Deeply Hippy

Leaving Buenos Aires, we took an overnight sleeper bus to Bariloche in the Argentine lake district. The buses are fantastic, but the selection of films is, by all accounts, dire. We were treated to anatrocious rom-com starring that bird from buffy that nobody fancies. With the exception of Ceb, only those with severe retardation could have possibly enjoyed it. Unfortunately, the seats in front contained two such people, and our sleep was constantly disturbed by loudguffaws until we gave up and got rat-arsed on the unlimited free (cheap) whisky.

Bariloche is a bit like Aviemore, but the surrounding scenery isincredible and we went for a 40k bike round a national park and saw some stunning views. Later, we found ourselves apologising for the falklands to a group of rowdy 19 year rugby players from Mar DelPlata. One of their dads had fought in the war, but we masterfully difused the situation by offering to help translate Rolling Stones lyrics. As a peace offering it was perfect and soon they werecompeting for our approval of their respective Mick Jaggerimpressions. We got on better and the drinks flowed, and finished up agreeing that war is never the answer, especially in settling territorial disputes. The question of whether 30 or so Israelis,(straight out of 3 years compulsory military service) with whom weshared the hostel common room, agreed was never definitively settled.

We moved south to El Bolson, which, by anyone´s standards was full of hippies. The civic centre proudly proclaimed the area Argentina´s only´non nuclear zone´, whatever that means, and the wellbeing of the locals is said to benefit immensely from the ´positive energy of a nearby mountain´.

Initially this brought great relief from the tackiness of Bariloche; goups of people with guitars, dogs and spliffs (the holy trinity offlower power) lined the pavements and women practiced yoga in thepark. I would estimate that 95% of the population own a woodenstringed instrument and 80% can juggle with fire. Resisting thetemptation of a Crosby Stills and Nash tribute band in a nearby bar,we munched down organic soya hot dogs and fruit beer from the local market. People watching was easy: it tends to be when the people are walking up trees and somersaulting off backwards.

Despite our efforts, and my regular morning meditation, I increasingly felt like a slightly conspicuous (organically farmed) fish out of(mountain spring) water. The Nike-Pro performance sportwear didn´thelp. Once, I caught myself attempting to escape the omnipresent droan of Bob Marley´s wierdest hits by counting the number of loops in the braiding on my roommate´s afro.

The Argentine woman in the bunk above me was reading a book entitled´opening your soul to a new world´. Despite the huge tatoo of a goblin that covered her back, she was actually quite fit. This made it allthe more shocking when, each morning, she would rise at 6.30, stretch on the bed and then let of the loudest (and smelliest) shit I haveever known come from a woman in the bathroom adjacent to my bed. When it emerged that nobody in the town had even heard of Barcelona or Liverpool, and with the noise of vegetarian defecation still ringingin my ears, we made a break for the sanctuary of mass tourism inBariloche, getting there just in time for kick off.

In other (possibly not unrelated) news, I don´t think I´ve had a bowel movement in about 10 days. Can anyone tell me if this is dangerous? I´m still eating, so where´s it all going? Even a breakfast of banana, plum, pear grape andpeach fruit salad with prune flavoured yoghurt didn´t seem to help. It´s got so bad that I´ve decided to resort to extreme measures, and am about to jump out of a plane from10,000 feet.

If this is my last ever email, tell my parents to cancel my phone contract and FC Barcelona that I still love them.