Cerro Champaqui

Last weekend was a long weekend, because Friday was teacher's day. So, I had the opportunity to take a small 'vacation,' and I joined my companions of my program in Villa General Belgrano.

This small town, smaller even than mine, is in the far west of the Cordoba Province (my province). There, there are a series of mountain chains that serve as sort of a preface to the Andes. The sierra VGB is located in called Sierra Grande, and is home to the tallest peak in cordoba Province and the second tallest peak in Argentina, Cerro Champaqui. It is 2.88 kilometers high (1.7 miles).

Villa General Belgrano, while small, is a well-known and rather wealthy town. This is because it is home to the annual Fiesta de Cerveza of Argentina, in which thousands and thousands of people gather in October to celebrate and consume the various artesanal beers that have their home in the Villa. Does this sound familiar? Yes, this is Octoberfest, and it is celebrated in a historically German settlement. Argentina has a long history of accepting German immigrants, even during World War II, and the town proudly displays the German aesthetic.

As excited as I was to be in the beer capital of Argentina, as I said, that was not why we were there. We spent Friday evening in the Villa, and early Saturday morning, we set out of Villa Alpina, a miniscule mountain village of a couple dozen people, mostly farmers and shepherds, to meet our guide and our horses.

So, for the first time in my life, I rode a horse. For four hours through mountainous terrain. Though it was difficult at first, since riding a horse is all about getting a living, somewhat nervous creature to do what you want to do, but after the first hour I was beginning to feel comfortable. We rode horses to preserve our energy for Cerro Champaqui, though I definitely had saddle sore by the time we reached the refuge.

The refuge is a small set of buildings near the base of the mountain, owned by locals, for climbers to stay in before and after they climb the peak. There, they cooked for us (grilled lamb and potato salad), and with us were a group of university students from Rosario, a city in the east of Argentina located on Rio de Plata.

But, we did not have time to rest. After riding to the refuge, we had the chance to nap for a half hour, and then it was time to set out for the mountain, which we had to climb up and down in about five hours if we wanted to be in daylight.

I was already tired from the ride, but I was eager enough, self-assured that my time in Boy Scouts would help me to handle the long climb.

I was not ready. This really is a mountain, and to climb it without the proper equipment is a lot, lot harder. Scaling boulders, hopping over crags, breathing thin mountain air, and navigating twisting, narrow paths are all part of this climb. I was exhausted halfway to the peak, but I knew we had to climb, and we didn't have much choice, so I did my best to keep pace (and did a good job, too). Our guide, who has lived in the mountains his whole life, told us he could travel from the refuge to the peak in forty-five minutes, and climb back down in twenty-five. He was barely winded by the time we reached the peak.

We, on the other hand, were totally, thoroughly exhausted, and the excitement of being on top of a mountain was a little dampened by our fatigue. But it was beautiful, just like being in an airplane. We could see cities and villages all around, and the transition from the cloud layer to above it. Cirrostratus clouds were high in the sky, like angel feathers. The peak is actually home to a small lake, which during the winter is dry (it was dry when we were there, the name 'Champaqui' is a native word meaning 'water over my head') and it is festooned with busts and crosses, I can't imagine being one of the people to carry them up there.

After half an hour, it was time to climb back down, lest the sunset catch us. By this time I was going on pure willpower, my legs were only working because I told them too, not because they wanted to. I learned a lot about the stamina of human legs, we truly are creatures designed to walk, and even though your legs might feel like they are on fire, they will keep working and working. But still, by the time we made it to the bottom, I was practically stumbling down the mountain. Thank god, by the time we reached the refuge, we had an amazing asado waiting for us. There are few times I've been hungrier.

The next day, we walked back, since using a horse cost 100 pesos. Again, I was impressed by my ability to keep going and going and going over this terrain, even though I was sure I could. Again, I was stumbling by the time we made it to Villa Alpina, and now my knees were complaining every time I used them. But again, there was an asado waiting for us, plenty of proteing to feed my screaming muscles. After lunch, we left again for VGB, and parted ways.

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All in all, it was a great experience, but an extremely physical one. The amount of time in which we had to to everything was much shorter than in should have been, so what could have been an appreciation of a sort of wilderness I've never seen before was also the biggest test of endurance I've ever had in my short life. I think I passed with good marks.

I will post pictures later tonight.

I have come to the conclusion that airports are alien worlds. Things do not work here like they do elsewhere. Everything is linear, and the stores and furniture and signs repeat themselves, like a broken record. People interact differently here, they are hurried, concerned, taxed, all of them little fortresses too occupied with being bombarded to worry about much else.

Washington-Dulles is not a very attractive airport, it is rather cramped, and its age is beginning to show. Even so, it is still an airport, and so it is a monument to the art of moving people. People make such big things devoted to relatively simply tasks, like moving people, or making electricity, or paper, I am in awe of them. They are things not defined by aesthetics or comfort or spirituality, but more modern ideas, like efficiency. Still, this produces an aesthetic all its own, and a very interesting one that challenges us as humans.

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I keep alternating between waves of fear and excitement: fear, that I am going to another country, where not only do I know no one, but I also no nothing of the culture or language, so I have to learn what is right and wrong and acceptable all over again; excitement, that I will be seeing a place unlike any I have ever seen before, with people who see the world in a different way from me. It will be challenging and uncomfortable, and it is my biggest fear that I will find I prefer the comfort of home. But I do not think this will happen. Challenges are always rewarded, even if its rewards are intangible or even indescribable.

In three hours, I will board my plane, and be on my way to the other half of the world. I won't just see a different culture, and a different language, but a different sky! New stars in the night-time, constellations I have never learned in school, Polaris will be out of sight! New plants and animals, new geographies! I can't wait.

(Written July 9, 2007, 11:50 AM)

I am sitting in the T Concourse of the Atlanta airport. I made it through check-in and security without incident; I am now 'in the system,' and will be for the next seventeen hours. Twelve hours in the air, ten on the ground.

Of course, the hard thing about being in any closed system is that, after you have signed the papers and given them your money, you are at their mercy, and will have to pay whatever extortionary price for whatever service they see fit. Ten dollars for a sandwich and a coke, eight for wireless access. That is why this will not be posted until later.

Airports are a lot like theme parks: expensive food, and fun rides. Except these rides last for hours and are a lot more fun, I think. How often are you five miles in the air, and how often do you get that sort of view? I love it. I love the lands and the seas and the skies, and I love being able to see their big picture. The Moon Shot is comparable, though I don't know of one near the coast. Probably Atlantic City.

The moment my feet touch Argentine soil is getting closer every minute now, where before it only came closer in days. Still, it seems impossible. I doubt I will be aware of the possibility before it is actually realized.

I am sitting on a bench with an Asian man, and he will not stop pounding on it. Please stop pounding on this bench, Asian man. I love percussion, but not necessarily percussions.

Speaking of music, did you know that the airport in Brussels plays Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" 24/7? Already I love airports, but that is one I must visit.

Enough ruminations, soon I will board my first flight, and be on my way to strange lands.