Pelons

(Conversated in Spanish but written in English for your [and my] sanity).

"Hi. Can I have the fruit outside? Look." I turned around and walked outside with the man at my heels. "This fruit. How do you say this? Nectarina?" I pointed at the plump redish yellow swirled nectarines sitting in the stand outside the market. The man hinted at a smile in the left corner of his mouth.
   "Pelon." I looked at him quizzically. He seriously tried to suppress the growing grin.
   "Oh."
   "How many?"
   "Four." I watched as he carefully picked four of the fruits for me. It's different here because you tell them what fruit you want and they pick it for you rather then bringing it to the counter yourself. I could tell he was picking the very best ones as he examined each of them before clutching them to his chest. It's a gamble here. As a foreigner I'm either treated like scum or a goddess. I like the goddess days. We walked back inside and he started to weigh my fruit.
   "28 pesos." I started digging through my backpack, paused, then pointed to the fruit sitting on the scale.
   "How do you say that again?" The skin between his eyebrows wrinkled.
   "28 pesos?"
   "No, the fruit." His glimmer of a smile returned.
   "Pelon."
   "Pelon" I whispered to myself. He watched me for a few seconds.
   "Where are you from?" He answered before I did. "The United States?" I looked down and laughed. His smirk turned into fret. "No?" I looked back at him as he bagged my fruit in a blue and white striped plastic bag.
   "Is it obvious?" He grinned again. The bag wrinkled and a car honked outside.
   "Thank you, sir." I smiled at his eyes and walked back out the door.

I looked up how to say Nectarine when I got back to my apartment. It's Nectarina.

I'm impressed if you've made it this far through my blog. I just wrote about buying Nectarines at a fruit stand. But my point is that Argentina is interesting because it is so different from any other Latin American country I've been to. It almost has its own vocabulary, and the accent is so different. They even call their language different: Castellano. I feel bad for the new students who just arrived this semester. They were sitting in class like a deer in the headlights. Argentinians pronounce the double ll's as sh instead of y. For example pollo is pronounced po-sh-o and ella is e-sh-a. So are the y's. So playa is pla-sh-a. I think that's why no one can pronounce my name. They say it like it's a magic potion or something with the way they sound it out. Here's a link if you're interested further ---> https://www.travelblog.org/South-America/Argentina/blog-195247.html

I've never felt like I have had a city before. I grew up in something like a town on the coast and I study twenty minutes from LA. But I feel like this city is becoming my own. It is taking my heart little piece by piece. Today I wanted to visit a thrift shop, so I looked one up online that looked decent and started walking. I walked for 45 minutes to find that it was closed. I looked through the window at the gaudy 80s jewelry lined up on tables and wasn't too disappointed. So I started walking back, and that's when I passed the Nectarines. They were too plump and available to resist. My 90 minute walk for them was worth it. But I love those nectarines. And I love that this city smells like cigarette smoke and that the apartments have old metal keys and locks and elevator doors. I know the sidewalks and which tiles are loose and will splash you if you step on them in the rain.

That's it. My heart fluttered when I flew back into BsAs after traveling for Christmas break. I thought that deserved a post.

It's Happening

We survived. I'm now sitting on the floor of our hostel in Ushuaia reading the sharpied notes on the walls. Hostels are like a 3D pintrist. There are so many different languages... different countries and stories behind the chicken scratches on the walls. From this angle I can see the tasteful "I had sex on the beanbag" strategically scribbled in a conspicuous spot under the communal bookshelf under a Derren Brown book and a thin Chinese one. It's a guessing game as to which of the five beanbags not to sit on. I moved to access a better plug to find myself face-to-face with an outlined Taj Mahal on the wall and a few moments later to have the hostel lady scold me for being a road block in the hallway. 

Directly after our trek in Puerto Williams we crashed on our beds. We were lucky to snag a private room for two, even though the bottom bunk was too low to sit upright and the top had no ladder. After a who-knows-how-many-hour long nap, the hostel owner flung open our door to ask if we wanted Piscos. We drowsily looked up, our hair horrid from the mixture of dirt from the trail and bed head from the first real pillow we've had for a week. Confused as to as why we were sleeping at Pisco hour we assured her that she didn't need to bring us any. We discovered the next morning that she later didn't come tell us the time of the ferry because she didn't want to disturb our slumber. Piscos > Transportation Information. Funny how this corner of the world works.

Dientes de Navarino. The Southernmost Trek in the world. Known as "Alaska on steroids." We were reading a travel blog aloud one night before we started. "If you like... bushwhacking. If you like... 

nature in it's natural state. If you like <insert other dangerous obstacle here>... Then the Dientes de Navarino is for you!" We swallowed. Were we really doing this? After the first day of drop-off cliffs and no trail Angeli looked at me between the wind bursts and mustered out a, "it's happening."

It's happening. I'm where I always dreamed about being. I feel like I'm living out a 180 Degrees South documentary or like I'm starring in a Secret Life of Walter Mitty film. My eyes have been dazzled by some the most beautiful unseen things in the world and my heart rate has pulsed on the edges of unmanned shale mountains. I've camped in snow and been pelted with hail and tread in thigh deep mud mountains and been lost in the rain in a below-freezing forest. I wouldn't trade any of it for the world, and these experiences will stay with me for the rest of my life, but it's taken all of this for me to realize the key of how to live simply with concepts beyond simplicity but too down-to-earth to be complicated but too big for my mind to wrap around.

Whenever I'm backpacking, or even just on a mountain or in nature of any kind, I feel it's the way it should be. It's me, and God, and what I choose to think about. But all that I can think about is the nature around me, which screams back in the direction of God. But I don't think we have to be on the top of a mountain or in the middle of a snowstorm to be in nature. Maybe in the technical sense of the word, but I think it's so much more than that. How was Paul so content in a four wall prison? I think it's because he chose to live in the mindset of nature. To let the things he thought about scream back in the direction of God. Whether you take the Bible literally or not, Genesis is an incredible analogy at its least. I think when He finished creating and stepped back and said, "it is good," He was referring to the creation's state it was in and not necessarily only the objects. If it was only the objects, it would still be good and perfect after sin.

So I've dropped some of that Sunday school vocab in this blog. "Sin" and "creation" and "Genesis" and such. But my point is this. I want to be in a place where I can feel the same freedom I have at the top of a mountain while I'm studying for Statistics. And if these experiences have taught me anything, it's that my throat can tighten and my adreanaline can quiver whenever I chose to let my thoughts scream in the direction of God, which is only replicating that of what I'm feeling when I'm surrounded by trees or drinking from a glacier-melted stream. I can have that same peace whenever and wherever I choose, and that's what I believe the entire purpose of why such beautiful places exist. It's like being in them is teaching me how to live... How life was intended for us for us to live. And then, any anger or hesitance I have stored up, swelling through my veins towards God, trickles out of me and I realize that only someone who loves me more than Himself could possibly create an intended life so beautiful for someone so small and insignificant. And all I have to do is choose it. It doesn't mean that the thigh-deep mud or the hail will suddenly disappear. But it does mean that the struggle turns into something worth fighting for. And when I can open my eyes for that split second against the paralizing wind to see that vista, I know that I know that life is worth fighting for.

Courtesy of The Hipster

Ashley Dawn Ekstrum

The Guru / The MVP

If you're down to hang with any cool cat from the Southside of California (and I mean the coffee shop), my top percolated pick for a caffeinated get-together is Ashley Dawn Ekstrum. You can find her snowboarding at the bottom of the world, singing to diffuse the tension at the top of it, and somewhere in the middle she'll be burning the skin off her nose to spend all day in the sand and surf. On top of that, she's the one person in South America you can count on to be there for you. Whether she's saving your ass or your life on a mountainside, or holding the vodka at the house party so that no one falls under the sway of Dr. Strange love and Captain Beefheart—one who's got a beef to pick and the other a strange love to give—you can be sure she's helping someone, because she's always got something higher on her mind. Whatever she decides to do in this life—writing, teaching, healing, rescuing—she's gonna end up saving someone. She may be a Southern Californian, but she can go where even Idahoans and Coloradans fear to tread, which probably stems from the fact that her heart's so big, it could house all the horses, cows, sheep, and drunk farmers of a barnyard dance, and three, fine young chickens besides.

Courtesy of:

The Hipster

Chocolotto, Captain Beefheart and Torres del Paine

I'm in a cafe called Chocolotto to snag some wifi and I ordered a strawberry juice. What is wrong with me.

I'm also in a large port town called Punto Arenas. By large I mean comparatively to the other port towns in Patagonia. It's composed of cafés and backpacking apparel stores and a strange knitting shop, which I'm totally okay with. I think the world needs to have more cafés and backpacking apparel and knitting stores. There's also a rusty shipwreck. I named it Beefheart so that I can be Captain Beefheart (a band you should look up... I actually still need to look them up, so this isn't a formal recommendation... A hipster just told me about them). The rocks on the beach seem like they would roll on your feet like little massages as you walk. But I wouldn't know because my hiking books are practically glued to my feet by now... Those dusty grey things encrusted with mud. But I can't complain because they have saved me on more than one occasion.

We were on the bus station floor eating peanut butter and raw oats twenty four hours prior to starting Torres del Paine. Angeli called it a dinner for Rachets. Alex called it a cookie. I was spooning more peanut butter when Alex proposed we extend our trek from the five day "W" circuit to the nine day "O." Angeli and I looked at each other. "Sure" we both shrugged. Turns out we had a bit of a time miscalculation, which we discovered on the trail, so we had to combine a few days to complete both circuits. Best decision of my life.

I feel healthier by just being in Patagonia. The water is aqua marine and sparkling from minerals and crystel clear when you cup it in your hands. The rangers gave us the clear to drink it unfiltered, so I stuck my face in every stream we passed to come up gasping from the cold and purity trickling down my throat. There is a certain moss that only grows here because it is too fragile to grow anywhere else. Patagonian air is the only air that is pure enough for it to survive. And I can tell you that it flourishes.

While trekking I felt incredibly independent. Of course I'm with two other incredible companions, but we sometimes just walk in solitude with the trees and mountains. It's wonderful to be solitary with someone. To listen to their footsteps. Of course there's the loud moments too, like trees falling and the wind and glaciers cracking. Apparently they closed the O because of weather after we started it. We got super lucky to start it when we did. There are some things I just can't explain with words. This trek was one of them. I think it is all together too beautiful to explain with any human sense. My eyes couldn't even handle the beauty sometimes. And if the fingerprints of God are this beautiful, how much more beautiful is the source of something so pure. Is there a state beyond 100% purity? I can't even fathom it. 

I have to cut this short because I got kicked out of Chocolotto. It doesn't get dark here until 10 so I didn't realize the time. I was sitting in the street trying to cling to the last bars of wifi outside the door when a nice man named Oscar started to talk to me. He said he could tell I was from Argentina by my accent. A stray dog came up to me and wanted to cuddle. My heart was melting, so I figured it was time to move to a pub to get an Irish coffee. But now I need to go waterproof spray everything I own before we fly to our next trek tomorrow. So here's some pictures and a goodbye for now.

Meet Team Quinoa

Today, Sara left us. Not in malice, but in adventure. She is splitting off to continue her adventure in Bariloche and Mendoza to hike and bike and God-knows-what while we head to southern Patagonia. This has caused a lot of reflection for me, so I want to take a moment to introduce my travelling companions, or as we call ourselves, Team Quinoa.

Team Quinoa at Machu Picchu

~ ~ ~

Alex Free // The Expert / The Hipster

Alex and I at Ushuaia, Patagonia

Alex is the definition of hipster. Mention The Arctic Monkeys or The Strokes and you can see the fire light in her eyes. However, she does not need you or anyone to join her for a dance party. As soon as she plugs in her earphones she is raptured into her own personal concert. You can hear her singing and see her head banging in planes or on any other mode of transportation. She is basically an honorary band member of a band in Idaho, Marshall Poole. If you talk to her, you will be sure to hear about Idaho within the first five minutes of conversation. She will probably mention the true hipster scene or the outdoors hikes and biking trails as she is an athletic powerhouse. A social butterfly, she always tends to find herself dates with random people who turn out to be band members or hipsters like herself. She is the ultimate planner, but makes sure to plan time for spontinaity. I can currently hear her on the phone planning a hiking trip for May. If she wanders off by herself there is no need to worry, because it is a common theme for her to walk off in a new city or a mountain alone for hours on end. She miraculously manages to maintain a rocking fashion sense even while backpacking. She is a creative writing major and has already written two novels in the genre of magic realism. You can tell she is a writer by the words she says and how her fingers connect to the keys on a laptop.

Sara Hyman // The Scholar / The Klutz

Sara and I at Lake Titicaca

If you need a source for classical liturature, you need a Sara Hyman in your life. She will incorporate Kant or Reinassance references into everyday conversation. However, she is so much more than merely her intellegence. She will willingly have heart-to-heart conversations with you on beach porches and she is ready for any adventure if offered the opportunity. Her love for Jesus is evident in everything she chooses to do in her life. She has a beautiful heart for service which can especially be seen during the summers as you can find her volunteering on Skid Row or other places in need. She will graciously lend you her phone charger at any moment of the day. You will commonly find her reading on her kindle as she tends to read full books in less than a day. Despite her wisdom, she will easily be taken out by small dogs or be knocked over by bees or other insects or elements of nature, or really anything beyond her own two feet.

Angeli Mata // The Trainer / The Comedic Relief

Angeli and I at the Salt Flats in Bolivia

If Team Quinoa was a sitcom (which it very well could be), Angeli would be the audience's favorite character. She can make any person feel comfortable in a conversation and is warmly welcoming with her smile and spunky personality. She loves to wander through supermarkets and can sometimes take days comparing prices of deoderant at different stores in different towns to make sure to get the best bargin. She is majoring in Sports Medicine and will unashamedly proclaim her hate of vegetable oil and will take as much time as she needs to read the labels on every single can of tuna to make sure to get the healthiest choice. She accomplishes day hikes with her entire backpack filled and will even walk around the city with her backpack to make sure to get every bit of training in before our treks. She leads Insanity workouts in upstairsapartments and will have an enouraging word for you at any moment of the day. She shreds on a snowboard but will be completely modest about any of her skills when asked. She is a true and trustworthy friend who will openly talk about her Catholic faith whenever someone might have a question.

 

~ ~ ~

All in all, I have been completely honored to have spent so much time with such quality people. Buenas Suertes to Sara on her future adventures, and the rest of us will see where life takes us in these next two weeks in Southern Patagonia.