11 January 2011

Jordan did not sell his ticket to the hostel. He sold it to the bus station clerk who sold it to him in the first place. An American lady needing a ticket almost purchased it but she didn’t have any money because the ATM was empty and she would’ve been on an honor system (Jordan said to leave the money at a certain place and a friend would retrieve it for him). It would’ve been complicated with her anyway. While we waited for the bus clerk to get money Jordan scrambled eggs for us in his hostel kitchen. The kitchen was swarmed with flies just as it had been last night.

We crammed Tal and Jordan’s packs into the car, got Jordan's money, and we were off to El Bolson. Eight miles later the pavement gave way to gravel. It was more like small boulders in places and each scrape and knock was heart stopping.  The idea of a brake line or the fuel line or anything breaking due to an errant mini-boulder was not pleasant. however the road did smooth out to something more manageable in a few places. We stopped to inspect what appeared to be volcanic rocks but were something else. The dark color and pock marks gave the impression of volcanic origin. We also stopped to photograph the headless rotted corpse shell of a guanaco and the mysterious gravesite of a young Japanese man.

Jordan jumped in the back to sleep and Tal and I listened to music. One ear bud in each ear. Her tiny loud external speaker had died. We high-fived each other when the road returned to pavement but our joy only lasted about 100 miles and then it was back to nail biting gravel.

At Bajo Caracoles we got gas, ice cream, cookies, and coke. The coke was flat so we got a second bottle but it too was flat. I was looking on the map for Cueva de las Manos and it wasn’t far. I thought maybe we had passed it already. The gas station clerk said it closed at 7. It was 6. We considered getting a room at the gas station which was also a hotel but we went to the small hostel in town (it was hardly a town but wikipedia says the population is 100 which is laughable) and they said Ceuvas de las Manos closes at 8 so we booked it on over to the cave. There is a big sign that says the last tour is at 7. In twenty-six minutes I sped us down curving gravel roads doing my best not to slide everywhere or cause an accident. I got us there with five minutes to spare.

We paid the 50 peso fee, got out helmets, and then the tour began. There is only one cave. All the paintings are on walls outside of the cave on the face of large cliffs. Mostly hands but also animals. It was interesting and mysterious. Why would they paint so many hands and how did they get the animals so exact each time?

Some guys helmet fell off and rolled down the hill into the canyon below. We all watched it disappear. The canyon is an anomaly in the surrounding desert wasteland. The river running through gives life and all is green. The tall sharp cliffs and expansive sky give the distinct impression of the American west.

The gravel road to Perito Moreno turned to pavement after about 20 miles. What a relief. I don’t believe there’s any more gravel until some point after Bariloche. On the road I stopped to take a picture of a bus amongst some construction equipment but saw a car approaching so I pretended to be inspecting my car. That’s when I saw a cable hanging from my rear passenger tire. I don’t know what it’s for but it can’t be good. The car is still running great.

In Perito Moreno we were told by a bartender at a hotel that every room in town was full. We found a double room for 308 pesos and a hostel for 60 pesos each. I opened the rear of my car and everything was coated in a thick dust. I couldn’t believe it. At some point I will need to completely empty my car and give it a thorough cleaning.

While riding down the gnarly gravel road Tal said, “This is just like the roads in Bolivia.” I replied, “That’s why I’m not going there.” Bolivia may be a nice country but it’s not worth it if visiting will destroy my car.

We went out to eat a late dinner (12 am) but I wasn’t hungry so I asked only for tiramisu. They didn’t have any so I declined food. Tal and Jordan got a little upset with furrowed brows. “You don’t want to eat?” So I ordered a bowl of vegetable soup.

I have eaten only a few times with Jordan and from these limited experiences I gather that in Israel a large communal meal is a staple amongst family and friends. I do not care much about eating much less fixing a proper meal but for the Israelis I think they must perform this ritual. It’s a source of familial bonding and strengthening friendships. This virtue was never impressed upon me in my family.