No camping in Los Andes?
The round-cheeked gentleman in the tourist office flapped his hand at us. “Mira, mira mira,” he consoled and scruffled around in the dusty piles of brochures on his desk. We waited. He had welcomed us with such enthusiasm that it was not difficult to believe that we were the first tourists to walk into his little office in months. Excitedly, he extracted the desired paper, made a phonecall and directed us to the home of his friend, who owned an Eventos y Restaurante.
It was going to cost us money. Not a lot for a room, a shower, a kitchen. We equated it to an expensive campsite in South Africa, justified it with ‘we will make sure we free camp for the next week’ and moved in, ready to rest. The reduced rate came at a cost: there was an event there that night, and there would be loud music, dancing. We went into the agreement knowing this.
After a snack (white bread dipped in salt and pepper, and foraged loquats), we showered and napped deeply for 2 hours. We needed to be ready for the night ahead.
Then we donned our smartest and least stained clothes (so as not to look too scruffy when we passed through the party on the way to the kitchen) and made our way down the olde style stairway into the party.
We were greeted heartily by our boisterous host, handed a cocktail glass of pisco and engaged in festive conversation as we nibbled on a personal plate of starter snacks. After being introduced to all sorts of passers by, we made our way into the kitchen.
Our attempt at making dinner there was, however, unsuccessful. We managed to get our vegetables and chicken chopped and our rice in a pot, but then our host arrived and after a surveying our measly supper (to us, a feast), announced that we would be eating rice tomorrow. Tonight we would eat courtesy of them. With that, his 18year old son Pato– who had been filling our pisco glasses with a twinkle in his eye – led us through to the restaurant, sat us down and performed the role of high-end waiter.
And so ensued a three course meal, each coupled with a drink – pisco, coke, wine, coffee. With each newly delivered dish, we joked with Pato, who seemed to be enjoying the change of guest. And as he cleared our desertplates, refusing our offers of helping, he turned to us suddenly and said “Do you want to help behind the bar?”
“Sure, sure, of course,” we were grateful for any opportunity to return a favour.
We spent the next hour or two washing glasses behind the bar, Pato pouring the occasional piscola (pisco and coke) for us, himself and for whoever ordered one. It was getting towards that time, the meal was over, the employees of the large company there to celebrate its 50 years were well warmed on the dance floor and plenty of glasses down. The bar was busy, and we were tired.
Duty done, we excused ourselves, graciously declining offers of ‘another piscola?’, and slept oblivious to the festivities that banged on into the wee (and then not so wee) hours of the morning.
TwoScottsOnTheTrot 