The
first time I had heard of El Bolson was when a friend recounted a
tale about a friend of hers when in Buenos Aires. It had been settled
(if that's the right word) by a bunch of hippies in the late
seventies who came looking for a peaceful place to live, make their
crafts and generally be at peace with the universe. Orion, the
protagonist in the story had been enticed to El Bolson by the
plentiful fruit and nuts growing naturally and the general feel of
the place. He had set his heart on making jam and had even gone so
far as to purchase a machine to sterilise the jam jars.
Unfortunately, for a plethora of reasons, Orion remains in Buenos
Aires but the jam jar steriliser is still somewhere in El Bolson.
Another friend, a big Tolkien fan had described it as like Hobbiton
or somewhere in The Shire. Sure we'd have to give the place a visit,
if even only for a day or two.
People
in Esquel had referred to El Bolson as being a bit more liberated, so
trying to keep ourselves consistent with the rumours we didn't book
anywhere ahead and got off the bus with no idea where to start. It
was the first day of 2009 and the sun beat down strongly – the
search for shade became the top priority. It was too hot to wander
around with the rucksacks and be accommodation opportunists.
Leaving
Claire in a shady park I started to have a look around, first for
somewhere with the internet or wireless and then for anywhere with a
cold drink. Being the day it was, everywhere was closed and the town
felt like the alarm had gone off but it had rolled over and gone back
to sleep, groggy after the previous nights festivities. Mercifully,
the tourist information office was open and I returned with a handful
of leaflets. One, for La Casa del Viajero stood out, partly because
it said “call us we pick you up” and partly because the hostel
promised peace and harmony as well as a laundry service and wi-fi.
I
called and the voice at the end apologised that he was in the middle
of lunch and would be a while before he got down to us, but they had
room. Augustin Porro, the casa del viajero's owner pulled up 30
minutes later in a well kept but aged white Peugeot 504 and warmly
hugged his departing passengers goodbye as we put our rucksacks in
the boot. On the way to the hostel he picked up some ice cream “for
his house” and pointed out the local amenities, the short-cut to
the centre and the best panaderia in town. He also picked up 2 of his
children who squeezed in.
The
hostel itself consists of 2 houses plus Augustin's own house all
surrounded by leafy trees and an organic veggie garden. Augustin
built all the houses himself from scratch and the one we were staying
was the first built. He took a lot of pride in telling us that the
room we were to stay in was the room where he had delivered 2 of his
children (one, Paz, or Peace had joined us in the car). Almost as
soon as we arrived we could feel ourselves chilling out – bizarre
seeing as we had not had anything to stress us out for months. It was
just the feeling of the place, hammocks slung all over, friendly dogs
lazing and the dappled sunlight playing on the plants.
We
met our housemates, Omar, a considered, slow speaking older gent from
Turkey and lively couple from Buenos Aires. The hours past quickly
as we chatted – eventually we picked up some groceries in the only
kiosko open and retired early, exhausted from doing nothing.
12
hours fitful slumber later we awoke to the sound of birds chirping
and a few hen clucks.
Our
housemates had all moved on. We borrowed the hostel bikes and went to
explore the town which had woken up a little but not too much. The
incidence of very cool old cars, trucks and integrated
truck/coach/campervans of the type that may have frequented Woodstock
or an early Glastonbury increased. Some for sale.
Polish
Krys who we had stayed with in Esquel had made it up to a different
hostel a day before us so we decided to cycle up to pay him a visit.
The bikes we had borrowed were also from a bygone era so by the time
we got the 5km out of town we were in need of new buttocks. Krys was
in bed and the hostel were fresh out of spare posteriors so we
settled for a big bottle of delicious home made beer instead. This
turned into a few more bottles and the plans to bike a few miles to a
waterfall dissipated.
We
did however make plans to meet Krys at a different waterfall the
following day. It seemed a lovely place .. we thought perhaps we
should stay for another night. Johnny from Coventry who was staying
in the other house joined us for soup and our host took a bowl for
himself over to his house. He had been on the walk we planned the
next day and talked us through Augustin's hand drawn map.
It
was the type of walk you do when you're 10 years old. Scrambling over
rocks, under tree roots and hopping over stones in the river. Even a
fabulously rickety old bridge which felt like it was about to
collapse as we stepped over the many missing slats. I half expected
to encounter Bilbo Baggins tending to his garden around the next
curve. Baggins translated into Spanish is Bolson, aptly enough. We followed the river via simple yet effective directions (not
up, middle path, smell of sulpher) to the cascada escondida or hidden
waterfall.
We
climbed up the stairs past the falls into a botanical gardens “for
the contemplation and study of native and exotic plant species”. It
could have been Wicklow with its varieties of pines, but I suppose
that's exotic in South America. Onwards up the dusty trail, ideal for
horses but we seriously regretted sandals as we got more and more
covered in grey-black dust from our knees down, It really was like
being 10 again! The path took us to La Cabeza del Indio, a rocky
outcrop famous for resembling an Indian's head.
The
trek ended in town - it was market day so we were expecting a few
stalls with the ubiquitous thread bracelets and their dread-locked
vagabond makers - not much more.
The
feria in El Bolson is the most like being at a festival that I have
ever felt without actually being at one. Hundreds of tastefully
decorated stalls with excellent quality crafted goods – wood,
stone, leather. glass, fabric. Amazing food, great home made beers. A
live band jamming, as much for their own enjoyment as anyone elses.
Bohemian characters panning out, joking, sipping mate. It's an almost
magical place. We met Oswald, a neigbour of Augustin's who works with
stones and a bloke from Kent who had moved over to run his Dad's
waffle business. Barbara, Augustin's niece invited us to an asado at
the hostel that evening. We also met Krys (who we hadn't seen at the
hidden waterfall) and joined a group of people from the other hostel
(Sofia from Buenos Aires, Phil from Edinburgh and Rosario from
Rosario) to chill out in the shade and drink in the atmosphere.
Claire bought a lovely handmade dress which would definitely go well
with a pair of wellies and some Glastonbury mud. Rosario hooked up
with the band's xylophonist, with a slightly bizarre indentation in
his chest a bit like my mate Karl's but more pronounced (he jammed
barechested). The bikes rode us home.
We
had been joined by 2 couples in the house after having had it to
ourselves for a night – Aisling and Keith, Gaelscoil teachers from
Kerry and Cork and an American couple who weren't very good at
introducing themselves. We enjoyed a fabulous Asado, probably the
best thus far as they settled into the house. A really great
atmosphere, everyone bringing something to the table be it wine or
meat or bread. Maybe one more night...
It
was a very lazy Sunday ... we managed to make it back down to the
fair to meet back up with the crowd and sup mate. We just about made
it back to flop on the hammock and chat to Aisling and Keith while
the American dude taught what seemed to be his recently acquired and
admittedly very pleasant trophy girlfriend chess in a very
dictatorial manner.
Augustin
wandered over and invited me over to his workshack to see his
craftwork. He had an orchestral concert on his portable TV and a few
fabulous unfinished pig leather hats on his worktop. As he finished
off the hats, carefully shaping the leather with a sharp knife, we
chatted about how it had all happened in El Bolson.
Augustin
arrived in the early 80s along with the rest of the crew. In order to
stimulate sales growth of their local produce he marketed “El
Sabado Bolson Feria Regional de 10 a 14” by placing stickers in
bathrooms and lamposts all over Bariloche. They came in droves and
thus began the hippy fair. In an oddly capitalistic fashion, but the
rule was that only items made in the area by people living in the
area could be sold. I tried on a hat – only one fit (I have a big
head) and went back to our cabin. Maybe we'd stay another night...
The
alarm went off the next morning and it was a real struggle to get up.
We had to take the 8 o'clock bus to Warton Camp from where we would
trek to El Cajon del Azul, a river ravine up the Blue River valley.
Aisling came with – Keith's foot was at him and he had a date with
the hammock. It was fresher than other days and there were clouds in
the air for the first time in quite a while. Perfect hiking weather.
We
didn't have a map but a well equipped porteňo (food for 10 days!)
set us off in the right direction, down a long ripio track before we
came to a ford with a wire and timber, one-at-a-time bridge followed
by a longer more rickety one to cross the other bend in the river.
Not quite as big a drop as Indiana Jones might have been used to but
definitely as dodgy. It was an up and down track through cypress,
pine and bamboo forests roughly tracing the river. We kept a good
pace, chatting all along as we passed camping refugios selling
homemade bread and beer (all you really need to survive in Middle
Earth).
After
we reached yet another wobbly bridge over the 40m deep, 1m wide chasm
that gave the path its name, we sat down to a picnic in a pretty
refuge complete with a collection of cute week old kittens gambolling
around and sheep munching away on the rich pasture. Aisling went into
the woods for a natural break and literally had the shit scared out
of her by a Patagonian hare.
It
stared to spit rain so we made a move after visiting the nacimiento,
the birth of the ravine where the river enters it. Chilly on the way
back, it seemed to and did take longer, about 4 hours. We had asked
for the times of the bus back but even the bus driver wasn't so sure,
but a few games of 20 questions passed the time before the bus
turned up and took us out of the cold. Strange to have such extremes
of temperature in the same place in the same season, although we all
did smirk a little at the news of the cold snap in Europe. Minus
craziness! Come to El Bolson!! We had some pizza as a reward for our
hard work and looked forward to sleeping in. I guess that would mean
another day in la casa del viajero!
Looking
at the date for what actually was the first time all year, we saw
that we had a flight for NZ in a week. We were supposed to work our
way up to Santiago through Chile and see the lakes, volcanoes and
islands. It would have to be a flying visit or none at all. We chose
the latter, determining that it was better to not see Chile at all
really than not do it justice. We'll have to see Chile some other
time.
The
fair was on again (T, TH, S, S) so we did some chores then headed on
down and got some souvenirs and said our goodbyes to the people we
had come to know in our short time there. We really needed to move on
or else we'd stay for ever and start growing hairs on our toes and
disappearing whenever the Japanese tour buses would arrive. Clowns
ran about making children nearly suffocate with laughter and band
played on. Delicious strong raspberry beers all around.
We
had arranged to do an asado with Keith and Ais that night so we
picked up a mountain of meat on the way back and began to prepare.
Augustin showed me his 2 fire method of cooking (highly effective)
and gathered wood with us, leaving his machete for us when he went
off for his own dinner. Nicolas from La Plata joined us and mid way
through Augustin appeared back at the fire, bottle of bubbly and
flutes in hand to toast (or celebrate as he said) our departure. This
was a hostel like no other surely.
As
we reluctantly packed up our mess and prepared to leave I decided to
get that hat from Augustin – mine had gone missing in Esquel and
they were so .... appropriate it felt wrong not to buy it – i had
seen it being born and was the only person to have ever tried it on.
He even made an extra tie to make sure it didn't blow off somewhere
on the trip. We packed back into the 504 and hugged happy-sad
goodbyes. It felt great knowing that El Bolson, and La Casa del
Viajero would always be the same.
