El Bolsón

El Bolsón is dangerous. You can be trapped there if you're not too careful. We thought we would pass through for a day or two. We stayed a week.

The story goes that back in the 70's El Bolsón became a haven for the hippies of Argentina and Chile. It still is today. Every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday there is a fair in the main plaza. Part farmer's market, part handicrafts, the fair packs the plaza with people the whole day, strolling through the stands, watching the preforming clowns, or listening to the various bands that play throughout the day. For our part we spent the week there in the plaza, laying in the grass and watching the people pass by. The mood was light and everybody was friends. People came and went, we would share a beer and talk about how wonderful life is.

El Camping de Mario was our home for the week. Essentially someone's large backyard in the poor part of town that had become a campground, our companions were many of the people who came for the summer to sell their wares. They came from all sides and for the summer they became a makeshift family. Every night was spent by the bonfire together, singing, passing around a jug of wine, or listening to Haukur explain what Iceland is like.

There was Mare, the Chilean girl who taught us how to make the delicious, and warm, Vino Navegado. There was Negro and Javiera, whom I spent a rainy afternoon with, cooking pasta for them in their tent so they could relax as the mushrooms kicked in. There was Lapa, the clown who had a presence in any room he was in. There was Flor from Bariloche who, with the assistance of others, spent endless hours one night doing my dreadlocks while we all sat in the community hut, avoiding the rain and telling riddles until dawn.

El Bolsón rejuvinated us.