Dedo Gordo.

We have finally made it to the wind-swept land of Patagonia. Mariah suggested many places in South America, but El Pueblito Hostel in the town of El Bolson is the only accomodation she recommended. Figures. Its hippy heaven. On our first night, we heard of a refugio, a refuge, called Dedo Gordo, Fat Finger. We packed a sandwhich and a warm pair of socks and hiked an impossibly steep hike five hours up the hills surrounding the valley El Pueblito nestles into, past waterfalls, wildflowers, and gauchos. Halfway, we caught up with seven Argentines, who were, aiding a strenuous hike with some tobacco smoke. They had ginormous bags, and I suddenly begin to feel we were underequipped with out baby day packs. They had sleeping bags, food, pillows, sleeping mats, lots and lots of things we did not have. When we reached the refugio, Lloyd was certain we hadn't reached the place yet. It was, maybe, MAYBE, 75 square meters. That's right. 8x8 feet. And 16 people slept in it that night. And two kittens. We filled each space of it, and everything hangs strategically from the rafters like an ecclectic laundry line. The four hour hike in the windy hills have left me slightly ill, so the gracious and slightly eccentric hosts have offered me a teaspoon of prepolio, which, from my broken spanish, translates to a kind of miracle liquid made from bee venom diluted in pisco, a very strong alcohol. It's horrible, but I pretend it works for everyones benefit, who want to see the american girl cured with a beloved argetine medecine. We were the only non natives, cats included, so we sat on a bench, massaging our weary feet and happily accepting the sitting down position. I was on a bench inches from the cast iron stove, apparently on the cats beds, because they perched on my knees, occasionally clamboring for the knee closest to the warmth. The windows were plastic sheets, I figure because getting most anything up into a place as remote as that required horse transport, surely, and glass isn't something a courrier would accept as a parcel if he travels by horse. Three people got lost on the hike up, not paying close enough attention to the red splotches of paint on a tree every fifty feet or so. They realized they went to far when they hit snow. SNOW, people. They owners of the place told me it once took someone nine hours to find the place. They made us a hearty starchy dinner while the 12 other hikers looked over their undercooked plain noodles with jealousy. I have no idea what the gypsies names are who I've been stuck with overnight in thie generous kitchen they calla refugio. Candle wax drips down empty bottles of Mendoza Malbec, Mate cups sit hald forgotten under various sausages drying on strings nailed to the walls of this rudely carved cabin, and the music from a pair of bongos, a guitar and a harmonica mix with the heat from teh sooty, cracked stove in the center of the room. Out of pity, we were placed closest to the stove, and given scratchy blankets. The next morning, we have a fill of coffee and homemade bread (they really do that well in this country) and dulce de leche (that too!), and paid the bill, which COMPLETELY cleaned us out. So much so that after our four hour hike back down the mountain, we didnt have enough to take the bus back into town. We had to convince a skeptical taxi cab to get us to a bank. After a microbrew in town and a huge lunch, we fell asleep back at El Pueblito at six p.m., and slept through the night, sore and very happy.