el bolson: small town harmony.

Before I start in on how I fell in love with El Bolson, I must take note of the aventura had on La Ruta 40, "South America's Worst Road". I was planning on heading back to Calafate in order to catch the once a week bus that goes north (on an alternate route as most buses don't dare the 40) but was invited by fellow Chalten hostelers, Nick and Kelly from San Fran, to mob north with them...and clearly, I couldn't pass it up. I had read many stories surrounding this hellish stretch in the middle of NOWHERE, how one should take much caution, be prepared, etc. I knew right away that Nick and Kelly were uninformed as we hit the road that morning and Nick states confidently, "Yeah, I bet we'll make it in 12 hours." And I'm thinking, "There is no way broheem..." Sure enough, about an hour into the trip we hit the dirt, rock, and boulder that would be our home for the next day and a half.

And of course we hit these interminable passes of isolation on the windiest day in history. So aside from hours upon hours of dodging tire-popping boulders (Nick did a fabulous job- I would have been a wreck) and the ceaseless cling-tang-ping! of rocks charging the car, the gusts of wind (clearly carrying large quantities of dirt) added another enjoyable element to the mix.

Nick, Molly and the Rocket. This photo was taken after our only brake down (miraculous given the dinker size of their rental), were graciously picked up by a passerby (it's an unwritten rule on the 40 that you stop for whomever is on the side of the road), taken to the 9 familied town of Bajo Caracoles, spent a few hours in a gas station while we waited for the town's mechanic to fix our dear Rocket (who just happened to have the EXACT same car and whipped out a spare fuel filter lickity split!) Love when things like that happen.

We stopped off to see if this biker woman was alright as her saddled down bici was turned on its side. Probably late 50's, with a weathered face and one bright personality, she told us that with such wind, she could barely walk herself let alone her and the bike- she would have to wait it out. Turns out she had been riding since San Francisco!!!??? All the way down through Mexico, Central America and South America- the only ride she had to hitch was getting from Panama to Colombia as it is basically impossible to cross on land. And all she asked of us? A light for her cigarette and confirmation on the election date- she still needed to send in her absentee ballot.

After bidding my farewells to Nick and Kelly after that memorable ride, I was immediately swept off my feet by that pueblito in the valley called El Bolson (in English "the pocket"). I had heard many good things about this town- the homemade beer, the hippy fair, the low key vibes. But I think what attracted me most to El Bolson was the 60-something year old Agustin Porro and his plot of land down by the river with two cabins on it for travelers seeking a not so conventional hostel experience. I read about this Casa del Viajero that Agustin and his wife ran on someones travel blog, was instantly intrigued, and gave Mr. Porro a call from Buenos Aires thinking, "Is this real?" Sure enough, I spoke to the main man himself and he concluded the convo saying that when I arrived in Bolson, to give him a ring and he'd himself come and pick me up. So that's exactly what I did.
The serene space, light, and green were exactly what I needed. Gardens, lazy cats, ponds, clothes drying on the line, a canopy of trees, chickens scurrying about- all of this backed by a sloping forest, a river and gravel road out front, and snow clad mountains off in the distance. I felt so wonderfully far from the city.

Ben from France (who has been living there for quite some time now) plus the beautifully spirited Agustin.

Ben (and those incredible mustard-colored, saggy crotched/bummed pants that he wore every day) performing for me post chicken coop renovation. "At first," he told me (in his heavily French accented Spanish), "The chickens hated me- made such a fuss, but I have found my place among them and gained tranquility and calm. And now?" He posed. "I am a chicken too!" (You really had to be there.) He proceeded to ask if I had reflexes and thought it funny to pretend to chuck those boulders in his hands at my face. What a doll.

Another shot of Ben (as you can tell I was highly amused by this dread locked frances)...he spent hours "finding equilibrium" on his tightrope right outside the kitchen window.
Hiking to Cajon de Azul

A majestic entrance to one of the many mountain refugios I came across.

Reminded me of home in Northern California...

El Bosque Tallado. A tree-carved museum of sorts, set way up in the forest overlooking the valley.

Downtown El Bolson

Meet Claudio. The man makes a mean empanada.

How Arcata, California is this?! That afternoon transported me to lala land. Newly formed friendships sprawled on the grass at Saturday's feria, beautiful melodies, journals out, sunshined faces, siesta time. And those trees- shedding their whimsical leaves, stories exchanged, local treats being devoured and washed down by cold brew, incense stick mid-circle...and then out of nowhere, a mist descended upon us. It was lovely.