The Central bus station in El Bolson is little more than a sign and a bench. It is at the edge of the artisan market and faces into the andino mountains. It is a sweltering summers day in mid February and the people of el Bolson are moving around the streets in beautiful clothes and unique styles as usual. I drop my bags and bench myself under a tree. I am tired, hot, and quite nervous that I misinterpreted the woman at the information office when she told me which bus I was to take. I fidget with the pesos in my pocket, count them and do a quick calculation as to how much the bus might cost me in Canadian dollars. I barely notice the older gentleman sliding onto the bench next to me. With large baggy pants and a beard that trails long unto his chest, he is the image of an el bolson hippy. He says something in Spanish. I blink and translate in my head. I respond “ si, mucho sombrezo es necessito”. My sentence doesn’t make much sense, but I think it vaguely represents my gratitude for the shade. I smile and go back to counting my coins.
The man tries again in English this time “ Where are you from?”. I blush, embarrassed by my inadequate Spanish. “Canada”, I smile. “ ah” he says “ and where are you going?” “The Mallin Ahogado” I say proudly, trying to proove that I am more than just a tourist. No no, I am a temporary local and of course I know my way around. The Mallin Ahogado is an irrigated marshland on the outskirts of the town. It is a popular area for farming and artesian work. “Mah-jean Ahogado” he corrects me. I blush again, “I am going there too, why are you going there?” he says in Spanish, again, testing my conversational skills. I respond proudly, in my finest Spanish tongue “ I am volunteering on an organic farm, Wwoof-ing. Have you heard of it?” The man smiles politely and then turns away.
I assume the conversation has ended and turn to watch two stray dogs chase each other across the street.
The man is back though, and puts a local magazine on my lap, he is excitedly pointing at an article and signaling me to read it. The language barrier prevents this, but I do understand that Wwoof-ing is the subject. I turn back to him, nodding and smiling in a way only a foreigner can. He points again and translates “ Wwoofing… The New Age of Slave Labor”. At this, the man bursts into laughter and doubles over, showing the mat of dreadlocks at the back of his head. “ heh, yep… I guess that’s me” I force another smile.
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| Typical Scene in downtown El Bolson, a pick-up band |
