This is a small portion of the enormous view that I get to wake up to every morning. On the first day, for example, there were three condors circling immediately in front of my room. I had heard that they had the biggest wingspan of any flying bird, but had never imagined that they would still look enormous hundreds of feet below. And funnily enough, they look a bit different from the ones that you see depicted in the Warner Bros cartoons, a bit more majestic you might say.
At 7:30am, we all staggered downstairs to the restaurant where we were assured there would be breakfast of enormous proportions, adequate for a whole day's intense skiing. However, this would prove to be the starting point for me to learn to take an Argentinian promise with a pinch of salt. For example, if you order a taxi for say 12.00, don't expect it until nearly an hour later. And let's not even mention how long it takes to get served in a restaurant. Admittedly, you have to 'chill' and understand that its a different culture, but when everything takes so long to to that it is not possible to have a functioning or structured day, it does become a little tiresome. We found the restaurant very closed, and with no members of staff in sight, not even the night guard, which was a little worrying. Then, the bus driver turned up and bullied us into the van immediately.
We arrived at the mountain and spent the day comparing prices for skis and the like, and I ended up buying a nice pair of carvers off a little Italian man that looked like devil in possesion of sneaky eyes and a shiny head (a fatal combination in my books) for under £150 pounds and decided to rent boots until I could find a pair I liked enough to buy. This brings me onto the worst aspect of skiing, which is a deterrent for a lot of people that I know, wearing the boots. I have a weird raised part on the top of my right foot and the same except not as bad on my left, which makes it virtually impossible for me to even get the majority of boots on my feet let alone wear them, or god forbid,even be able to ski in them. I figured that maybe this discomfort was all in my head, being the neurotic poofter that I am, and just took the first boots that I could get my feet into. This proved to be a horrid mistake as on my first run down a comfortable red run, I lost the feeling in most of my toes, which then started to bleed and the pain on the top of my foot was so unbearable I had to then come straight off the mountain and get a different model. I tried on every single model of boot in the store, none of which were suitable without considerable force. So, I went through all the rental shops in Cerro Catedral, and only in the very last one, was there a boot I could put on, and it was mildly less painful than the others, so it would have to suffice.
After a very irritating day skiing, we had been invited to Mark's girlfriend's parents house for a traditional Argentinian 'asado', which is a bit like a glorified barbeque. So we rocked up, an hour and a half late, early considering we had ordered a bus in order to have us arrive a bit before the meal to socialise, by local standards. Pancho, which is a nickname for Francisco, was standing in the doorway, looking like something fresh out of the mafia...except for the oven gloves. He's quite a small man, but stocky, with a full head of white hair, and big, old fashioned square glasses. His mannerisms are slow and deliberate, taking considerable thought before saying or doing anything. We were seated in around a large table in a wonderfully light annexe to his house,which he made himself with wood from the trees growing in his land. As always when surrounded by new people there is a little awkwardness at first, however for me, this was a new personal best on the scale of uncomfortableness. Pancho sighs, places his hands on the table and fiddles with his steak knife and speaks.
'In Argentina...we....have...the English.' We all smile and nod as is appropriate in situations like this. He realises he has made a mistake and speaks again.
'I am sorry, I mean, in Argentina we ...hate... the English, because of the Falklands.'
We all looked at each other with looks of despair and wondering why Mark had invited us here, presuming he knew his slightly dampened view of the English. Richie then seized this moment to announce that he was Scottish, and not even a little bit English and that they should get on fine. I had no such luck. This left me wondering why all these awkward situations hypothesised about by people for fun, are actuality for me.
Once Mark had left the room he launched into a nationalist speech about how Argentina's neighbouring countries were traitors and how people had the wrong impression about his country. I,having been encouraged to drink by both Pancho and Mark, made a slightly tactless comment implying that people have forgotten about the Falklands, and that they mainly think about Maradonna and football, cue more fascism and passionate speeches about how primary industry was operating behind closed doors and something about secretive US satellites. I feared where his steak knife might end up at the end of the night. I envisioned his mafiosi buddies roughing me up, shouting nationalist propaganda and then rolling me up in a carpet and throwing me into Lago Gutierrez, doomed to be nibbled by trout for all eternity. But luckily, he just kept serving steak and pouring beer, even if he did refuse to listen to what anything of what we pommies were saying. I'm sure he'll warm to us with time....
Over the next couple of days my boot troubles worsened, causing my toes to bleed more often than not and by the end of the first run I would have completely lost the feeling in both of my feet replaced by a revolting pulsating and tingling sensation. It came to the point where I would have to buy boots and get them specially fitted to my feet, at this point willing to pay any amount of cash to be comfortable, as it was no longer possible to scrape any enjoyment or improvement from the skiing I was doing. So after a similar experience of trying on every purchasable boot in both Bariloche and Cerro Catedral I found, at last a boot which when I put on, I was comfortable, really, surprisingly, comfortable and they were only 994 pesos which is under £200 quid, and considering they were made by HEAD, this was an extremely good deal.
After this successful and very, very welcome purchase we caught the bus home, and had our first unsavoury encounter with some Brazilians (of many). We were the first people in the queue for the bus having got there considerably early to avoid a sardines situation, and there was a large queue of people behind us, all was gravy, to speak until the bus arrived and this surprisingly ordered queue started to descend into chaos. This was worsened by a large group of Brazilian tourists, dressed in the uniform given to them by their travel company, who waddled their overweight, arrogant lard-arses straight to the front of the line, intending to cut in front of us. We stood in front of the as of yet, unopened door, holding onto the handle for dear life, reluctant to give up our spot. These enormous bastard tourists barged in front of us, waving what they believed to be their superior currency in our faces. Well, it was about time that they met pounds.fucking.sterling, and they, goddammit, went on behind us, also helped by Mark shouting at them and calling them little shits. Dem Brazilians dun' know jeeh.
Back at the hotel we did the customary trip to the bar after a typically massive steak, engaged in some not so subtle banter with the bar staff, played unsuitable music slightly too loud, drank some more and I actually went to bed feeling enthusiastic for the next day's ski knowing that I would be able to walk the following day and who knows, maybe I might get a bit better ?
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