Tuesday, February 18, 2025

Day 12 - Argentina 2025: Esquel a Perito Moreno

Today was the first of my long drives, so I started fairly early in the morning, just to waste one hour following the wrong road. Rats! I used to pride myself on a sixth sense that warned me when I was going in the wrong direction, but I am afraid that is one of the abilities that is eroded by old age. Eventually I backtracked and got on the right road, and happily traversed the green foothills parallel to the mountain range, enjoying the brilliant green colors of the surroundings. And then the vegetation became gradually sparser and drier, and it started to feel more like driving through the high desert of western Nevada.

After 100 km I came to a town, whose name I cannot remember, and picked up a hitchhiker. Candela Rocío Simoné, last name Coronel, is a slender young woman who was going back to her home in Comodoro Rivadavia, along the Atlantic coast. She could have been one of my students, but in contrast with them, who hardly speak, this girl spoke incessantly in the most colorful accent and with the most confusing vocabulary. I had to strain to make sense of what she said because she used so many "young" expressions (e.g., "dow" to express "wow", or "nosotros somos guanacos" to mean that "we youngsters are easy going"). I felt that over the following three hours I got a personalized class in the way the new generation of Argentinians think and speak.

The wind was picking up as I drove farther south, and Cande warned me that the road was full of potholes and slow going. She was not kidding. It is not the worst road I have driven, but it is pretty high on the list. Plus the wind was howling by then, lifting enormous clouds of dust and tossing the car sideways. It now felt that I was traveling through central Nevada, hot and dusty. Eventually we got to the road intersection where my new friend had to get down, and I feared her slender form was going to be carried by the hurricane-strength winds. I waited until she got her next lift, and from there continued on my way south.

Shortly thereafter I picked up a young gaucho, with saddle and all. He is a cowboy at one of the estancias, and gave me all sorts of info about life out in the range. He works a 20 days on/10 days off schedule, but sometimes they work straight for months to build up some savings. Looks like fun work, looking after 1,500 heads of cattle, except when it is -15 degrees C and a meter of snow covers the ground. He is also father to a baby boy, and I am not sure his wife is happy when he stays for months out at la estancia. After dropping him off I kept a firm hand on the steering wheel, countering the buffets of the wind, for an additional 150 km to the town of Perito Moreno. 

The town is named after Francisco Moreno, an Argentinian explorer, surveyor, and diplomat, who traveled extensively through Argentina and Chile, and in 1896, was appointed as Perito (expert judge) to the Border Commission to solve the many disputes existing between Argentina and Chile regarding the precise location of the international border. As Perito he guided the different teams of engineers and surveyors who marked the border, and afterward was elected to the House of Representatives, where he made important contributions to education, economic advancement of the remote regions of Argentina, and creation of the national park system. He is much respected by Argentinians and Chileans alike.  

Once I got to my lodgings I found out that I was not expected for another day and there was no place at the inn. However, my young host, Mauro, got busy making phone calls and found me at room at Vicky's (there is a whole network of places to stay that is not unlike what I found in Cuba, where one person will put you in touch with an aunt, or a cousin, and in this way you get bounced back and forth until eventually a place is found). Vicky is a welcoming old lady, who cheerfully opened her arms and her house to me, so I was able to cook myself a nice full meal while enjoying some great conversation. I am as remote as one can be, and tomorrow I will once again drive to the mountains to glance at the towering majesty of the Parque Nacional de la Patagonia.

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