Bariloche

So I'm told all the rioting on the day I left Buenos Aires had nothing to do with my departure and everything do with the fact that it snowed there for the first time in eighty something years. Even still, I waved a teary farewell to my people and settled into my very agreeable "cama" for the long haul to Bariloche (inexplicably falling asleep through the mobile premiere of Die Hard 4).

I arrived in Bariloche to a very dim reception - and even darker dorm room - owing to the blackouts that, although quite common in the town, are most definitely not cause for installing enough backup generator capacity to keep the ski lifts running and the resort open. Right then, as long as that's clear.

Hillside havoc aside, the blackouts actually presented an altogether pleasant candlelit dining and drinking atmosphere in Antares (a brewery pub), where I swapped stories, poured out troubles and poured in beers with my more travelled and less troubled mate Babs. So it wasn't all bad news.

I stayed at Marcopolo 'fun' Hostel, which I can probably recommend with the caveat that 'fun' isn't the only piece of descriptive text that should be stuck in their name. If they're going to insist on that one, they should also include:
- Marcopolo 'no running water' Hostel; or
- Marcopolo 'where your female English bunk-mate is too tight-arsed to rent a private room with her boyfriend and is so appalled at the prospect of dorm room sex (particularly the Brazilians going hell-for-latex around us) that I'm sure the poor lad hasn't got any in months' Hostel; or
- Marcopolo 'no, despite running a hostel bar every night, I still haven't learnt that I need change in the off-chance that someone may want to pay for a beer with a denomination larger than the asking price of $6. The fact that I look like a dreadlocked monkey has very little to do with this.' Hostel.

On that note, any economic forecasters out there who say the Argentine peso can only become stronger are discounting the importance of one fundamental principle: that as any denomination greater than 20 pesos is virtually worthless because no-one will have change for it, the peso can only devalue until the ATMs dispense money you can actually use.

Despite all the running water and purchasing beer dramas, Marcopolo was a great laugh, though as usual this was because of the willingness of the resident non-Brazilians to engage in furious drinking activities. Having said that, it did look bleak for a while as the Brazilians outnumbered us roughly two to one. Apparently they come to Bariloche in droves (and buses) for the snow, beef and icecream. They don't call it "Braziloche" for nothing. Exactly who they are, who pays them for saying that and for what purpose, continues to elude me.

Well they're correct on at least two of those three reasons: the icecream is (without casting any aspersions as to the value of a family icecream maker gift) the best I've ever tasted: Jauja's "Chocolate Profundo" is the winner; and I ate the best steak of my life there: Alberto's bife de lomo. The snow, when it snowed, was great. Unfortunately due to a lack of overnight snow maneuvering - each 30cm snowfall only lasted 2 days before it became awful awful moguls, so I spent most of my time on the tracked out (but fantastic) tree runs. On the lone attempt at grooming they attempted while I was there, they actually managed to terrace the hill, which was a rather surprising feature in the bugger-all visibility we had most days. It was actually because of the poor visibility and a chance conversation with an 8 year old Costa Rican kid on a chairlift that prompted me to build a jump and try doing 360s half the time:
"Are you any good at jumps?" he enquired, first in presumably perfect Spanish, then in perfect English.
"Oh... I'm alright." I replied, trying to moderate my enthusiasm having just landed - for the first time - an admittedly rather modest trick on the way down.
"I can do 360s."
In retrospect, I should have just pushed him off the lift.

Aside from the Barilochean's inability to groom or keep the lifts running, there was one other feature of Argentine ski culture where I feel they just didn't get it quite right: apres-ski. Now the actual partying and drinking was fine - god knows I spent enough time and money in Wilkenny's the Irish disco; though because everyone keeps typical Argentine hours (dinner at 11pm, out at 2am, home by 8am), it's more an antes-ski than apres-ski experience, if you want to have any shot of going the next morning.

I had originally planned to spend a month or so in Bariloche, snowboarding and hopefully gaining employment in a hostel for some free accommodation. Unfortunately this plan was thwarted by the number of Argentines and Brazilians in town (in Argentina of all places!), apparently my retarded level of Spanish wasn't going to be enough to stand behind a bar and say "do you have anything smaller?" in Spanish with a blank look on my face. So, changing plans more rapidly than I ever could clothes before and after Phys. Ed.; I enrolled in La Montaña Spanish School to learn me some eh-Spaneeesh.

Although the highlight of my hardcore 6hrs of lessons per day was finishing every night so I could bathe my aching brain in epsom salts; I did feel some sense of achievement: learning the Spanish for useful words like "godfather", "saltshaker" and "son of a whore" (hijo de puta). And so, with this vocabulary, my conjugational prowess and my legs under my belt; I thought it might all be put to better use exploring Patagonia than asking for change... geez, notice how cocky you become after one week of Spanish lessons?