Monday, November 29, 2010

How to buy a motorcycle in Argentina if you’re not Argentine...

My advice… Don’t. Consider the option of going home to your country of origin, buying the motorcycle there, getting all the paper work sorted out, and shipping the bike down here. But if you’re stubborn like I am, here’s a run down of the logistical maneuvering that I performed in my epic motorcycle search.

Choosing the Bike:

You may know a little about motorcycles. You may already know how to ride. You may know a touch about motorcycle mechanics. You may even know which bike you want to buy. If you do, you’re leagues ahead of me.

What I learned is that when choosing the bike, the criteria is completely dependent on YOU and your needs. No one can really tell you what motorcycle you should buy… Different styles, brands, models, accessories exist because people will want to use their motorcycle for different purposes. If planning to use the motorcycle within a city, perhaps a scooter or a 125cc is sufficient. If planning a long distance trip, you’ll need a comfortable, sturdy bike with a relatively powerful engine. If planning on jumping over dirt paths and performing tricks, a lightweight easily maneuverable bike is your choice. Price will depend on engine size and brand. Japanese brands will cost more than Chinese brands, but will be better quality and much easier to find spare parts. En fin, there are many things to consider…

Wandering through the motorcycle shops in Neuquen, I was confronted with an overwhelming number motorcycle options and opinions. Everyone had something contradictory to say. None of their opinions was wrong, but that’s just the thing, they were opinions. And especially here in Argentina, everyone has an opinion.

It took a while, but I finally decided on a motorcycle. A chopper (comfortable for a long trip, low riding for stability, and definitely badass looking), 250cc (a big enough motor to defend itself on long open roads, but small and manageable enough for a beginner motoquera), Mondial (not a pricey high-end Japanese bike, but a decent brand. Mixed reviews tho, of which I’m super weary. Hard to find spare parts, especially up north. But if I arm myself with a little motorcycle maintenance knowledge… I can perhaps prevent all but the most unpredictable problems.) So, after weeks maybe months of searching, I had found it: my motorcycle. The Mondial HD 254.

The Logistics:

My first mistake was to go about everything as legally as possible… And expect it to be easy.

When you buy the motorcycle you have to go through the process of patentamiento. Which I’m not sure I totally understand. But once you pay your money for the bike, it’s not technically yours… Yet. You have to take the 01 form along with the receipt of the motorcycle, the certificado de fabricacion o importacion, and the verificacion policial to a non-descript building on Ruiz Moreno Street.

There, you will take a number and, once you are attended to, they will tell you that you need a CDI, a CUIL for foreigners. Basically like a social security number. Ok. They tell you go to ANSES on J. O'Connor, half a block from the Hospital. You wait in line. There, you are told to go to AFIP, at V.O’Connor (not to be confused with the first O'Connor) and Onelli, because at ANSES they only deal with CUIL and CUIT. Ok. Down to AFIP. You need a photocopy of your passport and to fill out a F. 663 form.

If you chat it up with the guy at the desk and wow him with your travel stories, you can get it extradited. Your CDI will be ready in a day and a half. Free of charge.

Great. You go back to the non-descript building on Ruiz Moreno. I still have no idea what this office is. But I think it’s the place to change a vehicle title among other things. Oh no. They tell you this time, that even if the vehicle is in your name, you can’t take it across the border. You can only use it within Argentina. But… go talk to the Aduana, above AFIP on O’Connor, and see what they say.

Back to AFIP. Third floor to the Aduana. There, a hard-faced woman who listens to your questions will shove a bunch of “no’s” down your ear until you almost break down in tears. Then, she’ll soften up a bit and pull some strings to help you out. Her advice: get your DNI.

Next stop, the Oficina de Migraciones. The super unfriendly guy gives you two options for acquiring your DNI: get someone to hire you (he didn’t have an answer when I told him that most businesses will ask for you to have a DNI in order to offer you work) or marry an Argentine.

Chan. At this point, you go back home depressed, seriously consider getting married for the residency papers, and eat half a dozen empanadas.

I digress into the actual process of BUYING the motorcycle. After searching the internet, phoning numerous places, and walking around town… My motorcycle would cost me AR$13.000 in Bariloche. The same bike would cost AR$10.000 in Buenos Aires. Three thousand pesos is quite a difference. So I could buy the bike in Buenos Aires and ship it out to Bariloche. After calling a few places, the best deal was AR$500 for transporting the bike.

So, it was settled, I’d buy the bike from an agency in Buenos Aires and then ship it here to be patentado. If I put it on my credit card, I’d be charged various fees and I would surely max out my credit limit. So, I’d have to deposit the monetary quantity into their account. That would mean that I’d probably have to open up my own bank account in Bariloche, which now having my CDI, I could do. But talking to some ex-pat friends, the fees and complications in the Argentine banking system is something I don’t really want to touch with a 2-meter-compost-stirring stick. And then I’d have to figure out how much my bank in the States would charge to transfer money. If I went through all that quilombo, then I’d have to be sure that the motorcycle agency in Buenos Aires is reliable… because, well, if I transfer all that money… I’d have to be sure that they’d send me the motorcycle. Sigh.

Let’s now move on to the DRIVERS LICENSE! For this, you have to go to another practically un-marked building, this one is past the train tracks, but before the bus terminal, down a gravel road. No line this time! Friendly guy at the desk explains that to get the registro de conducir you need: 1. Libre de deuda of your vehicle and of yourself (which you get on the first floor of the bus terminal and is valid for 5 days), 2. Your DNI (oh crap, not this again… but it’s ok, says the guy, all you need is a passport and a certificado de domicilio, which you get at the comisaria at Km 5), 3. Two photos (done!), 4. Three medical exams (medico clinico, medico oftamologico, and medico otorrinolaringologo… good luck pronouncing that one!), 5. Pass a written test, 6. Pass the driving test, 7. Pay AR$45.

Oh, but wait. Because you are in Argentina on a tourist visa, the drivers license is only valid for the period of three months. Every three months you have to renew it. He looks at you and asks: Why don’t you just get your DNI and residency…?

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

All of this is best summed up by Randy: “the Argentine government will leave you alone for the most part… unless you want something from it.”

So after this excruciatingly frustrating ordeal, I have a few options.

1. Buy the motorcycle in Argentina anyway. I’ve gotten this far. The only problem would be that I wouldn’t be able to leave the country. And for those who have had to do the 3-month boarder run ritual, part of the purpose of buying a motorcycle would make that chore a little easier, cheaper, and more fun. I would also not be able to cross over to Chile, Brazil, Paraguay, or Uruguay. Un bajon.

2. I could go to Chile and buy the motorcycle there. The motorcycle itself will be cheaper. But I’m unfamiliar with the Chilean ways. I’m guessing they will have their own bureaucracy, although perhaps not as chaotic. They might treat me differently because of my psudo-Argentine accent.

Also, another thing to consider is that with a Chilean motorcycle I might have a hard time finding spare parts in Argentina (as was the case with some Austrailian friends whose car is still in Comodoro Rivadavia after almost a year waiting for a spare part).

Also, I think the Chilean government obliges me to return the motorcycle to Chile every three months, which is okay because I need to renew my visa anyway, but what happens when I head towards Brazil or Uruguay?

3. Go back to the States. The motorcycle might be cheaper there. I could get the drivers license taken care of without too much hassle. I wouldn’t get the “you’re not from here” stares and comments, which are starting to wear me down.

But then I’d have to figure out how to get it back down here without paying absurd import taxes… Or perhaps pick another country, in which case I’d have to say goodbye to Argentina. And I’m not sure I’m ready to do that yet.

Sigh.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Neuquén... and the search for the perfect motorcycle

After days of postponing our trip due to wind, rain, hangovers, and a dead motorcycle battery… Matias and I finally set off for Neuquén. But separately. One on motorcycle; one hitchhiking. Who would arrive first? On your mark; get set; GO!

I gave my compost one last loving stir, shouldered my trusty yellow backpack and set my sights northward. I took the #20 to the very end of the line and then walked two kilometers to the speedbumps passed the Aspro, the last gas station in Bariloche, my preferred hitchhiking point for all destinations east, north and west.

Yellow skirt flapped in the wind. Bags at my feet. Thumb outstretched. Smile. Mountains, lake, blue sky… all waiting in eager patience. A car pulls over.

Three vacationing portenios make room for me and my bag in their Piedra del Aguila- bound car. And we’re off.

I cast a farewell glance over my shoulder as my beloved snow-capped Andes grower smaller and smaller behind us. We pass Villa Llanquin. Valle Encantado. Confluencia. Mate circulates counterclockwise around the car. Music blasting. The road twists and turns as it follows the winding river away from the mountains and into the arid pampas. I pulled out my crochet hook and rainbow yarn as conversation passed around and through me. The fernet was uncapped and before I knew it we were pulling into Piedra del Aguila.

The kind of small dusty town where everyone knows everyone and, if they don‘t know you, they‘ll greet you anyway. The sun pelted pedestrians with powerful rays and I declined the invitation to head down to the lake. I still had a journey ahead of me. I was only half way to Neuquen.

And so was Matias. It just so happened that we arrived to PdA at roughly the same time. Tie. We met in the park, picnicked, and played on the swings made of recycled metal scraps. When it was time, we said goodbye and each one headed back on the open road.


Not many cars pass through Piedra del Aguila (which translates to ‘Eagle Stone’). I took the opportunity to check out the low cement houses, kids playing soccer, and the awesome looking rock formations surrounding the town. The sun was fierce.

After a local police officer kindly offered hitchhiking advice, I got a comfortable ride with a very business business man. I opened the car door to a button-down-shirt wearing, blackberry-with-earpiece toting, espresso-in-mini-Styrofoam-cup drinking important person. I felt like the 200km ride to Neuquén was taken straight out of a Hollywood feature film. Big important business man meets adventure travel permaculture girl. And they travel in a confined space for two hours. Lights. Camera. Action.

We zipped past apple orchards; heavy metal plants supplying the nation’s nuclear research; small towns by the names of Picun Leufu, Chocon, Arroyito, Senillosa, and Plottier; lots of flat desert; Matias and his motorcycle; and a variety of conversation topics.

Arriving in a new city is always disorienting at first. Especially when your only reference is the tongue-twisting street name: Olascoaga! Nonetheless, after minimal eyes-pealed inspection of all street signs, I plopped my bag on the sidewalk and waited. Juanjo and his RED truck showed up and whisked me away.

I feel that Juanjo needs a introduction. But how can I possibly do him justice in a paragraph??


Imagine, if you will, a six-foot-something, long-haired, walking contradiction. On the surface he seems flakey, flighty, irresponsible, chauvinistic, and completely out of control. But after you stop rolling your eyes at him and his chaotic incomprehensible lifestyle, you’ll perhaps see the other side. The business-savvy, liberated, confident, jack-of-ALL-trades, sweet-talking side. Just because he is almost 40 and doesn’t have a permanent job or permanent house (I don’t believe the word ‘permanent’ even exists in his dictionary), doesn’t mean that he isn’t providing himself with a rich and incredibly interesting life. His stability is in instability. He goes about everything with every ounce of his energy and passion. He has had every conceivable kind of job. And can chamuyar his way out of any situation. He can basically get anything he wants. In other words… a character.

As we sat down to tea, a text message from Matias informed us of a motorcycle malfunction. Red truck to the rescue! We find Matias stranded on the side of the road past the airport and rig up some makeshift towing contraption out of bent wire. Everything in Argentina can be fixed with wire and ‘la gotita’ superglue. True statement.

After briefly story swapping, Juanjo announces the plans for the night: a friend is performing at a bar in Villa Regina. Matias, Juanjo, musician friend, and I cram into the front cabin of the red truck. With the music equipment in the back we bounce one, two, three, four, five towns over. The show is awesome and filled my head with get-rich-quick schemes. We were in bed by 7am.

Needlesstosay, we were out of commission on Saturday morning. Which meant that, because stores are closed on Saturday afternoon and all-day Sunday, motorcycle shopping would have to wait until Monday morning.

How we ended up spending two weeks in Neuquen is beyond my explanation. Juanjo generously allowed us to take over his apartment for 5 days. We cooked, slack lined, looked at bikes, ate ahumados and dulce de leche, and baked in the Neuquenian sun.





When we felt like we were pushing the limit on overstaying our welcome, we turned to couch surfing.

I hadn’t couch surfed since my Ushuaia-trip, but after I browsed some profiles and sent out a few couch surf request messages, my phone started ringing. Daniel called first.

Daniel, Lucia, their children: Pedro (7) and Catalina (4), and their dog: Zeta welcomed us into their home. We stayed for 5 nights, playing pirates searching for lost treasure, watching Iron Man 2, staying up until 3am chatting over wine and Cordobes accents, and keeping the kids up past their bedtimes. We were too busy having fun to actually take the motorcycle-search seriously.

Next, we stayed with Chana (and Jack the dog). Que personaje! What I love about this girl is her energy, her passion, her strength,, her honesty, her no-nonsense attitude, her drive to learnlearnlearn and (perhaps more than everything else) her uncontrollably contagious laugh. She hand-makes carpets, paints, dances, crochets. She’s teaching herself Italian, Turkish and Arabic. And she gave us her room for 3 days.

During those three days I decided what motorcycle I wanted to buy, we cut off Matias’s dreadlocks, we slack lined, I accompanied Matias to the public hospital (another blogpost will have to be dedicated to my opinion the public health system), I learned to navigate Neuquén’s public transportation system, we talked, we sang, we laughed, and we ate.



On the last day, we shuttled our stuff back to Juanjo’s centrally located apartment. Went to the movie theater. Said goodbye to new CS friends. And prepared for our departure.

The return trip to Bariloche was executed in 5 cars. Walked a few kilometers under the hot Neuquén sun with my heavy backpacks, small talking with a random guy-on-bike. Car to Plottier. Car to cruce in the middle of nowhere. Car to Chocón. Car to Piedra del Aguila. Small truck to Bariloche’s bus station. City bus home. HOME!

There’s nothing like being home after a journey.

And although I’m frustrated that I didn’t accomplish my original goal of buying and learning to ride a motorcycle, I had a great time. I learned a lot about different types and brands of motorcycles. I met some awesome new people and got to hang out with old friends. I got to explore a new city. And, honestly, what frustrated me more than the Neuquen trip was yet to come in Bariloche when I dived headfirst into the bureaucracy of what it means to own a motorcycle as a non-official-resident.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

southland in the springtime

Spring is one of my favorite seasons in Bariloche… Along with summer, winter and fall.

In that order.

The sun is out in full force. The clouds are keeping their distance. Snow capped mountains glisten and reflect in the pristine blue waters of the Patagonian lake district. Shy buds are spouting petals and littering the flip flop stroll down to the beach with magical blues, pinks, purples, whites, and yes, reds also. The smells of slow-cooking meats waft and linger from nearby afternoon asados. Familiar smiles are emerging from hibernation as friends gather to celebrate new freedom acquired with the close to the winter season’s long houred work shifts. Yes, spring in Bariloche is here and it’s magical.

Upon my return to Bariloche, a small gathering of friends raised a glass of Malbec for my birthday asado. Matias, the facon-wielding and glowing-coals-maneuvering extraordinaire, produced a finger-licking asado as I embarked on my 26th revolution of life. Having previously undergone a relatively benign, but perspective-giving quarterlife crisis, I was left to thoroughly enjoy the sunny Sunday October 3 and all its adventures.

Now officially unemployed, I have a lot of free time on my hands. Lots of time and lots of disorienting scattered semi-developed goals. These goals include:

1. Learn to crochet.
2. Learn to ride a motorcycle.
3. Research and compile a comprehensive database of edible native plants, their nutritive properties, and recipes.
4. Find a part-time job.
5. Improve quality of life for myself and those around me.
6. Cook and cook and cook. Using local whole-foods and creating as little waste as possible.
7. Be outside and active in the stunning countryside and mountains.
8. Plan my next trip.

Yes, that’s right. I think I’m finally ready to put a close to this Bariloche chapter of my life. I’m going to try to ignore all the eye-rolls at my constantly-changing plans. Tentative travel plans look something like this…

Departure date: sometime in March.
Direction: North.
Mode of transportation: Motorcycle.

Why March? I would like to work the summer season in Bariloche before heading out. A little money in the pocket would be quite nice. Also summer temperatures are brutal in the north, so it makes sense to leave after the heat subsides a bit. Which leads me to… Why North? Last summer I followed my hitching thumb south to Ushuaia. Without a doubt, a new and unforgettable experience. Now I want to explore northern Argentina which promises a completely different cultural scene, but this time I think I’ll tuck away my hitchhiking thumb. Which leads me to… Why motorcycle? Because WOW… what a way to travel! It offers me the freedom of movement. I can go anywhere… and at my own pace. I will be in control of when, where, with whom and for how long. Unlike bus rides, I will be completely immersed in, enveloped by, and at the mercy of my surroundings. One of my goals of traveling is to constantly reinvent myself as a traveler, push limits, and grow with every new experience. And I have never driven a motorcycle. Talk about a new experience.

And along with new experiences comes responsibility. I understand that this is not an adventure I can take lightly. It involves an extreme amount of research and planning. That is why I am allowing much more time for travel preparation this time around. I will take all necessary precautions, purchase the necessary safety equipment, practice practice practice riding a motorcycle until it becomes something fluid and confident, research routes and destinations and weather forecasts.

That being said, a lot can (and probably will) change between now and then. So I will provide no more information except to say that mostly likely my next blogpost will include a picture of my new wheels. :D

In addition to allotting energy, time and focus to my list of goals, I’ve been celebrating spring. Going out on short sunny morning jogs losing my head to the impeccable Patagonian vistas. Spontaneously hiking breathtaking mountains. Hanging out with my new fabulous temporary housemate, Yanina. Cooking (Springtime means that great veggies… mmmm… asparagus!… are starting to appear in my local wonderful verduleria). Ornamenting my nose with a subtle blue piercing. Mate and homemade empanadas at the best kept secret beach behind my house. Hanging on to the back of Matias’s recently and spontaneously purchased motorcycle (It looks like my travel-plan-idea is catching on and I may have a travel companion afterall…). And simply living!

Life is everything. Good and bad are subjective human terms invented to help us describe, divide, understand, and conquer. And sometimes it helps to remember that they do not exist outside of our head. Everything simply is. The judgment starts (and ends) from within. When we accept and embrace the all encompassing interconnecting oneness of the world, we will be at peace. Life is for living. Go out and have fun with it!

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

to uruguay




i am still trying to wrap my head around the QUANTITY of mate consumed by this small country.


after only a few days after my buquebus arrival in colonia, i have come to the undeniable conclusion that i really like uruguay. green countrysides. laid-back attitudes. genuinely nice people. fanatic mate culture.

the country itself is roughly the geographical size of the US state of north dakota and the population barely exceeds 3 million inhabitants.

each and every one of these 3 million inhabitants walks around with a mate in hand and a thermos of hot water under that same arm. at all times. i kid you not.

uruguayans have got it all figured out. they don't stress out or worry. they get everything done. they ride around on scooters. they don't pressure you to buy things. they smile. they treat people (including tourists) well. they seem to always be in a good mood. they are lovely lovely lovely people.


so why am i in uruguay? and why in the world am i only staying briefly before heading back to bariloche?

it just so happened that my mother's vacation time coincided with my visa expiration deadline. and so did our interest in traveling to uruguay. it was a done deal.

i took the overnight overland underwhelming bus ride to buenos aires. with a front row seat in the swaying double decker bus, i enjoyed a fabulous 180 degree view of the argentine countryside. we passed small dusty towns, roaring cities, and crawling sprawls of land with interesting rock formations. names like piedra de aguila, cipolletti, and neuquen... names that had only been blips on my argentina roadmap manefested themselves in living, breathing,
churning civilizations. when the curtain of dusk blanketed the view, i curled up with a movie and then closed my eyes for the next few thousand kilometers.

i woke up just in time for breakfast and our arrival at retiro, buenos aires's bus-train-chaos station. upon arriving to the buquebus terminal, i met my mom and promptly got my cellphone stolen.

it was great to see my mom and we had the hour-long boat ride to catch up and to loosely plan out the following few days. highlights of the ride: new york bagels and japanese rice crackers. lowlight: being enclosed in the buquebus bubble unable to feel the salty seawater ruffle and tangle my hair.



first stop. colonia.

and yes, as the name implies, we were greeted by quaint cobblestone streets, low crumbling colonial stone buildings, greenery and flowers, and quite the array of tourist traps. after leaving our bags at a hotel, we took off exploring.




there was a lighthouse, sailboats, artesans (one of whom, a mendocino, gave me a small green stone as a gift after i made it obvious that i wasn't going to purchase one of his beautiful hand twirled anklets), and hundreds of chivito stands.

chivitos??? in argentina, chivos are goats. thus, chivitos would be little goats. but i found it terribly hard to imagine all of these little restaurants and cafes serving little goats. especially for 100 uruguayan pesos.

i didn't end up having my first chivito until montevideo, the almost-too-tranquilo-to-be-a-capital-city-in-my-opinion-anyway. the trip to montevideo took us through beautiful fertile countysides. kids flying kites. fruit groves. what a beautiful country!



from the bus terminal, tres cruces, we tried our luck with the public bus system. despite a completely illogical interior design, the buses seem like a convenient easy and practical way to get around the city. if the distance is unwalkable.


we walked a lot in montevideo. from our hostel in the historical centro, to the port market, along the pedestrian walkways, up the main avenue, poking through long corridors of cheaply-made expensive clothes, and visiting every single artesan market.



i know i've already mentioned the mate consumption, but it deserves repeating. it is phenomenal. and because, when in uruguay.... this chameleon adopts the local colors. que manera de tomar mate!!

en fin. montevideo meant lots of walking, lots of mate, lots of chivitos (which ended up being a slice of meat packed into an overstuffed sandwich usually accompanied by french fries), lots of quality time with mom!



back in colonia. this time our hotel had a gorgeous patio, perfect for having mate. outside, the school children paraded to celebrate the beginning of spring.



for the return trip to buenos aires, we opted for the colonia express instead of the buquebus. this would be my suggestion for anyone else thinking of making the trip.

from the port, we walked (and walked and walked) to our hostel in monserrat. mom is such a trooper. it was quite a walk.

and it wasn't over. from the hostel, we walked to the microcentro in search of a new phone. up and down the crowded streets. wading through the crowds. after finding a phone, we played tourist for a little while.


after dinner that night, i somehow managed to navegate the subte to palermo to meet wes. after a few games of pool, a few beers, and a few hours of stirring up the dance floor, i returned safely to the hostel only to chat another hour away with some hostelers and cuba libres.

two hours of sleep later. it's breakfast time and i say goodbye to my mom. it was great seeing her and i'm super appreciative of her taking the time to come dowm to visit. thanks for a great time, ma!

made it just in time to the airport to board my flight. chau buenos aires!

i meant to sleep on the flight. but i was worried i'd miss the descent into bariloche. so i stayed awake the whole time... waiting... waiting...

and it was well worth the sleepless wait. the andes appeared as a white line on the horizon. at first i thought they were clouds. as we approached, the perfectly detailed snow-capped mountains came into focus. stunning. absolutely stunning. then the pilot turned slighly left and gave my side of the plane the most amazing view of mount tronador. i could hardly believe my eyes.

upon arriving in the airport i scouted out my options. i would have to wait one hour for public transport to the city. i would have to wait half an hour for the less expensive of the private transports. what to do?

hitchhike?

i had never hitchhiked from the airport, or any airport for that matter. so i gave it a shot.

it was a beautiful sunny flawless day. two cars passed. smile. hopeful thumb. nothing. a hotel-owned van passed, i gave it the thumb not expecting it to stop, normally private companies don't stop. this one did. and was going right passed my house. i couldn't believe my luck.

i got dropped at the door of my house. just in time to get ready for my birthday asado... which i think i'll save for the next blog post.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Wait for it…Yes, here it comes…. The dreaded …………quarter life crisis.

Sigh.

With my 25th birthday rapidly approaching, I’m allowing some big questions to interrupt my cozy Bariloche bubble. Questions like: What next? Do I stay in Bariloche on more year? Do I leave Patagonia and run away to start from scratch in a completely new country? What are my plans? What are my goals? What am I doing with my life???

Options abound. I could…

1. Stay one more year in Bariloche. Work on getting my residency papers. I already know the city, culture, language. I could get a pretty comfortable job that pays enough to live by. I could get the ski pass for next year. I would still have time to explore, work on projects, grow, learn, love, live…

2. Buy a motorcycle. And go north.

3. Return to the States. It’s been a while since I’ve visited.

4. Hop on a plane to any number of countries… China, Japan, Thailand, Pakistan, Sudan…

5. Retreat into the countryside, build a farm, raise turkeys, grow and cook and preserve and compost my own food.

6. Go to grad school and study sustainable agriculture, ecological architecture, and green living.

7. None or all of the above.

A lot of my current objectives are more long term than previous ones I’ve had and require more time commitment. And those who know me, know that I’m not one for committing, but perhaps it’s time for a change.

I’m at the crossroads and the possibilities are spread out before me. Where do I want life to lead me? Or better stated, where do I want to lead life? What are my realistic goals?

Yes, it is a time for reflection.

And now with my previous restaurant job behind me (yes, I am once again blissfully unemployed as we enter the low season) I have many hours and mate sessions to ponder such questions.

My current rent contract has me in Bariloche until the end of January, so no decision needs to be made in a hasty fashion. But there’s no sense in ignoring my options. Best to let them linger and simmer and caramelize and take form.

So for those of you wondering about immediate plans…

My father has just come and gone from Bariloche. We spent 4 glorious days skiing to our hearts’ content, hiking to great heights, gathering with friends for feasts, and practicing driving stick shift (aka sharing a laugh with innocent observers as I stall three times in a row).

Now in a few days I’m bussing to Buenos Aires to meet my mother. We will pilgrammage to Uruguay, country number 39 on my ever-growing list of countries I’ve visited. When I return to Bariloche I will probably immerse myself in English-teaching odd-jobs. And in my free time (of which I’m sure I will have in abundance) I plan to meditate on my newly acquired slack-line, explore contact improv and other forms of non-verbal communication, practice yoga, cookcookcookexperimentcook, construct a compost, tend to my mini garden, research local indigenous cooking and preserving methods, and start fleshing out my ideas of local sustainable agriculture as a means for social change. And smile, breathe, relax, and enjoy beautiful spring time in Patagonia.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

spring weather fever

The Bariloche ski season is slowly winding down. The sun is out. The days are warmer. The snow is slowly retreating up the mountain. The crowds are fewer. Workers are going through the daily grind with less and less motivation. And the stress levels higher.

Why?

The season is only 3 months long. During those months, the hours are long and days-off are unheard of. By the time we get to September, everyone is tired. Ski instructors have been explaining the same techniques everyday for the past three months. Hotel receptionists have been checking tourists in and out everyday for the past three months. Bus and taxi drivers have been navigating the same route everyday for the past three months. And NewYorkCity-born waitresses have been polishing, serving, and telling the same stories everyday for the past three months.

I’m tired.

I'm done. I'm so very done. I still show up to work everyday, but my heart is very noticeably elsewhere. I go through the motions, but without my usual smile and positivity. It has also come to light that I seem to have a problem dealing with disrespectful and stressed out people. Especially those with supposed authority. Or they seem to have a problem with me.
Whatever it is, there's no need to get into details, but it suffices to say that the energy has turned sour. I’m just looking forward to finishing the season.

So how do I salvage what’s left of my sanity? Well, I live in a ski town… I have the best view of the ski slopes from where I sit polishing cups… and work mere minutes from the ski lifts… I bet you’ve already guessed it.

I had forgotten how much I love skiing.

Flying down the mountain. Weaving through moving targets. Wind snapping through my hair. Controlled recklessness.

It’s amazing.

What does a typical Alisa-day look like? Skiing for 4 hours. Working for 9 hours. Commuting for 2 hours. Waking up and going to bed for 2 hours. Hanging out with friends for 2-5 hours. Sleeping? There’s always time for sleeping in the low season!

Que siga nevando!!

Sunday, August 29, 2010

the little things

I don’t cook a lot these days. In fact, I don’t cook at all. On one hand it’s great: the restaurant provides all my meals and I don’t have to spend money on groceries. I eat well and try dishes I would never think to concoct. On the other hand, cooking is one of my prized ingredients for overall wellness. I thoroughly enjoy cooking. It exercises memory, invokes problem solving, stretches creativity, relieves antsy fingers, and fine-tunes taste buds. It’s one my favorite stress relief strategies. And I miss it dearly.

That’s not to say that I’ve been stressed out lately. Quite the contrary. I’ve been more at peace and relaxed than I think I’ve ever been. There’s something about Bariloche that breathes tranquility. Maybe it’s the snow capped mountains. Maybe it’s the deep blueblueblue lakes. Maybe it’s the green leafy landscapes. Maybe it’s the Argentine attitude. Perhaps it’s all of the above. Whatever it is, I like it.

The winter season peaked last month, so these days the are more laid back. Fewer tourists, fewer tables, more hours to listenthinkobserve. I’ve come to the conclusion that energy in a restaurant is super complex. My position as waitress gives me a great pedestal from which I can easily observe interpersonal relationships of all kinds. From restaurant personnel dynamics to vacationing families. Lots of people coming and going with different expectations and experiences. It’s a fun real-life social psychology experiment.

One thing I’ve learned is that attitude is contagious. A smile can lift up a dreary afternoon just as a harsh word can plummet positive energy.

For example, the nicest moment of the winter season was when a Haitian family waved me over to their table. I thought that they had found some mistake in the bill, but was pleasantly surprised when I found them thanking me. For what, I wanted to know. For everything. Just like that, that simple gesture, those kind words lifted me higher than the highest ski lift on the highest mountain.

Sometimes we are so caught up in the daily grind of stress and routine that we forget to take a moment and appreciate what we have around us. Something so simple as a compliment or a hug can go further than we think. We can connect with those around us: friend, foe or stranger in positive ways just by the domino effect of a kind act.

The worst moment of the winter season was when five gorgeous models promoting Camel cigarettes arrived from Buenos Aires for a promotional event and flaunted their portena attitude at me. The big city mentality of needing everything their way right at this very moment struck me harshly. And keep in mind, I’m from a very big city. I understand that icy cold rushrushrush attitude. And every time I encounter it, I thank my lucky stars that I was able to get out of it.

I remember that I used to be a stressed out adolescent. Worrying about this exam or that social justice protest. I used to care about my image. It used to bug me if I was five minutes late for a meeting. I would worry if this-or-that was going to work out. And it took its toll. Physically and mentally, stress and its adverse effects added to the vicious self-propagating cycle.

But then I started traveling.

And I felt myself changing. I found with every subsequent trip my NewYorkCity bubble slowly starting to pop. I discovered other cultures. I discovered other lifestyles. I discovered the unhealthy stress exists only because we create it.

And that made me inexplicably happy.

So these days I’m super laid back. I make a point to smile at trees, at the crisp breeze, at a really yummy cheese, at the dog with fleas, and at sweet snap peas.

Speaking of peas… My indoor mini experimental garden is adjusting nicely to my new house. There isn’t as much direct sunlight, but I can tell that the plants are much happier. And, yes, plants can be happy. Why they’ve told me so themselves.

I have tomatoes, cabbage, kale, spicy spicy chili peppers, broad beans, parsley, spinach, chard, carrots, arugala, and… peas. And after months of leaves and a few flowers, I was absolutely delighted beyond belief to notice a nice pea pod last night. A PEA POD! Something edible!! This gardening deal actually works. Wowowowowow! Needlesstosay, I can hardly contain my excitement.

More to come. Including photos??

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

trabajando en negro

Every so often the tiniest sliver of information penetrates my Patagonian bubble and reminds me that the world is still out there and, yes, it’s still churning. Sometimes it’s the newest pop song. Sometimes it’s forwarded article from an online news source. Sometimes it’s a brief online chat with a friend. But mostly it’s word-of-mouth hearsay and requires some filtering.

Apparently there was some economic crisis. And then a SWINE flu. Lady Gaga emerged and conquered even my heart. The Gulf of Mexico experienced a catastrophic oil spill. And now a murmuring has reached my ear about… illegal immigrants and undocumented workers.

This may, in fact, be very old news to most of you, but keep in mind that that information has to travel many many thousands of kilometers to Bariloche and then fightfightfight for my attention. And normally I don’t really give it more than a few moment’s thought, but this time it caught my attention and held it.

Why?

Because for the first time in my life I am an illegal immigrant and an undocumented worker.

Yikes.

But honestly it‘s not as bad as it sounds.

What does it mean exactly? Technically I’m a tourist. Well, there’s a tourist visa stamped in my passport anyway. With my tourist visa I am limited to how long I can stay and what I can do here in Argentina. Are laws here strictly enforced? No, it’s Argentina.

I could conceivably get residency and working papers, but the Argentine government has made it confusing, time-consuming, and expensive to do so. I just don’t find it worth my time, money and effort. Especially since I’m not sure how long I’m actually going to stay and…well, there are loop holes in the system. Keeping things in perspective, obtaining even the tourist visa for the US is a hundred thousand times more difficult, time consuming and expensive. Not to mention the residency and working papers. A nightmare.

Yes, every time my 3-month tourist visa expires I perform an emergency border crossing ritual. Yes, I have to run and hide from work-permit inspectors. No, I don’t have the same rights as Argentines. No, I don’t get paid nearly what I deserve. And it’s taken some getting used to, but honestly I can’t complain.

I’ve been in Argentina for almost two years now. Wow. It was never my intention to live here in Bariloche nor stay for as long as I have. But life takes us in unexpected directions. And I’m super okay with it. I’ve learned lessons I’d only dreamed of learning. I’ve lived experiences I’d only dreamed of living. I’m very very very happy. Through the ups and downs, I’ve gained an explicable understanding of life and its workings that probably wouldn’t have been possible if I had stubbornly followed my original plan to the detail. Life is about being flexible, but with a direction. Have a goal, but keep an open mind as in how you get there. I’ve gained a peace, an acceptance, a happiness from all that I’ve been through.

And it hasn’t been all smiles. There have been some valleys in between the hills. But the secret is to learn to navigate those valleys. Machete in hand, carve your own path, learn from mistakes, and look up at the sun and… laugh.

From the seemingly endless apartment search, to the thirteen-hour work days without a single day off in sight, from no residency or work papers, to figuring out that things just work a little differently down here… it’s been a journey.

And this whole experience has given me a whole lotta perspective. I remember, in the States, working alongside undocumented workers. And without a doubt our experiences are very very different. But I give them props. Going to a different country, not speaking the language, not having any contacts, not having a centavo in your pocket, and having to start from absolute zero… it’s tough. Very tough. Tougher than we can imagine.

Picture for a moment, if you will, leaving everything you’ve ever known, saying goodbye to everyone you’re close to, taking with you only the most basic of basic necessities. And moving to another country where you don’t speak the language, you don’t relate with the culture, you don’t find comfort in the local food, you don’t have more than a few coins in your pocket, you need to find an inexpensive place to live and a decent job, and you don’t know a single person. It can be very very scary.

And, yes, they are taking jobs. And, yes, they are agreeing to work for much less than an American citizen. But when desperation knocks on your door, it is nearly impossible to say no. Do you really think that they find joy in their sub-par living conditions? The will to survive drives us all to do things we would ordinarily not even conceive of saying yes to. Like working extreme hours for an obscene paycheck. Like living in unlivable conditions, just because it’s affordable. Like being insulted, humiliated, dehumanized. All just to provide a better life for loved ones. But…placed in the same situation, would you not do the same?

The Argentine labor unions hate people like me. I come in and work for next to nothing and take jobs from qualified Argentines. But I have to pay rent and I have to eat. And I work hard. And I do my job well. I don’t have family here to lean on if I get into financial trouble. So I work whatever I find… to sustain a very modest life… and to plan for my next international adventure.

And of course I didn’t move down to Argentina for the economic possibilities… because that would be silly. I came here because the idea was planted on one day in rainy Seattle and I took it seriously. I stayed because, well, Argentina has hooked me. And if I am to see the country from the eyes of the locals, the sacrifices I make are nothing compared to the lessons I learn. And I have learned some damn important lessons.

In closing, I know that one day I will return to the grand US of A if only to visit before my next adventure. I know that everything I live, every experience I have, every person’s story I’ve heard, is now a part of me. It has molded me and become a part of me. We are forever growing as we accumulate life experiences. It is our choice what experiences we encounter and I chose all of the above.

I am a more well-rounded, mature, happy individual from all this traveling I do. The things I’ve seen, tasted, smelled, felt, heard, learnt and especially the people I’ve met are indescribably indispensable. And I'll continue to put myself in unimaginable situations, if only to push the boundaries of what is possible.That, to me, is life.

And why let life and all its glorious adventures pass us by? Let's live!

Haha. I’ve been called ‘crazy’ by countless people in many languages across many continents… and I just smile. Normal must be all sorts of boring. I want nothing to do with it.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

laburando a full

Haven’t been in much of a writing mood lately. Many noteworthy events have come and gone; many anecdotes have been shared and pondered upon; many songs have been grooved to; many dishes have been ordered and thoroughly enjoyed; many tourists have come and gone from Cerro Catedral; and many many cups and glasses and silverware and plates have been hand polished at a particular restaurant where our protagonist now sits on a stool behind a hand carved cypress bar sipping a rather strong coffee and staring out at the snow delicately dusting the mountain looming over the indecisively smalltownbigcity Bariloche.

I’m tired. Mentally and physically exhausted. The kind of black hole exhaustion that destroys energy and ganas. I haven’t felt like doing very much of anything lately. Which is not like me.

But when would I have time to do anything anyway? With 13 hour on-my-feet-constantly-smiling-and-being-pleasant work days, seven days a week, I’m left with a few hours for sleeping, a few hours for commuting, and a few for waking up and falling asleep. Rinse repeat. It’s tough.

So why am I subjecting myself to such torture?

Because I secretly love it.

Honestly I do. I love being busy. I love working working working. I love the manual labor. I love the experience of waiting tables in another country. I love meeting people and watching their faces when they realize I’m not Argentine, but rather a New York City girl with an international heart. I love hearing people’s stories and sharing my own. Needlesstosay, I’m not doing this for the money. Because waiting tables in a third world country does not fill my bank account. But it’s not money I’m after. So what is it?

Hmmm… to better explain this, I’ll digress into the reason why I travel in the first place.

I’ve been tremendously fortunate to have had a generous helping of international experience before I could even utter my first song lyric or stew recipe. Zoom in on my traveling debut as a wide-eyed infant cooing in the arms of Italian strangers. As the ages accumulated, so did my worldly adventures. Toddler running through the streets of Rome and squealing in the sands of Costa Rican beaches. Child exploring temples in rural Japan and cringing at Australian vegemite. Adolescent eating the best ice cream ever from a Kyrgyz street vendor and being awkwardly hit on in an upstairs carpet factory overlooking a sprawling Moroccan market. But yes, even I was an extremely angsty teenager. It culminated on an Ecuadorian boat to the Galapagos Islands where I made one of the most important decisions of my life.

It dawned on me that I didn’t want to travel with my parents anymore. Nothing against my parents; they are lovely people. But I was an adolescent and, on top of that, I had realized that my parents and I had very different traveling objectives. I no longer wanted to spend a week-long vacation taking photos, staying at hotels, and touring tourist sites. I wanted to learn the local language, I wanted to eat at the best hole-in-the-wall local restaurant, I wanted learn the culture, I wanted to see what couldn’t be seen in only a few days, I wanted to throw off my tourist cape and become a local.

The next year I applied to, and got accepted for, an opportunity to spend a school year in Zaragoza, Spain. It was my first international experience without my parents. It was life-changing. Lots of great times and, of course, lots of lessons learned.

Since then I’ve been constantly reinventing myself as a traveler. Each consequent trip had something to teach me. And every trip was obliged to be better than the previous one. My colorful five week Mexico to Panama whirlwind with Harry. My various Middle Eastern wanderings. And now this Panama to Argentina journey has been the most surprising. Everything I’ve seen, experienced, eaten, heard, and learned on these travels could fill a book and is not necessarily what this particular blog post is about. But I digress, I guess I travel to be a chameleon. To absorb the local colors, flavors, smells, sights, histories, personalities, and subtleties. I let them wash over me, I learn from them, and then selectively adopt them. And grow.

My goal is to be a local wherever I go. Learn the slang, learn the customs, learn the music, learn the recipes. Walk the walk, talk the talk. It’s so fun. But more than that, it opens your mind and makes you a more mature, well-rounded, deeper individual.

So, why am I working a million and a half hours at a physically demanding job that pays me less than minimum wage? Because I’m a local. Because that’s what most people here do, at least once. Because I can’t pretend like I’ve had the true Bariloche experience without working the winter season at the Cerro. Because I love food and working in a food environment. Because I love chatting with people from all over the world. Because I love the people I work with. Because my “office” view is a gigantic snowy mountain. And because I’m learning a lot.

I’m learning more than just new recipes and names of wineries. I’m learning so much about balancing being productive and being laid back; the delicate fine line of efficiency and not being stressed out. I’m learning about work-place dynamics. I’m learning about healthy (and unhealthy) ways to deal with stress. I’m learning by observing and interacting. I’m learning more about people. I’m learning more about what kind of person I want to be.

We’re a month and a half into the season. And it’s been a great experience. But I’m tired. I’m burnt out. I find myself with zero energy, zero interest, zero desire to do anything at all. And then I chant my favorite mantra of the season: three months, three months, three months. This is all only for three months, and then we hit low season and jobs are scarce and the whole city of Bariloche takes a deep breath.

In the meantime, I’ll just sit here meditating on my coffee cup, acquiring a healthy sitting posture, and my daily self-imposed goals.

I had wanted this post to be about illegal immigrant workers… but it has turned out quite different. Well, it is what it is, and there will always be another blog post. Hasta la proxima!