El Bolsón

I got up at 0700, packed, and consumed the bread rolls, banana and peach juice that I had saved, then checked out. The oblique morning light made the distant snow resplendent, and shadows gave shape to the craggy faces. Our bus passed pine plantations descending to the plains and intersected La Trochita's track on occasion. Nearing El Hoyo de Epuyén and El Bolsón the valleys were verdant.

Just after the turn of the 20th century, two US outlaws on the run, Butch Cassidy and Harry Longabaugh, and their female companion Etta Place, set up in a ranch near Cholila, not far off route 40. A few years later, not content with quotidian life, they robbed again in Rio Gallegos. Later troops cornered them (without Etta by this time) in Bolivia, on the other side of the Andes, and they died in the ensuing shootout. A fictionalised story of their criminal career was made into a film. People mostly remember only the Bacharach song from the film.

By the way if you are thinking the clock tower looks Swiss or Germanic, that would be due to the early German settlers.

In the 1970s porteño hippies searching for an alternative lifestyle migrated to El Bolsón. The anomalistic warm climate of the area has fostered horticultural and tourism activities. Approaching the town, I saw campgrounds and other accommodation on offer. I left my backpack with the tourism office which also doubled as a bus terminal and explored the town until the next service to Bariloche. The artisan market was in full swing and there were good luck charms, wooden utensils, leather goods, jeans and jackets, woolen wear, gifts, vegetables, sweets, and much more on offer.

Environmental and new age themes were reflected in the no-nukes signs, the green T-shirts, and the poster with a Spanish translation of the words from Imagine. There was a flyer for Tai Chi classes in the tourism office. Mistrust of the establishment was evinced by graffiti: Deposite su voto aqui (deposit your vote here) on a rubbish bin. El robo afuera (the outside theft) probably referring to Argentina's external debt. Also blunt anti-smoking slogans: You choose your way of dying, I choose my way of living. Smoke outside, here we need to breathe.

When I arrived in San Carlos de Bariloche, it was cold and drizzling. Bariloche, for brevity, is a major tourism centre with about 100,000 inhabitants. There were tourist shops with the usual bric-a-brac, and chocolate. I found a cozy cafe with a fireplace and had a hot chocolate to warm up. They gave me a glass of water with it, a nice touch. I found the hotel I wanted and napped until dinner. For that I was pleased to find a restaurant serving a filling meal of milanesa with a sunny-side-up egg and fries.