The music is good, it fills my head and I concentrate on watching the decks, wondering how the DJ matches one track´s beat with the next. I look up at him, he´s larger than life, and I´m standing too near, right by the decks. He has tattoos covering his arms and his chest. I stare. Suddenly I´m turning around and the scene has changed; I´m lending something to someone I don´t know very well and everything feels wrong, something is happening out of my control. A group of people nearby start to run out of sight and throw something towards us and it lands right behind me. As it lands the small green object comes into focus. It´s a grenade. Everyone panics and runs, and I run and run and then I´m looking for cover and then I´m floating through the air, before I even hear the explosion, floating in slow motion like in the films.
I wake up sweating.
My mind is in a jumble, my body tense, racing with adrenalin. Already the details of the dream are trickling away in my memory, and I´m annoyed. Not that I want to analyse it or anything, I just want the memory back. It´s dark outside and the wind is howling violently, rattling the window - that must have been what woke me up. That or the mad bunch of dogs who howl wildly, nightly, all night. Or it´s the heat. It´s freezing cold outside but the hostel is overheated and stuffy. I´m tempted to open the window, but check myself as the wind is so loud I´m fairly certain it´ll blow the roof off in any case, which would allow for plenty of ventilation without me having to get out of bed.
It´s 4am. I can´t get back to sleep. The wind is too loud, too violent sounding, and in the strangeness of being awake in a room of sleeping people in the middle of the night, I imagine it´s worse than it is. I squint out the window and stare at the lights of the town flickering in the darkness, waiting to see one of them illuminate something terrible. A house coming crashing down, a tree falling on telephone wires - something dramatic to justify my concern. That would make me feel a whole lot better, and the town is a dump anyway. We´re in El Calafate in southern Argentina, a town which survives solely on the income from tourists who flock to see the nearby glacier, which is undoubtedly hugely impressive. The town is not. Apart from the main high street, it´s made up of a jumble of dirt tracks leading to nowhere in particular, with the odd house or hostel here and there. The land is arid, a dull beige, dirty and unkempt. The northern towns in Argentina had pretty plazas, quaint cafes and impressive churches, but here there´s just nothingness. No flowers, no trees, no grass, no plaza, no big church, just dust and more nothingness. In a couple of months it will, no doubt, look gorgeous, covered in thick layers of snow to hide the land, leaving only the pretty newly built lodge style buildings to make the place look nice for the ski season.
As it is, none of these houses get blown down. Much to my disappointment, nothing happens at all, except that the wind keeps howling and I stay awake for hours, listening to it raging. Finally unconsciousness hits, and the next thing I know my alarm is pounding through my head, hurting my brain. We´re going horse riding for the day, and I´m in a foul sleep-deprived mood for it. Our complimentary breakfast of tiny corn flakes in toddler-sized colourful plastic bowls with tepid UHT milk along with a side serving of stale french bread, unsurprisingly does not lift my mood. We set off to find the horses and I´m feeling somewhat claustrophobic, having put on as many clothes as possible and wrapped myself up in practically all my belongings in preparation for the cold. I feel like one of those babies who you see being pushed along in their prams by overprotective mothers who have smothered the child in so many layers of puffy clothing that it has to lie with arms and legs outstretched, head perfectly still, the bending of the limbs or the turning of the head being an impossibility. It´s not very comfortable.
The wind is still howling. It´s so loud we can´t hear each other speak, so we set off in silence. It´s Lil, Will, our guide and me, and tagging along are at least a dozen dogs, scampering along like mad things at the heels of the horses. I wonder if perhaps it´s the dogs who make all that noise at night, and scowl as I remember the sleeplessness. Rain is hurtling into my face, and there´s dust in my eyes. I´m thoroughly depressed and cannot quite believe I´m going to be sitting on a horse all day in this mind-numbing wind and paying for the privilege. Soon we´re out in the open land overlooking the town, by a crystal clear turquoise lake and looking up at snow-capped mountains covering the horizon. I should love it but I can´t. It´s pathetic. It´s not just the tiredness. There´s something looming over me that I can´t stop thinking about. I think they call it the Real World, and in not too long I´m going to have to face it. Actually, I´ve chosen to, so I don´t even have the right to be unhappy about it, but I still want to run from it. However, it´s not now, not yet, so I have to stop dwelling on it. I turn to see Lilly bob up beside me on her horse, and she´s saying something to me but it´s lost in the wind.
What? I yell.
This is hell on earth! she shouts back.
I am not alone. I feel better.
Eventually we stop for some lunch. The wind has dropped, the rainclouds have gone, and the hole in my stomach is being filled with cold meats and cheese and bread and several cups of local wine. By the time we´re back on the horses everything seems a whole lot better. To top it off, our guide comes galloping up cowboy style, donning a ridiculous poncho, looking as if he´s trying to re-enact a Marlborough cigarette advert, which makes me smile.
I´ve loved Argentina. I´ve loved being with Lilly and Will. It´s like being on a really long holiday in Europe. But that´s also why I can´t wait to leave - it just isn´t how I imagined South America at all. It´s so ordered and civilised, so in touch and, well, to repeat myself, so European. So before I do face the Real World I´m desperate to see something different, something as different as possible, something which impresses itself onto my mind and makes me feel I´m on an adventure to stay with me and not drift away into nothingness like my confused dreams. So I´m going up to Bolivia. It probably won´t do that, but it still sounds like fun.
I wake up sweating.
My mind is in a jumble, my body tense, racing with adrenalin. Already the details of the dream are trickling away in my memory, and I´m annoyed. Not that I want to analyse it or anything, I just want the memory back. It´s dark outside and the wind is howling violently, rattling the window - that must have been what woke me up. That or the mad bunch of dogs who howl wildly, nightly, all night. Or it´s the heat. It´s freezing cold outside but the hostel is overheated and stuffy. I´m tempted to open the window, but check myself as the wind is so loud I´m fairly certain it´ll blow the roof off in any case, which would allow for plenty of ventilation without me having to get out of bed.
It´s 4am. I can´t get back to sleep. The wind is too loud, too violent sounding, and in the strangeness of being awake in a room of sleeping people in the middle of the night, I imagine it´s worse than it is. I squint out the window and stare at the lights of the town flickering in the darkness, waiting to see one of them illuminate something terrible. A house coming crashing down, a tree falling on telephone wires - something dramatic to justify my concern. That would make me feel a whole lot better, and the town is a dump anyway. We´re in El Calafate in southern Argentina, a town which survives solely on the income from tourists who flock to see the nearby glacier, which is undoubtedly hugely impressive. The town is not. Apart from the main high street, it´s made up of a jumble of dirt tracks leading to nowhere in particular, with the odd house or hostel here and there. The land is arid, a dull beige, dirty and unkempt. The northern towns in Argentina had pretty plazas, quaint cafes and impressive churches, but here there´s just nothingness. No flowers, no trees, no grass, no plaza, no big church, just dust and more nothingness. In a couple of months it will, no doubt, look gorgeous, covered in thick layers of snow to hide the land, leaving only the pretty newly built lodge style buildings to make the place look nice for the ski season.
As it is, none of these houses get blown down. Much to my disappointment, nothing happens at all, except that the wind keeps howling and I stay awake for hours, listening to it raging. Finally unconsciousness hits, and the next thing I know my alarm is pounding through my head, hurting my brain. We´re going horse riding for the day, and I´m in a foul sleep-deprived mood for it. Our complimentary breakfast of tiny corn flakes in toddler-sized colourful plastic bowls with tepid UHT milk along with a side serving of stale french bread, unsurprisingly does not lift my mood. We set off to find the horses and I´m feeling somewhat claustrophobic, having put on as many clothes as possible and wrapped myself up in practically all my belongings in preparation for the cold. I feel like one of those babies who you see being pushed along in their prams by overprotective mothers who have smothered the child in so many layers of puffy clothing that it has to lie with arms and legs outstretched, head perfectly still, the bending of the limbs or the turning of the head being an impossibility. It´s not very comfortable.
The wind is still howling. It´s so loud we can´t hear each other speak, so we set off in silence. It´s Lil, Will, our guide and me, and tagging along are at least a dozen dogs, scampering along like mad things at the heels of the horses. I wonder if perhaps it´s the dogs who make all that noise at night, and scowl as I remember the sleeplessness. Rain is hurtling into my face, and there´s dust in my eyes. I´m thoroughly depressed and cannot quite believe I´m going to be sitting on a horse all day in this mind-numbing wind and paying for the privilege. Soon we´re out in the open land overlooking the town, by a crystal clear turquoise lake and looking up at snow-capped mountains covering the horizon. I should love it but I can´t. It´s pathetic. It´s not just the tiredness. There´s something looming over me that I can´t stop thinking about. I think they call it the Real World, and in not too long I´m going to have to face it. Actually, I´ve chosen to, so I don´t even have the right to be unhappy about it, but I still want to run from it. However, it´s not now, not yet, so I have to stop dwelling on it. I turn to see Lilly bob up beside me on her horse, and she´s saying something to me but it´s lost in the wind.
What? I yell.
This is hell on earth! she shouts back.
I am not alone. I feel better.
Eventually we stop for some lunch. The wind has dropped, the rainclouds have gone, and the hole in my stomach is being filled with cold meats and cheese and bread and several cups of local wine. By the time we´re back on the horses everything seems a whole lot better. To top it off, our guide comes galloping up cowboy style, donning a ridiculous poncho, looking as if he´s trying to re-enact a Marlborough cigarette advert, which makes me smile.
I´ve loved Argentina. I´ve loved being with Lilly and Will. It´s like being on a really long holiday in Europe. But that´s also why I can´t wait to leave - it just isn´t how I imagined South America at all. It´s so ordered and civilised, so in touch and, well, to repeat myself, so European. So before I do face the Real World I´m desperate to see something different, something as different as possible, something which impresses itself onto my mind and makes me feel I´m on an adventure to stay with me and not drift away into nothingness like my confused dreams. So I´m going up to Bolivia. It probably won´t do that, but it still sounds like fun.
No comments:
Post a Comment