Bariloche · Cerro Tronador · San Martín
Our bus ride to San Carlos de Bariloche was marvelous. We enjoyed a magnificent view of the Andes mountains with their white snow peaks and aquamarine lakes. When writing in his diaries about traveling through this region, Che said, “I know now, almost with a fatalist conformity, that my destiny is to travel […] However, there are times when I think with deep longing about our wonderful southern counties. Maybe some day, tired of rolling through the world, I will come back to settle in this Argentinian land and then, if not as my definitive home, at least as a transit place toward another view of the world, I will visit again and inhabit the zone of the mountain lakes.” I also search for transit places into other worldviews and, knowing what the future held for him, I was touched by the thought of Che riding through Route 40 on motorcycle La Poderosa and imagining growing old by these lakes.
We arrived in Bariloche, ancestral land of the Tehuelches, Puelches and Poyas on day 98 of the Israeli attack on Gaza, and the first day of the public hearing in South Africa’s genocide case against Israel at the International Court of Justice. That same day, a chapter of mine with my person PQ was published by Counterpress in the book Aesthetics and Counter Aesthetics of International Justice. It is a reprint of our comic Pinan, which is about sexual violence, paired with an interview with Christine Schwöbel-Patel (one of the editors of the book) about international criminal justice. A topic we touch upon is the role of art for imagining futures otherwise in regard to what justice is and what it can do. Audre Lorde teaches us about the power of art, saying it “give[s] name to the nameless so it can be thought.” I think of poet Refaat Alareer, killed by an Israeli airstrike a short time after re-sharing his 2011 poem If I Must Die, in which he tells us, “If I must die // let it bring hope // let it be a tale”. I am reminded of Che’s nostalgic imagination of a future by the lakes and of the legendary tale he would come to be. And then it was he who encouraged us to be realistic and dream the impossible.
Located on a mountain slope and looking over Lake Nahuel Huapi as it blends in the horizon with the snowy peaks of the Andes mountains, Bariloche is a nature tourism, winter sports and technology center with 150,000 inhabitants. Founded in 1902 by decree of the Argentinian state in order to maintain sovereignty in the region, the town was populated by lumberers. German, Suisse and Chilean immigrants arrived in big numbers during the first half of the 20th century, and in particular after WWII many Nazis landed there.
My dad and I spent three days in Bariloche and absolutely loved it: Many Black-faced Ibises with golden heads and curved long peaks walking casually on the public square between the four grand buildings of the Civic Center; San Francisco-inspired curvy streets going up the mountain; stone and wood early 20th century German architecture; various ice-cream and chocolate local shops in the city center; random people joining with ease the choreographies of street performers dancing tango or Argentinian folkloric music.
We walked up Calle de los Músicos (Street of the Musicians), where there are ten mosaics on the sidewalk representing famous Argentinian musicians, including a closeup image of Latin American icon Mercedes Sosa playing a drum. We went to the riverfront and sat on the rocks, braving the wind and admiring the waves of the lake and the waves of the mountains and the thin silver line of the crescent Moon. We strolled along the lakefront on October 12 Street (named after that fateful day when our continent was “discovered”), past the skatepark overlooking the lake with multicolor graffiti, down to the long pier with the majestic view of the Nahuel Huapi and the Andean mountain range with snow still on some peaks. We visited the cross-shaped pointy neo-gothic cathedral with its big colorful stained glass windows and several paintings depicting 17 and 18 century missionaries, some of them being killed by indigenous people. We watched at noon as the coat of arms of the city, located below the clock on the celebrated tower of the Civic Center, turned around as the 12’o clock bells rang to show four different wooden figures representing the history of the town: first an indigenous person, then a missionary, then a soldier, then a lumberer, then back to the coat of arms. The path to our so-called civilization.
My father and I talked about his childhood. He imagined he would become a priest. He was awarded a scholarship to study for seven years in a Catholic boarding school, the most important seminary of Bogotá. His mom was the main provider for a home of four children. She made flores with fabric that she would press inside petal-shaped iron molds and then heat up on the stove. She would artfully glue one petal to another and create gorgeous flowers of various kinds and colors for sale. She traveled a long way every weekend from her El Restrepo neighborhood in the southern part of the city to the Seminary in the town of Sibaté to visit my dad. He remembers, and my aunt has told me this as well, that when he was home during vacation he and his siblings would play mass and my dad would slice a banana and give communion to my aunt and uncles. After graduating high school he went on to study philosophy in the Seminary for a year before deciding he did not want to be a priest after all. He became an economist instead.
My dad’s understanding of how currency exchanges work has helped me in Argentina, a country with a dollarized economy at a regional level, where the exchange rate depends on how many dollars vs how many pesos are in the market in that particular place. With a monthly inflation rate as high as 25 percent, and after the recent election of far-right presidential candidate Javier Milei, everyone we talked to is uncertain — and many of them are afraid — about what the future will bring for Argentina.
Cerro Tronador
We went on two day trips: one to San Martin de los Andes and one to Cerro Tronador (Thunder Mountain). The second is located two and a half hours south of Bariloche. On our way there we rode along Lake Nicolas Mascardi, shaped like a half Moon and with dark green waters that reflect the image of the mountains. Cerro Tronador is a volcano and snow peak that rises 3,500 meters above sea level and it is located between Chile and Argentina. It is named after the roaring noise of the multiple waterfalls of various sizes going down its hillside, and after the thundering noise made by snow avalanches coming from the peak. It is one of the most wonderful things I have seen in my life. I felt so small as I touched a rock on the trail to say goodbye.
We visited the mountain’s hillside, where there is a small milky green lake, Lago de los Témpanos (Iceberg Lake) formed by the snow coming down from the peak. Minerals in the soil dye the snow black, which gives people the illusion of seeing black icebergs floating on the lake. When we were by the lake we witnessed two avalanches at the top of the mountain and, just like thunder, we saw the snow slide down the peak before hearing the roaring sound a few seconds later. The view of the immense mountains and the calm water is absolutely incredible. There were very few icebergs for us to see, however. 30 years ago the lake was covered in them, but due to global warming there will be no more black ice in the lake in six years.
San Martín de los Andes, ancestral land of the Pehuenches, Tehuelches and Mapuches, is a town that 72 years ago Che described as “tristón y feucho” (sad and ugly). No longer sad nor ugly, San Martín is a lively village of wood houses founded in 1898 by the Argentinian military and located on the shores of gorgeous Lake Lacar. We got there by bus, riding north along Route 40, which crosses all of Argentina from south to north. That particular section of the road is called Route of the Lakes because it goes through seven lakes along the way.
We bordered the Nahuel Huapi, which is 96 km long, and then rode through thousands of acres that belong to some family from the US named Jones who acquired them in the late 19th century. We rode along the Patagonian Andean Forrest with trees as old as 4,000 years; crossed many small rivers with crystalline waters; saw various camping areas with beautiful geese with pigeon-like heads and duck-like bodies called cauquenes; and admired the incredible beauty of the seven lakes and the Andes mountains (some of them with snowless ski trails). Once in San Martín de los Andes, we sat by Lake Lacar and I wet my feet in the cold blue water.
The story of the region tells that Italian missioner Nicolas Mascardi arrived in the area in 1669, looking for a legendary city of gold in Patagonia. He lived with the Poyas, Pehuenches and Puelches for years and was killed by the Poyas in one of his journeys in 1673. 40 years later, two Jesuit missionaries came to settle the area, having discovered a fast path to cross the Andes mountains from Chile. The native people wanted to keep the path secret from the Europeans so one night they poisoned the missionaries’ chicha. Death was the fate of every European who arrived there, but eventually they did succeed in settling the area. They brought with them many plants and animals, such as red deer, grizzly bears, boars, musk roses, sequoias and pines. I learned that these exotic species greatly affect the fine balance of the ecosystem to this day, which helps me understand colonialism from a new perspective.
On the bus ride back to Bariloche all the passengers sang “Un beso y una flor” (A Kiss and a Flower) by Nino Bravo: “Más allá del mar habrá un lugar // donde el sol cada mañana brille más // Forjarán mi destino las piedras del camino // Lo que nos es querido siempre queda atrás” (Beyond the sea there will be a place // where the sun will shine more each morning // My destiny will be forged by the stones in my path // What we love will always stay behind). I could not keep singing out loud. I thought of my dad, singing along, and of my mom, who loves that song. I thought of Che imagining the future. Tears ran down my cheeks as I sang quietly and looked into the lake.
San Martín de los Andes