Homesick

Those of you who have read my past entries (or have ever walked up and down mountains) already know it involves some difficulty. Those of you who have been to the jungle know it's like Tel Aviv in the summer, only with more mosquitoes and less pollution. Those of you who have travelled on horseback know it's as bumpy as driving in Jerusalem.

Homesickness, however, can rarely be compared with anything else. It has its physical dimension, though. Don't let anybody tell you it's just in your mind. It feels like your body contracts so as to fit into a tube that would release it on the other side of the planet. The process, though physically unpleasant, is eased by an expected sense of expansion and relief at its end. At home.

It can happen after nine months or after two weeks, depending on the person and the experiences. It's hard when you miss your loved ones, though it's probably harder for the ones left behind. The parents, also left behind, are involved in these trips. They would love for their son or daughter to enjoy themselves but would be much happier to see them close again, exposed only to the known and familiar dangers.
 
Those sometimes over-worrying parents are now missed, not to mention the home-cooked food. So many travellers would trade the best chunk of Argentinean meat, the best Chilean wine, the best Uruguayan cup of mate and the most delicious Brazilian exotic fruit for a home-cooked meal.

Cusco

Northern Chile was nicer than I expected. As an Israeli I was a little sceptical about desert tourism. I lived in the Negev, visited the ruins of Nabatian cities Shivta and Nitsana and rode Camels near Eilat. Taking a self guided bike tour with my English companion Davina, I learned that there is, as always, more to see.

We left the tourist-swarming dusty village of San Pedro de Atacama and shortly found the remains of the long-lasting Atacamian culture. The Atacamians survived many attacks until they were occupied by the Inca empire and, a few years after at its fall, by the Spanish. A recently built observation point overlooks the former Atacamian plains, mountains and rivers. At its peak, in Spanish, is the the universally applicable quote: "My god, my god, why have you forsaken me."

Entering Peru turned out to be more challenging than I expected. Like many other bordering countries, Chile and Peru have their disagreements. The Israeli reader might find a familiar pattern here, as the Peruvians claim historic title to territories currently held by Chile. The bus I took was meant to cross to Peru, but the Chilean authorities stopped it due to alleged violent disturbances on the Peruvian side which they said might jeopardize the passengers and the vehicle.

Some of the passengers turned back. I stamped my passport and started crossing the territory between the border points on foot. When I got to the Peruvian border it was as quiet at the ruins I have seen the day before. The "risk" feared by the Chileans turned out to be a road block on the way to Cusco, a city more than a night's ride away. In the meantime I visited Arequipa, an old city surrounded by mountains and archaeological sites. My next stop would be Cusco, in which I spent over a month, and from which I embarked on tour and trek to Machu Picchu, the mountains and the Peruvian jungle.

Cordoba

They say it's a party city, but I came to Cordoba during the week and soon found the Aldea Hostel, which was recommended to me. The Mezuza on the door left no doubt as to the denomination of the owners.
 
I spent about half a day in the city and wasn't overwhelmed, so I went out to see some countryside. After a two-hour bus ride, I was dropped of on the side of the road. In the middle of nowhere. There wasn't so much as a signpost. With low vegetation all around me, I crossed the road and started walking - hopefully toward the park entrance.

Hostel Life

A good hostel is more than just a place to sleep. It's part of the trip experience. A hostel doesn't have to be a hermit's paradise; some offer nice facilities, private bathroom, meals, laundry services and other conveniences. But hostels also offer much more. They offer a fine cross-section of mankind. Traveling by myself, hostel world was my world.

Home Sweet Hostel

These are not the old lonely gentlemen who live in the solitude of their hotel room, eating the stale cooking of the old landlord's wife. People in their twenties and thirties make hostels into their homes, sometimes for years. Some cannot offer the guarantees required for renting an apartment and some just like it. No cleaning to do, varied and international rotating social circles. No bedtime, ever.

Party Hostels

4 a.m. and there are people up surfing the internet. The bar is closed for an hour and the music is turned down. Four well-liquored guys play pool. In an hour or so people will start coming back from the parties. Breakfast will be served two hours later. If it's a more regulated hostel, the rooms would be relatively quiet. In an "Israeli" hostel, music can go on in the rooms until 2 a.m. The first to leave as a result would be the other Israelis.

Boliche in Bariloche

Boliche is the Argentinean word for dance club.

As we got to the outskirts of Bariloche (like many other things and people in South America, it has a longer official name) Eti wondered whether this is actually the nice town that we have traveled over 1500 kilometers to see.

South America has a lot of poverty to offer. Poor neighborhoods may enjoy great proximity to common public utilities as incinerating garbage dumpsters, railroads (if available), and highways or, at best, have nothing around, which would include sewage, for example.

Hey Macarena

Pablo is a local taxi driver from El calafate, who we hired to take us to Bariloche, over a 1500 km drive from El Chalten. He had to go there anyway, so we helped him turn a problem into an opportunity and he helped us out with the ride.

It was a rainy and cold night at El Chalten, and we did not have a hostel for the night. There was no sign of Pablo and it was getting late.

Beautiful sceneries and clearness of mind

Don't think smelly cheese and sour faces. The French valley in the Chilean park of Torres del Paine is just beautiful, plain and simple.

A lovely green forest, delicate leaves, a stream, a glacier and a fabulous lake view down under. As a special treat, the French valley is a side track, which means that people can leave their bags at camp and go up the trail, light as feathers.
 
The undersigned feather, however, though moving easily up the mountain, still carried some extra luggage. Moderate incline and beautiful sceneries are among the more effective means for feeding the mind.

A failed rescue attempt

Place that makes you go WOW!

El Chalten is a village in the middle of lovely nowhere. Its greatest resource is the natural beauty that surrounds it and a lot of peace and quiet. You have to love peace and quiet if you live in a remote Patagonian village. Life can be quite miserable otherwise.

"I think there is a problem with the Internet." I told the owner of the internet café.

"No," she replied, "it's fine."

"It is extremely slow," I insisted.

Rain, sun, rain and more rain

Eti and Aviel are now my travel companions. Eti is 25, just about to start her studies, alternative medicine probably. Aviel was recently released from his military service and he has since spent his time as a chef in a Barcelona restaurant. One day, his boss at the restaurant told him: "Look, my sister is going on a trip to South America, why would you not join and keep an eye on her?"

He could not find any reason not to, so by this coincidence he, Eti and I ended up in the same camping site, and through a casual conversation in the hostel's kitchen we became travel companions.

Hebrew-speaking Argentinians

So I am finally here. For some reason, I am not as excited as I thought I would be. Probably because my arrival on the South American continent was less than stellar.

After a flight delay from NYC ended up in yours truly running with two bags in George Bush International (I will allow you the educated guess as to the whereabouts of that airport), I found myself encouraging a local driver to go "really fast" through the busy Buenos Aires traffic because the Argentinian airline failed to inform me that my flight would depart from another...airport!