Barrael Post(b)log

8/28/05 - 2:00 PM
Barrael, Argentina

The wind is CRANKING! I mean it must be gusting upwards of 80, even 100 mph... no joke! Those poor people in New Orleans must be achin´! Finally, three single cute-enough girls arrive from Mendoza, not even an hour before our scheduled departure, to talk about Guanáco farming in the valley. Always my luck. I await the introductions... "Gregorio is a journalist from the United States that is `selling´ Barrael," Berní always jokes.

The storm is increasing but no rain... not yet. The girls have brought fashionable, even matching luggage - total city slickers. Now I can´t wait to get the hell out of here and back to the city for almost another full week and then off once again to the NE of Argentina, which is sure to be an entirely different world altogether... with stories of `rowdy and beery´fishing resorts that cater to crazy Brazillian fishermen in search of the world´s most dangerous catch - the fighting Tiger Paraná!
Over email I confirm a wedding gig and a weeks worth of work for Macys back in SF - strange.

Berní enters the resturant and tells me that yesterday would have been better for me to leave. "The wind is worse than the rain because it blows rocks off the mountains and down onto the road. You´ll see... the pass over the range is very dangerous," he adds. Great... today would have been the day to go windcarting! I can´t believe the girls have arrived the day I´m leaving. I can hear them giggling and laughing in the next room and imagine that they are already having a pillow fight, or some such thing. "We´ll eat quickly and then go," says Berní. I step back outside for another cigarette.

On the way out of town we pass a group of fifteen cars parked alongside the main road in the middle of nowhere, which is the heart of this precious valley. They are setting up for a home-grown horse race. "STOP!" I yell, jumping from the still-moving vehicle. As I stumble through the brush which is hiding the water and mud below, up to the fence I can hear the starters at the gate... "Wait... wait... YA!" Two young boys in makeshift jockey helemts come racing out of the gate. Click, click, click... I think I got it.

On the flight back to Buenos Aires, one of the second league futból clubs from BA fill the second half of the plane... singing the entire way. The stewardess tells me that not only can I not listen to my iPod but, I also may not take pictures out of the window. Are you kidding me? As we prepare to land amidst a violent and turbulent storm which pitches the plane along every access, they are still chanting and seriously - DANCING in the aisles over the pilot´s warnings of the rough air we are about to encounter. Argentina... got to love it.