Twilight in Argentina

My last days in Argentina were wonderful, the snow melting away and the first signs of spring shining through. Now that the mountain was as good as closed we left skiing behind until next season and enjoyed a few days relaxation before we were to be thrown out of the hotel. Mark had organised us to go on a horse riding trek through the ranch of Carol Jones, a hardy woman who's face was the colour of leather from years of working in the famous extremes of Patagonian weather.

We got the usual taxi into town, the journey spent, as usual, arguing amongst each other and attempting to convince the aged driver that we weren't Americans, so that he would stop being so gittish. We waited in the centro civico, to meet Carol, who hadn't yet arrived. Naturally, having gotten used to being relaxed about the actual agreed meeting times with Argentines was content to sit in the sun and look a bit thick for a while, until she turned up, however, Mark started getting fidgety and weird and was muttering insults about the Argentines under his breath whilst shuffling around the square. He soon made some excuse about having to go to get some piece of camera equipment that we'd never heard of and didn't care about and he subsequently jogged off. He were all quite relieved. Yet, typically, this was when Carol turned up in her little, aged car which was many years older than me. She climbed down out of her rusty 4x4 and walked up to us briskly, dressed like someone straight out of Texas, with a brown, wide brimmed hat, leather riding trousers and an old jacket that looked like it had seen many harsh years. You could tell by looking at her that she had not lived an easy life and her eyes were hard. Yet, she smiled away and was very friendly to us. She would have been pretty when she was young.

All 6 of us squeezed ourselves into the back of the car which was strewn with large piles of dirty hay and various horse equipment. She started up the engine, and attempted to drive off, but unfortunately someone remembered Mark and we had to wait for him. He hobbled up to us some 20 minutes later making excuses that no one listened to and then started to talk loudly in cringe-worthy Spanish to Carol who turned to him and said "Please...please, just, talk in English", and then put on Johnny Cash very loudly in case he decided to talk anymore. We powered alongside the lake and through various military checkpoints and then suddenly screeched to a halt. We then picked up Paisan, a morose young gaucho with no teeth and his dog Moracha. He didn't like talking and we soon gave up and started talking to his dog, which seemed to like me a lot and persist in climbing all over me and covering me in various matter.

We had now driven far from anywhere and were surrounded on all sides by the dusty Patagonian plains, punctuated in the distance by jagged spires of rock or a lonely group of trees. We were given our horses, all of whom seemed a bit rowdy. I was given a huge, fat one who "had a mind of his own", named Juez, which means judge. We all mounted on our horses and were soon joined by a French girl who looked like a rat, who's name now escapes me. I speak French and thought I would make an effort to talk to her, however after telling me her name and why she was here she then gave a pompous little speech about how the English were Imperialist bastards and how she hated us, and once she had finished she then promptly trotted off. Richie then called me a twat for being able to speak another language, so I shut up. Paisan, meanwhile rode alongside us on a magnificent, wild, black horse, which bucked and reared and tried to throw him off. However, he soon tamed it and we all watched little Moracha flying in and out of bushes chasing hares and barking at low flying condors.

Some time later we stopped at a little camp they had made and drank wine and ate empanadas. My horse had gotten tangled up in the rope that kept him from running off and I spent a tedious 20 minutes untying him and trying not to get maimed. He clearly didn't appreciate this and spent the return journey running into rivers and trying to throw me off. All I could do was hang on for dear life and yank on the reins with some vain hope of regaining control. However we all made it back safely, I exchanged an evil glare with my horse and left, it was time to hit the bar, as it was our last night in Bariloche.

Groggily, I awoke the next morning and realised the time, we had 2 hours before our flight left and I hadn't even packed, my possessions were strewn across the cabin and I didn't even know where my bag was. But in the end all was well and we had a celebratory final beer on the terrace, despite it being 10.30 am and were chauffeured to the airport by Guido in his ramshackle truck. We shared cigarettes and watched the condors circling above the desert-like plains that stretched for miles disrupted only by the trail of dust left behind a far off truck and carried by the ever-present wind. After one final glance at what had been home to us, we turned and took the plane that would carry us far from the powerful golden vacuum we had been living in for the last few months, to be reunited with the psychotic city of Buenos Aires once again.