Escuela 231 de Pichi Leufu

“Seño, Seño, ¿Qué hace Señorita? (Teach, teach, What are you doing teacher?)” I didn’t have to turn around to know who was at the door.

“Preparing English classes for next week Marcos.”

“Can I help Seño?” his high pitched voice now in my ear as he pulled on my shirt.

“I don’t think so Marcos. Not today anyway. Thanks for asking.”

Marcos always wanted to help, or hug, or kiss you or climb you as if you were a tree. Actually all the kindergarten students did, all four of them, and a few of the first graders too. Maybe it was because at five, being at a residential school, miles away from their parents, and any type of civilization for the matter, from early Monday morning till late Friday afternoon resulted a bit difficult for them to wrap their brains around. Frankly, it was hard for me and I am 32, not five.

By now Marcos had plopped himself down in the chair next to me, and I knew that there was no way I was getting rid of him till the dinner bell rang at 9:00 that night. I handed him a notebook and a pencil from my bag, and asked him if he wanted to practice his letters we had been working on in class, “Yuupeee!” he shouted grabbing the little green notebook and pencil from my hand.

“What should I draw Seño?” he looked up at me with his big brown eyes, a smile from ear to ear, dirt smudged across the bottom of his chin from an early outdoor game with the other kids. Sweet, sweet, sweet were the words that came to mind and yet I knew Marcos. He could be as sweet as sugar one minute and the incarnation of the devil himself the next. That was part of his charm.

I picked up the book and flipped to the last page written on, “What letter did you write here Marcos?” I asked pointing at the picture of the seal and the letter F.

“Foca, Foca. Fff, Fff, Fff” he chanted in a sing song voice.

“That’s right. The Fff from Foca. So what comes after Fff?”

Marcos jumped down from the chair, pushed his stained shirt sleeves back up over his hands and skipped across the hall to the primary classroom to look at the ABC chart I had pasted to his desk earlier that week. In seconds he was back, panting, “Gato seño. Es un gato, gato, Ggg, Ggg, Ggg.”

“That’s right Marcos. It’s the Gggg of Gato. So, go ahead and draw a picture of gato and then you can write the G.” But I didn’t really have to tell Marcos to draw the cat; he was way ahead of me, head down over his very own notebook.

For the last four weeks, since starting at the residential rural school in the province of Pichi Leufu, Argentina, I have had my eyes opened, not just by Marcos, but by every single one of the 30 students at Escuela 231 de Pichi Leufu.

Situated 65 kilometers from the town of Bariloche, down a bumpy, curvy, hilly, dirt road that becomes impassable in the winter months; the students of public school 231 travel distances and routes to get to school I had only heard about in stories from my grandparents or in rerun episodes of “Little House on the Prairie.” Aldana and her sister Fiorela walk an hour and a half every Monday (and back again on Friday) to meet the bus that picks them up at the “main” dirt road near their house. Niko drags five-year old Luciano down the dirt trails from his house in the mountains above the school, only 45 minutes on Mondays but the return on Friday back up the hill is more like two hours, that is if Luciano isn’t too tired. Rocio Belén travels three hours on horse back from her far flung house in the mountains to the only driveable road in the area, where she is then picked up by a bus and driven another hour to their haven of a school, the only place with electricity in miles around.

Here in this windy, unforgiving climate, there is no internet and no cell service. There isn’t even phone service and twice daily, families gather around the radio, at 8 am and 6 pm, to listen to the “socials”, radio broadcasts on the local public radio station, where they hear not only the local and national news but also any news from family and friends attempting to communicate they way you or I would use the phone or an email, “Maria Hernandez of Pilka would like to inform her sister that their mother is gravely ill. Please come home when you can.” “Sandro Coña of Comallo: please report to your brother in law’s stables tomorrow at 10 am for work.” “Damián Escudo would like to inform Sergio Valdez that Maria has begun her labor.” And on and on . . . Everyone’s personal business broadcasted on the local air waves . . . their only mode of communication between their far flung houses in the middle of no where.

Here, on my breaks between the regular academic classes from 8 to 1 and my English and Computer classes in the afternoon, I would head out of the school on my daily run and see no one, not a house, not a car for the entire hour and a half, just mountains, rocks, the river and the road, stretching out for miles in both directions. At times, I would come across a cow or two, a flock of geese, a herd of sheep or possibly someone on horseback, but even that was rare.

Here, in Damian´s 6th and 7th grade combination class, the six students, boys and girls alike would fight for whose turn it was to share a song with the class. Not a shred of the typical adolescent embarrassment evident as their sweet voices filled the room with music, their classmates accompanying them on the drums or the tambourine.

Here, in the kindergarten to 2nd grade classroom, the kindergartners would sit up just a little bit taller in their seats as I walked I after recess, handing them their green ABC notebooks, “Is it time to work with you Seño?” they would ask, their voices a miniature version of their older siblings, cousins and aunts and uncles in the school.

Here, in the continuing education adult classes that 3rd through 5th grade teacher Andrea taught in the afternoons, we hiked to houses with large holes in their tin roofs from the last big hail storm. No plumbing, no electricity, but a never-ending supply of mate to offer to their Seño and her visiting teacher friend from the United States. Their hospitality was palpable as we passed the hot, bitter drink around the circle, and they thanked us profusely for traversing the roads to come and help them learn.

Here, at the river a ten minute walk from the school, on a Thursday afternoon, the last hot summer day before the winter set in, 30 kids splashed in the water. Not more than half of them in actual bathing suits, their shorts or underwear soaked, their lips blue in the setting sun. They ran and dove and laughed and played and begged me to show them how I swam till I got in and froze my butt off too.

Here at the rural Olympic Games in the 300 inhabitant town of Comallo, we snuggled into our mattresses at night, two groups of students and teachers from two rural schools, asleep together on the floor of a gymnasium, preparing to play each other in Soccer, Chess and the 100 yard dash. We would win few medals the following day, but regardless of how much or little we won, the kids would give it their all, play their hardest, be the best sports they knew how to be.

I went to Pichi Leufu to help. To give the 30 students and 3 teachers some of what I had to offer. My expertise. My good will or something like that. And I am sure I did help. Every little bit helps in this world. But, now as I look back on the experience, I realize it wasn’t really me helping them. Because, what I got back in return was way more than I could have ever given them in 45 minute English or Computer classes, in daily reading or writing lessons.

It was them that taught me something about learning. In the dining room waiting for a small voice to bless our food or in the dorm rooms at night, tucking them in with a bedtime story, or on the recess yard, watching kids from aged 5 to 13 playing soccer together . . . it was not me who taught them, it was them who taught me. About love, about life and hardship and tenacity and togetherness.

Last Thursday after dinner, as I said my good byes in the dining hall, tears dangerously close to the edge of my eyes, one of the “tougher” 6th grade boys, Erik, raised his hand, “Seño?” he questioned, and I nodded for him to go one wondering what profane word he would ask me to translate into English. “Seño,” he said again, his voice almost a whisper, all eyes in the room on him, necks straining to see him as he spoke. “How do you say, ´Please don’t leave us?´ in English Seño?”

I shook my head, unable to respond, a small, sad smile on my face. I walked over to his table where all the 6th and 7th grade boys sat, and as the whole cafeteria erupted into applause, I reached down and hugged Erik, tears running down my cheeks, “Gracias Erik. Gracias, alumnos de 231. I´ll miss you too.”

The solo, not so solo backpacking trip

Truth be told, I didn’t want to go backpacking alone. Not just because I thought my father would verbally "kill me" if he found out, though that was definitely part of it. I could just hear him in the little voice in my head, “Jennifah, are you insane? A woman alone in the wilderness? Don’t be so naïve. The problem is you are too trusting! Do you want to give me a heart attack?” And on and on and on . . . that must be the Jewish father in him. But really, I didn’t want to go alone, because frankly, I was a bit scared. Sure, I know what you’re thinking, scared? After all that she’s done on her own, by herself? She’s scared? But it’s true, I was.

So, I went looking for the potential backpacking partners: Salvador a fellow traveller from Guatemala on break from his university in Brazil and Diego, a guy that works at the hostel I tend to stay at when in Bariloche for the weekend. Of course, Salvador was no longer anywhere to be found. He had moved on to the next town, as travellers have a tendency to do. And Diego, well Diego, was asleep when I called and had no intention of getting up any time soon.

Upon realization that I was on my own if I was going to go up into the mountains last weekend, I did what I do best, I procrastinated. First, I attempted to find a place to fix my now broken digital camera. That took up a few hours. I, then, had to look for some sort of picture taking device, given that I wasn’t going to go up into the mountains with no camera. That too took time. I had to food shop so that I would be well prepared up there all by myself. And of course, since Friday is my only week day in civilization since starting at the rural school, I had to go to the post office to mail yet another batch of postcards. By this time it was almost 4:00 and now it seemed late to start out. But as I sat there in the hostel trying to figure out what else I could do for the weekend, Gustavo, one of the hostel´s employees looked at me and said, “Go already, you’re driving me nuts. You’ll be fine. The route’s well marked. You have time before sunset. It’ll be fun. Just go.” So, I went.

It was after 5 when I got off the bus and headed down the dirt road alongside Lago Gutierrez to enter the Nahuel Haupi National Park, and almost 6 when I finally got the permit and the directions on how to find the trail head. The ranger assured me that it was nearly impossible to get lost and that I should have no problem making it to the camping area by 10 when the sun actually set. I must have asked him at least twenty times if I could get lost, until finally he looked at me as if to say, “Seriously, are you really that dumb or deaf or do you just not understand what I am saying in Spanish?” He didn’t say that of course. He just laughed pointed down the road and told me to go on and get started before I lost the daylight I had remaining. Clearly, I was still procrastinating.

In the end, the ranger and Gustavo were both right, the trail was well marked. I think even my mother wouldn’t have gotten lost on this trail and she could get lost in our house going from the kitchen to the bathroom. But no one, not the ranger, not Gustavo, not John, who had done the route a few weeks earlier, mentioned, “Oh yeah, by the way, it’s four hours UP hill.” So there I was sweating my catooties off with a backpack as heavy as I had ever carried it. This camping on your own made for a strenuous trip.

As the sun dipped behind the mountain, the refuge and camping area still over an hour away, I began the last long uphill stretch for the day. I walked bent over forward, taking miniscule steps, the backpack feeling like three thousand pounds instead of thirty. Behind me, I heard voices and turned around to see who would clearly now pass me as I moved turtle like up the mountain. There on the trail about 100 feet below me were two young boys hiking obviously much faster than I. They caught up to me, slowed their clip, and as we made our way up to the camping next to Refugio Frey, we began to chat.

That night under a moon so full it felt like daytime, the three of us sat eating rice primavera and talking about what people always talk about when they are traveling, how it is that you go to be in whatever place you are currently in. Martín and David were both university students in Buenos Aires on their summer vacation. They had been coming to this same mountain since they were twelve. For them, it was like coming home. For me, it was a group of people to camp near, not quite so alone in the wilderness afterall. Of course, it did cross my mind that these two teenaged boys, could indeed be murderers, rapists or thieves, but in lieu of foraging a place on my own in the dark, I decided to risk it.

In the end, I decided against putting the tent up since the boys were without a tent and the night was clear. Despite the brightness of the moon, a good number of stars shone above us, and as we climbed into our respective sleeping bags, a shooting star zipped across the night sky. I breathed in the clean mountain air; lay in my bag, glasses off, world a fuzzy blur, listening to the river rushing below and the howl of the wind in my ears. This was life. And to think I hadn’t wanted to come camping by myself.

It was either the sun or the large quantity of dust in my face that awoke me the next morning hours before either of my two "campsite mates." I tapped around on the ground searching for my glasses, covered in a film of light brown sand and wiped them and my face on the already dirty sleeve of my sweater. The morning was crisp and as I sat eating my cheese and tomato sandwich, writing in my journal, I thought maybe I would continue on to the next refuge, Jakob, instead of heading back down to Lago Gutierrez that day. David and Martín had sworn it was worth the five or six hour hike and that really it was just two big up hills and two descents. "No big deal," they assured me, "Piece of cake." Really, the next time some one tells me that the two up and down hills are no big deal, I will make sure to ask them to be a bit more descriptive before making a decision about whether or not to follow them up the mountain.

We set off as a group but within minutes I realized, there was no way I would keep pace with these young kids and told them to go ahead, which of course, they did. That’s not to say I never saw them again. They would wait to me at the top of the summit or the bottom of the descent before moving on for most of the day. So I was alone, but not completely.

I am not sure there are words to accurately depict what kind of day Saturday was, other than perhaps pure torture. If Friday’s ascent had been more up hill and more strenuous than I had imagined, well, Saturday’s hike made me long for the hours of late Friday afternoon heading toward Frey. The first section of the day, an hour climb to a glacier lake left me breathless but still in good spirits. There, David and Martín awaited me sprawled out on rocks and taking pictures of the scenery. The next segment continued up through the snow and onto a path entirely made out of large boulders that required you to quite literally lift your body up from one to the next, looking for a handhold while desperately holding on with one hand and your foot to the rock beneath you. I reached the top and took in my surroundings, Tronodor Mountain to my left, Nahuel Haupi Lake shining below fringed by snow capped peaks on every side. It was indeed breathtaking, that is, if the climb had left me with any breath to be taken.

What ensued from then on, I swear, can only be described as sheer masochism, or is it sadism? I always get those two confused. The descent to the river from the top was nothing short of sliding straight down a mountain, praying as you careened downward, that the landslide you were creating as you slid snowboard style down the hill was not being repeated by someone directly above you. By the time I got down to the ravine, my shoes were absolutely filled to the brim with dirt, rocks and probably a few flowers I destroyed on the way. I was beginning to question the decision made in the beauty of the morning light to continue to Jakob, but looking back up over my shoulder, I knew it was too late now.

After a quiet lunch by a waterfall, we set out toward the last up and down hill sections of the day. David warned me that what had come before paled in comparison to what we would encounter on the next two sections. At that moment, my ignorance was indeed bliss. I lost sight of the two boys immediately upon beginning the ascent up a rock strewn side of a mountain and for over an hour, sweat poured down my face into my eyes, my mouth and down my neck as I labored upwards toward the summit. As I struggled up, up, up, I scanned to rocks above me looking for the tell tale red dots marking my way. I promised myself not to stop for more water till I reached the next trail marker swatting dozens of Tabanas, the large black biting flies, as I walked.

Up ahead as my watch read 5:30 in the afternoon, I could make out Martín’s head, the sun blotting out the rest of his body. “Is that the top?” I cried out, praying for an affirmation.

“¡Sí!” came the much needed reply as I pulled myself up the last section and sank onto the hard earth.

“Thank god,” I breathed as I pulled out my water and finished the rest of the bottle. “I am dead.”

“Not so fast,” David pointed to the horizon, “That’s where we’re going.”

I looked across the valley and sure enough, there was a small house, el refugio San Martín and camping. But where was the trail? I continued searching to no avail and finally asked the question, dreading the inevitable answer, “And the trail?”

They exchanged wary looks that did not calm my spirit before David finally spoke, “Just take your time. It’s a bit steeper than the first descent and since it’s mostly rocks, it’s very slippery. Take your time. Take it slow and we’ll see you at the camping.”

“Take my time, take it slow. Take my time, take it slow. . . ” I breathed in and out as I stepped and then slipped and then fell on my butt, stepped and then slipped and then fell on my butt. My hands were scraped raw, the back of my leg bleeding from one of the many falling rocks, my heart raced, the tabana flies swarmed and the sun beat down mercilessly from above. This was NOT fun, in any way, shape, or form. What kind of masochist was I anyway? I must have been insane when I decided to go on this hike! I could hear my father’s laugh in my head as I relayed the story days later. That is if I didn’t fall to my death trying to get down the mountain. The boys long gone; my head pounding, visions of broken legs, cracked skulls and night fall began to race through my mind.

So, I began to do the only thing I could think of to help the situation. Obviously, I began to talk to the flies, “Please,” I implored, my voice a high pitched whine, “Please tabanas, please leave me alone. I just can’t handle you too.” Bam, I fell again and the tabanas swarmed around me.

When that didn’t work, I thought, maybe I would try the universe. Perhaps I was starting too low on the hierarchy, “Um, hello, Universe? Could you help me out here? I get you can’t make this go any faster. But could you at least get rid of these flies? I just can’t take it anymore.” I was defintitely losing my mind.

But of course, that too failed. Out of entities, insects and people to plead for help, I thought to even try my mom, figuring she might have some pull with someone up there, but no such luck.

Finally, fifteen falls on my you know what later, I reached flat ground. Turning around to look up behind me, the mountain loomed above me sneering sinisterly. I swear, the mountain was definitely laughing.

“Home free!” I thought. I would have skipped down the flat trail if I could have, but my legs were screaming and refused to do much more than a lopsided, slow stroll. In my head, I skipped toward the refuge on muddy trails, thinking, “I mean really, how hard could the last few kilometers be?”

“Glunk” was the sound I heard, as my left foot, followed by my whole left leg slipped down into the mud, just as if I had stepped in quick sand. I lurched forward quickly pulling my right foot with me. Luckily it came free. But the left one was completely stuck. I began to dig out my leg, mud flying everywhere, and as I dug, more mud sunk on top of my shoe and leg. Faster and faster I dug, alternately leaning forward to support myself on the muddy ground to try to pull my left leg out of the hole, but to no avail. I was stuck. I stood there, sunken into the ground, looking around the deserted trail. No one in front of me, no one behind me. I called out for help, no answer. My watch read 7:00 pm, three hours to sundown and getting colder. “I’m either going to start hysterically laughing or hysterically crying.” I said aloud to no one in particular, as I struggled once again against the cold mud around my leg. Laugh it was. Cracking up, I dug, pulled, dug, pulled, tried to take my shoe off, dug, pulled, till finally, POP! Out came my leg and BAM! I landed face first in the mud.

Scrambling to get out of there before I sunk again, I unfortunately, missed the trail marking flag telling me to cross the river at that exact spot and so oblivious and covered in mud, continued on my way to clean myself off. Not two minutes later, I reached the end of the trail, faced with an impassable point in the river. Clearly this was not the way. I turned around to see where I had gone wrong, and BOOM! Back down in the mud, this time on my right side. I shook my head as I stood up, “You have got to be kidding me.” I muttered as I headed back down to the river to clean myself off again. To the right I saw what looked like it might be a trail if you could get through the brush that had overgrown the beginning, so I headed up the hill to try it out, but no, it was merely another mud trap waiting for a cold, exhausted, fed up hiker. Yep, that would be me.

Now once again, covered in mud, I gave up trying to clean myself off and headed back the way I came. How the heck was I ever going to find my way to the campground? This was the unfortunate part of hiking alone with the sense of direction of a flea. So much for well marked.

Luckily for me, just as I was about to throw myself in the river and give up on life, a couple came down the muddy path and together the three of us, determined that the trail crossed the river back at my mud hole, with no bridge, three small rocks to step on and a steep drop off to the right. Clearly this was the way. However had I missed that?

And forty muddy minutes later, I dragged myself into camp to a bemused couple of boys, just about to send out the search party.

I know what you must be thinking. Sounds like fun, Jen. Lots of fun. And I admit, if the trip had ended then, it might very well have been my last solo backpacking trip ever. Fortunately for my future forays with Mother Nature, I settled into my muddy sleeping bag and slept like the dead under another amazing moon, and awoke the next day ready for my last stint on the trail before getting back to Bariloche.

By the time I had finagled a cup of coffee from the refuge, the boys had already headed out, so, I decided to put a little music to my hike. I broke out the ipod, donned the head phones and I was off.

What a hike home it was. I don’t know exactly what it was that made the hike back to Bariloche so completely rejuvenating. Maybe it was just the sense of self accomplishment for having gotten through something on my own that had scared me. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t fallen down the mountain or gotten stuck in the mud and frozen to death. Or perhaps it was the music that accompanied me as I literally ran down the trail past yellow, orange and purple flowers, through sunlit trees and across rivers with no bridges, a rope keeping me from falling down the waterfall below. I don’t know exactly what it was, but four short hours later when a dirty, muddy, smelly, sore version of Jen skipped the last few feet to the trailhead, I wasn’t the least bit bothered that I had just missed my bus back to the hostel in Bariloche . . .I knew I would find my way, just fine.

Clarification

I know the last entry confused some of you that talk to me more frequently so I thought I would clarify what´s going on. I am still volunteering at the rural school 65 km outside of Bariloche and staying there during the week. The "paria" entry was from the week before I began at the school, but I was behind in publishing due to my lack of contact with modern technology. I am currently working on an entry about the school, but may publish some other entries in the meantime that are already done. . .

Thanks for reading. . . çç
jen

El grupo paria

If I remember correctly, it was Lucas that I met first. He was lying in the top bunk when I came back from god only knows where, and as I entered the room, he sat up.

“Sorry to wake you,” I whispered as I sat down on my bed to organize my belongings.

“Nah, I was already awake.” He replied sitting up on one elbow, “Che, where are you from and why do you speak Spanish so well?”

I, of course, assumed he wanted what my mother told all men want, but I was in the mood to talk (when am I not?), so I laughed and asked him which version of the story he wanted, the abridged or unabridged one. He said he had time on his hands, so I told him the whole thing. I guess he didn´t really know what he was gettinghimself into when he first told me to go ahead and tell him the long version, but when I finished my life´s story, he nodded, climbed down off the bunk, told me he hoped to see me later and went into the bathroom to shower.

Later on that night, as I checked out my prospects for travel partners or potential friends for the week, I noticed there were two groups: the Israelis and the group from Buenos (Porteños). I saw Lucas among them, and thought about going over to sit with him and his Porteño friends. But they were all in the middle of making asado, which consists of grilling large quantities of meat, so you can imagine my hesitation. Plus, there was that voice in my head nagging me about Lucas´s intentions and anyway, I had to get up early the next day to go on the Tronador trip. So I called it an early night and hit the hay. That’s not to say that I was able to fall asleep when I went downstairs at midnight since the Porteños were just beginning to grill and it would be hours before dinner was actually ready. It had to have been 5 in the morning when they finally called it quits. So, when I got up the next day at 7:30 in the morning, sure, I tried to be quiet, but not that quiet. After all, what comes around goes around, right?

The next night as I waited for 11:30 to roll around, the obvious hour to get together with people for drinks, I saw Lucas and company once again. They had just come in from the balcony with pizzas and I stood by the doorway unsure about whether or not I should join them. After all, they were obviously life long friends and why would they want some silly Yankee at their table, just because she spoke Spanish.

Who exactly it was among them that told me to sit down and eat some pizza, I am not sure, but one of them finally spoke to me. I think they took pity on my pathetic expression, but whatever the reason, I wasn´t about to say no. Not even because I had eaten already. Of course, I told them that, but that didn’t matter in the least.

Seconds later, I had a slice of pizza and coca-cola and fernet, a liquorice flavored liquor very popular among Argentineans, and of course the group was dying to know where I was from and why I spoke Spanish so well.

Lucas held up his hand to me as if to say, “Let me do the talking.” And promptly launched into an abridged story of my life, Argentinean style. Once the collective laughter had died down, I figured it was my turn to question them, so I inquired about how they had all decided to come to Bariloche for their vacation.

“Somos parias,” explained Ricky, the others nodding their agreement.

“¿Parias?” I inquired, wracking the dictionary in my brain and coming up blank. This was a new word for me.

“Parias. Parias are people that don´t quite fit in. Actually, we all met yesterday here in the hostal. All of us ended up here in Bariloche alone and mostly unexpectedly, and found this group of misfits to spend some time with.”

“Yesterday?” I was incredulous. Just last night had been the night I watched them cooking up an asado as I headed for bed, as if they had been friends their whole lives.

“That’s how parias are,” Mariana explained, “Why don’t you join us tonight out for a beer? See if you might be a paria too.”

But, I couldn’t meet them out. I already had plans, so I wrote down my number and email in case we didn’t see each other and went out to find my new friends from the Tronador excursion earlier that day.

About mid way through the night, around 2 in the morning, I saw them saunter into Wilkenneys, a definite motley crew. There was Ricky, the business man in Bariloche because his work truck had broken down and stranded him there; Santi, the hippie, a chef who´s trip to Bariloche had been purchased last minute by a friend of his so he could go on vacation. Mariana, the teacher in the group on summer vacation, had come with a couple of colleagues that apparently didn´t see eye to eye. Ruben was the young, shy one in the group, in Bariloche a week earlier than his his friends with the look of a lost puppy. And then there was of course, Lucas, the one sure to pull a practical joke on you at some point in the evening, who had searched high and low in vain for someone to vacation with, but when no one was free, decided, "what the heck, I´m going anyway." They stopped by my table to say hello, but then went off to find a spot for themselves.

Later, on my way to the bathroom, there they were standing in a group cracking each other up. I never returned to my table.

Several Guinness and many hours later as we stood on the balcony of the Hostal Backpacker Nomad watching the sun come up over the lake, I thought to myself, “Here they are. I’ve found my travel group for the week . . . el grupo paria.”

I have to say that the rest of the week was a bit of a blur. After each late night, someone would usually remark, “Mañana arrancamos temprano.”

But perhaps, going out to dinner at midnight or Santi cooking fajitas at one in the morning prevented us from really getting up early to get to know the city of Bariloche and all it had to offer.

Yet, despite our late starts, we did manage to have a few daytime adventures as well. I believe the one most representative of them would have to be our trip to Campenario, one of the local mountains with some of the “best” views of Bariloche.

Of course, by the time we actually got to the mountain, it was already 6 p.m. and the cable car transporting people up to the top ran only to 6:30 so we had no other choice but to walk up. That was fine by me, since my preferred method of travel is usually the one involving a walk or a hike, but I had forgotten my hiking shoes and was in my flip flops. Come to think of it, so were Lucas and Santi. Ricky was the only one that had wear appropriate shoes. But since the park ranger told us it was only a 30 minute walk, we figured we could do it in flip flops and off we went to find the trail.

Lucas led us up the dusty, steep trail along side the cable car, and immediately I knew something was wrong. I tried to convince them as we slipped and slid and fell in the dust on the side of the mountain that there was no way that this was the trail, but to no avail. By then, Lucas had broken one of his flip flops and Santi and I were laughing so hard, we could barely pull ourselves any higher on the trail. We had been “hiking” a little over ten minutes and less than 50 meters when we heard from down below, “¡Chicos, esto NO es el sendero!”

Of course it wasn’t the trail. . . how could it have been a trail that takes only 30 minutes to reach the top, recommended for families and whoever decides not to take the cable car as a leisurly hike.

We nearly died laughing then, the other visitors and rangers down below, looking up at us in our complete stupidity, shaking their heads. But now that we knew that this wasn´t the trail, we had another, bigger, problem; how to get down. Santi immediately began to slide down the mountain, followed close behind by Richard, luckily stopping themselves on a tree in the middle of the “path.” Lucas, following their example, flip flops in hand, flew by me and nearly right by Santi and Ricky as well, at a velocity that could not have felt good on his poor bare feet. Luckily for him, Santi was quick with a hand out to stop him from breaking his neck.

I was another story. I was not about to break my leg, my face or even my flip flops getting down the mountain and despite Santi´s insistence that he could catch me as I ran down, I sat down on my butt and did the old "slip on down," kicking up clouds of dust as I slid.

So there we were, 30 minutes later, covered in dust, a broken flip flop and no closer to the top . . . complete parias.

After a few more false starts and three or four breaks to fix Lucas’s flip flops, take some silly picures and enjoy the scenery, we did finally make it to the vista point and it was well worth the effort as we stood up on the tower at the top of the mountain, looking out over dozens of lakes, islands and mountains that dotted the horizon.

We set the timer on Santi´s camera to capture the moment and as the camera went click, a desire to punch the air matrix style kicked in, and so in the spirit of the strangeness of the day, I did. And wouldn’t you know it, when we looked at the photo, there was Santi jumping high into the air, Ricky, in a karate pose and Lucas looking like Jackie Chan, definite paria style.