeep was going. That steering must have had a play of at least half a turn! All the while he was whistling merrily - and now, as we approached the infamous S-turn, he began adjusting his New York Yankees baseball cap, with both hands, as if this thing was on full autopilot. With the confidence of a true master he negotiated the two curves at full speed but then our ride in the "zone" had to come to an end: "Road construction, one lane only" a big sign warned. On the washboard surface of a torn up section our mustang went into full rodeo mode. Señor New York Yankees fought and swore and almost ripped off that wheel, but we made it. He stopped in front of Jorge's shop and I disembarked. As I felt solid ground under my feet I thanked my stunt driver and wished him happy driving. " Only to my mecanico" he answered and added with a grin " no more Jimmie ", imitating with his hands the wild gyrations of the unbalanced wheel.

Tags: english

There is something to living on a golf course, even if one can't tell a number 2 from a number 7 iron and wouldn't know how to hit the ball off a tee with either one.
Above all it's the scenery. The carefully designed and 'built' landscape around the eighteen holes with their greens, ponds and bunkers resembles an expansive park, which constantly invites to a leisurely stroll. Discovering small, surprising details, like a fairway mirrored in the pond or the shadow from a row of pine trees cast across a green, makes one appreciate the creative thought that went into the layout. In the case of the golf course here, at the entrance to the San Martin valley, there's also the location in the hilly terrain at the foot of Chapelco Mountain, (from which the "Chapelco Golf & Resort" borrowed his name) which in itself is enough to create an almost magical atmosphere. From 'my' house, up on the flank of the hill on the eastern boundary of the site, I have a superb view, which, especially during the evening hours, is the best tele-vision show on any channel.

- - - - - -
Foothills of Chapelco, just south of the valley to San Martin - - - wave over my porch - - - burning clouds

- - - - -
my evening drink ( Mate tea) and evening clouds - - the last cumulus (for a change) - and lentis settling into the night

Secondly, there is a clubhouse. From its big saloon it affords magnificent views of lanes one, nine and eighteen with the mountains as backdrop and, as a kind of contrast program, one can watch the minors take their first swings on a little green serving as a kindergarten, while the majors battle it out between the hazards. Oh well, yes, of course, there is the food! This is a perfect place to get eyes and palate satisfied simultaneously. From the menu I conclude, that clubhouse and Hotel (five stars - Argentinean stars, that is) collaborate closely in the gourmet department: food and drink is excellent! Despite the upper class ambiance prices are very modest, at least when compared to a typical Swiss country diner.

So, theoretically, between working (writing stories, articles and blog entries), relaxing and eating, there is not much incentive to leave the place. In reality, things look different. A lot of those little errands, which I usually (in Europe or the US) took care of online, via phone or email, require personal presence in Argentina. Paying a bill, any bill, means handing over the dinero to the guy at the bank, the lady in the office of the phone- or insurance company. And for that one has to go downtown. Which is about 10 miles away. No problem, if one has a car. Most of the vehicles I see driving around the course are compatible with the upscale environment. Large SUV's, monster-pickup's and every once in a while something more sportive, a souped up Honda or a spiffy Beamer, 'spare'-mobiles should the family car require maintenance.
With respect to the automotive segment of the resorts inhabitants I fit in nicely with my '94 Explorer. I am lacking, however, the trendy ragtop to cover for the occasional time-out my "Big Blue" needs, when the oil needs changing or the wheels aligning.
And it's then, that there's something else to living on a golf course: the challenge to get around without a car.
The first time I had to take my car to Jorge, the mecanico whose grandpa lived in a small village near Luzerne, Switzerland, was about a month ago. So I dropped Big Blue off and took the colectivo downtown, had a coffee at my favorite bookstore and then took the bus to Junin, the next town about 30 miles east. I told the driver to add a stop enroute at the "golf" and from the gate it was a 25 minute stroll to la casa mia.

Of course, it was the other direction, which posed the real challenge. There is no official bus stop at the entrance to "Chapelco Golf&Resort". And since it sits at a long straight section of Routa 234, where everybody goes at least 70 mph one last time before hitting the brakes for the first S-turn down into the valley, there's little chance that anyone would see, much less stop for a lone hitchhiker. So the options are to somehow flag down the bus from Junin or to call a cab from San Martin, a 12 buck one way extravaganza, which I wanted to safe for real emergencies. I walked to the gate to inquire. The girls told me, that the bus would be leaving Junin in about 10 minutes and take roughly 20 minutes to get here. Why don't I sit down in their a/c-ed booth and listen to music on the Internet while waiting. With five minutes to go I walked away from Salsa out in the sun.

After a short while an ancient Jeep - vintage late fifties, I'd guess - came out of the gate, pulled up and the driver motioned me to "embark". The thing was painted in light blue - yes, painted, with paint runs and orange peel surface allover. Heavy shipyard-steel was welded in, where time and weather had eaten away the original parts. And, just like on a boat, there was a windscreen, but nothing one could describe as roof or cabin or doors. Only the roll bar made of heavy tubing didn't seem to fit the rather maritime appearance. I parked my backpack on a roll of heavy-duty steel rope and stowed my legs underneath two big loudspeakers dangling down on thin wiring from a steel plate serving as instrument panel and firewall. Then we got rolling. Up to about 30mph the Oldie accelerated rather smoothly, but then we seemed to hit something like the sound barrier. Our vehicle started to shake and rattle, vibrations ran through the chassis and I was glad I had a heavy bar right in front of me to hang on to and thus avoid going over board. Obviously it wasn't an atmospheric shockwave, which agitated the poor Jeep to such a degree, and the surface of the road had nothing to do with it either: only smooth asphalt. The way my driver clung onto the steering wheel and the cautious manner in which he lifted his foot from the accelerator pedal gave the clue: one of the wheels had started to run amok, due to an unfortunate resonance between spring forces in the suspension and the centrifugal forces on a rotating tire. After a hundred yards, the front axle had hardly started to behave, I felt the faint pressure of acceleration on my back again. The needle of the speedometer, the only instrument in the panel, approached in erratic motion once more the dreaded 30mph mark. I realized: my fearless pilot went for a second attempt to find a hole in the barrier - and by sheer magic he found it. This time our topless racer slid without even the slightest shiver across the critical threshold and reached an amazing 47mph.
Everything was cool. Almost everything. My chauffeur still worked that steering wheel like in frenzy but nothing much seemed to happen to the direction the Jeep was going. That steering must have had a play of at least half a turn! All the while he was whistling merrily - and now, as we approached the infamous S-turn, he began adjusting his New York Yankees baseball cap, with both hands, as if this thing was on full autopilot. With the confidence of a true master he negotiated the two curves at full speed but then our ride in the "zone" had to come to an end: "Road construction, one lane only" a big sign warned. On the washboard surface of a torn up section our mustang went into full rodeo mode. Señor New York Yankees fought and swore and almost ripped off that wheel, but we made it. He stopped in front of Jorge's shop and I disembarked. As I felt solid ground under my feet I thanked my stunt driver and wished him happy driving. " Only to my mecanico" he answered and added with a grin " no more Jimmie ", imitating with his hands the wild gyrations of the unbalanced wheel.

Tags: english

The plan was all set, the plan concerning accommodation, apartment, house, the place to stay that is. But then reality interfered. Sounds familiar? Well, I for one have experienced this often enough: life is what happens while you're making plans! And what happened was, that all three or four rental objects from which I wanted to pick my final residence had disappeared from the market - and nothing new had popped up.
Ok, for the first couple of days everything was cool, it was low season in San Martin and Claudia had no problems offering me one of her cabañas.

- - -
Claudia's "Cabañas del Bosque" - - - and my breakfast table there

During the preparation stage it had been Claudia, as well, who came up every other week with new ideas and possibilities for rental property and thus generated a sound optimism. Right after my arrival she hit the phone again and scanned her network of friends for new options. But this time it was different: whatever emerged popped like a soap bubble one tried to catch. Take the "dream-palace" for example (see also: " The Idea"):


The house on Tierra del Sol

up until now I hadn't been able to give up the dream of living in that house. Meanwhile the palace had been sold, but change of ownership was to take place only in March '08. Up to then, it belonged to one of Claudia's friends. So perhaps there was still a chance to spend a couple of months in an exquisite ambience. We set up a date to discuss if and how dream and reality could be merged. The place of the negotiations, the grandiose living room of the house up on the Tierra del Sol, renewed old desire, the first proposal for monthly rent payments confirmed old fears: 1800 US $ was way above my budget. The justification Angeles offered for this sum was to set a precedent for the weeks to come: "... if we rent to tourists we can get 4 - 500 US$ per week.." My question, whether she'd find enough tourists willing to pay that price for the entire period of November through February was left unanswered. Obviously, on Oct. 11, the day of our rendezvous, no reservations had been made.

Since nothing new showed up during the following week, Claudia began to get nervous. After all, a big weekend was about to come: official end of season, with lots of attractions, special events and one last run for slopes and accommodations. This was the big opportunity for all hotels and hosterias, which had not closed down yet, and all those, who had a free room to rent, to cash in one last time. And I was 'blocking' one of Claudia's two bedroom cabañas!

Just then, a friend of hers called up, indicating that her cabaña/vacation home had unexpectedly become available again. It wasn't going to be the final place for me, but at least a save haven until end of November. No use waiting any longer...

- - -
The second step: my little vacation home

This was the second step of my project called "settling in". The little house offered everything needed for a stay of several weeks and all the stuff I had brought in two suitcases fit in somewhere. But once - or if ?? - my shipment with computer, books, music, mountain bike showed up, I'd be quickly running out of space. And apart from that, for a long term habitat it lacked room, the inspiring corners, nooks and crannies, where work in progress and future challenges could unfold. The search had to go on.
After a timeout of two weeks I started again. I visited real estate agencies, Claudia started a new round of calls and Martin, a compatriot from Nuremberg, who owns and runs a hosteria in San Martin, also contributed tips and tricks for a more efficient search. "Thanks" to the level of my language skills the communication was at times difficult, interesting, embarrassing, quite often funny, too. Daniel, in his cupboard-size office, appeared disturbed during more important work than trying to find rental property for a newcomer. He tried to discourage me with unacceptably high rents and an almost arrogantly fast and barely audible way of talking. Karina used romantic photos of a snowed in little two room hut and a slightly blurred shot of an attractive woman (selfportrait?) to entice me to her offering of country living for 1000 US$ a month (broadband connection included). Pamela invited me spontaneously for a drive to the only 'rentable' object in her files after she learned, that I was one of the mad pilots, who surf on strange waves in the sky whenever the wind drives everybody else crazy.

- - -
the two room (skiing-?) hut - - - and the house that wasn't for rent - in the end

All these little adventures promised hope and kept me busy for a couple of days, but any prospect for something even remotely appropriate? no cigar!
And time was running out. Around Christmas the high season begins and that is the time when anything with a bed and a roof over it would be considered superb accommodation, command premium prices and nevertheless be picked up at first sight by the vacationers from Buenos Aires and abroad. I got nervous, as I couldn't imagine where new possibilities would come from. The real estate people were of no help, Claudia and Martin and their circle of friends hadn't produced anything either. A nice house for a week or two? to the tune of three or four hundred Dollars per? no problemo! but something for a little longer and little less? no señor! Obviously, everybody was holding out for the chance to make quick money over a short period of time and thus rather leave the house empty than committing to a longer-term rental.
On the market everything had become prime real estate. For me it had turned into a subprime-renting crisis.

To stand any chance at all I had to increase my budget.

And then, suddenly, things got rolling.
A friend of a friend of a friend... actually, it was a friend of the mother of Claudia's son Adriel's girlfriend - got it? - who apparently wanted to move to town from her house on a golf course about 10 miles east - and was looking for somebody to rent the house. Would I have any interest? Would I ? of course, I had to! For reasons explained above, it was unlikely that I'd be able to stay in my little vacation home into December. Two days later Claudia and I drove out to the Chapelco Golf & Resort, stopped at the gate and asked for directions to casa E24. I was excited. Chapelco Golf & Resort, I had found out, was a project of golf legend Jack Nicklaus and the British Taylor family. Grandpa Don Santiago Taylor had arrived in San Martin in 1918 and settled down on a ranch called " Estancia Chapelco". Both families had apparently gotten to know each other while being neighbours near Miami in Florida. About ten years ago they had started the project Golf and developed an 18-hole course (par 72, for those interested) with 430 private lots distributed over more than eleven hundred acres.
This wasn't a cheap neighbourhood. The residences reminded me of the beautiful house on the Tierra del Sol. Most of them showing off huge glass fronts, which opened up to a panoramic view spanning from "Chapelco Chico" in the south over the valley towards San Martin, the snow covered peaks at the Chilean border in the west to the local peak "Cerro Colorado" in the North. And among those "estates" there was allegedly something affordable? Hard to believe!
I relaxed as we entered the driveway to Virginia's casa. This was not one of those multi thousand square foot palacios, it seemed to be a cozy house in the local architectural style, in which each room sports his own roof. The view: nothing short of spectacular, the size: appropriate, the furniture: practical, the equipment: everything necessary available. Well, that's it, or what?

- - -
To each room his roof (1, 2, 3, 4, - incl kitchen) - - - eating, living and viewing

The days after this visit were spent discussing, negotiating, drafting contracts, organizing documents, moving money across the table, and - in the end - even signing all necessary papers. Quite an effort: different countries, different customs, in parts even different regulations - and in all these meetings I faced three (at minimum) women. When I drove up to our first encounter Adriel greeted me in the driveway of his mother-in-law to be (I translate loosely): " Hola Wolf, there's quite a bunch of women waiting for you in the living room! " This sounded jokingly admiring at first. But after three days of talking business it had acquired a different flavor: whew, these women sure use up a lot of ones energy resources...

But now I sit on the couch facing huge windows and while I'm typing into my laptop my glance wanders up to "Chapelco Chico", over to "Cerro Colorado".


"...on a lazy sunday afternoon.."

Now, what was that quote about planning ones life?
Never mind: in most cases the right things happen in life, despite all plans!

Tags: english

For the time being I live in a 'suburb' of San Martin called "La Vega", which is the Spanish word for wetland or floodplain. Yes, I know, you would haver never guessed as the place whose name sounds so similar - and by using the plural: Las Vegas, even amplifies our expectation of an abundance of natural moisture - is known for exactly the opposite: an arid desert climate with the ensuing water resource issues.

Looking out the window and using a little imagination I can easily understand how this neighbourhood here acquired its name. Check out the place in Google Earth here: < 40° 7'42.38"S - 71°16'42.63"W > and you'll agree. Heading East out of the center of town, the main road climbs through a gap between two small hills reaching out from the ridges to the North and South. Then the valley opens up and its floor becomes flat as a pan. About 10 miles further East a hill, appropriately called "lomo atravesado" - the hill across - marks the end of this vega. A small river and runoff from the mountains in numerous creeks keep the water table high enough, so that parts of this plain have areas of standing water most of the year.

- - -
La Vega - the wetlands and the ridge to the north

But I digress. I wanted to say, that my current place is about 4 or 5 miles out of town. There is public transportation and the buses, whose routes connect even the remote satellite villages, run frequently and reliably and are cheap. For 45 cents you get a tour through different suburbs and neighbourhoods and the entire stretch of downtown. All that often times in vehicles, which have apparently completed their first service-life in a city close to that I just arrived from. The emblem next to their front entrance identifies that as the City of Basel, Switzerland.
So, whenever I go downtown for a single purpose, like running one of my favorite administrative errands, and don't have to worry about carrying home five plastic bags full of groceries, I take the 'colectivo'. Since I never know to how many diffferent places over what stretch of time my bureaucrazy adventures take me, I go well prepared. My backpack holds something to read, a notebook and an assortment of pens to write, my laptop - in case there's a forced pit stop at a wifi cafe - and the Nikon. It's the latter, above all, which over time has helped me to gather some insight into the town of San Martin. I suspect that these impressions are of a snapshot quality in that they reflect a rather momentary interpretation of what I see. A couple of months down the road I might relate to them in an entirely different manner.
Anyway, what is San Martin de los Andes like? Three towns(?) kept popping up in my visual memory as I was trying to find someplace to compare it to and for today I will refer to two of them only: Nederland and Ward. I know: these are not hot spots on any tourist map of the (western) US. So I apologize: what follows has been written primarily with my Boulder friends in mind.

Nederland? Not that San Martin looks like Nederland, much rather, for me, in some ways it 'feels' like it. In one corner a tourist town: a couple of small, nice shops, sport equipment, skiing, snowboarding, hiking mostly. A cute Hamburger place, perhaps.
And across the main drag, along a dusty gravel road the hide-outs of ex-hippies, secondhand stores for this and that, books, clothes, CD's.
The studio of a local, "indie" radio station hidden behind a group of pine trees.

- - -
A cute music-and-games bar - - - - and the "indie" radio station, in San Martin

What defines this town for me is the mix of expensive cars carrying skiers in expensive gear to the slopes of Eldora and the locals, discussing along the counter of a small diner with a dusty parking lot in the back the exceptional spring skiing of last winter or planning the backcountry hikes of the coming summer. The locals seem to be mostly aged college kids with their studies in an extended holding pattern.


Yes, this is Nederland..

Most of this I've found here in San Martin, as well

And sometimes even more: right downtown, across from a hotel, a shack, which must have been one of the first buildings when the early 'pioneers' set up shop along the shores of Lago Lacar. And that reminds me of Ward.

- - -
looks like ? and is: San Martin

Of course, there's the other San Martin as well, playing in an entirely different league and reminding me of a town as different from Ward or Nederland as one part of San Martin is from another.
More on that in a later post.

Tags: english

How good is your Spanish?

Today is one of those days, when one can easily fall in love with the place, the region. The first glance out of the window made the Patagonia hormones jump: from a faint red in the East to a bluish, almost pitch dark black over the lake to the West, the morning sky had painted a gradient over the mountains which would drive any Photoshop artist into desperation. No point in taking the Nikon out, either. But with my eyes I could take in the beauty, suck up more than enough energy for the day.
A couple of days ago the morning light had been compatible with digital photography. Compared to the view at a parking lot from my kitchen window in Brugg it was literally from a different world



My view from the kitchen window in San Martin - the clouds disappeared soon thereafter.

But view and clouds were not the highlight of that day - it was rather my first job interview!
And here's how that came about:
Shortly before my departure I had gotten a surprise call from Claudia in San Martin. All excited, she had told me about an unexpected - and rather unusual - solution to my search for an appropriate accommodation: for the off-season period I could be a live-in "caretaker", in what she called a "boutique bed and breakfast" in a spectacular location high above lake Lacar. There wouldn't be any caretaker obligations except the 'task' to live there, i.e. be present. In exchange for my being there and, obviously, making sure that nothing unjust was happening, I was offered the use of a small apartment in the adjacent Teahouse for free. Why not? after all the vistas were one of the reasons why I had been so intrigued by the region in the first place.
As it turned out, my short hours in Buenos Aires didn't match with the schedule of the contact person for the resort and a foreseen meeting had to be cancelled. So, once in San Martin, Gustavo, Claudia and I took the first opportunity to drive up on a steep, adventurous dirt road for a close inspection of the place.

Well, the view was certainly nothing short of spectacular - the view of lake, mountains and sky...

- - -

As soon as I focused on the living quarters, however, it was a different story. A mattress on the floor and in front of it, on a small, old table, a big new TV set. Next to it an electric radiator/heater and close to the window a single chair. And that should be my residence for a couple of months? No way I could picture that, despite all the fringe benefits like free use of the Teahouse kitchen (a muscle-powered kitchen in the style of the Thirties with a large wooden oven and a small gas stove), the bar (the place, not the liquids) and the saloon.



To not leave under the impact of this - let's say: ambivalent - first impression, we decided to have tea and try the chocolate-coconut cake: absolutely delicious! For both I would - and most likely will - accept the challenging 4 mile drive up through potholes and washboard. But to live there?

Some of the magic of the place, however, kept stirring. As a studio for creative work, or a writer’s refuge, the attic would be hard to beat. Why not spend a couple of days, perhaps even nights, per week up there, so I dreamt, making sure everything is ok, and let the marvelous vistas inspire my creative mind, but keep the main residence somewhere else. This was what I intended to propose to the manager and agreed to meet for an informal interview during his visit to San Martin the following weekend.
Our conversation over coffee and brownies (more on those later) was conducted in English to avoid any misunderstandings with possibly far reaching consequences. It became clear quite quickly, that the situation at the resort really called for a full time professional caretaker/manager. So the questions were: would I want to be/do that? and would I feel up to it? - and my answers were simple and easy: No! With all these projects in photography, writing, video in the back of my mind I didn't want to commit too much of my time to running a "boutique bed and breakfast". I also considered the switch from scientist to hotel manager (in a region where I really wasn't versed well enough, yet, in either language or customs) to be a hairpin turn too tight to be successfully negotiated. This left a third question, which I then had to answer more for reasons of protocol: " And how good is your Spanish?"

When we parted, we agreed to stay in touch. Despite all, there was an area, where collaboration appeared quite feasible: after having enjoyed tea, cake and views while visiting the teahouse, I realized that my fifth sense had been totally neglected. There was a void waiting to be filled. How about some music, some gentle sounds? That would be fantastic. I could clearly see, how delightful a sunset with jazz and some exquisite wine from our "friends" at the Bodega Zuccardi near Mendoza (remember?) would be. And in order to announce "Take the A-Train", or "Blue Monk" or a Bossa Nova by Joe Henderson, "..my Spanish is certainly good enough".

Tags: english

Me -and- 150lbs of luggage? on one cheap ticket? Some of you might have raised the eyebrows. When I think back at the heavy hauling from the airport shuttle to the bus terminal of Buenos Aires, I'd venture that it must have been at least 250lbs.

Let's see: one suitcase of 50 lbs, the other one close to 60 that's 110lbs right there, then the huge bag with videocam, wide angle lens, 2 batteries, mic, cables, etc... that was the "carry on", plus my backpack, aka "personal item" holding - or hiding - my laptop, the Nikon, a couple of books, the Spanish dictionary and all that additional stuff like chargers, change, how many? ounces of eau de drinking and eau de smelling,...well, that adds up!

I paid an extra 100$ - only because I travelled via Atlanta, on Delta. Without the stopover in the USA, anything exceeding a 45lbs suitcase and a small beauty case would have been way beyond my financial reach. Yes, I read the fine print...

And I have to say: Delta was a pleasant surprise, really. Reasonable service, we got one, no: two, bottles of red wine for free - to "compensate" for a 30 minute delay on take off. This was the second time that happened to me this year - the delayed take off (last time, on my way to Denver we took off 4 (four!) hours late - on American) and the free drinks. The first I didn't mind, because my layover in ATL was scheduled to be 6 hrs anyway, the second quite agreeable.
Allright, Delta was most likely not responsible for my even more "agreeable" travel compañera.

Quite relaxed I continued at 8pm towards South America, night flight to BsAs. Tired as I was it took only a couple of sips from the Malbec - free again for some reason - and I fell into a doze-sleep, lasting a couple of hours.
I woke up right in time for sunrise.



Right in time, too, so that my new compañero de viaje, a decathlete of the Argentinian track and field team, could explain in necessary detail, where to best change the first traveller cheque and where to find the cheap "micro" (shuttle) to the huge bus terminal downtown.
Everything's cool!

- - -



In Argentina, buses are the most popular and - for all those who cannot afford a First Class airline ticket - the by far most comfortable means of transportation.
I had realized that about a year ago, when I took the overnight bus from Mendoza to San Martin de los Andes. Consequently, I was really looking forward to the 20 hr trip. After all, there was a "Tutto Letto", a fully reclining seat-bed, waiting for me.

Right on time we departed at 4 pm. Five hours later dinner was served, then a whisky for digestion and a movie to fall asleep with.
When I woke up, another movie was flickering across the screen - or was it not? Wait a minute, these shots seemed familiar somehow, was I still dreaming?
Wasn't this right out of "Diarios de motocicleta" ?
And the dawn - exactly like in the movie!

- - -

Oops, the pothole certainly was real reality!

Just before noon we arrived in San Martin, again right on time.
After 60 hrs of travelling I was still reasonably fit. Fit enough, anyway, so that Gustavo's overwhelming welcome hug didn't bring me to my knees.

At home, Claudia had already prepared a sumptuous lunch and one of her cabañas to crash after a last glass of wine from Gustavo's well stocked wine cellar.

I almost felt like the lost son - obviously, I had found(again) my Patagonian family.

Tags: english

The idea...

popped up while I was visiting old acquaintances.
Claudia and Gustavo had invited me to come down to San Martin de los Andes after our MWP (Mountain Wave Project) Expedition to Mendoza and the Aconcagua region in the fall of 2006 had ended (look for some english pages in my blog there).

Eight years ago our MWP team had stayed with them during our first ground (or "wave"..?) breaking expedition to the Argentinian Andes.

So one Friday evening about a year ago I boarded the overnight coach and rode it down south to northern Patagonia.

The spring sunshine, the scent of fresh blossoms, the cafecito in a chocolateria, after the intense weeks in Mendoza it was the laid back between-the-seasons atmosphere in San Martin, which helped me wind down in a hurry. A clear sky, wide open spaces and vistas invited eyes - and mind - to roam freely.


- - -


During a chat with Claudia and her friends over one more cafe cortado, my thoughts suddenly latched onto an interesting question: how about spending a longer period of time here, at the shores of beautiful Lago Lacar? life is cheaper than back home, the scenery much more spectacular, the sky, well, much more alive. That much was obvious. But there was more: I couldn't get rid of the feeling that life here seemed to be more dynamic, offering more options. I smelled pioneer spirit, became intrigued.
A wild brainstorm kept me awake most of the following night. And the next day I saw my castle in the air, a house, in which I would have loved to live. Dios mio!

- - -

20 hours later I started the 50hr trek back to Switzerland. How long would
this seductive idea, to spent one year, two, or more in San Martin, survive in the daily routine and comfort of my life in Brugg?

Tags: english