Of Mountains and Moist Middle-aged Europeans

Location:  Torres Del Paine, latitude 50 degrees south
Job: Unclear
Hours: 9am-5pm
Fun: Yes
Productive: Questionable
Beautiful: Of course (jaded by beauty: maybe)
Horses: check

The view:

Three days ago we sat in the refugio (where guests pay 40 dollars for a bed w/o sheets) after a long day.  Between us, a bottle of scotch and a bar of chocolate.  Our new friends Kendra, Rebecca and Danielle with us around the table listened to the howling wind and relaxed.  But the night had only started and the wet people outside had only started trickling in.  As their harsh language seeped in through the windows and doors of the rustic house we became more curious, but resolved to drink, and stay detached.  Soon we were being greeted by a hilarious Portuguese woman in somewhat broken Spanish.  She thought we really knew how to enjoy our youth and so took a few pictures of us.  But then it started.  The poetry.  We don't know how or why, but the group of ever growing smelly Iberians had huddled, and taken over the entire room, probably 40 or 50 in all.  Around and around they talked and passed a book of poetry.  We were told to be quiet.  We tried to ignore them, but they overpowered us.  As they recited, and we talked in hushed voices, Caitlin wrote her own poem taken right off the bottle of "The Famous Grouse."  Who knows what they were saying. It continued for an hour, then another, finally we left, thrust into the light of the Patagonian night.  

The situation above is part of the strangeness we experience every day.  Somehow as volunteers, we can manage to both eat in the "casino" with the other workers, get free 100 dollar horse rides through the snow capped mountain passes, use the (slow) internet for free, but also relax in the hotel lounges where guests are paying 1000 dollars for the privilege.  Neither workers nor guests can straddle the worlds so effectively or with so little shame.  How we've managed to come upon this liminal existence I can only guess at, but I certainly am liking it. 

Work the first day consisted of breaking down a bridge--I broke two pick-axes--pure fun.  Yesterday we walked to the Towers (as seen in picture above) with a group of 15 year olds.  It's a bizarre existence here in make believe world, where work appears to be play.  

OK, I don't want to get carried away. 

Happy everything, (holidays included I suppose), and I hope to hear from some of you soon--emails are great!

Nathaniel