Earthquake Milkshake

This is me plugging back into the virtual world.

It has been exactly a month since I last wrote, which is slightly uncharacteristic of me since the inception of this voyage to the other America. While it is true that my internet opportunities during this timespan have been scant to say the least, I must also admit that when these opportunities did present themselves, I found it difficult to spend more than a few minutes in front of a computer. Maybe the farmer in me has truly taken over; maybe my journey into the woods has affected me more than I thought, but I find myself shifting in my seat even as I type this, simply because I'd rather be outside. Especially when outside, at this very moment, means bright sunshine, two different mountain ranges (one green and round, one jagged and rocky) with tons of hiking trails, and one of the best ice cream shops I've ever visited just two blocks down the road.

Still, as most of you know, I like to express myself linguistically, and a large part of that is writing, so at the same time I feel this urge to attempt to give an account of the happenings of my life in these past four weeks. Shall I start with the earthquake?

The night of the big one in Chile, I was on my farm outside of Mendoza, Argentina, sleeping in the lower compartment of a bunkbed in a tiny wood and adobe casita where all of the farm volunteers slept. I woke up suddenly around 3:30am to a dizzy, swaying sensation. I thought that maybe I had eaten some bad quinoa or something and thus was feeling some vertigo, but after laying awake for a few seconds, the pulsations got stronger, and I realized my bed was rocking back and forth. I thought that maybe my bunkmate Michael was taking advantage of the late night peace to pleasure himself (but, nooo, he wouldn't do that! Would he? Wouldn't he?), and so, horrified, I froze, sucked in my breath, and waited, unsure of what to do. Then I realized that the whole entire house was rocking.  Earthquake? Really?

At that moment, I think the other five volunteers woke up as well, and someone asked, ''¿Qué es?'' and I responded, ''¡Temblor! Uh, Terremoto!'' and just as we all scrambled to get out of bed, slamming into each other in the darkness, I heard Amparo, the grandmother of the farm, screaming something across the field from her house and then the loud clanging of the large steel bell that they usually ring to round up the troops. The tremor was so strong that the bell was ringing on its own. It was surreal to hear the bell clanging in the middle of the night while feeling the ground rolling under our feet. Adrenaline pumped in my ears. We all jogged over to the main house and gathered together with the family, who were waiting for us to debrief. By that time, the rocking had stopped, and we stood around, shivering in the dark, chatting a little bit. ''Earthquake,'' they said (duh). ''Everyone okay?'' Yes, everyone was okay. We all went back to bed, but I don't think any of us really slept after that. There were a few aftershocks, but not nearly as strong. Mendoza suffered little to no damage, as in the rest of Argentina.

And then we found out about Chile. About the horrendous damage and loss of life. We weren't even able to get updates on the situation for the first day or two because there was essentially no functioning line of communication. It's so awful. I can't imagine the terror the people in Concepción must have felt that night. And what it must have been like when the sun finally came up.

A few days after the quake, I headed south to Patagonia for the final days of my trip. It really makes me laugh to think about how this trip has gone; honestly, I didn't even think I'd make it to Argentina this time around. When I bought my ticket, my return flight was out of Lima, Peru. Argentina was just too far, I had already been there two times, and I really believed that I had had my fill of the country. Never dreamed I'd make it further south than Bolivia. And then, an impromptu trip to Buenos Aires for my birthday to see my host family from my college semester abroad. And then, (why not?) a trip in early January to Mendoza to perhaps find a farm to work on. Found a farm, planned to stay for maybe a month at most, and ended up staying for two. You'd think that with about three weeks left to get my toochis back up to Lima for my flight, I'd maybe start planning a trip northward. Nope. Patagonia--the south--was calling my name. I mean, come on, it would be pathetic to have spent a collective 8 or 9 months in this country and to have never made it to the south. So, I packed up my bags about two and a half weeks ago, left the farm in Mendoza, and headed down to El Bolsón, in the Rio Negro province, because it sounded nice. Everyone I had met on this trip and past trips said the town was amazing, and plus, there were tons of farms on my farm list located in this area. So I went and hoped to find a farm once I got there, á la my seat-of-my-pants Mendoza adventure. Hey, that one worked out, so why wouldn't it here?

Of course, the farm gods are with me, because I managed to luck out once again. First of all, let me just attempt to explain just how beautiful El Bolsón is. It's a little town nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains and lakes. Everything is green--both flora-wise and politically. Green pine trees line the mountains in the distance, and in the foreground it's trees and flowers and grass everywhere you look. There are loads of hiking trails, which means that they are never crowded, and they wind through forests and alongside rivers and, if you're up for it, straight up rocky ledges. El Bolsón is a 100% smoke free town, meaning you can't smoke cigarrettes anywhere, and there are signs everywhere urging you to pick up your trash. There's also a great sign in the center of town that reads ''Planting native trees helps us to maintain our roots.'' I really like it.

There's an amazing farmers market and crafts fair that takes place three times a week in the main plaza, and it is by far the best open-air market I've seen. You're only allowed to participate as a vendor if you sell locally-produced items; and in this case, local means within about a 60 mile radius. Fresh fruits and veggies, jams, cheeses, artesenal beer, baked goods, BELGIAN WAFFLES, homemade soaps, knitwear, woodwork, books by local authors, and other sorts of artsy gifts can be found here on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and it's a true pleasure to meander through and have a look at the wares. As someone who works with farmers markets and the local food movement back in Boston, I was certainly in my happy place when I took a walk through it the first day I arrived.

So, after exploring the town for a day, I decided that it was time to try to find a farm for a couple weeks. I took a walk through the fair and was immediately drawn to a stand with little round wheels of cheese stacked on top of each other. I bee-lined over to the table and was greeted by a jolly German man who eagerly sliced me off a sample piece and chatted with me in German-accented Spanish. So charming. As I munched on his homemade organic cheese, I let my eyes wander up to the poster advertising his products. I recognized his last name from the farm list, and so I asked him if he was accepting volunteers. He hesitated, but then said maybe, to just give him a minute to call his wife and check. After a rapid-fire German conversation via cellphone, he hung up and turned to me with a sparkle in his eye and said, ''Va a andar'' (it's going to work!). ''Great! When can I start?'' I asked. His reply was, ''Do you want to get in the truck with me after the fair and come to the farm with me today?''

Uh...yep.

I had a good feeling about him. Knew nothing more than the fact that he made cheese, he had a farm, and that they (presumably) have volunteers sometimes. Good enough. The cheese was good--I mean, really good. I don't think evil people are capable of making cheese like that. That cheese was made with love. You can't go wrong with a cheese man. So I said ''sure, let's go!''

Once inside his truck, I asked the questions I probably should have asked before if I were a responsible young woman. How many volunteers do you have currently? (none) Where do you live, exactly? (about 25 kilometers outside the town, up in the mountains) What kinds of things do you do at the farm? (milk cows, feed the chickens, make cheese, jam, bread, do other sorts of tasks around the farm) And finally, I asked:

''How many volunteers have you had so far?''
''¿Sabés que? Sos la primera.'' (You know what? You're the first one)

So I was their first volunteer! They just joined the organization a month ago, so it's all very new to them. I felt a lot of pressure to be a Good Volunteer, in fact, The Best Volunteer, so that they would always remember me as the First, in a good way. I think I did a good job. Except for that time a couple of weekends ago when I left on a day hike and didn't come home until the following afternoon. The weather was awful at the top of the mountain and the ranger advised me to stay the night and not attempt to hike back down until morning when the rain and sleet had stopped. My German family was quite worried about me. Understandably. Way to go, Ali.

A bridge I crossed during a weekend hike. Stable, secure, yes.

I lived with The German, his German wife, and their seventeen year old son. They have lived in Argentina for over 25 years, just living the simple life on a plot of land nestled on the side of a mountain. They have six cows at the moment, which are the most beautiful, cleanest cows I've ever seen. Every morning, we woke up early to hike up the mountain and find them so that they could come back to be milked. Then, after milking, we brought them back up the mountain, where they would graze all day until sundown, at which point we would go find them again, milk them, and send them out for more nighttime blossom snacking.

And now, the customary ''look what I can do!'' photos. 

I learned how to milk a cow with my hands and with the milking machine.

I got to work with bees and take the honey combs out of the beehive (and I got to wear the beekeeper suit!).


I learned how to make cheese that actually tastes like something someone would buy.  I made jam and preserved vegetables for the winter. I learned another way to kill and clean a chicken (I preferred this way to the way we did it in Colombia--much more humane and super quick--just a whack over the head and then a swift chop with the ax). I learned how to make bread, I got to use a chain saw to cut wood, and I consumed more dairy in the past two weeks than I had in the previous four and a half months. Mmm milk. And I take back what I said about raw milk in earlier posts--if the cows are happy, eating well, and well maintained, raw milk is the best milk in the entire world. I am going to miss that milk.

I also learned how to count to ten in German, and also that there are many similar words in English and German. Lampe is lamp! Milke is milk! Shtool is seat! Gute is good! I was like a 2 year old in their home, bursting out with my newfound German vocabulary and counting slowly from one to ten at the dinner table, then looking around for affirmative or adoring looks from my German parents and brother. I think they liked me?

I left the farm yesterday because they only take two volunteers at a time, and their second one showed up yesterday. I guess that's what happens when you, like, plan in advance or something--you get to stay at farms for longer than ten days. Still, it was a great experience, and I think that it will be important for me to spend a few days in town just chilling out, writing, reflecting, and enjoying some serious Ali time before I have to head back to Buenos Aires and then to Lima to fly home...in a week.

Yep. I fly home in a week. Cha-cha-changes.

Oh, hey, just realized it's Saint Patty's day. Cheers!