Just me, and those winds.

Well, I've been back in Canada for 24 hours now, and I'm missing Argentina already. The day before yesterday I boarded a plane in Buenos Aires, on a perfect sunny day, with both contentment and sadness in my heart. All in all, it was a perfect trip, even though it seems to be otherwise at times. It gave me just what I was looking for: personal challenge, true independence, the knowledge that I am a strong and capable human being, the opportunity to meet the worlds finest, most lovely and caring people. I have felt so taken care of, so refreshed, and so comfortable. No part of me wanted to leave.

While this blog has not functioned as it was intended (to keep family and friends up to date on my CURRENT location), it has been a great source of inspiration for me along the way. It has made me consider my experiences in great depth, to look for my reactions, consider my thoughts, ponder moments of highs and lows. It has prevented me from simply going through the motions of travel life, rather forced me to always seek significance and meaning, to find the words to describe my most complex feelings. For the sake of always being curious, I hope to sustain this practice (though, probably not in blog form) in my seemingly less adventurous, "normal" life from now on. It really does make life much more interesting.

And so now, though very late, I leave one more post to sum up the other aspects of my life in rural Patagonia. For tales from my last month and a half of backpacking around Argentina, you'll just have to ask (or look on my Facebook for pictures...). Just know it was just exactly what I needed.

While life with Ginny posed a great challenge, my time at the chacra (Ginny's ranch) was so much more than that experience alone. Most importantly,  it was an introduction to a kind of life lived by so much of the world: a life of occupying ones days with the things that need to get done, without a great sense of materialism or individualism. It was a simple life, a life of ritual, of taking time to take time. 

When you want something from someone in rural Argentina, you show up at their house and clap and whistle outside their house until they come out. You don't make plans days in advance or worry about imposing on their day, interrupting a meal. Jorge and I would go to buy eggs this way at the house a few trees down. The whole family of 10 or so would come out, or we would be welcomed inside their 2 or 3 room cement home. We would then occupy at least 5 minutes kissing the cheek of each and every person. We would chat for a few minutes (or rather they would chat with Jorge and occassionally share a joke or snicker that clearly had to do with me), put a dozen or so eggs in a plastic bag, and begin the kissing again to say our farewells. It was an adjustment for me, to make such a small task a big social affair. I realized how unnatural it felt to take time to simpy be with people without it feeling like a diversion from the task at hand. Even in a life in which I had nothing but time, I was hardwired to rush, to always seek efficiency.  

I met our resident gaucho, Jorge, a few days into my trip. He phoned Ginny (modern day gauchos add cell phones to their traditionally tiny list of material possessions) from the top of a nearby hill, announcing his arrival. I was instructed to wheel Ginny out to the driveway so we could watch his decent. They hooted and hollered  back and forth for several minutes, he came into view, and made some grand entrance (galloped in, his horse spinning in tight circles intermittently). This introduction was very much representative of his role here. He's the man of the house, keen to show off, the master of grand entrances. Each morning I would wake to his daily "YEEEEHAAAAAAW!!" as he entered the house at 7am to prepare his mate. I slept in the loft above the kitchen, without walls between me and his ungodly cries. Once he came across me upset after an ordeal with Ginny. I told him I hadn't been sleeping well. He told me he would be quiet in the mornings. It lasted one day. 

Jorge became my main buddy for practicing Spanish. For the most part he was patient, and I couldn't blame him when he wasn't. Ocassionally he would take me on a horseback ride. I would finish the ride feeling totally refreshed and ready to take on the world. He would finish yawning, expressing his boredom with a trail he would do weekly to get from point A to point B. It's evident the novelty begins to fade when you use your horse as your main mode of transportation, but I was thankful that he allowed me that experience regardless. He has a wonderful, genuine kindness to him, and sometimes I wonder if Ginny realizes what a gift he is in her life.

Along with Jorge, Ginny has several other helpers. Three lovely women, Esther, Maria, and Rosa, alternate four hour shifts most days to do all the cooking, cleaning, and a fair share of Ginny's personal care.  There were also always multiple men working on construction, caring for the horses, and watering the ground. (Yes, you read correctly...watering the dusty ground - not garden -always took priority, even in a drought). There were always people coming and going. Visitors. Friends of Jorge. The empanada delivery lady. Guests on their way to or from Ranquilco (Ginnys ex's estancia/tourist operation). The local doctor. It was the busiest middle-of-nowhere I have ever been. It could be exhausting. Often there were too many hands and Ginny was constantly being redirected just as we achieved any start on productivity.  I could see how it drained her too, the unpredictability and unrest of it all. And yet she always seemed to ten too many hands around.

Life at the chacra was sedentary, save for a few outdoor tasks and horseback rides. Perhaps a reflection of my feeling stuck in my situation with Ginny, I felt imobile there. I could think all day about how good it would feel to move, without ever actually doing so. It was only when I felt extreme emotion, usually frustration or anger, that I was driven to sprint along our dirt road or to climb the nearby hills. The hills always taunted me, but I learned the hard way that they were not as welcoming as they appeared. Thick, spikey desert plants and my tender, pasty legs do not get along - the evidence of this has yet to fade completely. 

And if it wasn't a metaphor for my feeling trapped, perhaps my lack of movement was a product of my self consciousness. Even though I felt safe and welcome, I couldn't blend in. Here's what I reflected on this matter a few weeks into my trip:

"I notice how I hold myself here - I am becoming more hunch backed, my shoulders towards my ears and hanging forward. I am turning inward to protect myself from the vulnerability I feel here, a vulnerability which manifests physically all over my body as my white, white skin. I think I am attempting to shrink, occupy less space to pass by unnoticed. If I become small enough, will they think I'm a local?"

This physical state of curling inward, however, existed simultaneously to an opposing sentiment of expansion:

"It's a funny contrast to how I feel....more open. Like I can breathe more deeply. Like I have a vast landscape ahead of me which I am somehow permitted to occupy,  and as such be a tiny part of. I feel like Argentina is giving me the space to grow,  and that I am indeed growing. Or maybe not so much growing as simply learning to be present. I feel very present here. I think a lot. I have time to paint, and write, and be with the horses."

While life at la chacra felt monotonous at times, it also granted me the priveledge of some truly unique experiences. For instance, I witnessed more horse sex than I care to share. Also awkward, I attended an authentic Argentinian asado (barbecue) with Jorges family. Put a whole goat in a spit on the ground and voila! you have an asado. While Jorge's family all ate with their hands, he was sure to explain to them that I, as a Canadian, eat only with a fork, knife, and napkin. You should try eating a chunk of tough goat rib with a fork and knife someday - there's nothing like it to punctuate just what an awkward, white foreigner you are!

I spent February 14th making plum jam and an apple cobler from the fruit dripping off the trees at the farm. It is now my firm belief that all Februarys should be spent this way.

I taught myself to bake a damn good apple loaf in a gas oven with no temperature gauge, without brown sugar or vanilla or the flour or eggs that I am used to. Eggs are a little funky here.

I learned that having giant flocks of parrots around is not always a good thing. You never see them, they poop everywhere, and they deafeningly loud at night.

I had the experience of being the "help" amoung Argentina's wealthy estancia owners at a state fair. Perhaps it was all in my head, but I had several encounters in which people I had met with Ginny made no effort to acknowledge me, or paid little attention to my attemps to greet them thereafter. Even as a volunteer, I seemed to take on a lower social status.

And then there's Mate. To me, mate is the symbol of Argentinian life. Its the heart of most social affairs, the start and middle of each day, the fuel. People bring it with them EVERYWHERE...pack around a thermos of hot water, a gourde (the cup from which mate is drinken),  a bombilla (the filtering straw you drink it with), and bag of mate - even if it's terribly inconvenient. Its a ritual that is not confined to a particular wealth or profession. Gauchos drink it. Families of all walks of life pack it on the bus. Wealthy university students bring it to class. Most gas stations have a hot water station for mate much like you would find an ice box at home. I feel that the tradition of mate single-handedly slows Argentinian life to a healthy pace. It's the key to learning how to stop, to simply sit and talk with other people. There are a number of customs surrounding how you drink it, or rather (more accurately), a number of ways to do it wrong - all of which I personally discovered.

There is something about Patagonia that makes you so badly want to belong. The longer you stay, however, the more you realize it is a world that you cannot simply enter. You can only be a guest. And the most heart breaking moment is that in which you realize that, when you leave, it goes on without you. As Bruce Chatwin so eloquently expresses "Patagonia! She is a hard mistress. She casts her spell. An enchantress! She folds you in her arms and never lets you go." I'm sure my heart is only one of countless which are now scattered those hills.

To close, I feel it fit to answer the inevitable question, "what was your favorite part of the trip?". Well, I had this very conversation with 3 fellow backpackers the other week, just after I had finished my position with Ginny. After some thought, I told them it was not any grand event or stunning place, but rather a few select moments that I cherish most. You know those moments when you feel you have found your place, just for that moment, and swear you can almost hear your heart sing? Those have been my favorite moments. Galloping all the way home from the town center on Jorges mare. Sitting at Ginny's bedside over dinner, finding myself able to laugh and participate in a Spanish conversation without much conscious effort. Rounding the top of a nearby mountain alone only to be blinded by the setting sun. Or simply standing on a hillside, just me, warm sun on my skin and the howling winds in my ears. Moments of total ease, of acceptance. Of feeling capable, independent, loved. Free.

Me in one of my favorite spots, on a beautiful little mare borrowed from one of the gauchos.

Our kitchen at Ginny's place.

My loft at Ginny's place.

A little farewell plum jam that I made the day before I left. (My name was Lorena most of the time because Cedar is too hard to pronounce)

Ginny, with her daughter Sky and helper Esther, exercising in the pool. 

Fruit I picked at the chacra on February 14th.

"Just me, warm sun on my skin and the howling winds in my ears"

Life with Virginia

Here's what I had to say on the night of February 14th:

"Well, it´s my last night at ¨la Chacra¨ in El Huecu, and I´m feeling a lot of things. Two feelings compete most heavily for my attention, however: sadness and fear. Sadness to be leaving what has felt like a temporary family, a group of people who have shown to genuinely care for my well being. Sadness to be leaving these horses, this town, and the freedom to explore, empty handed, in these raw, unforgiving hills.

And then there´s fear. First and foremost, my fear of surrendering this small haven of safety that has developed around me here. Fear of setting out on my own, unprotected, with few solidified plans or people to meet me along the way. Fear of uncomfortable bus rides, prolonged by anxiety driven by a lack of familiarity, missed connections, and the possibility of feeling truly alone. Fears of theft, assault, or an inability to access money. Panic attacks, injury, or sickness.

But, you know Mom, I´m going to be ok. I´ve got Millie Cumming´s voice in my head, as it often is, telling me to trust that things will work out. And so I breathe, and try to take it one step at a time. Step, by step, by step. I´m deconstructing my next month and half, compartmentalizing my time, where I will sleep, what I want to see. A few days at a time. Well, that´s the idea at least.

I´ve been here for 1 month and 4 days, 3 weeks shorter than I had expected to stay, but 3 weeks longer than I thought I would last after my first week here. It´s been a ride, sometimes wild and other times a tad monotonous. I have had moments of great doubt, and dissapointment, but also pure happiness. "


And now back to the present:

I realize I have never properly explained how I ended up in Patagonia in the first place. So, for a moment, let's pretend this blog is popular beyond my closest friends and family (all of whom are familiar with the underwhelming story) and go back in time a little.  

In early summer of last year, while Dylan and I were attempting to find work in Campbell River, we made a visit to my aunt Catherine and uncle Colin's place near French Beach. It was here that I was introduced to the Caretaker Gazette, an online publication advertising (primarily) house-sitting positions worldwide. I took interest as I had decided to take a year off school and wanted to have some travelling experience. I wanted something more than a backpacking trip, something with a focus, something more affordable, and something that would give me the chance to practice another language. With this in mind, I came across a post by Virginia Neary Carrithers which caught my interest. This post was unusual in that it was calling for more of a caregiver, rather than caretaker. Virginia herself has Multiple Sclerosis and regularly has volunteers to help with the various challenges in her life. I pictured myself as her companion, spending quality time on a ranch in Northern Patagonia. Horses. Art. Summer in February. A chance to practice Spanish. A chance to see what a career in nursing might entail. It sounded perfect, and so I wrote.

It's funny how time just passes, and what was once a future plan becomes a present reality. And all of a sudden you're half way across the world and you have no idea how in gods name you got there.  

Virginia Neary Carrithers embodies a dichotomy of priveledge and hardship. She has had great wealth, raised in the US in a rich household. She has been a member of the elite, bred and trained race horses in the United States, been internationally recognized for her art in the equestrian world. She has lived a fairy tale of rich husbands, private planes, galas, meetings with Frank Sinatra. She was a stunt driver in James Bond movie, a cosmetics model, the creator and head spokeperson for a massive campaign, "the Race Against MS". She was la Patrona of a hundred thousand acre ranch in Patagonia (a few hours ride from her current home), a queen of a kingdom. She has also endured the suicide of her father and other friends, her broher's full paralysis from an accident, her mother's toils with severe mental illness. She has been married and divorced twice, paralyzed for months by Multiple Schlerosis on a couple of accounts (beginning in her late twenties). Over thirty years with an MS diagnosis has left her body progressively worse, with periods of remission growing less and less likely. She looks back on her life with few memories of prolonged happiness, just one thread of joy: her daughter.

Ginny's physical condition is the worse it has ever been, having deteriorated rapidly over the last number of months. She is unable to walk, rarely able to stand on her own, with minimal strength remaining in only 1 leg. She little control of her hands and struggles to move them quickly or with great precision. Her eyes are extremely sensitive and prevent her from being able to stand any bright light or prolonged periods of time in front of a screen.  She is incontinent, living in diapers, always travelling with a porta potty and bed pan. She suffers from chronic back pain as a result of her broken back, a product of her osteoporosis. If it is not her chronic fatigue, it is her back pain which beckons her to bed after  short stints in her wheelchair. When she tires, she is unable to hold herself upright and slurs her speech, causing her to grow increasingly frustrated with our inability to understand her. She sleeps in short stints, working away at emails during the wee hours.
While her body tires, however, her mind does not. She always has one more thing to add to the list.
As her caregiver it was always a great challenge to move her body while taking care with her fragile bones. She has been known to break a rib yearly as a result of being moved by others. I had no idea her physical condition had deteriorated to such an extent until I arrived. Needless to say, I was a bit shocked.

So what is it like to work with Ginny? Well, there is perhaps no better  example than the first half hour I spent with her. Picture this:

When I meet Ginny, she is in bed. She greets me with a hug and kiss and speaks to me in the familiar tone from our interactions on skype. It's a brief introduction, she calls me honey, explains that Barb will be my tour guide, and tells me not to worry, I will be given a day or two to recuperate before being put to work. As testament to Ginny's true style, however, within 10 minutes she has got me pushing her around in her wheelchair outside. We are visiting the horses. One needs grain. Another needs its forelock groomed. 5 minutes later I am trimming prints of Ginny's art and finding them frames. The requests continue and I oblige, carrying out each with just enough post-25-hour-bus-ride-nausea to remind me that I am really here, not dreaming. One activity leads to another, rarely focussing long enough on one to realize any sense of completion. There is an underlying sense of urgency with each of Ginny's requests, a heirarchy of importance building merely from the order in which things pop into her head. Its quickly apparent that my needs are lost to her competing agendas. Its like playing with a child.

My position with Ginny included everything from writing emails to scrubbing fecal matter from the cracks in the bedroom floor. I shopped, and cooked, and painted the barn door. I moved her from place to place, from bed to wheelchair and back to bed, supported her to stand, to dance, to swim courageously in her pool.  I scanned, saved, and sorted over 500 photos from Ginny's multiple lives in preoparation for her 65th birthday. I slept close to tend to any needs she had during the night.
On to the bed pan.
Off the bed pan.
2am and we're reorganizing her medicine basket.
I had the honor of being her eyes, her hands, a witness to both her manic highs and darker moments of depression. Some days I felt I was left without a moments rest, while others I felt I accomplished nothing. I felt I needed to always be on the ready, always on call. At times I was left empty, sucked dry.  

Given my interest in nursing, I was thankful to have the opportunity to aid with Ginny's personal care. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I was never squeemish or bothered by tasks relating to her incontinence, but contrarily found my greatest confidence and sense of purpose during these times. I found it natural to resort to humour in the hopes of easing any embarrassment or awkwardness that any one of us might be feeling. Ginny was always quick to laugh at her situation. I always admired that.

My experiences have been so varied  that I find it quite impossible to identify any overriding feeling or impression of it all. Somedays, Ginny's demands would greet me with the same unabiding cruelty as the Patagonian winds. On others, I would feel liberated by the kindness she shows. One hour she would have me in tears, sprinting up a nearby mountain in order to relieve my anger. The next she would have me laughing, racing one another in her swimming pool, feeling like I could happily stay for months.
Sometimes I could sit with Ginny with the ease of an old, loving friend. Her quirky humour and refreshingly honest accounts of past lives, friends, and lovers would bring us to equal ground. It was like she could knowingly gift me with a key to unlock a barrier between her and I - without which I had a unrestricted access to her true person, her past, like a true friend.

It was Ginny in her rawest state that I appreciated most. Her moments of anger and frustration, tears, a few days of depression near the end of my time with her. Perhaps a result of her many years in the public eye, Ginny always seems to wear a mask. She desires so much to be an example of positivity, an inspiration for those who must overcome challenges as extreme as hers. For me, she was most inspiring when she surrendered to the injustice of her situation. I wanted it to be ok for her to be angry.

I feel like I entered Ginny's life at a critical time. Over our month together, I observed her coming to terms with the seriousness of her situation. She had to learn that she could get very little done. She had to stop underestimating the amount of help she needed. She had to learn to accept the prospect of never getting any better, never again entering a time of remission, sinking closer and closer to the end of her life.

By remaining at the chacra, the entrance to her kingdom, I believe Ginny is continually reminded of what MS has robbed her of. A place which used to epitomize her powerful role as 'la patrona' is now a tease, a reminder of what she once had. She seems lost, not knowing what priorities will give her the best chance at health. With life in a bigger center, she could have access to more facilities and a vibrant, meaningful social life. She will also lose her proximity to her daughter, however. In El Huecu, she has her daughter, but also total isolation.

It is no secret that Ginny is a difficult person - she will readily admit to being a pain. At first I left it at that, growing increasingly frustrated with the sense of entitlement she seemed to exhibit with all of her help.  For the first 3 or so weeks, I struggled immensely with my interactions with her and internalized everything. I felt undervalued, unappreciated, and even disrespected. I had created a vision in which Ginny and I would collaborate to give her the best care possible. I wanted to work with her, not for her. This is not how it felt. While I thought I was a 'bonus', it felt more like she saw me as a burden. She was quick to point out mine and Barb's short comings and seemed to assume we should require no instruction in all aspects of our 'job', including personal care. We were assumed to be infinitely adaptable. Plans were ever changing and rarely made with consultation. Woops, sorry, there's no more room in the house... guess you'll just have to pitch a tent in the yard!  

As time went on, I found the confidence to call her out on her insensitive acts. At first she was quick to use her own situation to undermine my own feelings. The more I learned to assert myself, however, the more she seemed to own her actions, apologize for her harmful words or behavior. Even though her actions did not always reflect it, she was always very apologetic.  I came to know that things would never really change with Ginny, however. There was no way that one short-term, 22-year-old volunteer could change 65 years of habbit.  And it was upon realizing this that I decided I must leave, for the sake of my health and happiness.

I have had a significant amount of time to consider Ginny, her situation, and how she chooses to interact with others. What I have come to know best is that Ginny's life is one big power struggle. Its a battle for power between her and MS. A battle for control in her life, and consequently control in her relationships. She is always compensating. Her interactions with others have become a vehicle through she compensates  for the loss of her health. Her mind races to compensate for her physical inabilities. She is trapped, more and more so, in a body which fails to support her cognitive capacity, her love for art, for horses, and life.

At least this is my impression - I could be totally wrong.

So, would I do it all over again? Knowing how I would be treated? No. Knowing everything else that I would get from this experience (as I will describe in my next post)? Probably. Overall, maybe. Maybe if I could come equipped with more internal resources. Maybe if I could assert myself better from the start. Maybe if I could figure out a way to stay longer, to truly become a part of Patagonian life.

To finish, I am not sure what kind of picture I have painted for you here. I have had such highs and lows that I am left with indecision. I deliberated for a long time as to whether I should share such an honest account of my experience publically. I know now however, that Ginny would not be hurt by my words, for I am not the first to be so bold. Should she read this, she will laugh and nod and acknowledge that her love is an impossible love, shaped by her history and at the mercy of her illness.

Ultimately, i admire Ginny for her relentless positivity and perseverence in life. She shows a strength beyond what I can imagine finding in her position and I feel lucky to have occupied a tiny blip on her crazy life's timeline.

For better or worse, we are all her puppets. And somehow, sometimes this is ok.

Ginny with one of paid helpers, Maria, and Marias son.

A doodle I did as a farewell gift for Esther, one of the other helpers.

I was really enjoying ink. It seems I always come back to hearts and hands.

Ginny and I.

A sign of more relaxing things to come!

Pieces of home in El Huecu

I flew to Argentina exactly one month ago today and I'm still eating marzipan from Christmas. I have a stash: a log of marzipan, most of a Green & Blacks white chocolate bar, a bar of raw Anarchist's chocolate from Toronto, and a little Nelson's Chocofellar. I keep it in my loft here and occassionally slink off and indulge without judgement (well, perhaps a little self-criticism occurs). I had such good intensions of sharing, but Argentina has made me a very selfish person. The fact is, I've decided that the sentimental value of these sweets far outweigh the pleasure that any other person could gain from them. For most it's just good chocolate. For me, it's a little piece of my many homes. Besides, the chocolate has melted and rehardened so many times that it really don't taste much good anymore. Surely.

Each time I seek out my little chocolate sanctuary, it's like Christmas all over again. And most times, my excitement forces me to eat until I hit a regretable state beyond simple satiation. Sometimes my affairs with Christmas are driven by anxiety, sometimes by happiness, and others anger. My stick of panda licorice fell victim to the latter.

Yes, I eat my feelings. ...damn you, sweet tooth. Are we surprised I ended up in the hospital the other day with stomach pains? - That's a story for another day. For now, let's go back in time to January 10th, the day I arrived in El Huecu (the town nearest the ranch where I am currently volunteering). 

It became apparent that El Huecu is very remote when we hit dirt road an hour out of town. It was all dirt from there. I arrived to a tiny terminal - more of just a storefront really - where Barb, the other volunteer, was waiting.

My first impressions of El Huecu were that it's a quaint, simple place. Within a two block radius of the bus station, one has access to all of the main amenities in the town. These include: a few small 'servicompras' (corner store-like grocery shops), a post office, a seemingly near-abandoned firefighting station, 1 or 2 'zapaterias' (shoe shops), the office of the Ministry of Education and Justice (I find it curious and perhaps worrisome that these two sectors are combined...), a school, the hospital, and the town square. 

These are the amenities that one sees upon arriving at least. With time and local connections, however, a whole slew of hidden treasures emerge. For instance, who knew you can purchase plastic page covers or sleeves from the little copy store tucked in behind the zapateria? Who knew there was a copy store at all? And then there's the guy 5 houses down who will sell you beer at a slight mark up, but with the convenience of being a three minute walk from home. There's even a local family with a small plot of land that will sell you their home-grown veggies! That is, if there's enough rain to permit any growth -  a rarity in the current drought. The longer you stay, the more you realize that most everything you could need is in El Huecu. Well, fresh produce aside. It's a real treat to find a fully intact, non-wilted head of lettuce.

The people of El Huecu have been very kind in my experience. As one of only 3 foreigners in town, I often feel self-conscious, but also accepted. Perhaps because very little tourism exists here, the locals haven't had a chance to develop an attitude towards or become resentful of foreigners. Barb and I get a lot of snickers from some of the young folk here, but for the most part, we are greeted just as the locals are: with a kiss on the cheek, a "buen dia", or a "que tal".The local shop owners have come to know us, and us them, as we make our almost daily rounds to scope out what fruits and veggies have come in on the trucks that morning.

I now know what it's like to be in a place where horses are not a luxury or priveledge, but rather a necessity. Here, they are rarely for play or show, but rather first and foremost for work. They are not a hobby, but a means of transportation. As such, it's not rare to see a couple horses hitched to a sign post outside a shop downtown. In fact, I have even had the honor of shopping by horseback myself!

It's always a pleasure to see the local gauchos (most easily described as Patagonian cowboys) decked out in full attire, en route on horseback. They seem to fulfill a historical role of caring for cattle and horses, living somewhat transient lives with minimal comforts. They live very close to their land, their work is their lifestyle -  stopping only occassionally to share a ritual mate.

Overall, I can't say El Huecu has stolen my heart - (that's a job for the surrounding Patagonian countryside). That being said, it has kept me safe, and for that I am always grateful.

                                The view from atop a wee hill, overlooking the town of El Huecu
                                             

Sadly, these beauties were being brought to la Chacra en route to a slaughter house. I could only find comfort in the fact that they were all 28-30 years old. Learning to let go of preconceived ideas of what's right and wrong...

A few houses on the edge of El Huecu

I can only assume this is the local radio station

Ginny (the woman I am working with), her daughter Sky, Jorge (in front, our resident gaucho), and a visitor on La Chacra

The land of Patagonia

I've been in Patagonia for over 2 weeks now. It has felt like both a blink in time and a lifetime has passed. It's been really hard at times, particularly with regard to my current volunteer position (as a caregiver for a woman with quite advanced Multiple Sclerosis). At other times, it has just felt so right.
There's a lot to say, and I will catch up eventually. For now, it's the land here that impresses me most.

The land and climate here can best be described as relentless. It's the height of the summer and we're in the middle of a drought in El Huecu. Up until a few days ago when we arrived in Junin de los Andes (the site of a state fair, some 6 hours drive from El Huecu), I had not seen any rain - and few clouds, for that matter. Temperatures were reaching around 30-35 degrees daily, with hot, strong sun and constant, impressive winds. I've been given strict orders to save all outside work for the mornings and evenings, and I'm coming to understand the value of the afternoon siesta.

There's something about the land here, perhaps its well-worn yet extreme composure, that makes it so easy to picture as once being an ocean bottom. Sucked dry now, however, it is only the skeletal remnants.
Rivers are etched into parched earth, permitting small oasis' of lush greenery, small breaths of cool air. The mountains range from desert hills, speckled with both spiny and surprisingly delicate flora, to grand snow-capped volcanoes. Some of the scenery is reminiscent of the Okanagan, and some hills glow yellow much like the Canadian prairies in autumn. All seems somehow more extreme, however.

The road to Junin de los Andes showcased this variability well. We climbed in and around and down many gentler desert hills. We saw dramatic peaks with rocky spines that wind and settle like dinosaur tails. We had spectacular views of the distant iconic Andes.
And all the while the Patagonian wind never fails. And there's always dust. Lots of dust.

Growing sideways, this tree reminded me much of Newfoundland!

Volcan Lanin (near Junin de los Andes)

The Road to Patagonia Part 2

From Buenos Aires, it was an 18 hour bus ride to Zapala. I anticipated that I might be feeling tired, anxious, and in need of comfort for this stint of the journey, so i had purchased a ticket for the best seat I could online ahead of time. I had a hell of a time finding my bus, not realizing that the main station is massive and primarily made up of public transit terminals. At least 4 times I enterd a building to find railway tracks (Buenos Aires has an extensive underground). Each time the ticket person looked at me, very confused, and instructed me to go out of the building and left. Beet red and sweating perfusely, I eventually found my way to the bus terminal.

Leaving Buenos Aires gave me a better idea of just how big the city is. Many areas were much like other South American cities I´ve been to before, but with more prominant remnants of grand but deteriorating stone buildings. I was struck by the people´s use of green space, particularly along the highway. Any hint of grass, no matter what size, state, density of waste, or promiximity to the highway, was highly populated with picnicing families and young lovers. It was nice to see those places which I assumed to be an after thought so deliberately sought out and enjoyed. We take for granted our green spaces, us Canadians.

My bus was luxurious. I had fully reclining chair, almost in a cubicle, with a curtain I could draw half way across for privacy. I was on the second story of the bus, with a great view of the scenery along the way. In true Argentinian fashion, we were fed dinner at 10pm or so. First they serve an array on individually packaged crackers and cakes, with a small portion of potato salad. Of course I assumed this to be the extent of dinner and so filled up on leftover lunch I had packed with me. When they came around again with hot mashed potatoes and chicken, I unfortunately had no room left! We were offered wine, coke or water with our dinner, and whisky or champagne at midnight. I had wine (served elegantly in a tiny glass bottle...and a styrofoam cup), but was already hunkered down for the night by the time the second round of beverages arrived. While I wanted to take advantage of these luxueries, I realized how much more fun it would be to share them with others.

A couple of observations along the way:
1. The stray dogs here come in ALL breeds (I seeem to remember them being a homogenous type in other places. You know, midsize, dingo-like. Maybe I remember incorrectly.). It´s pretty pathetic to see those little white fluffy, yappy things typically owned by old ladies, trying to fend for themselves. Clearly they are not built for survival.

2. Also unlike my memories of Colombia, Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia, people walk for exercise here  - even those who live rurally. Perhaps this is uninteresting, but it´s something that I have paid attentions to in order to get a sense of how ridiculous I look if I go for a run.

After being served a breakfast of more packaged crackers and cakes, I arrived in Zapala around 8am. I had a 5 hour wait here before boarding my bus to El Huecu (the town nearest the ranch I am currently at). It was a long wait but made shorter by a cute old lady who patiently took on a conversation with me. It wasn´t much of a conversation, but she took care of me. She ushered me to patches of shade as the sun moved across the sky, offered to watch over my bags if I needed to use the bathroom, and shared her crackers and gum. When she boarded her bus she wished me luck and gave me lots of kisses. I figured she would ask me for money at some point (again, an assumption made from past experiences), but she never did. There is very little tourism here so I don´t think it´s become commonplace to as gringas for money. Regardless, I enjoyed this brief encounter.

I arrived at El Huecu 3.5 hours later, where Barb (the other volunteer here) was waiting for me. Boy oh boy was it nice to see a familiar face.

One more shot as I was leaving BA.

The best part of my overnight bus.

And it just kept getting better...

...And better.

The road from Zapala to El Huecu.

The landscape got increasingly more interesting as we entered the foothills of the Andes.

The Road to Patagonia Part 1

The road from Vancouver Island, Canada, to Patagonia, Argentina is long. 5 days of travel: 2 overnight flights, 23 hours on a bus, and I am here.

It began with a flight to Toronto, where I remembered why I don't like Toronto in the winter. Frigid winds, debilitatingly cold temperatures. What Toronto does not offer in the way of climate, however, it makes up for in warm departures. A mere 36 hours in Toronto and I was ready with some quality Jasmin time, and a belly full of Korean. 

The overnight flight from Toronto to Buenos Aires totaled 15 or so hours of travel, including a quick stop over in Satiago, Chile. On my flight I met a police officer from Chile who was returning after accompanying the deportation of a Canadian from his home country. He was kind enough to tell me that my Spanish was really bad, which I decided was not fair, given this was my first conversation in Spanish in 4 years. It was comforting to make a connection, regardless.

My flights were surprisingly painless, given the length of travel. I was shocked to find that I reached my destination without even one in-flight movie! The food was interesting. Lunch consisted of green beans, asparagus, and sweet corn, boiled within an inch of their life, and strewn carelessly on plain bread. I´m not sure when this sort of thing became ok, but I ate without complaint.

Upon arriving in Buenos Aires, I began my search for the bus company that I was told would take me to the hostel I had booked online (at half the price of a taxi). By some miracle, I did just this and voila! I was on a bus. And then in a smaller car that was delivering me to my hostel door step. And this was me successfully traveling on my own in a city of 9 million people. And I was pleased with myself.

Since arriving to Argentina, I have been surprised by how few people speak any English. At my hostel I communicated with the owner that I had paid online (which he didn't seem to know anything about...but luckily I had printed a receipt!), was given a key to my room, and was told nothing more. I was in a room with one other girl from Brazil, who was very nice and kindly answered the million questions I had. I went on a hunt for water, told Mom I had made it, and then settled in for the night.

Buenos Aires is, simply put, alive. With less than 24 hours there, it became quite apparent to me that it was a city of extremes. Lots of wealth, plenty of poverty, meat, meat, meat, meat, meat. It's pristine, and run down, and masses of people and cars wind in graceful chaos. There are lines marking lanes on the roads, but they have no purpose - it's better to just squeeze your tiny car between two double-decker buses and plough ahead! For my lunch out I ordered lasagne and was brought a pile of layers and layers of ham, drenched in a cheesy sauce. Needless to say my last 6 months of near veganism have not prepared my stomach for such a task.

When it was time to leave, I packed on my 50 pounds of belongings and took the worst and longest route to Estacion Retiro (the main bus station in BA). I arrived red-faced and sweating profusely (like a true gringa), and boarded the bus to Zapala.

It was only a wee taste of Buenos Aires, and I will certainly return for a few days more at the end of my trip.