I woke up the other morning and forgot where I was. It happens all the time, to be honest, and it’s moments like those that I like to play the time game: “A month ago I was in New Zealand. Two weeks ago I was in Brazil. A week ago I was with friends in Buenos Aires. Yesterday I was with a family I had never met before in Rio Tercero. Right now I’m with other members of the family in the middle of nowhere. In a week I’ll be in Chile with my brother. Two weeks – who knows? Two months – Los Angeles.

After two nights with Marta and Cholo, I was passed on to Jose Maria, their youngest son. He used to own a very popular nightclub in central Rio Tercero, but one day decided to abandon that crazy life and head for the hills. He wanted a change of pace and scenery, so he began anew in Villa Yacanto, a small town in the central Sierras. When we first talked, he warned: “You know, Charlie, it’s not like Hollywood.” “I’d hope not!” I responded.

Before going to Yacanto, I tagged along with Jose as he ran some errands, and realized where the Hollywood comment had come from. He went to LA a few years back, and thought it was perfect. Clean. Efficient. Sophisticated. Beautiful. Just perfect. He has an American flag in his home instead of an Argentina one, though he must contain his passion for the states, for the general sentiment here is anti-American. Ever since that visit, he’s had LA on his mind. The mountains and lakes of Yacanto are of course a stark contrast, and it seemed that he feared a city boy like me would scoff at such a simple lifestyle. But to me, Yacanto was perfect.

As we drove through rolling hills, in an ancient Ford that was somehow still running, Jose blasted Latin music that precisely matched the spirit of adventure I was feeling. I had a little knapsack with a few shirts and a toothbrush, as if I was running away from home. The music was like a soundtrack to the ride, like a scene in “The Motorcycle Diaries”. There was rarely another car on the road, though free-roaming cows we had to accommodate often. We truly were escaping civilization. There were only endless pastures, patches of pine forests, and the jagged Sierras as a backdrop. The air was crisp and pure, the sky flawlessly blue. The horses were galloping, the birds chirping. It was nature at its best.

After stopping for “alfajores” (a sweet snack) in the randomly German town of General Belgrano, we arrived at Jose’s rustic cottage. Home sweet home. His wife Valeria and three-year old son Gino were on the front porch, watching their dog Osito (little bear) chase stray horses off their property. It took a few minutes for Gino to warm up to me, but – in retrospect – those were the only few minutes he was ever quiet. He was crazy. One second he was throwing a massive tantrum, the next he was flashing his baby teeth and dimples. One second I wanted to strangle him, the next I wanted to hug him. That first evening, he must have asked me, “Como se llama?” a hundred times. I’d say “Cha…” and then he would finish the rest, but for the majority of the time he just called me “Che,” an affectionate title, as in Che Guevara.

Gino was the perfect Spanish teacher, though he was never aware of it. In fact, that’s exactly what made him an ideal teacher. He had no clue that I wasn’t a native speaker, so he talked as he would to his three-year old friends. He never slowed down or enunciated, and made no effort to understand a less-than-perfect sentence. Valeria and Jose always got the gist of what I was trying to convey, but there was no gist with Gino. If I wasn’t crystal clear, he repeated “Que?” until I was. Furthermore, he’s still learning the language. I’d point to something and ask him how to say it, and he would point to something and ask me. At the “asado” (BBQ) picnic we had, I taught him the word for tablecloth – “mantel.” He screamed it out, then I screamed it out louder, then he of course tried louder, and it became his favorite game. I enjoyed it too until “MANTEL!” woke me up the next morning.

While their home in Yacanto is certainly removed from main society, the ranch Jose is building in the woods is as isolated as you can get. No electricity. No running water. No address. There’s not a single man-made thing in sight, and even the ranch itself blends in with its natural surroundings. The wood is from the trees cleared, and the rocks are from the nearby river. Jose has other remote properties as well, that he bought with the expectation that open space with stunning views would soon be rare real estate. The first day he brought me along as he talked business with various partners. I’d hear “Como andas flaco?” – which translates to something like “How’s it going, skinny?” – but then I gave up on trying to follow the rapid wheelin’ and dealin’.

The next day I was put to work on the ranch. I helped Valeria clean the wood panels and paint them white, and then Jose and I nailed them down. If I ever get to go back and see the finished product, I can proudly claim that I contributed to half of the roof.

Since dinner wasn’t until eleven o’clock or so, there was a lot of downtime to hang out around the house – a nice break from rapid sightseeing. I played with Gino for a lot of the time, along with “Pato Donald” (Donald Duck) and “Hombre Arana” (Spiderman). When he would finally get tired and take a mini siesta, I chatted with Valeria and Jose about everything from Shrek to Bush. I also impressed them with my knowledge of mate etiquette.

Jose took me on a speedy motorcycle ride through the mountains for one last whiff of the great outdoors, and then it was back to Rio Tercero. From one family that had welcomed me in to another. Marta and Cholo were waiting with hot mate.

And now, as I’m writing this, I’m being called to the table for dinner. In the other room, Marta is yelling, “Richard! Richard! Veni a mesa, Richard!” Why Richard? Because I didn’t realize at first she thought that was my name, and then – when there was no doubt – it was too late. Do I correct her and suffer that moment of awkwardness where she wonders why I didn’t tell her before, or do I accept that, in the casa of Marta and Cholo, I am officially Richard.

This entry was posted on Sunday, March 19th, 2006 at 11:09 am in XVIII. Argentina. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.