Patagonia, Land of the Big Feet and Fallen Toenails

By Nana Chen - Arriving in Patagonia, we saw mint blue lakes that made my mouth water. I had never seen such colors in nature. I wanted to wear the glacial lakes. To get to El Chaltén we had to fly to El Calafate first where we’d catch a bus. Hours later, our bus cut through the hills, following teal streams. Herds of choiques and quanucos appeared and disappeared alongside our gravel road.

Halfway, at a house converted into a rest stop, we got off, stretching and cracking our limbs—a domesticated guanuco, much like a llama, stood by the door eyeing each one of us. The Patagonia air made my nostrils greedy, flaring, wanting much more of it.

Patagonian Ascent, Nana Chen

Once inside, we sat at what must have been the living room of a house. Aged wooden tables lined the walls and before the fireplace sat a counter holding fresh empanadas. Next to them a basket filled with rows of alfajores, two light and flaky shortbread glued by a generous layer of sticky dulce de leche, a thick caramel flies and I both love. The side of each alfajor was speckled with finely shredded coconut adding to keep the caramel from running away.

Suddenly, the guanuco that greeted us earlier ran into the house. The furry creature, size of a small horse, visited each table with food. Like a child seeking affection, it rubbed its head against a man’s sleeve. Two seconds later, sinking its teeth into the man’s empanada. We were all laughing when we felt urgent thumps on the wooden planks. The owner of the house ran in, “Juan! Juan! Que te pasa?” What’s the matter with you? Quite used to the scolding, Juan left through the front door, still chewing.

As we returned to the bus, Juan stopped a man from passing, catching his shoelace between his teeth. The man, trying to look amused, was too scared and wooden to move. Juan jerked his head upward, trying to eat the leather spaghetti attached to the shoe. A few of us chuckled as we watched the man standing very still until Juan pulled up further, lifting the man’s leg. What followed was a quick standoff with the man kicking his leg back, giving Juan a good floss.

The rest of the ride was spent watching the colors in the sky mix and change, the purple mixed with the orange; the violet mixed with the blue. Underneath, the silhouette of the landscape slowly spilt into the sky, its darkness and my eyelids moving in opposite directions, both ending daylight, finally at eight.

Arriving in El Chaltén nearly at midnight, most passengers got off and seemed to know where to find a warm bed; others had someone there to meet them. Falling into neither group, we quickly followed two girls with sure steps that brought us to Alberque Patagonia. They happened to have two spare beds in a shared room. Alan looked at me. I shrugged. We didn’t have a choice, did we? We were told it would have to be just one night. The Chileans were in town, so they were booked.

That first morning, we awoke to see the colors of the Argentine flag in the sky, rushing towards it, hiking up the closest hill to see the snow-capped mountains waiting far away. Remembering that we still needed a room for the night, we returned to El Chaltén and booked a night at Hosteria El Puma. Paula, the manager, told us that the Chileans had booked most of the rooms for the next night. No one knew why there was a sudden Chilean invasion in Patagonia, but they were optimistic that the occupation would cease soon.

The room at El Puma was so comfortable I slept for nearly thirteen hours. Thinking I was ill, Alan brought in hot water and a worried face. I assured him it was leftover tiredness from the difficult year before and went back to sleep. Since there was no vacancy the next night, Alan suggested we sign up for a trek with Fitz Roy Expediciones. We’d at least be able to sleep in a tent once we’ve reached the base camp. I said I wasn’t sure if I could handle a trek, being so out of shape and sleepy. I’d think it over. Later that day, while sharing a mate with Paula, she mentioned pumas in the mountains. I started worrying, imagining Alan getting attacked by one. I recalled seeing a sign earlier advising hikers go in pairs. I said I’d go. Alan left to sign me up for the trek.

Setting off for the base camp the next morning, I turned around once in awhile to see how far we’d gone. There was still snow on top of the mountains far away and I looked forward to seeing more of it after living in sub-tropical Taiwan for so long. We trotted through a marshy area and saw a pair of upland geese nestling and nuzzling each other. Feeling envious, I turned my affection towards the vegetation and wondered what, if anything, was edible.

Thirty minutes into the hike and I knew I was in for it. My steel-toed shoes were too heavy and not shaped for my wide feet. Nowhere in my memory told me steel could be worn in. Distracting myself of the pain, I kept Alan’s ears busy talking on and on as I swallowed the new surroundings with my eyes. Some trees looked wise and old while others looked terribly charred. We were to find out later that a hiker had inhaled the beauty of Patagonia along with some nicotine then left the cigarette butt to start a fire. Too bad he didn’t inhale the whole cigarette. Since there was no way that fire trucks could get in, people carried bags of water on their backs, running round after round to put out the fire. Luckily, the wind had moved the fire towards a stream where it lost its rage and died.

When we reached the base camp, it was early evening. Our tents were already pitched and waiting. I signed a piece of paper stating that I was healthy and not on medication. Shown to our tent with a cup of hot tea, I sat down and took my shoes off. Undressing my feet, they looked awfully pale with the flesh underneath red and purple, blisters surrounding the colors. I sighed and kept quiet.

We were told that the large green tent was our dining area and instructed to go there, as Walter the cook would have dinner ready shortly. I went in with my cup, smiled quickly at three strangers speaking German, got more tea and left. Trying again half an hour later, Alan had already started a conversation with our dining companions Roderick, Warren and Uta, homeopaths from Austria. We ate the pasta in cream sauce Walter had prepared and got to know each other between sips of Argentine red wine, all of us softened by the candlelight and exhaustion.

Sleep came easily for me that night. But it didn’t stay. In the middle of the night, Alan shook me until I awoke. “Your snoring is insane! I can’t sleep!” I apologized and slept through the rest of the night with one eye open. The next morning he brought a hot cup of tea into the tent and asked if I remembered snoring. I said I heard someone in the neighboring tent with the same acute condition, a distinguished snorer at that, for if a doctor snored I could too. Alan said Roderick had to take two tranquilizers to sleep last night—one because of me, one because of Warren. There was no use hiding in the tent. Everyone knew. I might as well get some breakfast. Drink my tea.

Back in the big green tent, Alan didn’t wait long to talk about the snoring. I asked the three doctors if there was a cure. This started an intense debate in German whether to remove my tonsils or keep them. One was against, one for, and another neutral. “In!” “Out!” they argued. “If they’re so large they need to come out!” Finally, they reached the consensus that the nose should not be touched, but I can choose to keep my tonsils or not.

After the topic came up again later, Roderick told Alan it’s maybe not such a nice thing to keep talking about my condition. But it was too late. For the next three weeks, sleep and Alan turned their backs on me. I awoke at 2am every morning begging for sleep to come back. Why did I have such a defect? Why did my nose turn into a demented tuba at night? Why so loud and brash as to wake up tired travelers, even disrupting hibernating wildlife?